With One Look (12 page)

The shock of it crashed into her dazed consciousness. The sudden fear and tension erupted into hot slashes of pleasure as his lips moved softly back and forth over her nipple, his tongue washing her form with a hot pleasure. Rainbow colors burst in her mind: orange and red suns and exploding gold stars.

The warm surge of voluptuous sensations tumbled through her and she didn't know her fingers curled into his hair as if to keep him to her or that she cried softly until his mouth met hers again....

The erotically probing kiss dissolved her will to breathe, yet filled her with need. She felt bathed in a honeyed warmth, pulsating and spreading, then constricting like the hot center of a newborn star.

Her heart pounded wildly. She didn't know what was happening, only that it was; the way he began touching her, kissing her, brought an onslaught of whirling colors bursting in tiny ripples of pleasure. A journey he repeated over and over, each time carrying her higher and higher. She felt a surging dizziness as his lips circled her navel, over and over and lower...

She threw her head back and forth and arched her body, moaning softly as wave after wave of shimmering pleasure peaked and fell away only to rise higher again and higher. Just as she felt she would burst like an overripe fruit, he came over her flush form again, his legs pushing hers helplessly apart.

"Please," she whispered feverishly, confused, scared by this change, some loud warning bell ringing in her mind. "Please ... Oh, please ..."

"Yes ... Now, Mary—"

A whispered denial escaped her lips at the exact moment he thrust himself deep inside her.

A searing hot pain ripped through her, the bright colors vanished and she slipped into blackness only to return and feel him still and unmoving inside her.

He felt it, a slight tear, and her incredible hot tightness left little doubt. He tried to collect his senses, and using all his will, he withdrew from the hot sheath. With his weight on his arms, he glanced down at his engorged shaft, shiny with her wetness and—

"Blood. My God, you're a virgin!"

She heard only the frantic pounding of her heart. She reached a trembling hand to touch his face, needing to see him but helplessly unable to. He did not let himself think now, if only to keep her from the violence of his thoughts, and his hands parted her thighs, helplessly open to him. She frantically shook her head as though that was enough to stop this madness. It wasn't. She felt his weight return as his lips found her closed eyes, her mouth, and he slipped slowly back into the moistened sheath.

She tried to make him stop; her clenched fists hit his chest. Understanding her fear and alarm, he gently forced her arms to the bed and held her still. "No, sweetheart," he said softly. "It's too late now It's far too late. Let me have you, sweetheart...."

Tears sprang to her eyes and instinctively, unable to stop, she tried to twist from him, but he lifted and thrust himself slowly into her, his enormous size forcing her open to him.

She closed her eyes and he filled her, forcing the pain away, pulling completely from her before slipping back, flooding her with a hot searing warmth. With each slow movement, her breath and pulse raced and she clung to him desperately, trying to keep him to her, frightened by the force of it. That ache grew again, swelling to an unimaginable height as he slowly drove and glided, in and out, over and over, building a momentum her body greeted with a warm sweeping rush of heat. She cried out with a hot burst of exploding ecstasy, drowning her in rapturous spasms that sent her into blackness.

She was vaguely aware of him sliding off her, of his hands reaching under her arms, pulling her back to him. They laid perfectly still and he held her tightly. The warmth of his closeness consumed her; it was both intense and complete, physical and emotional.

She teetered between life and eternity.

She gradually became aware of the swift beat of his heart, the tender and soothing stroking of his hand, the rhythm of his breathing, and from somewhere far away she heard rain falling against the earth.

She always loved the sound of rain.

Memories stirred in her tattered consciousness. As a young child, her parents let her sleep in their bed on rainy nights. Every detail of those nights remained a bright image in her memory; the unique, familiar smell that was a blending of her mother's flowery perfume and her father's tobacco, the steady drumming of rain against the window, the feeling of warmth and security.

How she had tried to fight sleep then, to stop it from stealing those precious moments, and all the while her mother tried to bribe her, lure her to sleep with silly songs or stories. Inevitably, her father became so amused he'd start laughing, then she and her mother would fall into a fit of giggles. Then they had been like three children instead of one.

