Captive Embraces (2 page)

“Now you would have me know you were jealous of your own son!”

“No, Sirena,” Regan had said truthfully, his rage calming and a tenderness creeping into his tone, “both of us know we exaggerate. It wasn't nearly the picture we paint. You were a loving mother and I a loving father. We both know this. Scenes of our son resting against your breast still haunt me. Would that we could have another child to soothe your sorrow and lighten my heart.” A gentleness shone in Regan's eyes as Sirena looked up at him. His golden head had been framed by the blue of the sky and the deepness of his eyes paled the heavens. He pulled Sirena close, crushing her against him, reveling in the feel of her breasts firm and full against his chest and the fragility of her waist's small span.

Sirena's senses had been filled with him, this man who could still quench her desires and fill her life and consume her, robbing her of every thought save him. The sun had beat warmly against her back but warmer still had been contact of their flesh; her body against his, his mouth upon hers, drinking in the sweetness of her kiss.

Regan's hands had explored the soft swell of her breasts and he had reached lower to press her hips more firmly against him. Their thighs had strained toward union and their breath came in rasps of long-suppressed passion. Here was life, here was promise in Regan's arms. His fingers found the lacings of her gown and she had felt the bindings loosening and the touch of his hand against her bare flesh. Her arms had tightened about his neck, pulling his head down to her, feeling his breath upon her cheek. She had offered him her mouth, her breasts, her rapture and the sweet remembered sharing between them became alive again.

Regan had been overcome with the return of his ardor and had felt the desire within his wife bloom to full flower. The sensation was heady, drowning his senses in the flood tide of longing for her. He had tasted her salty tears running in rivulets down her cheeks to the place where their lips met.

Sirena had felt herself on the verge of giving herself to him when the sound of Regan's booted foot crunched upon the splintered glass from the lantern. The sound had penetrated her being and imbedded itself in her soul. Fraught with anger she had wrested herself from his embrace. “Would you take me here within sight of Mikel's grave? Where is your decency? Upon the very earth which covers his tiny coffin? You rutting scurve! To think I almost was a party to your perfidy!”

Regan's gaze locked with Sirena's. Slowly and deliberately he had ground another shard beneath his heel. “Where will You lay with me, Sirena?” he asked in controlled fury. “Not anywhere near here, not within the walls of our bedroom, not upon a deserted windswept island ... where, Sirena? Where will you give yourself to me?”

The brilliant sparks had seemed to fly from Sirena's eyes, the furies unbound her rage as she had turned to face him. Were she a dragon her nostrils would have spewed fire, were she an angel the vengeance of Heaven would have crashed down upon him. Her voice was a low, menacing hiss and the cords of her neck bespoke hatred. “I am not Gretchen Lindenreich. That German bitch, that flagrant whore, who would have no respect for those things sacred. She would have lain with you upon any grave, upon any deserted isle, indeed upon the Avenue of Lions within the heart of Batavia for all of Java to witness!”

Regan had knotted his hands into fists, his rage consuming him, depriving him of all good sense. “How easily you spit Gretchen's name,” he had menaced, “now that she's dead and therefore no threat. Leave the dead be, Sirena.”

“How quickly you jump to her defense! If that German bitch were here among the living, we would not be here spitting like two cats. You'd be in her bed!”

“You could do with a bit of the warmth Gretchen yeilded to me!” Regan had heaved in injury.

“To you and any other man upon the island!”

“Gretchen was always there,” Regan had said in a lowered tone, his eyes piercing Sirena's with meaning.

Her eyes had murdered him as her reflexes had their way and the palm of her hand stung the flesh of his cheek in a resounding blow.

Without a second's hesitation, Regan had retaliated in kind, sending her a blow which had knocked her off her feet and left her sprawling upon the shallow mound of Mikel's grave.

That had been nearly six months ago and the same measured footsteps by which he had left her there, sobbing upon the soft earth, were now advancing upon her as she stood sentinel at the doors. She looked again at Regan's reflection in the dark glass and saw there an expression about his mouth and a light in his eyes which spoke of his intentions.

