Emily French (18 page)
Authors: Illusion
“Have a care, Mother. Else you will not get to see those grandchildren you keep commanding me to provide.” His voice was a whisper.
Agnes Weston let her hand drift across her son’s dark hair, her face soft. “Make them sons, with their father’s courage and their mother’s winsome ways.”
Sophy waited until he was reseated, his injured leg resting on a fringed stool by the fireplace, before she asked, “Did you remember to bring home the designs?”
Amusement lit his eyes. She was like a small terrier, not about to release the bone. They had been married only a month, but already she had left an indelible mark on him.
Sophy had breezily entered his life and turned his staid existence upside down. Wonderfully organized, efficient and bright, within days she had the household running like clockwork.
He was pleased and interested that she took an interest in his work. She had a flair for business, and he had begun to involve her in a couple of special projects.
A man learned a lot about a woman given a month. She was warm, charming and blessed with an inner passion that brought fire to their marriage bed. A tiny smile played around his lips. He also knew she was scared of the dark, that she loved ice cream, and was as stubborn as a mule.
True, he argued with her frequently, occasionally growled impatiently when he was in pain, and sometimes he snapped when she overstepped even the wide bounds he had indulgently allowed her. But he never really got angry with her.
Not even now.
She moved her head as if in protest at his probing scrutiny, and her face went from light to shadow. He was left with an image, a wisp of spirit, not in the mockery of a coquette, but in the enigma of a mystery he could not fathom.
He nodded in assent. “I have been gathering documents like a bee gathers pollen.”
Surrendering to the peculiar craving inside her, Sophy impulsively laid a hand on his wrist where it rested on his thigh. A strange thrill ran through her, and she could see him bite his underlip.
He did not move his hand, but his eyes sought hers. She smiled slowly, a little shyly. A silent message passed between them.
A man’s needs are sometimes bigger than his common sense.
A man’s needs are sometimes bigger than his common sense.
Sophy’s touch had a tightening effect on Seth’s already simmering desire. The deep, thrumming need inside him was painfully strong, and he didn’t seem able to suppress it.
Even the pain in his thigh intensified. Tension. Pure, unadulterated tension. His hand turned, and his long strong-boned fingers lightly closed over hers.
Sophy tilted her head to one side. Her fingers felt crushed in the warm pressure of his touch. She made a slight effort to withdraw her hand, but it was held too firmly. She left it there.
“St. Nicholas Hotel will be ideal for a launch of the new fabrics. asked Richard to book the ballroom for the event,” Sophy said matter-of-factly.
As Seth had already broached the idea of a large-scale launch of the latest range of Indian-style patterns with his merchants, this revelation failed to pierce his armor. He watched his wife a moment in silence, his blue eyes narrowed.
“The Astoria.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’ll have the ball at the Astoria. If you’re going to take over Weston’s Textiles, we may as well do it in style.”
“I’m not trying to take over your company, Seth. Only help out where I can.”
He was beginning to circle his thumb in the hollow of her palm, a subtly erotic caress that sent tremors flying along her nerves. She was horrified by the pleasurable sensations running through her. Could he feel her quickened pulse?
“Then check with me from time to time, will you, Sophy? It might save you making foolish assumptions, and will create the illusion that I’m still in charge.”
The shock of his feelings on her attempts to help startled Sophy. Her fingers curled protectively into themselves as she snatched her hand away. She gave him a straight look.
“I don’t play games, or make foolish assumptions, Seth. I have a good head for business. I also have a maxim. There is no comparison between that which is lost by not succeeding and that which is lost by not trying.”
Seth detected the iron determination beneath the gentleness of her voice. Yet, because he had dined so well and didn’t really have the will to argue, her presumption only amused him.
He smiled indulgently, and made no further comment.
By the time she entered her room, Sophy was decidedly out of charity with herself. Tension and tumult both still coursed through her, having been released in enormous quantities by the stress of the day.
Husbands did that to one. Just living with a man bred uncertainty. And uncertainty led to ill temper. She paced the bedroom, her arms folded under her breasts.
I love you. . . .
In what foolish daydream had she ever imagined Seth Weston would say words like that to her? Love was not a little cake to be cut up to suit their appetites.
In what foolish daydream had she ever imagined Seth Weston would say words like that to her? Love was not a little cake to be cut up to suit their appetites.
Neither of them had any illusions about this marriage. It was simply an arrangement. They had made a bargain. Before her marriage, Sophy had not aspired to love. Just a measure of freedom. To live her life as she willed, and not beneath the domineering rule of some man.
Now she was caught in a net, and did not even wish to escape.
Sophy bit her lip, experiencing a surge of nervous tension that almost broke her resolve. It was impossible to relax. Something inside her was bubbling with unnatural energy.
She was his wife, after all, and she had not been forced into marrying him. Most women had little say in the choice of husband. She must not let emotion blind her to what must be done. As her father had often pointed out to her, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Seth was kind and that gave her a kernel of hope. He was in pain and that gave her a chance of helping him. She had a job to do, and she had to do it without letting petty emotion get in her way. After all, affections could not be stolen, they must be given freely.
Right now, the only thing that mattered was to ease his pain. She really had no choice, and it was this that brought her here to his door. Pressing her hands together, she straightened her shoulders and stepped into his bedroom.
He lay there, his long frame stretched naked on the bed. Strain and pain had sharpened the angles of his face and pulled the skin tightly over them.
The light from the wall sconce spilled over his rippling muscles, outlining his body so he resembled a jungle cat, lithe and masculine. And infinitely more dangerous. Yet his face was all angles and shadows. He was palpably disconcerted to see her there, inspecting him.