All love lost...

Lost to his own emotions, Victor felt her small frame begin to shake with silent tears. How the hell did that Madame think she could get away with a stunt like this? Had that woman hoped he wouldn't notice she was a virgin, or had she assumed he wouldn't care? Or perhaps she had not known herself.

In any case he supposed he'd have to kill Charmane.

He ignored how much he wanted her again, a nearly impossible task. Only an idea of what she must have been put through made it possible to resist. A conversation waited. Yet as he found himself tenderly kissing away the last of her tears, he felt a sudden tension seize the small body, a quick escalation in the beat of her heart.

"Sweetheart, can you talk now?"

She shook her head, burying her face closer to his chest. Dizzily the facts of her circumstances began to pile into her consciousness, gathering there with a near-hysterical panic: she had lain with him, Monsieur Deubler might be dead, Maydrian was surely dying, and she needed to descend from this drug-induced heaven to return to an all too living hell. "I'm so scared, I

—" She couldn't breathe suddenly; an excruciating pain grew in her chest and each breath seemed only to aggravate it.

"I do not wonder why," he said. "You have been badly hurt. I need you to tell me what has happened to you."

She felt ill, her consciousness fragmented, foggy, dazed. She drew air too fast into her lungs, then held it to take stock of these much changed circumstances, releasing it in a rush.

She had to get up.

Remember it, remember it, remember it.

Watching her struggle, he rose from the bed, stealing the last of the warmth. She shivered uncontrollably, trying to catch her breath long enough to maneuver through her drugged and abused senses. Her once-warmed blood now vacated every limb. She felt numb, devoid of all sensation past feverish chills. She could not speak. She wanted to hide forever.

Then he was suddenly there again. "Easy, sweetheart." He gently laid her back against the cushions. She cried as a moist cloth came over her face. She protested weakly against such intimacy, but a strong hand held her still as the cool cloth was passed over her warm skin. He lowered the cloth between her thighs, wiped a small stain there. "So, love—now what the hell—"

A knock sounded at the door. Victor set down the cloth and moved to the door. "What is it?" he asked Carl as he stepped outside.

"I thought you'd want to know that two men came to escort the lady back to a place I can hardly believe she came from," Carl said with a dramatic lift of brow, stopping for Victor to explain the curiosity.

"What did you tell them?"

"I merely said she was engaged presently and that in any case, I was convinced the young lady had enough use of her faculties to know when she should leave. Though of course she obviously has no use of her faculties. I assumed, though, you might decide the issue. I added that if she should leave, you would provide an escort, and when they insisted on speaking to her, I had them shown out. I don't think Isaac meant to hit the bastard so hard, but, well..." Carl sighed. "One should anticipate such accidents in this house."

"Yes," Victor agreed quietly. "Carl, I need a cup of strong coffee, some brandy and then a call to arms to my men." He paused. "For a lynching party."

"Now?"

"Within the hour."

Victor shut the door and went to the closet to fetch a robe. He needed to hide that body of hers from sight or change his plans. He gently lifted her up and placed the robe around her shoulders, pulling the sides around before he began rolling up the sleeves. He watched as she struggled up from her drugged consciousness. Tears hung in a thick mist over the lovely eyes as she seemed to alternate between confusion and panic.

She bit her finger as if to stop from crying. "I ... I must leave."

I hand came under her chin. "Get that out of your mind. I won't let you go anywhere, least of all back to that house."

"You don't understand ..." Her words were slightly slurred.

He sat down on the bed, leaned against the headboard and pulled her over onto his lap. "I know you're in some kind of trouble. That woman forced you—"

She grabbed her head as it spun. "I'm not in any trouble; no one forced me. I—"

"Then you'll have to explain how a virgin's managed to work in a whorehouse for over a year, or what compelled her to offer herself on the block."

She shook her head in negation, desperately trying to keep her wits above a rising panic. Mercedes, Mercedes, Mercedes. She tried to focus on the name. Mercedes had warned her about this, that it was very bad, that no one must know she was a virgin or—"It would be so much worse then," Mercedes had said. "It won't matter afterward and if there's any sign just say it is your bleeding ..."

