Page 7 of Forbidden Fire
“I haven’t lied to you about anything else!” Marissa protested. She slipped away quickly, moving around the room to keep a distance between them. Coming to the little silver tray with the decanters of brandy and sherry and whiskey, she paused, pouring out a snifter of brandy. She needed to be very calm. “Would you like something?” she asked him politely.
“Yes, I’d like the truth.”
She sipped the brandy, studying him over the rim of the glass. “Your Yankee manners are atrocious, Mr. Tremayne.”
He moved toward her. She swallowed the contents of the brandy glass, and it was suddenly plucked out of her hands. “Have I married a little drunkard as well as a cunning little liar?”
“A drunkard!”
“Lady, you’ve had enough champagne today to sink a ship.”
“How dare you! You Yankee—”
“Yeah, yeah, us Yanks. It’s been like this ever since we finally won that war in 1812.”
She tried to move away, but he caught her arm. His touch was forceful, but not painful. She could feel his determination. She wasn’t going to escape him again.
“Let’s talk,” he said flatly.
She didn’t have much of an opportunity to resist; she found herself sitting on the settee with him beside her. Close beside her. His eyes blazed into hers.
“Let’s have it, Marissa.”
She raised her eyes to his. He was so damned determined! She suddenly wanted to spit out the truth and beg for mercy.
No. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her. The truth could do nothing for any of them now.
Jimmy and Mary were legally wed.
And she was wed to this man.
She shook her head, allowing her lashes to fall over her eyes. Dear God, she should have left the brandy alone. The champagne had been bad enough. And she needed so desperately to be in control.
Especially tonight. Some fierce fever burned in Ian Tremayne tonight. His eyes seemed ringed with it, both fire and ice, burning hot one minute and cold the next. She’d seen him gentle, tender, amused and angry, but never so tense as this.
All because she had lied to him.
But the life she was living was a lie, and there was no way out of it, no way to tell him the truth. There was nothing to do but play her part, that of the spoiled and willful child of a very rich man.
She stared at him, chin high, eyes level. “I’m sorry that you are so affronted over such a very minor thing as the precise hour and date of a marriage.”
“A lie is never a minor thing, Marissa.”
“This one was,” she insisted. “I knew that Jimmy and Mary would be married, and I wanted you—to accept them as man and wife. I couldn’t have left here without them, you see.”
“Your lives are so entwined, then? I’m curious. How?”
His eyes were maddening. So dark, so blue, so demanding. She felt pinned to the settee. Desperate. She didn’t like the feeling. The warmth emanating from his body encompassed her. The clean scent of his soap hinted warmly of the man’s masculinity, and the soft feathering of his breath when he spoke touched upon her face. The sensations were pleasant. She suddenly wanted to laugh and touch his face, no matter how hard and forbidding that face.
It was the champagne, she thought. Do not touch, for he bites!
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the settee.
“Tell me about these very good friends of yours, Marissa.”
“I can’t. I’m quite exhausted. I need you to leave. I shall explain everything that you desire at some later time.”
“Will you?”
“Indeed.”
“I think not.”
He caught her hands and pulled her up. Her eyes flew open, blazing with fury. “If you were any kind of British gentleman—”
“Well, I’m not. I’m not British at all. What I am is a Yank, remember, and therefore, according to you, my manners are by nature atrocious.”
“All right, all right!” She snatched her hands free from his and leaped to her feet. There was a sudden blackness before her and she wavered. She caught hold of an oak table to remain standing. “Her father, Mary’s father, was the vicar of our parish. As children, we were very good friends. And not long after her father died, she came to live with us. It’s very simple, sir!” she announced scornfully.
“And Jimmy?”
“And Jimmy?” Marissa found that she was smiling slowly. “Why, she met him, and she fell in love with him. There’s no mystery there, Mr. Tremayne.”
“Ah, but your life seems to be shrouded in mystery, Mrs. Tremayne,” he taunted softly.
“It’s quite amazing that you should feel so, sir,” she said sweetly.
“I want to know what else you’ve lied about,” he returned.