She took a step toward him.
Through her lowered eyelashes, Sophy could see the fine dusky hair that powdered his chest tapering to disappear under the cloth he had draped over that shocking, strong, vital, pulsating part of himself. His hips, solid and trim, supported by a mound of pillows, were thrust upward in a long-limbed sprawl. He was rubbing his wounded thigh.
Seth’s eyes flickered over Sophy. The screen of her lashes hid her eyes. One of the frilled edges of her peignoir had slipped off the curve of her shoulder. A shining silver pendant gleamed between her breasts. Her skin had a more subtle sheen than the lace-edged satin shaped to the curves of her breasts.
Her hair, her eyelids, the tip of her tongue just peeking from between her lips all invited his touch. His loins ignited. He wanted her. But his pain was stronger than the impulse that compelled him.
Swiftly masking his instinctive reaction, he instilled a harsh note of impatience in his voice. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel like hand-to-hand combat tonight, Sophy.”
Sensing the unusual fatigue in him, Sophy regarded him intently. A frown pleated her brows as she noticed the pinched lines at the corners of his eyes, the tired droop of his mouth. She supposed even experienced assault commanders got tired occasionally.
Deliberately, she summoned up a determined casualness.
“Don’t be such a grumpy old curmudgeon, Seth. You won’t get rid of me by being ungracious.”
Seth gave her a blazing blue glare. Sophy ignored him. She walked right up to the edge of the bed, and gave him back glare for glare.
“I know a lot of men get vile-tempered and sharp-tongued when in pain, but being disagreeable does not help.” Her voice was husky, despite her resolutions, and her fingers were digging into her palms.
Silence stretched tautly between them. Had she gone too far? Wasn’t he going to say anything?
“You surprise me.” He swung his legs to the ground, leaning with one hand against the carved bedstead for balance. Pent-up pain was inside him, burning away, shortening the fuse of his temper. He shook his head from side to side.
There was passion there, too. He wanted to crush his mouth on hers, feel her body close to his. She ought to be in his arms, arching and writhing with the uninhibited sensuality underlying the calm self-possession of her manner in public.
A jolt of pain shook his hard frame, nearly shattering his carefully honed self-control. His hands shaped the edge of the bed as the pain in his leg intensified. His face contorted with agony.
Sophy noted the hard thrust of his jaw, the way his knuckles showed white as he gripped the bedstead. She almost reached out to touch his hair, perhaps to rub his neck. Nettled, she thrust her hands behind her back. She stood there blinking at him, suddenly aware of the sleek and bulging biceps that paralleled her head, the pulse beat of his throat. The recognition sent a tiny jolt through her.
He growled something low and impatient, then ground out in a deep, dark voice, “Next thing you’ll be telling me you know just the panacea. Save yourself the effort, Sophy. Pain takes precedence over everything, even sexual attraction.”
He knew all about it. Pain was scarlet and jagged and edged with fire. Pain was something one watched from a very great distance, and even admired for its perfect hideousness. But one did not mock it. Not after so long in its company.
Sophy swallowed her growing compassion, and forced her eyes up. He was staring at her, his face hostile. His piercing stare seemed to reach out and touch her. She had hit a core of some deep emotion. His eyes flashed blue fire as his jaw tightened.
She studied the curve of muscle on his chest and ribs, the dark coins of his nipples, the jagged purple streak staining the gilded gleam of his thigh, trembling now in spasmodic cramps, the muscles jumping out of control under the sheath of his skin. Her mind slowly probed the problem till an idea crystallized and took shape.
Without a word, she swung on the balls of her feet and walked out. Seth struggled to his feet, falling back onto the bed as his leg crumpled.
A flash of agony sent spasms through his frame, and the veins stood out on the sides of his temples. He made a quick violent motion with his head. To hell with it! To hell with everything!
Before he had finished cursing, Sophy had returned, carrying a laden enamel tray. She set it down with a sudden air of determination.
“I’m not precisely experienced in the act of kneading muscles to stimulate circulation and relieve strain and tension, but I have heard that it is most beneficial for withered limbs. I would imagine that it would be quite comforting for wounds such as yours.” Sophy sat on the edge of the bed, offering him a cup of steaming liquid. “Drink this.”
The last words came out in a suspiciously neutral tone, and Seth looked at the cup wearily. He took a long breath, and raised a speculative eyebrow at her.
“Not trying to do me in, Sophy?” The words were deliberate, but whispered so softly that his voice was scarcely audible.
There was an uncomfortable sensation at the back of Sophy’s throat as she met his cool, assessing glance. It seemed as if the flesh of his face were carved out of granite. Her cheeks glowed pink. She wet her lips, and shook her head curtly.
“No, it is only a simple tisane. A paregoric to soothe the nerves. A mix of dandelion leaves and poppy seeds. It’s quite harmless.”
Seth’s gaze rested on her in musing silence for a long moment, as if trying to make up his mind about something. Then he lifted one shoulder indifferently, and held out his hand. Propped on one elbow, he obediently drank the cup of bitter liquid, feeling it warm his throat and chest.
When Sophy removed the cup from his fingers, he rolled over on his back. Her heart was fluttering, her fingers faintly unsteady as she placed the empty glass on the table. Her whole being was concentrated on Seth.
He lay perfectly still, watching the silver pendant swing back and forth, and allowed her to do as she willed. His face glistened now with a thin film of moisture.
Sophy opened the stopper and poured a small amount of the aromatic liquid in little streaks along his injured thigh. His firm muscles rippled beneath her touch. He lay with one arm flung behind him, his wrist resting on his forehead. Like a beautiful pagan effigy stretched on the bed, all sinful temptation.
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