Katherine O’Neal (36 page)

“Forgive me, love, but your responses to my
attentions were hardly teeth-gritting.”

Their eyes met, and a spark flared between
them that they could feel from across the room. “I responded to you
in spite of my best resolves. But things have changed, Mace. You’re
not asking me to share your bed. You’re asking me to
make
love
with you. I’ve never made love to a man. I don’t even know
how.”

“You could certainly have fooled me,” he
murmured.

“I’ve slept with men when there wasn’t any
way to avoid it. Only as the very last of resorts. But I’ve never
made love
to anyone. Oh, this is an absurd conversation. I’m
feeling embarrassed—not to mention awkward—about the whole
thing.”

She couldn’t seem to figure out what to do
with her hands.

He was still watching her thoughtfully, but
there was a gentle amusement in his eyes. “Don't be embarrassed.
It’s charming. A flam woman caught with her drawers down—so to
speak. I’m enough my father’s son to enjoy the view.”

“It’s the fact that you’re your father’s son
that’s keeping my drawers
on.
”

He continued watching her for a moment as she
moved restlessly around the cabin. “Then we shall have to do
something about that.”

“Whatever’s to be done?”

“As I understand, it isn’t so much that I’m a
flam man that disturbs you. It isn’t strictly that I’m a Blackwood,
either. But rather that I’m
Lance
Blackwood’s brother. And
that being intimate with me brings back memories of the atrocities
you suffered at my brother’s hands.”

“Yes, but—”

“And this only happens when you’re in a state
of arousal, which—fortunately or unfortunately—seems to occur with
alarming regularity.”

“Yes, so—”

“Then it’s the association we must deal
with.”

“The—association?” She was confused—and
intrigued.

“You know, we associate all sorts of things
with other things. A brandy after a good meal. A cigarette after a
rousing tumble in the sheets. A boy’s hand is slapped for lying,
and he believes falsehood to be wrong. But if he’s
rewarded
—well, it’s a different matter altogether. In the
right hands, it becomes an art form.”

“I can’t say I like the look in your
eyes.”

“
Have
I a particular look in my
eyes?”

“Would I comment on it if you didn’t?”

He seemed suddenly in a boisterously good
mood, as if he’d just figured out the answer to the question of the
ages. He was looking about the room, running his hand ruminatively
over the gold braiding along the curtains of the bed, picking up
pillows from the settee and weighing them in his hand.

“What are you up to?” she asked suspiciously.
Her instincts told her he had something brewing—something not
necessarily to her liking.

Stepping into the bedroom, he glanced about,
then went to the dresser and picked up the long white scarf she’d
worn earlier that day. She watched as he drew the undulating silk
with infinite slowness through the large fist of his hand.

“Are you attached to this?” he asked
idly.

“You know in our business you never become
attached to anything—”

Spreading the foot-long width taut between
his hands, he tested its strength, put it to his teeth, bit a tiny
tear, then yanked down the length of it so he’d rent it in two.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” she
cried.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Come here,
Princess,” he said, patting the mattress beside him.

She approached him cautiously, her hands
thrust behind her back.

“Come, sit beside me.”

She lowered herself with care next to him,
sitting with her back ramrod straight. Before she’d had a chance to
settle, he took her waist in his hands, and as easily as if she
were a doll, lifted her up and back so she rested with her spine
against the headboard of the bed. She felt suddenly enclosed, with
the gold brocade canopy above and the curtains at the sides.

“What are you doing?” she asked as he reached
beneath her and fluffed the pillows, inserting them behind her,
shifting her legs so they lay easily along the length of the
bed.

“Making you comfortable. Are you?”

“More curious than comfortable, frankly.”

“Would you like more pillows?”

“I should like to know once and for all what
you’re about.”

He took one of the lengths of silk and pulled
it taut between his fists. Pausing a moment, he looked into her
eyes, and she was blasted back against the headboard. In spite of
his bantering tone, the look in his eyes was intense, full of a
resolute heat that spoke of powers that would be slowly,
inexorably, unleashed. Suddenly, a panic gripped her heart.