“I’ve told you—”
“And I’ve warned you,” he snapped.
She meant to walk by him very smoothly. Chin high, shoulders square—with a firm upper lip. But she had barely moved from the table when the swamping dizziness came over her again. She tripped—she was rather certain that she tripped right over his foot. The next thing she knew she was falling and, reaching out, she came in hard contact with his chest.
He half rose to catch her, then her impetus threw them onto the settee, her fingers curled into his starched white shirt, her body draped across his lap. His arms had wrapped instinctively around her to break the fall. Startled, she gazed into the blue depths of his eyes. She meant to jump quickly away, but she could not. She suddenly seemed to be enveloped in the strength and scent of the man, and in the power of his eyes. She did not move at all, but met his gaze. Heat seared through her. A sweet trembling began in her stomach and traveled like wildfire to her limbs. Delicately she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, seeking to speak, to break the curious hold.
And she was suddenly certain that he meant to speak, too. But he did not. Not really. Instead an oath shattered the air, and he bent down to her. He was going to kiss her again, she thought. She should rise, protest.
Instead she awaited the touch of his mouth. The sensations were again spiraling wildly through her. Something molten, something delicious, churned deeply within her. She had felt his kiss before. And she anticipated it now.
It was the champagne. Or the brandy. She could not think.
Or perhaps …
It was just the man.
And then his lips touched hers, forming over them with a practiced and fierce demand. Hot and moist and so very sure, they drank in the fullness of her mouth, touching, invading, exploring, eliciting more fervent sensations to swirl and play wickedly within her blood. She felt again the urge to touch him, and this time she did, her fingers uncurling from his shirt front to touch his cheek and feel the texture of his bronzed flesh. She pressed closer against him, instinctively responding to the overwhelming sensuality of the man. Some small voice warned her that she was catapulting into danger with a stranger, with the enemy. But intelligent thought had long since eluded her. She felt only the sweep of his tongue, the molding of his lips, the pressure of his hands, holding her leisurely to his will.
His lips parted from hers.
“Indeed, madam, what other lies have you spoken?”
She fought his grip suddenly, furious, her head reeling.
“None!”
She struggled to rise, slamming her fist against his chest. “None! I am weary, I am exhausted, and you plague me endlessly while you pretend that we can live amicably in the same house. Please! I am too tired—”
“You are too drunk,” he said dryly.
“Oh! And you didn’t drink champagne as if it were water yourself!”
“I did not drink champagne out of fear.”
“I am not afraid of you.”
“You are afraid of some truth, and yes, Marissa, therefore you are afraid of me. Very much afraid of me.”
“Oh!”
He released her and she leaped to her feet, pointing dramatically at the door. “Tremayne, we shall speak of this some other time, I tell you!”
She started for the door, but he stood and caught her arm. “We’ll speak of it now! And take care, madam, that you never again show me a door before we are finished.”
She heard his words, but she was suddenly too weary to fight him. She fell into his arms. Her eyes closed and she clung to his shoulders. She groaned softly. “Please, I cannot stand.”
“You will stand. It’s all a trick with you!”
“No!” she whispered. “No. This is no trick.”
He carried her to the settee and set her down on it. He leaned over her, and though she had allowed her eyelashes to drift softly closed over her eyes, she was suddenly aware that he was concerned. She had told him the truth, her knees had buckled, and she had been able to stand no longer. But now she realized that perhaps this was the best game to play with him.
Her lashes fluttered open and she discovered that he was studying her intensely. She found herself returning his gaze, unable to look away. His left hand lay upon her hip while his right hand sat upon her shoulder and his face was close, bronzed, tense, close. She inhaled the clean scent of the man and felt the sudden rush of his breath against her cheek. She wanted to look away; she could not. A sweet cascade of sensation suddenly ran throughout her limbs, hot where he touched her and hot where his eyes seared into hers. It swept her breath away, and caused her heart to quicken its pace until she could feel the maddening pulse within her mind.
“Leave me—” she started to murmur, but her voice broke off for she realized that he was going nowhere.
