To Desire a Devil (31 page)

And so it was that Longsword married a princess royal….

—from
Longsword

It was well after midnight by the time Reynaud joined her in their bed. Beatrice lay still, feigning sleep. It was her wifely
duty to let him make love to her if he so desired, but she certainly had no desire at the moment. Not when they’d argued.
He probably hated her now for the blunt things she’d said, but she’d had to say them.

She’d married a man who thought only of himself.

So she stared into the darkness and breathed evenly and slowly, in and out, without hitch, as if she was deep in slumber.
She listened as he undressed—the rustle of fabric, a soft mutter when he bumped into something—and she’d never felt so lonely
in her life.

He blew out his candle, and the bed dipped and shook as he climbed in. The bedclothes tightened on her shoulder as he pulled
them over himself, and then he lay still. She stared into darkness. The minutes ticked by, and for a bit she thought he might’ve
fallen asleep.

But then he said, “Beatrice.”

She didn’t move.

He sighed. “Beatrice, I know you’re awake.”

She bit her lip. It seemed rather silly to continue to pretend sleep, but if she acknowledged him now, it would be an admittance
that she’d pretended in the first place.

“I know I’ve disappointed you,” Reynaud said quietly. “I know I’m probably not the type of man you would’ve wanted for yourself,
had you had the choice.”

She curled her fingers into the coverlet but still didn’t say a word.

“But I’m the man you have, and that’s final. You’ll just have to make the best of it.” He was quiet a moment. “And if you
can’t be happy with me tonight, do you think you could at least come lie next to me? Dammit, I’ve grown used to holding you
while I sleep.”

As olive branches went, it wasn’t the most eloquent she’d ever heard, but it tugged at her heart anyway. Besides, she’d been
the one to start the argument earlier. She’d been the one who chose to marry a man she knew wasn’t perfect. By rights, it
should be her extending her hand in peace. Beatrice rolled over and came to rest against him.

“That’s better.” He yawned and wrapped his arm about her, pulling her close. “You’re so soft and warm.” He was silent a moment,
his breathing growing deeper; then he added sleepily, “And I like the smell of your hair.”

His breathing grew sonorous, and Beatrice knew he was asleep, but she was still awake. She listened to his heartbeat, slow
and strong under her ear, and the reassuring sound of his breaths. And she knew, suddenly and completely, like the last brick
sliding into a wall, that she loved him, this strange angry, exotic man. Was her love enough for the both of them?

She pondered the question for what seemed a long while, but she still had no answers when at last she fell asleep.

S
HE WOKE TO
the slide of warm hands on her back, strong and steady, moving down, reaching her bottom under her chemise. She lay on her
side in the big bed, facing away from him, cocooned in the covers and him, still mostly asleep. She could feel his humid breath
against her neck. One of his arms lay beneath her; the other stroked her bottom. All along her back, he was a large, hot presence,
surrounding and protecting her. She was embraced by his heat and his scent.

In the world between dreams and waking, she felt him move against her, his hard erection insistent, demanding. She sighed
a little, burrowing her face into the pillow. The room was gray with dawn’s advent, and she wanted him—needed him—even if
he only desired her. The thought made her sad, and she pushed it aside, wanting to feel only him, to no longer think and worry.

He hooked his hands under her knees, curling them forward, parting her legs, and he moved into the space he’d created. He
was larger now, his erection pressing against her bottom, hot and insistent. He slid forward and then his penis lay against
her feminine flesh. She was wet, and he seemed just right there. Perfect, as if he’d always meant to be in that part of her.
His cock glided through her folds, the head bumping her clitoris. She panted, suddenly overwhelmed by sensation. If only he
loved her, too, this would be perfect.

But she would not think about that.

His hand caressed her hip and slid around to her front, petting her curling hair, pressing her just there. From behind, he
withdrew his cock in a slow, sensuous caress and notched himself in her, intruding.

