With This Kiss (38 page)

There was no softness in her embrace, no slow, budding desire. Her need was too overwhelming to allow for grace or modesty. She poured all her hunger and longing into that single kiss. She kissed him with all her heart and soul, kissed him as though they were about to be swept away from each other forever unless they could find some common ground to cling to.

She felt Morgan’s initial shock at her embrace quickly fade, escalating into the same primitive urgency that had seized her. He locked his arms around the small of her back and pulled her even more tightly to him, returning her embrace with a possessive fervor that sent fiery tremors racing down her spine. Their passion ignited, blazing out of control. Julia burned with longing and lust. She wanted to touch him everywhere at once, and to feel his hands caressing her naked flesh in kind.

He dropped down to one knee, pulling her to the floor with him. “We have no bed,” he murmured against her hair.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I can get the blanket from my horse.”

“Don’t leave me.”

The command was primal, necessary. She pulled mindlessly at the buttons of his shirt, shaky and clumsy with desire. He followed her lead, fumbling impatiently with the row of tiny hooks and eyes that lined the back of her blouse. Somehow they managed to rid themselves of their clothing. Boots, socks, drawers, riding skirt, pants, blouse, shirt, all of it lay crumpled and abandoned in a disorderly pile.

Having no bed to retreat to, Morgan stretched out beside her on the wooden floor. As they renewed their kiss, his hands moved voraciously over her skin, caressing and exploring, heating her flesh with his touch. Julia mimicked his motions, almost desperate to return the pleasure he was giving her.

After a moment he tore his mouth away from hers. He nuzzled the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, nipped at her collarbone, and teased her nipples with his tongue. He kissed her belly, her thighs, and the back of her knees. Every place his lips brushed her skin felt inflamed, singed by his touch.

Needing more than to passively accept the mere touch and feel of Morgan’s kisses, she pressed her mouth against his neck. His skin felt like coarse satin beneath her lips, the taste was slightly salty on her tongue. As she moved lower to kiss his chest, she felt his muscles leap to life, subtly tensing wherever she pressed her lips. Emboldened by his reaction, she brazenly explored his body with her mouth, licking and tasting and sucking, reveling in that newfound source of pleasure.

She moved farther down, across his ribs and belly, then abruptly halted at his stiffened manhood. She cupped him gently in her palm, experimentally running her fingers over the silky skin of his penis. His member throbbed in reaction to her touch. But did she dare kiss him there? She cast a questioning glance at her husband, only to find his eyes closed, his breathing shallow, and his jaw tightly clenched, as though he were exerting every ounce of his will to hold himself back.

Overwhelmed by carnal curiosity, she reached a bold decision. As he had not objected to the touch of her fingers, surely he would not object to her kiss. She bent down low, lightly pressing her lips against the tip of his throbbing member.

She heard Morgan’s sharp, quivering intake of breath, a sound that was more reflective of pain than pleasure. But the low moan that followed assured her otherwise, as did the way he dug his fingers through her hair, as though urging her on.

She drew him into her mouth, lightly swirling her tongue around his hardened staff. He felt silky smooth and yet rock solid, pulsing with life. She would have drawn the experience out longer, but all too soon she heard him give a hoarse groan and subtly shift away from her.

“Julia —” he managed, but even that single word seemed to be an effort, torn from deep within him.

He reached for her and pulled her upward. Bracing himself on his elbows above her, he kissed her with deep, savage possession. His hands moved over her body in an almost frenzied pattern, tracing her every curve and hollow. A tide of hot, quivering desire churned within her, mounting and building with each passing second.

Julia’s sexual experience, outside of what she had learned with Morgan, was barely enough to fill a thimble. But she was intuitive enough to recognize that there was a rare glory in their lovemaking, that they had been given a unique and precious gift. But despite the dizzying heights to which they soared, she was overcome with a sadness she couldn’t quite dispel, a sense that something elemental was missing between them. She wanted more — she needed a release for the emotions that swelled within her.

