A Cry at Midnight (33 page)

"That
will be all for tonight, Micah," Jackson said as he stepped from behind the folding screen and tied his robe around his waist. "You can take the water out in the morning."

"Yes, Mas'r Jackson." Micah picked up the damp towel and soiled clothing, then let himself out the door--a nearly silent, efficient and well mannered servant.

He remembered some of Randi's first criticism--that people never said anything to him but "yes, Master Jackson," and "no, Master Jackson." He'd thought her remarks preposterous then, but now, he saw the truth of her observations. He could go for days with no conversation except for that of Lebeau. If they hadn't been friends for years and been through so much together, he doubted even a freeman would really talk to him.

He hadn't realized how much he'd missed arguing with someone before Randi came into his life. For the past several years, he'd been so careful to blend in, so circumspect in his actions, that his life had become silent and dull.

Randi was never silent or dull. She sparkled with life and energy. She resonated with passion and opinion, stated firmly and surely with a curious blend of emotion and logic. He'd never known another woman like her, and knew that he'd never meet anyone who stirred his soul like the young governess with a mysterious past.

As if thinking of Randi conjured her presence, she peeked around the door. "Is it safe to come inside?"

Jackson smiled. "That depends on your interpretation of 'safe'," he answered, giving his belt a last tug. "However, you're very welcome to come into my lair."

"Gesh, you sound like the Big Bad Wolf," she answered, slipping through the partially open door with a plate of food in one hand and a sheaf of papers and pencils under her other arm. She wore the green gown he'd given her and the unusual shoes she'd arrived in.

He didn't know what she meant by that comment, but decided, as he walked toward the door, to take her remark as a compliment. "You have your hands full," he said, taking the plate of food from her and closing the door. With a discreet click, he turned the lock.

"I didn't know if you'd have enough food for me, so I brought a plate. But don't worry. I told Birdie and the cooks that I was eating in my room, too."

"Very clever of you."

"Thanks!" She appeared nervous, clutching papers close to her body, holding pencils in a white-knuckled grasp over her breast.

"Why don't you sit at the table?" he asked, gesturing toward where his dinner awaited. Micah had set the covered plate on a linen cloth with flatware, crystal stems, and a small candelabra. Jackson had suggested a wine, telling his valet that the spirits would help him sleep. No one had questioned him, of course. Jackson now wondered if the staff had any idea of what might go on here tonight.

If he told them, even to shock their sensibilities, they'd simply say, "Yes, Master Jackson," and go on with their tasks. Their extreme deference rankled, but he had no idea what to do about his sudden, errant thoughts.

He didn't want to think about his relationship with his servants tonight, anyway. He didn't want to think much at all. Action was his goal, and the sooner the better.

Not that he would rush Randi. He wanted her to be comfortable with the situation, yet excited about the evening to come. He simply wanted both the comfort and the excitement to commence as soon as possible. His body had remained in what seemed, at time, a perpetual state of readiness.

He followed Randi across the room, set her plate down opposite his, and pulled a chair out for her. She settled in, smoothing her skirts around her bottom and thighs with a caress he longed to imitate--only without the fabric separating his fingers from her flesh.

He took a deep breath, reminding himself not to rush Randi. First, they needed to have dinner, perhaps drink some excellent wine. He knew how spirits relaxed her.

"Your dinner has gotten cold," he commented, leaning toward her setting. "Would you like to share mine?"

"No, I doubt I'll even taste it," she said, laughing a bit nervously.

"Perhaps some wine would stimulate your pallet," he suggested, reaching for the bottle of Beaujolais.

"Normally, I'd accuse you of trying to get me drunk, but I think maybe tonight you don't want me passed out."

"No, never that. You should try to relax, though. If you don't want to be here, you can leave at any time."

She reached across the table and covered his other hand with her. "Jackson, I know that. There's no place else I want to be. I'm just a little nervous. Despite what you may think of me, I don't just jump into bed with anyone."

He felt his cheeks grow warm with her candid remark. "I never said you did."

"I know, but you might be thinking it." She sighed, easing her hand away. "I thought I was madly in love with Cleve Sherwood. I was wrong, but I know how I feel about you."

"How?" he asked, handing her a glass of wine, hoping his hand didn't shake and reveal his equally nervous state.

She paused, taking the glass, looking away from his searching gaze. "I care for you very much," she said softly.

"I care for you also," he admitted. He didn't have a word to express how he felt about her. In all honesty, he'd never felt this way about another woman--not that he'd ever known a woman like Randi.

She sipped from her glass. "I don't know much about wine, but this is very good."

"I'm glad you like it. Try it with your
Boeuf Bourguignon
," he suggested.

"My what?"

"The beef dish," he said, smiling slightly behind his own wine glass. He hadn't known the name either when he was younger, but to mingle in this society, a knowledge of all things was necessary. Lebeau knew about wine, food, and manners. Jackson couldn't have had a better teacher. If the planters had any idea where their neighbor had gotten his fine manners and how he'd stocked his wine cellar, they would be shocked.

"Oh." She took a small forkful of food, then looked up. "This is good, Jackson." She chewed some more, swirling the taste around on her tongue. "Is there wine in this sauce?" she asked, her voice betraying her suspicion.

"Yes, a bit. But don't worry; the alcohol dissipates in the heat."

"That's your way of telling me that eating this meal is not going to get me drunk, right?"

"That's correct," he said, smiling at her playful expression.

She took a few more bites, followed by several sips of wine. He did the same, barely tasting the food as he watched Randi across the table. Lamplight gilded her hair gold and silver, while the candles on the table highlighted her rosy cheeks. His earlier exhaustion dissipated as surely as the spirits in the
Boeuf Bourguignon
.