She moaned, threading her fingers with the hand that lay next to her cheek. It was suddenly too much, the sharpness of her
desire mingled with the newfound knowledge of her love for him. Bittersweet tears pricked at her eyes.

He squeezed her fingers and thrust a little, his breadth shockingly large in this position. Her mouth opened in a soundless
gasp, and she arched her back a little, tasting the salt of her tears on her tongue. He was slow but insistent, steadily pushing,
filling her in gradual, devastating increments. She lifted her upper leg a bit, hooking it over his calf, and suddenly he
was all the way in, his length stretching her. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back toward him in submission. He kissed
her neck, openmouthed, still and large within her.

Then his hand moved, his fingers spreading to hold her femininity, and his middle finger pressed with exquisite accuracy on
her sensitive bud.

Her hips arched into him. “Reynaud.”

“Hush,” he murmured against her neck.

He withdrew his cock, his flesh pulling against the walls of her core, and thrust hard. She had to push one hand against the
bed to keep from sliding. He withdrew and thrust again and she moaned.

“Hush,” he whispered, seductive and invisible behind her. She felt the rough wet slide of his tongue on her neck.

He jolted into her again. Steady, relentless. Each movement shocking in its own way. She closed her eyes, biting her lip.
She wanted to push back. Wanted to jerk against him and make him go faster until she exploded. She wanted to scream aloud
her love. But that knowing hand buried in the juncture of her thighs held her, imprisoned her so that he might pleasure himself
and her at his leisure.

He ground into her, pushing his hips until she felt the press of his balls against her wetness, until she was stretched wide
open and waiting for his next movement.

“Please,” she whispered brokenly.

“Hush.” He took the lobe of her ear between his teeth and bit in warning, just as he withdrew and slammed into her again.

Her breath caught, and her heart stopped—perhaps it broke.

He twisted into her, large, male, demanding, and he slid his finger against her engorged clitoris, rubbing, pressing.

She couldn’t stand it. She was going to explode, fly apart into a thousand small pieces that would never be put back together
in this lifetime. She’d never be the same again. She shook her head, sobbing into the pillow, pressing her cheek against their
clenched hands.

“Beatrice,” he crooned, deep and seductive in her ear. “Beatrice, come for me.”

And she did, crying, shaking, her body hot and needing more. Needing him even if he didn’t need her.

He used his cock on her like a battering ram. Thrusting, pounding hard, and sparks of pure delight went off in her body, traveling
through her veins, illuminating her limbs, shining like a sun within her.

He bit her shoulder and shuddered heavily against her, and she felt his fire flood her, joining and mixing with her light,
combining to become an inferno.

T
HE SUN SHONE
through the windows when Beatrice next woke. She lay and watched as Reynaud washed his face in the basin on the dresser.
He’d donned smallclothes but nothing else yet, and the muscles of his back flexed as he moved, making the scars ripple.

“You haven’t told me how you managed to escape your captivity,” she said quietly.

Did it matter anymore? She didn’t know. Perhaps not, but she still needed to know.

He turned, unsurprised, at the sound of her voice. “You’re awake.”

“Yes.” She drew the covers up over her chin. It was warm, and the bed smelled faintly of their combined intimate scents. She
rather wished she could spend all day in it and never have to get up to face her realities. Right here, right now, she could
pretend she had a loving marriage.

“Will you tell me?” she asked softly.

He faced the dresser again and she thought he’d refuse. He took up a razor and a strip of leather and began stropping it.
She’d noticed that although he had a very competent valet, Reynaud liked to do most of his dressing himself. Perhaps he hadn’t
yet gotten used to a personal servant.

“Many Indian captives never go home again,” he said quietly. “They die in captivity not because their masters are so strong
but because the prisoners no longer try to escape.”

“I don’t understand,” Beatrice said.

He nodded. “It doesn’t make much sense unless you’ve experienced it firsthand. I told you before that the Indians in that
part of the New World adopt their prisoners into their family to take the place of family members who have died.”

“But you said they weren’t truly regarded as family. That their role was symbolic.”

