Day Dreamer (18 page)

“Of course you do! So we’ll just move this trunk—” Foster began, hastily starting to toss the gowns back inside.

“Stop! Please.” Celine held up her hand. Foster quit tossing the gowns into the trunk. “I’ve already made up my mind. This is the room I’ve chosen, and I would appreciate it if you would all abide by my decision.”

Foster began pulling the dresses out again and draping them over Edward’s arms. Ada frowned, trying to understand. Then she brightened.

“At least Cord will be close by.”

Celine felt her heartbeat escalate. “What do you mean?”

Ada pointed to the door in the wall opposite Celine’s bed. “Why, the master suite is right through that connecting door.”

* * *

Cord moved through the dark house, as familiar with the place as he had been as a child. The absence of light hid the shabbiness that had aged the once beautiful furnishings and wall hangings. He walked through the dining room, where memories loomed around him in the shadowed shapes and forms of the massive sideboard, the long dining table, the chandelier. He could almost hear his father’s voice and his mother’s answering laughter in this room where they had so often entertained.

A self-protective mechanism, an inner alarm kept him from dwelling on old memories, memories of times long gone that only brought him pain, the old deep-seated pain he refused to let himself feel. He had run from them earlier, just as he had run from Celine, but it was late now and there was no way to avoid the place.

He had spent the day with Bobo riding over the estate, from the sloping hillside covered in cane to the wide crescent beach below. He had taken his meals with Bobo, eating whenever and wherever food was offered—fruit from the trees or slave fare of corn, plantains, sweet potatoes, beans and salt fish. Bobo had seen to it that the slaves had been given their weekly rations of rum and molasses. Many had offered Cord more than a swig.

Surprisingly, Dunstain Place had thrived over the years in an unfettered way. A wide field of tobacco planted for slave use had expanded into a thriving second crop. The sugar crop had been staggered so that the sugar fields would ripen in succession from January to May, the driest and best months for harvest. A small herd of healthy cattle grazed in the coastal grasslands.

After a day of close inspection and discovery, Cord was convinced that no one on the island realized that Dunstain Place had thrived under the direction of his addlepated aunt, a slave who worked as boiler and gang boss, and an often absent neighbor named Roger Reynolds.

Tired but refreshed by a swim in his favorite pool, situated beneath a rushing waterfall, Cord crossed the sitting room. He paused at the bottom of the stairs and rested one hand on the cherry-wood pineapple atop the newel post. Beside him, a window was open to the stars and the night breeze. The rustle of palm fronds and the cry of green monkeys in the distant forest mingled with the cloying scent of night-blooming jasmine. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Beside the long, open windows, panels of lace, like gossamer phantoms, shifted with the breeze.

As he started up the stairs, he realized he had no clear notion of where he was headed. He recalled the room he had slept in as a child, but suspected Foster and Edward would have seen him ensconced in the master suite. A vision of Celine waiting for him in the bed his parents had so lovingly shared flickered through his thoughts. Then the cynical smile of a realist curved his lips. After this afternoon she had no doubt found a room as far from his as she could manage, then promptly barred the door.

He took the stairs two at a time and then strolled the length of the wide hallway, listening to the hollow sound of his solitary footsteps. The quiet, empty hall was totally different from the way it had been during his childhood, when it rang with laughter and gaiety. He wondered if Dunstain Place would ever know such joy again.

He found the door to the master suite ajar and lingered for a moment in the hallway, steeling his emotions before he stepped inside. The last time he had been in this room, his father had been lying in bed staring out to sea, a beard of stubble shadowing the lower, unbandaged half of his face. His remaining eye was bleak, as if his soul had been snuffed out with Alyce’s death. That was the day Auguste had told Cord that he was sending him away.

Propelled by the old anger, Cord shoved the door open. The room was darker than the night sky but even so, he could see that Celine was not there waiting for him. His anger quickly dissipated and was replaced by a rush of ancient loneliness.

He left the room bathed in darkness and walked to the foot of the bed. It was massive, set upon a raised dais and draped with yards of mosquito netting. Seeing it now, as a man, he could only imagine it as his parents’ playground.

Unable to predict what his reaction to Celine might be right now, he remained determined not to seek her out. He unbuttoned and stripped off his shirt and tossed it over a nearby chair, where he then sat to remove his boots. He peeled off his socks, then stood and flexed his shoulders and biceps. Clasping his hands together, he stretched his arms high overhead. Riding across the property had left him sore but feeling more alive than he had in a long while.

He was still on edge, his mind crowded with all he had seen and learned today. He wanted a drink, but decided to step out on the balcony and listen to the pulsing sound of the sea rather than prowl the house in search of liquor. He crossed the balcony and walked to the railing. Far below the overgrown garden that bordered the house, past the sweeping hillside and the open grassland beyond, lay the sea, a black jewel shimmering beneath the scant light of a crescent moon. Starlight danced on the water. The surf pounded against the shoreline, the sound drifting up to him on the gentle wind.