In the silence of his bedroom, awareness seemed to grow. Of Randi, the woman. Of the privacy they shared. Of their mutual desire. He didn't know where the feeling came from--deep inside his soul or flowing between the two of them--but he welcomed the sharp-edged anticipation. He placed his fork on the plate, resting on his half-eaten dinner. His eyes focused on Randi, and hers on him, he drank his last sip of wine and blotted his lips with the linen cloth.

Without words, he pushed away from the table and took her hand in his. She rose, a nymph from the sea or a statue come to life, her eyes warm with a golden glow only partly induced by candlelight.

"Are you sure you want to be here, with me, alone?" he asked.

She nodded. "I'm sure. There's only one thing I ask."

"What's that?" He pulled her closer, until her breasts just lightly brushed against him.

"If possible, I don't want to risk getting pregnant. Can you . . . you know?"

"Withdraw?" he answered for her in a whisper.

"I suppose. I just . . . I can't go through that again."

"I understand." The image of Randi, round with his child, caused a rush of excitement and yearning to race through his body. He didn't want to withdraw; he wanted to bury himself deep inside and never come out. "I'll do what I can to protect you," he promised.

He understood her reasons. She'd recently lost a baby; she didn't want to experience anything similar to that tragic event. Still, the image of his child growing inside of her haunted his mind even as his body prepared to claim Randi as his own.

For how long
, his long-lost conscience asked. Shocked by the question, he stilled, staring deeply into her eyes. "For as long as we have together," he answered without thinking.

"What?"

"Us," he whispered before taking her lips in a claiming kiss.

Her hands crept around his neck as his molded down her back, pressing her close, feeling every curve and indentation along the way. He wanted to strip away the layers of clothing that separated them. The urge to tear the fabric in two darted into his mind, but he dismissed the primitive instinct. That action would neither comfort nor excite Randi, but rather would frighten her into running from his room.

He worked his way up her back, then began unfastening her dress. She moved restlessly, then broke the kiss with a gasp.

"Darn hooks," she whispered, her breath hot against his neck. "If this wasn't one of my only dresses, I swear I'd tear it off myself."

He felt as thought she'd punched him with a soft velvet pillow. In an instant, his hands fisted the cotton fabric and tore the garment in half, all the way down her back.

"Wow," she said, then demanded another long, mind-numbing kiss. Her hands pushed his robe from his shoulders, then stilled when she encountered his white linen shirt. Her fingers balled the fabric in her fists as she leaned back and looked into his eyes.

"Do it," he murmured, and she did, ripping buttons loose as she bared his chest. The sound of carved bone hitting the wooden floor and scattering about the room seemed to enflame her even more. Her fingers caressed his chest as she moaned into his mouth.

He'd never felt this excited by another woman. Randi's passion was honest, her responses natural in a way he'd never expected a woman to react. Not practiced, not reserved. Just true to her desire.

With an answering moan, he pulled the bodice down her arms, separating long enough to strip the dress from her body. The chemise she wore was thin and he could see the dark, tight peaks of her breasts through the white embroidery. Instead of ripping that garment from her as well, he knelt down, pulled the torn dress the rest of the way down her hips and legs, and placed his mouth over her nipple.

She grabbed his head, holding him to her as she trembled and moved against him. He wanted to taste her flesh, kiss every golden inch of her, but the abrasion of the thin linen was such sweet torture that he dared not allow himself such a luxury yet. Instead, he slowly eased the chemise up her legs, caressing the backs of her knees and thighs as he pushed the garment higher.

"Where are your pantalets, Miss Galloway?" he asked softly as he neared her rounded bottom.

"Back in my room, Mr. Durant."

"What a naughty young woman you are."

"I know," she murmured, urging his head back to her breast. "You'll forgive me, won't you?"

He didn't answer as his lips closed over her nipple again. This time he took her deeply into his mouth, suckling hard until her knees buckled and she gasped.

In an instant, he steadied her with both hands on her buttocks, gripping her firmly as he stood. She trembled, holding tight to him as he raised her from the ground and rubbed her against the part of him that wanted desperately to be inside her.

"Please, Jackson," she whispered against his neck as he held her higher off the ground. Her legs parted, then snaked around his waist. His breath caught in his throat, then he growled his answer into the sensitive skin of her shoulder.

With her locked around him, he strode across the room, easing her onto the bed. To his surprise, she didn't release him, but kept her legs around him as he stood beside the bed. "I love these big, high beds, don't you?" she asked, her eyelids heavy with desire.

He pulled the shirt and robe from his arms with two swift jerks, then yanked at the buttons of his trousers. She wanted to help, but only slowed him down.

This was not the time to go slow.

"Now," he whispered, straining against his linen smallclothes.

"Now," she answered, her legs still locked around his hips.

His hands fisted in the thin material of her chemise. The tearing sound echoed in the silent room. Her legs locked tighter around him, but eased when he caressed down her glowing body to her inner thighs

Her breasts were perfect, enough to fill his hand, with rosy nipples that begged for a touch. He obliged, tasting her, savoring the flavor of warm, fragrant, womanly flesh. Her stomach was flat. He couldn't tell that she'd ever carried a child. He leaned down and kissed the expanse of skin between her hipbones until she grabbed his hair and pulled his lips away from her soft flesh.

"Jackson," she murmured, her eyes damp and luminous.

He knew then that she loved him. The feelings he wanted to express came to his lips, but wouldn't push past the barrier of his hopes and dreams. Instead, he lowered himself and kissed her tenderly, deeply, until she moved against him once more.