His mouth was slowly descending upon hers.
His kiss was not gentle. No, not gentle at all.
His lips seared hers with a simmering anger just barely held in check. He did not hurt her, nor did he allow her any room for escape. There was force behind his touch, and still …
And still, somewhere within it, was the sweetness of seduction, of coercion. His left hand lay upon her hip while his right one caught her cheek, his thumb stroking her flesh while his kiss found its own haunting leisure. Her heart began to pound more fiercely. She didn’t know if it was the sweet fire of the champagne or of the man entering into her blood, warming her, filling her with the same anger.
And the same passion.
She meant to protest. But instead her lips parted to his fierce demand, and she felt the intimate foray of his tongue, tasting her lips, delving into the dark and secret crevices of her mouth and seeming to enter into her soul. She felt the fascinating sweep of his tongue with her own. Her heart pounded. Darkness seemed to descend. The clean male scent that swept evocatively around him touched and stirred new sensations within her.
Her hands lay against his chest. She needed to push him away. She did not. She let her fingers roam over the fabric of his vest and felt as if she held tight while some whirlwind caught her. Then his lips raised from hers at last, and his eyes were upon hers again, sizzling with anger and fire, and she realized that no tenderness or pity had stirred his actions. Furiously, she shoved with all her strength against him and got to her feet.
“It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Tremayne!” she gasped, shaking, wiping his kiss from her lips with the back of her hand as if she could erase the passion between them.
He didn’t move. “I still haven’t gotten an answer,” he told her. “Or perhaps I have.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now get up and get out.”
“You are a rotten little liar,” he told her softly.
“Meaning?”
“That was no innocent kiss.”
“I did not kiss you.”
“Ah, but you see, you returned the touch.”
“I was trying to be polite.”
“Polite!” he exclaimed, then he burst out laughing. “Dear Lord, how often are you polite? And with just how many men?”
“Oh, you are horrid!”
“Merely American.”
“Is it one and the same?”
“I’m wounded, deeply.”
“No, dear sir, you wound others deeply.”
His voice remained light, but there was underlying danger in his tone. “I’m seeking the truth, my love.”
Desperate, she cried out to him. “I haven’t lied to you! Oh, dear Lord, help me! I’m trying to tell you—”
She broke off. He was on his feet at last, and heading toward her. Then she realized that he only meant to sweep past her on his way to the door. She inhaled quickly with relief, and he turned.
“I—I haven’t lied to you!” she cried, but she faltered. And then she suddenly panicked as his hands came to rest upon her shoulders. She slammed her fists against his chest. “Damn you! Can’t you just leave it be! You want your life; I want my privacy!”
But even as she spoke, her lips were still burning where his had touched them, and she shook with tremors from the intimacy they had shared. She hated him, and yet she longed to touch his face. She wanted to feel the contours of that hard, angry jaw. She wanted to soothe the anger away and see him smile with tenderness.
His voice thundered with anger. “You’ll have your privacy when you’ve answered all my questions, Marissa, damn you!”
“You’ll leave now!” she snapped. And then dizziness burst within her mind just as he pulled her into a hard embrace. She tried valiantly to straighten and free herself, but she fell into his arms. Her anger drained from her suddenly. Her eyes, wide and uncertain, stared into his. “Ian, please, I—”
“Ah, yes, you are falling again!” he taunted. “Poor sweet innocent! It is the champagne. You need nothing more than to be left alone. Out of the clutches of your cruel guardian—and husband.”
She looped her arms around his neck, protesting. “Truly. It is the champagne. I should not have drunk so freely.”
“That damnable champagne is there whenever you want it, Marissa. You are not so inebriated as to act out whatever role you choose to play. I want the truth.”
“What truth?” she cried out. She was within his arms, held there easily as he stared at her. She returned his gaze, fascinated by the color of his eyes, by the rugged planes and angles of his face. She wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and felt a sizzling tremor streak through her. She wanted to taste his kiss again. It was amazing, for she resented him, she could not care for him, and yet she did. “Ian,” she murmured, and no other word would leave her lips.