Over the sound of the sea, he heard a swift intake of breath, a gasp of surprise. He turned. Framed in the open French doors of the room next to his, Celine stood poised on the threshold.

“I didn’t know you were out here,” she said softly, unable to hide the tremor in her voice.

The sleeveless white gown he had given her billowed about her bare ankles, brushed against the tapered arch of a foot. She reached up to sweep her hair off the side of her face, where the wind pressed it to her cheek.

“Not much of a witch after all, are you?”

He thought she would turn away. The acid drip of his tone should have sent her running into the shelter of her room, but she didn’t move. Instead, she chose to stand there with the wind caressing her wild, midnight hair, tempting him with her innocence, her silence. With a concern and a caring he did not want or need.

Finally she spoke. “Why did you do it?”

“What have I done now?”

“Why did you kiss me like that today?”

He looked out across the sea again, unable to bear the sight, knowing she was naked save for a yard or two of sheer cotton, incapable of looking her way without wanting her.

“You live to torment me, don’t you?” he said softly.

“Because you are so easily tormented. So willing to
revel
in your pain. Let it go, Cordero.”

Cord crossed the balcony in two strides and stood over her, afraid to touch her. Afraid it might prove too much. The spell she so easily wove around him angered Cord more than his inability to control his need.

“You’re nothing but a pampered merchant’s daughter who bought herself a husband with a fat purse. You play at life, concocting fantasies about a gypsy father and a life in London. What do you know of pain?”

“Enough,” she whispered. “And I know enough not to hoard it and guard it like a miser’s treasure the way you do.”

“What would you have me do, wife?”

“Let go of it, Cord. Forget the past. You are here now. You have land and a home, faithful servants and an aunt who loves you. Be grateful for that. Let them love you, and love them in return. Choose what you want to believe about me, but never assume I know nothing of heartache just because I don’t choose to wear it on my sleeve like a hard-won trophy.”

She began to turn away, but before she could, he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder. The warmth of her skin through the thin fabric snaked like a shock wave up his arm. His fingers tightened on her tender flesh and he felt her flinch, but he could not let go. He pulled her to him, slammed her against his bare chest and buried his face in her hair. He closed his eyes and breathed in the heady scent of her.

He slipped his hand down to her hips, cupped her buttocks and pressed her against him so that she might feel and be aware of his raging need.

Cord drew back slightly, framed her face with his hands and was once again reminded how small she was, how vulnerable. Starlight and hope and even fear shimmered in her eyes. She was breathing hard, as if running for her life. Her pounding heart echoed the beat of his own. His breath whispered against her ear. “I want you, Celine. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything on this earth. And I want you now.”

Thirteen

“
I
want you now
.”

Starlight and the sound of the sea bathed them in silver and thunder. Cord’s hands cupped her face. His intense gaze locked on her eyes. Celine was powerless to refuse him anything.

When he spoke of his need, when his heated touch communicated his desire, she experienced such a swift, aching longing of her own that to deny him would be to deny herself.

She spread her fingers and lay her hands on his bare ribs, guarding her touch so that images from his past were closed to her. She wanted no part of the past tonight, nor would she think of the future. This moment in time was all that was important now—the twinkling star-washed sky, the sound of the sea … and Cordero.

When she touched his ribs, he shuddered and closed his eyes. She heard him sigh before he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers. She thought the kiss he had pressed upon her that afternoon had been demanding, but it was nothing compared with the way he compelled her to open to him now. His tongue delved, warm and searching, arousing her with a suggestive imitation of a more intimate act.

He let go of her face and clasped her to him, pulling her up against his bare chest. His heart pounded against hers. His hands were everywhere at once. She gasped when he cupped her breast and she moaned when he took her peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger and gently teased it through the fabric of her gown until she arched against his arm.

He dipped his head to her breast, took her nipple in his mouth and suckled through the thin layer of cotton. Celine clasped his head in her hands, ran her fingers through his dark, wavy hair and pressed him closer, demanding he take more, silently urging him to suckle harder until she cried out with the pleasurable pain of it.

She went nearly limp in his arms, panting, aching, wanting him. Longing she had never experienced before welled up inside her so violently that she did not think she could bear it another moment more. She clung to him, certain she would shatter into more pieces than there were stars in the Caribbean sky.

He pulled back to stare into her eyes. It was a long, searing look that spoke volumes. Then in one swift move he slipped one arm beneath her knees and carried her into her room.

As he drew aside the mosquito net and lay her across the bed, as he fanned her hair out across her pillow, his rough, man’s hands were as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss. Desire drove her to reach for his shoulders. She moaned in frustration when he pulled away to unbutton and slip off his pants. As Celine watched his every move, hungering for him to begin again, she tried to convince herself that she was not like her mother, that this was her husband, that she was no whore.