But the words she longed to say stuck in her throat, hopelessly blocked by fear and uncertainty. Unable to utter a single word, she cowardly decided to pour her heart out through her touch and let her actions speak for her. With every soft kiss she pressed against Morgan’s flesh, her heart cried out,
I love you.
With every loving stroke of her hands against his skin, she silently whispered,
1 love you.
With every brush of her lips against his, her thoughts screamed,
I love you.
Over and over, with every impassioned embrace, with every lingering touch and soft caress, with every smoldering glance, with every fiber of her being.
I love you.

She would have made the moment last forever if she could, but the physical ache building within her would wait no longer for release. Nor, it seemed, could Morgan wait any longer to attain his satisfaction. He rolled so that the hard wooden floor rested beneath his back. Then he caught her about the waist and lifted her up, lowering her slowly down upon his thickened member. Julia’s eyes widened at the foreignness of the position, but her body seemed to respond of its own accord. Her innermost lips parted to allow him admittance to the warm, silky chamber between her thighs.

Slowly realizing that it was up to her to establish the rhythm of their lovemaking, she leaned forward and grasped his shoulders. She lifted her hips, then brought them back down, proceeding with cautious uncertainty. But even that slight movement was rewarded with an audible sigh of pleasure from Morgan. Her courage bolstered, she lifted and lowered her hips, playing with the tempo and the depth of the motion. She moved slowly at first, then with increasing speed and intensity as her belly began to churn, sending quivering pulses of desire through her limbs.

Her breath came in short, gasping pants as tension seized her. Yet she sustained the motion of her hips, impaling her body over and over against the steel rigidity of Morgan’s staff. She felt as though she were flying and falling at the same time, racing headlong toward a cliff from which she would surely plummet and never be seen again.

Suddenly a shuddering explosion of wonder and desire filled her body. Her limbs tingled and stiffened. Wet, liquid release poured through her as she arched her back and cried out, unable to silently contain her pleasure. In the next instant her strength vanished completely, and she collapsed against Morgan’s chest, shattering like a pane of glass.

He shifted slightly, driving into her with long, hard, pounding strokes that filled her completely. Like her, he was unable to find his release in silence. As his body stiffened and his seed poured into her, he let out a low moan of hoarse, shuddering satisfaction.

Their lovemaking ended, he pulled her tightly against him. They lay spent and exhausted, tangled within each other’s arms. Sweat slickened their bodies, coating their skin with a warm, silky glow. Slowly their passion receded, fading like the tide drifting back out to sea.

The sudden, sharp sound of tolling bells broke the contented silence that had enveloped them.

Julia started, as did Morgan. They jerked upright to a half-sitting position, listening intently. Fortunately it quickly became apparent that what they were hearing was not the shrill and chaotic tolling of London’s recently established Fire Brigade. Instead it was a different, soothing kind of bell. Resonant, deep and steady. Church bells, alerting the local parishioners of the commencement of late afternoon mass.

Having apparently reached the same conclusion, Morgan sent her a sheepish grin at their alarmed reactions. But there was no recapturing the selfish bliss in which they had lost themselves. Reality came slowly back. They had found a temporary shelter here, but it was time to return to London.

He silently helped her to her feet, and they began to dress. Julia glanced around the room as she did so, feeling a sudden and compelling need to take stock of her own situation. The wooden floor was beautiful, she decided, but it had felt cold and hard beneath them. A feather mattress would have been infinitely nicer, but there was no bed here for them share. Furthermore, the windows poured in too much light, and the plaster walls were split and cracked.

Next she applied the same harsh scrutiny to her own marriage, forcing herself to see it for what it truly was, rather than what she hoped it might be. In a moment of bitter irony and understanding, she could well appreciate her husband’s dilemma. The house was simply too small a gift for a true lady and too grand a gift for a simple sea captain’s daughter. No wonder he had forgotten about its very existence. It was part of a dream Morgan had held in the past, a dream that had vanished with the fire that had nearly taken his life.