Suddenly he was smiling, and some of his anger drained away.
“Perhaps I shall just discover the truth for myself,” he said.
The truth about her, he thought. There was one way to know if she had entertained a lover before. And with the blood seeming to shimmer in his veins and the pounding in his head, he knew that discovering more about her was suddenly necessary to him. He had never wanted a woman more. “If I’ll not have something from you in words this night, then by God, lady, perhaps I will have a wife! My manners are already considered rude, and as you claim the champagne, sweet, so can I claim the brandy!”
He unerringly found the route to the bedroom, long strides bringing them into the darkened room. She knew where they traveled. Winds created by his impetus stirred over her face, and she was vaguely aware of what she was doing. It was insane. So were the fires that stirred within her body and soul. She longed to taste his lips again, to know again the fever of his arms.
And more.
“You really must put me down,” she told him.
“I intend to,” he promised.
They entered the darkened bedroom, and he laid her down upon the bed, then sat beside her as glimmers of moonlight played in the room. She felt her breath coming quickly, but she did not close her eyes. She sought his in the strange surreal light, and found he was looking at her hair.
It was splayed upon the pillow in the moonlight, shimmering like a thousand fires. His fingers moved quickly within it, removing the few pins she had used to secure it from her face. And when it stretched in burning, golden cascades around them, he lowered his face to hers, catching her chin softly between his two hands. “Earth and fire,” he whispered softly. “Passion, tension, spirit. God forgive me, for I’ll not forgive myself.”
His words stirred a great unease within her soul, but his kiss quickly wiped that unease away. In the darkness it was suddenly magic. He tasted the rim of her mouth, and plunged and delved deeply within it. He whispered against her throat, against the lobe of her ear.
And then his hands were moving expertly over the tiny pearl buttons of her elegant blouse. She barely felt the sheath of silk whisper against her flesh as it was whisked away.
His kiss burned a sweetly forbidden fire against the length of her throat, delicately, erotically pausing at the point where her pulse beat wildly.
This was what a woman did when she was madly in love, Marissa thought vaguely. Lose all sense and reason, and hunger for a man. She was not in love. She was wary, as an intelligent lamb might be of an experienced, sometimes world-weary wolf …
No, she was not in love. But she was fascinated, as she had always been fascinated by him. Angry and fascinated. Careful and suspicious and fascinated. Furious and fascinated.
Taunted and seduced and fascinated …
Taken in by the spell of his gaze upon her, by his very touch. The subtle, masculine scent of him was stirring fires and hungers within her soul. She was fascinated by the gentle, callused brush of his fingers, by the strength within them, by the power of his hands. Stirred and tempted and challenged by the dark lock of hair that fell over his forehead in the mystic near darkness of the room. She was aware of what she did, of where they were, of where this new intimacy would take them. And it was wrong.
But it was also right. Something had been awakened within her. Something secret and beautiful, something of the dreams that Mary had spun, the dreams in which she had never believed. In the shadows, in the night, there was something beautiful and exciting. Something growing that she could not deny. She wanted to hold him, and hold him tight, and pretend that he did love her, to know just a taste of an emotion so rich and fine.
But this was not a dream! She struggled to remember that, but she felt drugged. She slipped into danger, and she saw the flames, yet resisting the sear of the fire seemed impossible. She had to stop him. She had to remind him that theirs was not the customary marriage.
That he did not want her …
She inhaled on a sweet shudder as his fingertips moved over her breast, untying the silken ribbons of her chemise, releasing the ties of her corset. She felt her breasts spill free of the restraint and the burning pressure of his lips low against the valley between them. She had let this go too far, oh, way too far. No, she had not let it, she had encouraged it, she had brought him here, to her.
Ian felt the first protest on her lips when he kissed her again, but he thought it more of her taunting, more of her game. He didn’t understand what core of anger had burned so brightly within him, except that she had tricked him, she had lied, and he was suddenly damned sure that she had lied about more.