“Teaching you the difference between my
brother and myself,” he told her in an unrelenting voice.

Then he fastened the scarf to her wrist and,
with a bold tug, tied it to the bedpost.

“Be a good girl,” he said, “and give me your
other wrist. I shouldn’t like to hurt you.”

She stared at him with disbelieving eyes.
“Are you mad?”

“Not that I know of. But I suppose, as with
everything else, that’s a matter of opinion.”

“I shan’t give you my wrist. You must be as
crazy as Lance to think I—”

He took her chin in his hands and held her
tight, cutting off her words. “I told you. I intend showing you I’m
not my brother. But I need your cooperation.”

“I won’t cooperate. You want to tie me to
this bed like a—hog on a spit—and rape me, to show me how unlike
your brother you are?”

“This is not about rape, and you know it. If
you cooperate, as requested, no such vulgarity need enter into it.
Now do as I say and give me your other wrist.”

She thrust it behind her back. “No.”

“Then,” he said with a reluctant shrug, “I
shall have to take it.”

He stood and rounded the foot of the bed to
the other side. As he did, she began to claw at the silk tie with
her other hand, fighting to loosen the bond on her left wrist.
Before she could budge it, however, he reached across, took her arm
in a fist of iron, and patiently dragged it to the other side.
There, in spite of her struggles, he tied it to the other bedpost,
allowing the long sash to lie across her palm. Then he stood back
to observe his handiwork, crossing his arms over his massive
chest.

“Yes,” he murmured, “that should do
nicely.”

Furious, she grabbed hold of the dangling
white silk and balled her hands into trembling fists, pulling with
a frantic strength against the ties that bound her. Panic engulfed
her. The helplessness of her situation tasted like bile in her
throat. She was at his mercy. More than that, she was all too aware
of her vulnerability. For, love him as she did, she’d never been
able to bring herself to trust him.

“I shan’t cooperate,” she spat at him,
kicking her legs. “You’ll have to prove yourself the louse your
brother is by taking me by force.”

He came and sat beside her. His finger traced
the line of her brow, her temple, her cheek, the bridge of her
nose. Jerking her head away, she couldn’t shake him loose. He put a
finger to her chin, turned her head toward him, and looked deeply
into her eyes.

“You
are
going to make love to me,
Princess,” he said quietly. “To me—not Lance. Gently, lovingly, but
without question.”

She moved her head and bit his finger hard.
“I’d rather die! You claim to love me. Yet knowing what you know,
you tie me to this bed like some unwilling sacrifice—”

“It’s knowing what I know that leaves me no
choice.”

“You’re as mad as your brother.”

“Perhaps. But after this night, I vow to you,
you’ll never look at me and see Lance again.”

“I shall never
look
at you again,
period.”

“
That
will be your choice. The only
choice, I might add, that you’re to have this night. My brother
warped you by what he did. He turned you into a terrified woman who
craves control. Over situations, over men, over her life. You never
had a chance to learn that control is an illusion. That the fear of
losing control has a power over you that will never let you be
free. That only by surrendering that need to be on top will you
ever truly be in control of yourself and your fears. By allowing,
by giving in, by surrendering—only then can you find freedom.”

“So it’s my freedom you’re concerned with,”
she said furiously.

“It is.”

“And what if, at the end of it, I choose
freedom from
you?
”

“That’s a risk I willingly take.”

He put his hand to the flat of her stomach.
Instantly, images of that night with Lance flooded her mind. She
wrenched away from him, brought her legs around, and kicked him
away.

He clutched his side, where her foot had
attacked him. “I’m sorry you did that.”

Reaching up, he began to rip the gold silk
braid from the valance above her head.

“Oh, no,” she groaned. “You wouldn’t.”

“What can I do? I can’t have you using these
feet like weapons every time I come near.”

“I won’t. I promise. Only don’t—”

He gave her a look. “Are you asking me to
trust you?”

“Damn you to hell! Damn you and all the other
filthy Blackwoods who ever set foot on this miserable earth. Damn
you to eternity and beyond.”