Sirena withdrew from the doors and skirted past a small table, her movements wary and her sea-green eyes feral. Her fists, alabaster white in the dim lamplit room, clenched tightly into balls as she turned to face her husband.

Her eyes pleaded with him; her breath caught in shallow sobs. She thrust her chin upward in a silent demand that he understand her feelings. Still he advanced, slowly, purposefully. She was assaulted by a memory of a long-ago occasion when he had confronted her just this way, with the same deliberate glinting in his eyes. Then he had taken her against her will. Regan had had his way. Rising above her desperate agony, Sirena managed to whisper, “I need more time, please, Regan. Don't do this to me. Just a little longer.”

Regan stalked her slowly, insidiously, the magnitude of his strength looming between Sirena and the glowing light. His shoulders were massive and appeared even broader in comparison to his tapered hips and lean length of thigh. The white shirt he wore emphasized the bronze of his skin and was open to the waist, revealing the golden fur on his chest. He held his arms at his sides, his strong, capable hands barely touching his tight-cut breeches, calling to Sirena's attention the swell of his manhood beneath the thin, buff-colored fabric.

Regan realized the effect these movements were having upon Sirena. He could see the wild look of apprehension in her eyes and sense her sharp anxiety with each step he took. Within him, he was aware of a desire to quell her misgivings and tell her of his yearning for her, the longing, the agony of this life apart from her, the need to be yet still within the reaches of her gaze and the aura of her presence. He needed her as he needed the air he breathed and the blood which coursed through his veins. He needed his wife, for she alone could ease this void in his heart. Yet these words would not come from his lips. He knew she would find argument with them and he would spend another night alone with his arms hopelessly reaching out in his sleep to cradle her close to him. If Sirena were to become his wife in every way, as she had once been, it would call for stronger methods.

“You have avoided me long enough, Sirena. You asked me for just a bit longer months ago and since that day, we have been separated in more than body. We have separated in spirit. I've respected your wishes, but the time has come for you to respect mine.” His voice was low and matched his deliberate motions.

“Please, Regan, a little longer,” Sirena breathed, taking a step backward.

“Do my ears deceive me, are you pleading with me? The Sea Siren begging?” His laugh came harsh and tinged with menace in the quiet room.

“The Sea Siren is dead. That was another life, long ago. Before Mikel, before everything.” Still Regan advanced and Sirena read the determination in his eyes. She felt his powerful emotions as if they were tangible. Ironically, she remembered the effect his blue eyes had once had upon her. She knew how they could render her immobile, bent on his bidding.

Regan advanced another step as Sirena clutched at the edge of a square table, keeping its width between them. “How long?” he taunted. “A day, a week, a month? How long?”

“I don't know. Just a bit more... I...”

“My patience is at an end. Six months is more than any man can be expected to bear. You're my wife and I expect you to act like it!”

“I can't ... not yet ... just—”

“Mikel is dead. You can't bring him back! Put it behind you and go on from there. If you don't, then we're both doomed. There can be other children; we have years.”

“Easy for you to say, your arms aren't empty! I was his mother, he was my flesh and blood! I've had everyone taken from me, everyone I loved. Tio Juan, Isabella—and now Mikel. This godforsaken land has taken everything from me.” Sirena's gaze became misty and her lower jaw trembled from suppressed tears.

Regan's heart went out to her. She was so vulnerable, so defeated. “And what of me, love? I haven't been taken from you. Can't you find some small joy in the fact that we still have each other?”

Regan's words caught Sirena's attention and stirred her from the depths of self-pity. The lamplight behind him cast deep shadows over his rugged face but there was an emotion to be read there which made Sirena issue a slight moan. Regan was a virile and vital man, not one to be put aside to spend the remainder of his days in celibacy. She loved him, she knew that, yet her arms seemed weighted and strapped to her sides, her feet frozen to the floor. There was a dull ache deep within her as she recognized his loneliness, yet she was powerless to lift her arms to embrace him. Her feet refused to take that first small step which would take her to him and find her crushed against him, sharing the burden of grief and finding joy in loving.