Unable to take her eyes off him, she watched Cord step up to the bed. He stood before her brash and bold, the moonlight illuminating the hard planes of his well-defined body, the tense, set line of his jaw, his erection. The moon revealed nothing soft or pliant, nothing warm or giving about him. He spoke no false promises of love or countless tomorrows, but his body gave silent testimony to his need for her.

He took the flounce of her nightgown in his hands and Celine raised her hips. Cord drew the fabric up along her thighs to her waist. He knelt beside her, then stretched out full length until she could feel his heated flesh pressed along her side. Reverently he placed his open palm in the hollow over her navel and began to slip it lower until he was stroking the soft mound between her thighs.

No one had ever touched her in this gentle, intimate way. She wanted to weep with the magic of it; she wanted to weep with the joy and heady sensation of it.

He dipped his head and kissed her navel as his hand and fingers continued to work their spell. She closed her eyes. Her hands kneaded his shoulders as he moved over her. He trailed kisses ever closer to that most secret spot hidden at the apex of her thighs. When she felt his tongue touch the bud hidden at the core of her melting, pulsing heat, Celine ceased to reason, to worry, even to wonder.

She gave herself to the frantic beat of her heart and the driving tempo that set her hips undulating beneath his mouth. Afraid she was coming apart, she reached out and grasped the headboard. She arched off the bed, giving herself to him, urging him to take more. Panting, moaning over and over, she strained for release. When it came, she cried out, a strangled scream that was lost on the wind, tangled in the sound of the pounding surf.

Cord wrapped his arms about her hips and lay his cheek atop the silken nest of curls. He waited until she stopped shuddering, waited until she sank back onto the pillow and he felt her fingers slide through his hair as she stroked his head. When she’d reached her climax and a cry of release was wrung from the depths of her soul, he had nearly spilled his seed. But now, as she lay replete, his desire was at a higher pitch than he would have ever thought possible. The scent and taste of her was driving him wild.

Cord released her, eased himself to his knees and slowly drew her nightgown off her breasts. Her eyes were closed. The trace of a teardrop along her cheek glistened in the moonlight. He kissed it away.

I don’t love her. I will not love her
, he reminded himself over and over as he gently lifted her shoulders so that he could draw the nightgown over her head. Careful not to tangle the fabric in her hair, he tossed the nightgown to the floor.

She is my wife. We are bound by empty vows and an exchange of money, nothing more
.

He reached between her legs and found her warm and wet and ready for him. With a touch, he urged her to open her thighs. Bracing himself above her, Cord looked down at Celine. She was staring up at him in the darkness, watching him, waiting. He moved his hips until the tip of his member was poised to enter her. He lingered there, his goal within reach, willfully and gratefully enduring the sweet torture of self-restraint.

She is my wife
.

He allowed himself a fraction more, sliding in smoothly, slowly, until the head of his shaft was buried inside of her. The welcome heat was too much. He knew he would go mad if he tarried longer. In one swift, sure plunge, he tore into her and buried himself to the hilt. She cried out. He grasped her hips and held her still. He knew he was hurting her, knew his fingers would brand bruises on her hips where he clung to her, but he wanted to be inside of her as long as he could—an eternity, if possible.

Celine thought his thrust would rip her apart when he filled her. His fingers bit into the tender flesh of her hips, imprisoning her beneath him. She tried to move, to break free of the tearing fullness, then slowly realized he was silently urging her to lie still. She closed her eyes against the ebbing pain and clung to him, afraid to move, afraid he would do something to make the searing pain begin again.

His rapid breath was hot against her ear. Chills ran down her spine, and she shivered. He groaned. He filled her. In her and above her, he was poised, taut as a bowstring.

She was his now, his wife in more than name and title. He was inside her, part of her, stretching her, filling her. She ran her hands down his smooth, well-muscled back, over his ribs, down to his hips. The idea that they were joined by flesh further aroused her. The pain was barely remembered. They lay as one, coupled on the crisp, cool sheets. The sea breeze caressed them. The mosquito net cascaded around them, a filmy cocoon.

Cord was afraid to release her hips, afraid she would move in an attempt to escape the pain and send him over the edge. He tried to gentle her with a kiss and trailed his tongue around her ear and down her neck.

He felt a honeyed warmth melt around him. He began to move inside her, slowly at first, hesitant to hurt her again. She went still, waiting, barely breathing as she continued to stroke his back with her fingertips. With agonizing slowness he withdrew until he had all but left her.

“No, please … stay,” she whispered.

His control shattered. Cord threw back his head with a cry of release and drove himself into her over and over again, pouring his seed into her womb.