There was a lover. She had married Ian, perhaps planning all the while to turn to her lover. Perhaps to bring him with her across the ocean.
And he wondered what it mattered, there was so little that he could give her. He shouldn’t be so angry, he should understand. He couldn’t love her; he couldn’t give her tenderness; he didn’t even want to be near her. She was his wife, not a dance-hall girl.
But there was more to it than that. At least this night there was. There was that never-ending challenge in her beautiful green eyes, and there was the firelight that played within her hair. There was the impudence in her voice, the spirit, the anger, the laughter. The tilt of her chin. And now … the softness of her skin, the sweet taste of the champagne upon her lips, the subtle scent of her perfume.
Yes, the scent of her perfume.
He groaned aloud, taking her breast into the palm of his hand, gently covering the shadow-haunted peak with his mouth, curling his tongue over the nipple as his palm caressed the fullness of the mound. Again he felt her shudder, felt the faint murmurings of protest upon her lips. But even as she murmured, a fire of desire and longing stronger than her words, stronger than his own denial, swept raggedly through him. And again he kissed her lips, kissed them hungrily, angrily, then tenderly, bathing away any little hurt he might have inflicted with the stroke of his tongue.
He moved his fingers along the smooth silk of her stocking from her ankle to the lace of her drawers just above the knee, and there his fingers found the sleek softness of her bare thighs beneath the fabric. He teased her flesh, feeling her body move against his. And he felt again the protests bubbling to her lips, and silenced them with his tongue. He was not unaccustomed to women’s finery, and easily found the ties to loosen the lace, and in seconds he had stripped the garment from her.
Alive with the fire of desire, he paid little heed to any other barriers between them. He seared her flesh with the hungry force of his kiss as he briefly adjusted his own clothing, then moved his weight against her body, between her thighs. She had ceased to protest, but trembled incredibly in his hold. Her pulse beat frantically at her throat when he touched it with his tongue. And when he paused, stroking her cheek to look down upon her, her eyes were emeralds, brilliant, stunning against the darkness, both dazzling and dazed. Her lips were parted softly, damp with his kiss, and her hair, that majestic hair, was still splayed in fire and splendor across the pillow. Her throat was long and white and elegant, and her breasts, bared and yet framed in lace and silk, were glorious, rouge peaked in the near darkness, shadowed, and still as tempting as original sin. Her eyes met his with some sudden and strange recognition, and she suddenly inhaled and cried out. “Ian, I did not intend—”
He did not know what she intended—he knew only that he did not intend to let her speak. There was a mystique in the darkness. He had ceased to think or reason or remember. He threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her to his will as he forcefully kissed away her words.
And as his tongue invaded her mouth, he found the sweet petals of her sex, teasing first with the thrust of his desire, then plunging hard with the spiraling depths of his need. Then he stopped, stunned, waiting.
Not even his kiss could drown out her cry.
Tears stung Marissa’s eyes, and she bit hard on her lip against the sudden pain.
Ian had grown still, dead still.
The magic of the night had slipped away, the beauty of the shadows, of the dreams within the room. Suddenly he was very real, and flesh and blood, a man, and not a dream of love. Marissa realized that she had brought him here, that she had been seduced, perhaps, but that she had seduced in turn. And his hand lay against her face, his thumb moving over her cheek.
And feeling the dampness of the tear that lay against her flesh.
“Marissa!” She felt the warmth of his whisper there, and she wouldn’t allow him compassion or pity, not now.
“Dear God, don’t!” she cried.
And he grew still again, but the pad of his thumb moved gently over her face, smoothing away the dampness. Then his lips touched where his thumb had been, ever gentle. And she longed to scream, to cry out, to toss him from her.
But he did not leave her. He kissed her again and again. Finding her brows, her throat, her lips, her earlobe, her lips again.
And then he moved.
Slowly, so slowly, she was barely aware of his thrust at first.
And she was keenly, achingly aware, because slowly, so slowly, the magic was evoked once again.