As she cursed him with her words, he worked
quickly, fastening her legs, spread-eagle, to the posts at the foot
of the bed.

Even when he stepped aside, she began to
squirm like mad, writhing frantically on the bed, pulling
rebelliously against her silken shackles.

“That should do you for a spell,” he
observed, ignoring her histrionics. With a final nod, he picked up
his valise and placed it on the dresser.

As he opened the drawer, she stilled.

“What are you doing?”

“Unpacking. Where would you like your
things?”

“In hell. With you right along with
them.”

She continued to struggle and spit at him
while he methodically unpacked first his bag, then hers.

Just as he was finishing, there was a knock
on the door. They froze, their eyes finding each other’s and
locking. “Dare I trust you to silence?” he asked.

Her grin was malicious. “You may trust what
you will.”

With an air of exaggerated reluctance, he
took a couple of crisp white handkerchiefs from the drawer where
he’d just placed them. Shaking them out, he pried open her clenched
teeth, stuffed one kerchief into her mouth, then tied the other
over her lips and around the back of her neck, effectively
silencing her. Then he moved with unhurried ease to open the cabin
door.

“Evening paper, sir?” Saranda heard a male
voice ask, soft and lyrical with the inflections of the South.

Mace affected his Yankee accent. “Thank
you.”

“Should I turn down the bed, sir?”

“Uh—no. The bed is quite satisfactory as it
is.”

Summoning all her might, Saranda yanked
against the ropes and let out a muffled groan.

“What was that, sir?”

Mace glanced inside at the woman whose eyes
spat fire at him from the bed. “I’m on my honeymoon. You
understand.”

“Why, of course, sir. And may I offer my most
heartfelt congratulations.”

“Thank you again.”

“And many years of happiness ahead.”

“Yes, well, if my wife remains as she is just
now, I daresay it’s probable.”

“Would you care for a little honeymoon
supper, sir?”

“Not a bad idea. We’ll have some bread, some
cheese, and some wine, if you please. Oh, and a good sharp
knife.”

“Very well. I’ll only be a few moments,
sir.”

When the door was closed, he approached her
with an amused smile. “Naughty girl. I may have to punish you for
that.” He ignored her venomous look and took a circuit around the
room as he waited, hands shoved into his pockets, whistling all the
while. Soon there was another knock. “Your supper, sir.”

Mace took the knife, held it up to the light,
tested it with his thumb, then said, “Yes, this will do nicely.
Thank you.”

He paid the steward, took the tray of food,
and closed the door.

Having discarded the tray, he returned to the
bedroom. Carelessly, he tugged on the end of the gag, and it fell
free. She spat the rest of it out, and tried vainly to wet her
parched tongue.

“You reprehensible wretch! I only hope that
knife is to slit your sorry throat.”

Ignoring her, he went back to the sitting
room, lit a cigarette, took the paper from under his arm, shook it
out, and sat to peruse the contents.

“We’ve made the evening edition,” he
commented, as if she weren’t tied, spread-eagle and waiting with
murder in her heart, upon his bed. “Shall I read it to you?”

“Shall I tell you what I
really
want
you to do?”

“Careful, love. I might have to gag you
again.”

The threat of it silenced her. She still
couldn’t moisten her tongue.

Time ticked away. The river rushed past. The
sunset pinkened and receded, turning the sky lavender, then grey,
then a deep midnight blue. She could see the moon from the cabin
window, and a smattering of stars. And still he smoked and read,
like a satisfied husband home of an evening. When it was necessary,
he turned up the lamp and settled himself close to it, turning the
paper to the light.

She continued to struggle, trying to loosen
her bonds so she might slip from the bed, grab hold of the knife,
and plunge it into his unsuspecting back. But he’d tied them so
securely, they wouldn’t budge. The blood was draining from her
arms, leaving them prickly. The more she moved, the more chafed her
wrists became.

Occasionally, he’d drop his paper to the
table and come over to her, as if testing her mood. Once he asked,
“Would you be more comfortable with your shoes off?”