"I'm not a virgin—" "No, not anymore."

"No, I wasn't, it was only my ... my bleeding."

"You can believe, love, I have enough experience to distinguish a virgin from a whore—" "It doesn't matter," she cried, scrambling quickly away. Instantly, he caught her arm and

held firm with frightening strength. "Please, just let me—"

"Are you going to tell me or do I have to force it from you?" "You don't understand. Please, you must let me go! Oh, please—"

He reached over and pulled the servant's rope again, stunned by her sudden panic, the tears filling her eyes, as she desperately tried to pry his hand from her arm. Victor found himself becoming very angry.

Someone was going to pay for her terror.

Carrying a tray of coffee and brandy, Carl stopped outside the door when he heard the young lady's cries. A woman's cries coming from this room were quite common but never cries of desperation or pain. He suppressed his surprise as he slowly opened the door, allowing Victor every chance to order him out.

"Sir?"

Jade froze at the sound of Carl's voice. Victor didn't look up; his eyes never left her. "Carl, I want a message sent to that woman's house on Canal Street. I want it to say that Mary isn't coming back, that she hopes the Madame rots in hell."

Jade's face lifted with shock, tears now streaming down her face. "No! Don't do that!

Please, please, don't do this to me!"

Shocked by the force of her emotions, fury changed his face. "What has that woman done to you?"

"I ... I can't tell you—"

"You have no choice. I'd journey to hell before I'd let someone hurt you now. The message goes or you tell me—and either way, you're not leaving this house."

"You can't help me! If you could help me, if it was just me... She has my maid, Maydrian ... and she's t-torturing her, now, as I speak, and if I don't get back... Maydrian will d-die!"

"Shhh, slow down," he said softly, and motioned to Carl to step forward with the brandy. Carl poured a triple shot and handed it to Victor. "Here, drink this in swallows—try not to taste it."

Carl poured himself a healthy shot as well and sat down.

Jade took several large gulps; her extreme agitation, her hazy senses and her emotional exhaustion suppressed the normal response. She didn't taste the hot liquid until it burst in her stomach.

"Start at the beginning."

The beginning, the beginning. Images whirled through her mind: Monsieur Deubler, the fight, the hand coming over her mouth. Carl kept pouring liberal shots of brandy, swallowing them whole as he listened to her broken sentences punctuated by gasps of fear. She told of her confusion upon waking at Madame Charmane's house, how she thought she was in a madhouse. Her voice began choking again as she described the first threats. "I didn't really believe she had Maydrian at first. I heard her screaming but I didn't hear her voice. It seemed too unlikely, too convenient to hold a frail, old woman hostage. But Mercedes, oh, poor Mercedes kept trying to warn me, that it didn't matter, that she would..."

To her sympathetic but ever-increasingly angry listeners, she went into some detail about Mercedes: how she was an orphaned convent girl, snatched from the streets and sold to Madame Charmane, and how even if there was a chance to escape, she would be hunted by the authorities, blackmailed with forged papers that said she was a criminal, and worse, there were many other tortures to force compliance.

"I was so scared but I knew, I just knew, that it wouldn't work for me. I am not alone in the world, and I would get a note out and be rescued ... but then, then—" Her tone heightened with fear and anger both, and the emotions overwhelmed her. She stopped as his arms came around her in a tight embrace.

A cold and deadly thing came to his eyes; the violence of it required all the force of his will to control. He managed, but only because she needed his comfort for a few moments more, and his need to give this to her was every bit as powerful.

"It's all over with now," he whispered, thinking the story was finished. "It's all over with—" "No!" she cried, looking up startled again. "My maid! She has poor Maydrian ... now, as

we speak, she—"

Victor stopped her, knowing what had happened but not knowing exactly how to tell her. He cursed her wretched blindness, the woman who used the sad fact to advantage. Maydrian, he felt certain had already met an unkind fate. "She doesn't really have your maid. In all likelihood, that woman used Maydrian's name to threaten you."