She didn’t know when she fell within the twilight swirl, not when she felt the budding excitement begin anew. It eased the burning at the apex of her thighs, yet created fire all over again. It came like lava, lustrous, sleek, sweet, moving through her limbs. It stretched out like lightning from the center of her being, and it warmed her, and returned again to that center, making her rise ever higher with the growing wonder of sensation.
And then the softness was gone, the slowness of his motion cast away. He moved like lightning, hard, fast, demanding. His arms were tight around her, and she realized that sounds were escaping her again, no longer protests, but exhalations and sweet, sweet moans. And he urged her to rise against him, and she did, arching to meet his every thrust, twisting, undulating, thinking that she could bear no more, take no more … yet ever reaching for the stars.
And then it seemed that those stars exploded above her and around her. The darkness was shattered with light, and then the light was plunged into darkness. She felt him, hard and powerful, driving deeply into her and shuddering as a hot lava seemed to fill her again. Tremors had seized her, too. Little tremors, bringing again the wonder, the stars, the darkness and the light. And when they left her at last, she was shivering.
It was cold, for he had lifted his weight away. And even as the magic she had barely glimpsed began to fade from her grasp, she realized that he was leaning upon an elbow, staring at her.
And the darkness was no cover against the probe of his eyes. She was in complete dishabille; he still wore his elegant jacket.
She turned aside, groping blindly for the covers, swept into a tempest of emotion. She wanted to hate him, but she knew that she did not. And that was a bitter thought, for she felt again the nagging pain of what she had done, what they had done, and it tore at her heart.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His voice was a rasp. He seemed so angry still. He seemed angry! It was surely her place.
“Tell you what?” she snapped.
“I assumed—”
“You assumed!”
His hand touched her shoulder, and she wished that she dared to turn, to look into his eyes. But she lay there rigidly, her shoulders tense.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
“Please, don’t be.”
An impatient oath escaped him. “Marissa, I did not force you—”
“No!” she cried, flinging back the covers, then swearing as she tried to rise and tripped over the shambles of her clothing. “You did not force me.”
He rose quickly, which did not please her, for he appeared so respectable. The disarray of his hair, that dark lock lying over his forehead, was the only sign of all that had passed between them. He was coming around the bed to her, she realized. She wrenched the cover from the bed and swept it regally around herself like a cape. And she backed away, trying to escape him, but he quickly caught up with her, taking her arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m leaving—”
“It’s your room, you little fool.”
“But—” She tried to break free from him. He released her, much to her surprise. Off balance, she fell against the wall.
And she was in his arms once again. And then she saw his eyes, blue, burning into hers. “Damn you!” he said softly. “It’s the champagne, right?”
“Oh! Leave me alone!”
“I will.”
He laid her upon the bed, but made no move to join her again. “Go to sleep,” he told her harshly.
“Sleep! I cannot sleep—”
“You wanted to be alone. I’m leaving you alone. Cherish the privacy, my love. And sleep!” he snapped.
“You must leave—”
“Come the daylight, I am leaving. On a ship across the ocean, remember?”
“With any luck, you will be swallowed within it!” she hissed, trembling.
He paused. “Ah, but luck does not seem to be with you lately, does it my love?” He did not seem to expect an answer. He turned on his heel and left the room.
For long moments she lay there, numb.
Then Marissa felt again the burning that would not ease completely from her body. She closed her eyes, and remembered his kiss, his touch.
And it seemed that her flesh burned everywhere as she remembered the sweetness that had invaded her, the ecstasy. The sounds that had escaped her, the way they had been. She was angry with herself, unable to believe what she had done with her eyes wide open.
I tried to protest! she told herself.
But she had not. Not really. Perhaps she could not have gotten him to leave her rooms, but she could have stopped him from this.
It was the champagne …
No, she had clung to the champagne. It had been an excuse, and she could not deny it.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to claw at his face. She wanted so badly to hate him. And then she realized that her cheeks were damp again, that she had been crying.
And she had been crying because she did not hate him at all.
She craved things she had never imagined wanting before.
A home. A husband, a real husband. Happiness.
And more.
She wanted love.