“Mmm.” He finished sharpening his razor and laid it aside. “That’s more or less correct. The prisoner takes the place of a
working member of the family—say a hunter—so those skills can be fulfilled.”

“But there’s more?” she asked.

“Sometimes.” He lathered his face with some soap from a dish. “I suppose that it’s only human nature to become fond of a person
one lives with day in and day out. One hunts with members of the band or family, eats and sleeps with them. It’s a very intimate
living arrangement.”

She was silent as she watched him pick up the razor and make the first pass through the foam on the side of his face.

“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “the captive becomes a true member of the family. He may take a wife and even have children
by her.”

Beatrice stilled. “Did you take an Indian wife?”

He rinsed the razor in the basin of water and looked over at her. “No. But it wasn’t because I couldn’t have.”

“Tell me,” she whispered.

He tilted his head and shaved the area next to his ear in short, careful strokes. It might’ve been her imagination, but it
seemed to Beatrice that he took overlong at it. “After Gaho spared my life for the second time, she became rather fond of
me—whether because of myself or because of her dream, I’m not sure. But, in any case, she determined that I should be content
living among them, and she knew that if I had a wife and family, I would have reason not to try and escape.”

“She meant to tie you to herself,” Beatrice said.

He nodded and tapped the razor slowly against the porcelain basin. “Exactly. But Gaho had a problem. Both her daughters were
already married, and although sometimes men of their tribe would take a second wife, the women never take a second husband.”

“How unfair,” Beatrice said drily.

A smile flickered across his face and was gone. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Humph.”

He turned back to the mirror over the dresser and said, “I spent that next winter recovering from my illness and injuries.
In the spring, Gaho took me and tattooed my face with the image of one of her gods. She pierced my ear and gave me one of
her own earrings. In this way, she signified that I was a good hunter, part of her band, and that she valued me. Then she
sent word to another band of Indians whom she wanted to befriend. She sought to arrange a marriage between me and the daughter
of a warrior.”

She saw the muscle in his jaw flex. “In this way, the two bands would make peace and become allies.”

“Was the girl pretty?” Beatrice asked before she could stop herself.

“Pretty enough,” he replied, “but she was very young, not yet sixteen, and I didn’t want to marry her. I didn’t want a wife
and children who would bind me more firmly to Gaho and her band. I wanted to come home—it was the only thing I thought of.”

“What did you do?”

“I found a way to talk to the girl myself. It was forbidden in theory, but since we were supposed to be courting, the elders
looked the other way. I found that the girl already had a secret beau, a slave like myself but from another tribe. After that,
it was simple. I gave the other man everything of value I had, what furs and little trinkets I had saved up in two years’
captivity. The next night, my prospective bride disappeared with her lover.”

“That was kind of you,” Beatrice said.

“No.” He splashed water on his face and wiped away the last of the suds. “Kindness had very little to do with it. I was determined
to escape. Determined to come home and recover the life that should’ve been mine. Had I been forced to marry that girl, it
would’ve been easy to relax into that life. To become a member of Gaho’s family in truth. To never see England again.”

He threw down the cloth he’d used to dry his face and looked at her. His eyes were black and stark. “In fact, it was because
of me that Gaho and her entire band were slaughtered.”

“What?” Beatrice whispered.

He nodded, his mouth twisting bitterly. “It took me five years to gather enough funds so that when the opportunity presented
itself, I could escape. In my sixth year, a French trader began visiting the camp, and little by little, I persuaded him to
help me flee, even though it meant risking his own life. We walked for three days through the woods until we came to his camp.
And there I heard that Gaho’s enemies were planning to attack her band. I was half-starved and weary, but I tell you I ran
back to that village. Ran back to save the woman who had saved me.”

He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers.

“What did you find?” Beatrice asked, because he had to finish this awful story.

“I was too late,” he said quietly. “They were all dead, young and old, the camp a smoking ruins. I looked for Gaho. I turned
over the bodies, looking into each bloody face.”

“Did you find her?” she whispered.