His pounding heartbeat slowed, and he held himself above her on his elbows and watched as she opened her eyes, then turned her gaze to the open balcony doors. He was happy to have been able to give her satisfaction earlier; he knew she had not peaked again when he did.

“You were a virgin,” he said, feeling more awkward than he ever had in any moment of his life.

“You make it sound like a sin.”

“It won’t ever hurt like that again.”

Her mouth was too tempting. He felt compelled to kiss her again, this time lingering over her lips, savoring the taste of them.

When he eased out and off of her, a momentary sense of loss settled over him. They lay naked, side by side, barely touching, savoring the cool breeze that wafted over their heated skin. Celine longed to ask him what he was feeling, desperate to know if she would ever again experience the soul-searing explosion of sensation that had come earlier when he had taken her over the edge. Had the same ultimate release caused him to cry out?

“What are you thinking?” Cord asked.

It sounded more like a demand than an idle thought.

“Is it always this way?”

“I told you it will not hurt again, unless you are forced against your will.”

She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “You would never force me.”

Once more he was moved by her trust. She knew him better than he knew himself.

“I did not mean the pain,” she said. “I meant the other, the …”

“The pleasure?”

“Yes.”

Cord wondered how he could guarantee such satisfaction would come again when before tonight he had never felt such intense pleasure with a woman.

“It’s always different, and yet the same.”

She wished they were better friends; she might have asked him to try to explain. As it was, she was too embarrassed.

One thing was clear to her now: Her fears had been dispelled forever. She knew she was nothing like her mother—for it would be impossible for her to engage in an act of such sheer intimacy with strangers night after night, even for all the money on earth. She would starve first.

The mosquito net luffed and sagged as the trades calmed. In the quiet stillness there was no sound but the hum of frustrated, bloodthirsty insects hovering outside the net and the whisper of Cord’s rhythmic breathing. She thought of what they had just shared. What would it have been like had theirs been a love match? How could it have possibly been any more intense?

“Don’t expect me to love you, Celine. I don’t have it to give.”

If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he had read her mind.

“We all have love to give. It’s just harder for some than others,” she said.

He worked so very hard at keeping the barriers around his heart that she wanted to reach over and take his hand, wanted to assure him he was not alone. Instead she asked, “Would your cousin Alex have wanted you to close yourself off and cease loving? You said that he loved you. Would he want to see you live out your life with a heart of stone?”

“A heart of stone feels nothing, neither love nor pain. I have lost everyone I have ever loved.”

“And so you would rather live without love than risk that again?”

He rolled over. “Why are you so damned desperate to help me?”

“I’m still naive enough to believe what I was taught by a very wise person,” she said.

“And what is that?”

“That love cures all ills, heals all wounds.”

“I’m not ill or wounded.”

“But you are hurting all the same.”

“Let it go, Celine.”

Afraid he would go back to his room, she stopped pushing, but couldn’t help adding, “I would be content to see you smile more often.”

He ignored her comment and lay back down. Celine fluffed her pillow, smoothed it out, then reached down for the sheet and pulled it up to cover her nakedness.

“Are you finished wriggling?”

She settled back with a sigh and closed her eyes. “Yes.”

Cord listened to her deep, even breathing. He had never slept through the night with a woman, and just because Celine was his wife, he saw no reason why he should start now, no reason save one—that he was loath to leave her.

The desire simply to lie there beside her infuriated him. She rolled toward him and snuggled closer in sleep. He reached out and pulled the sheet up over her shoulder.

Love
. A waste of time and a source of great pain. Love was for fools and the foolhardy who were willing to be hurt.

She shifted in her sleep. Her hand slid across the sheet and came to rest against the wall of his chest. The touch was light, innocent, given unconsciously, yet to Cord it spoke volumes. They were connected now by more than vows. They had come together as man and woman, flesh to flesh, in an exchange as old as time.

They were man and wife. There was no harm in sleeping in her bed. Besides, here in this room there were no memories waiting to haunt him, as there were in the master suite. He would sleep with her, he decided, until just before dawn.

But he would not love her.

Foster and Edward, bare-legged, in nightshirts and shoes, crept down the hall each carrying a candlestick. As soon as they stopped outside the master suite, Edward pressed his ear to the door.

“I don’t ’ear nothing,” he whispered.

“Try the knob,” Foster urged.

“Try it yerself, Fos.” With a flourish, Edward blew out his candle, and then Foster did the same.

As far as they could tell from outside, the master suite was dark and silent. Foster reached around Edward and slowly turned the doorknob. The heavy door opened without a sound and swung inward. The two men tiptoed over the threshold and stared at the empty bed on the dais.

“ ’E’s not ’ere,” Foster said, somewhat surprised.

“You don’t suppose …” Edward sounded hopeful.

“Maybe we’re in luck.” Foster led the way to the connecting door to Celine’s room.

“I don’t ’ear nothing,” Edward said again. This time he tried the knob himself.