Regan watched the play of emotion Sash across Sirena's face. He saw the thick, black fringe of lashes close over her wide, cat-like eyes. He experienced a weakness, an anticipation of hunger soon to be fed, a longing and yearning near the brink of being fulfilled. Her moist lips parted and he could not take his gaze from them, remembering their warmth and sweetness as they clung to his, easing his passions and replenishing his sense of wonder that this vivacious goddess, who had once been named “Sea Siren”, should have chosen him above all other men to gift with her love.

Regan's heart thundered in his chest. Somehow he had to stir Sirena from her apathy and make her come alive. Again he pressed, “Am I to think I count for nothing?”

“That's not what I meant...” Sirena stammered. “I speak of what was mine. My flesh and blood.”

“You told me once that a person can't own another. You didn't own your uncle and your sister. We were both parents to Mikel.”

The dark head lifted, her sea-green eyes turned murky. “Mikel was mine. I gave birth to him and now he's dead. That fool of a doctor killed him and you let it happen!”

Regan's shoulders slumped, but only for a moment. “There were two doctors and they both agreed. Even the natives, who have lived with the fever for as long as memory, agreed. Mikel was beyond saving. Place no blame on my shoulders, Sirena. If it's children you want, then you'll be pregnant nine months out of the year,” he grinned mischievously.

Her eyes sparkled dangerously. “So you can run with every whore from Java To Sumatra? No thank you.”

“You expect too much,” Regan said with forced evenness. “I'm a man and six months is—”

“Too long to be faithful!” Sirena interrupted. “Say it, Regan. You don't care how I feel and what I think. All you know is that you must have your lust satisfied. Then go satisfy it somewhere else,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing, the delicate line of her jaw tight and forbidding.

“I will do exactly that,” Regan growled, “but not until—”

“Think again, Regan. I'm only yours if I want to be.” Sirena said softly, blood surging through her. “I have no intention of playing this cat-and-mouse game. I know what you want. I know what all this is leading to. I gave you my answer once and I will only repeat it one more time. I am not leaving this island!” She came around the table, stepping close to him, challenging him, speaking slowly, giving each word its full weight. “I stay here with Mikel. I will not live with the thought of the damnable jungle creeping over my son's grave, obliterating it! I stay here. When I begged you to leave while Mikel was still alive, you refused. Now the shoe is on the other foot. I'm staying here! Go, go to Spain and see to my, holdings. That's what you want. You want to take everything from me. Take it. I no longer care!”

“Your inheritance is mine, but only in the eyes of the law. You speak as though your holdings are my sole interest in you. Still, someone must put them in order,” Regan said defensively.

“And you're that someone! I know the laws, you made me painfully aware of them a long time ago. What I own is yours, not mine, not ours, yours. Take everything that belongs to me and I'll still survive to tend my son's grave.”

Regan drew his breath in sharply. “The child is dead, you must stop grieving. Life is for the living,” he said, reaching out for her.

“Leave me alone,” Sirena warned, grasping a decanter of wine, holding it aloft.

“And if I don't? Will you fight me when I simply want to claim what is mine?” Regan asked churlishly.

“Why can't you be more patient? Why do you have to be such a bull? Listen to me, Regan,” she said softly. “Much has happened to me. So much, too much to forget. My arms ache to hold Mikel. My eyes burn for the sight of his sweet face. My heart is dead. In time I'll accept my loss, but that time hasn't come. I do love you. I'll always love you, but you can never replace that which I felt for my son. Why won't you understand?”

His agate eyes clouded, spelling their own message of loss. “He was my son, too. We should share our grief. We should comfort each other. I tried to ease your agony but you rejected me just as you rejected Caleb. How do you think the boy feels?”

Sirena's hand, holding the decanter, lowered. A new pain came into her eyes when she thought of young Caleb. She adored him. He was like a brother to her. A much-loved brother. But he wasn't Mikel. Somewhere in her mind it registered that Regan was too close, almost upon her. “You have Caleb. He is your son, your flesh and blood. I have nothing. You lost one son. I lost my
only
son! I have nothing. Nothing!”