Besides, they had already exchanged wedding gifts. He had rescued her from the odious suitors that her Uncle Cyrus had presented her. She had brought him a promise of capturing Lazarus. Expecting any further depth of emotion from him was simply unrealistic.

As she fastened her riding skirt, she contemplated their future once again. Her waistline was still slim, but there was the distinct possibility that in their union they had conceived a child. If that were the case, would Morgan cease coming to her altogether?

He had made it abundantly clear that he wanted an heir. A male heir, presumably. Like most men, he would probably continue to try until he had reached the ultimate goal of creating male progeny to carry on the family name. And once they had done so? She took a deep breath, wondering how she would bear it if he stopped coming to her altogether. Even if their lovemaking meant nothing to him, she didn’t want to lose his touch.

He moved to her side and helped her fasten her blouse. That accomplished, he lightly brushed aside her hair and placed a gentle kiss against the nape of her neck. “You have the oddest look on your face,” he remarked. “What are you thinking?”

She gave him a soft smile, swallowing hard past the tight lump that filled her throat. “I was thinking,” she said, “that if we do have a child right away, I hope the babe’s a girl.”

Flame surrounded him. It burned the linen sheets and seared the finely knit lace canopy. Licked and swirled up the tall mahogany posts. Scorched the plump downy pillows. Everywhere, nothing but flame. Wild, greedy, hateful flame, devouring everything it touched. So hot, so agonizing, so terrifying. So inescapable.

Lazarus awoke with a startled cry, drenched in his own sweat. He had unleashed the fire, and now it was too strong to contain. Now the flame was after him. He had been doused with kerosene, and his own bed was on fire. His heart thumped madly in his chest as he released a cry of sheer, anguished horror. Panting in terror, he instinctively beat back the flames. Over and over he blindly swatted at the blaze, desperate to put it out.

Not again. It couldn’t be happening again.

Please, God, not again.

Then, just as quickly as the flames had erupted, the fire vanished. Lazarus blinked, gazing about the room in muddled confusion. The chamber was dark and still, illuminated by nothing but faint beams of silvery moonlight. Everything was in its place. It was all familiar, all meticulously orderly. He was alone. There was no fire.

Or was there?

Seized by panic, he threw back his bedclothes and scurried across the room. He curled up in a corner and rolled into a tight ball, clutching his knees against his chest as he rocked back and forth. A high, frantic whimpering rose from his throat as his gaze locked on the bed. He was too late to stop it now. He had excited the memories. He tried to beat them back, but the flames engulfed his mind.

Just as the blaze had consumed them both. The man and the woman who had writhed in agony on the bed. The slut and the man she was with.
Slut.
He repeated the word again, using it to give himself strength. To see things properly, as they truly were. To put everything in perspective. It didn’t work.

He was a child again, watching and listening. But it wasn’t a dream or a vision. It was a memory — one he couldn’t banish, no matter how hard he tried. The sharp odor of kerosene filled the room. Flame ravaged the bed. He covered his ears, desperate to block out the sounds. He heard them anyway. The man and the woman’s tortured screams. His own piercing wails. His father’s deep, booming voice, ringing out above him like the voice of God.

“Whore. Harlot. Evil temptress. You brought this upon yourself. The flame of your desire shall perish at last. Your sin shall be cleansed.”

Lazarus struggled to break free and save her. The attempt was useless. He was a small, weak boy, defeated by his own childish impotence. His father’s hand clamped down on his shoulder in a viselike grip, holding him in place. He had to see. He had to see what sin wrought. He had to learn what happened to those who defied the law of God, who turned away from the path of righteousness and glory.

“Fire rained down from heaven as the Lord blasted the sinners with the heat of his anger,”
his father continued.
“The world was purified at last. Go forth and sin no more, or you shall feel the stinging lash of His mighty wrath against your flesh.”

Lazarus watched, unable to look away as agony knifed through him. His whimpering drew louder. He was crying, sobbing now, his throat choked with tears. In his fear and horror, he had released his bladder. A warm trickle of urine streamed between his legs. The shame of it made him sob harder.

His father was right. She had to be purified. There had been no choice.