Delectably Undone! Part 12

The ribbon from her waist was untied and placed around her eyes as a blindfold. "What are you doing?" Belle asked, a tremor in her voice.

"Proving a point. Since you cannot see me you are free to imagine me whichever man of your acquaintance you choose. But you will not be able to, Belle. No matter what you may say, I know you want only me. And you will admit it."

"I am at your command. I will say anything you would have me say."

"No, Belle, you will say it because it is true."

Strong hands on her. Her dress untied. Her petticoats, her stays, her chemise, all expertly removed. The pins taken from her hair. She could feel it cascading down her back. She stood, vulnerable in her stockings and slippers, unable to see, afraid to move, yet unafraid.

"I won't say it because it isn't true," she said, knowing she was lying, knowing he knew it, too, knowing that the battle of wills enhanced the wild excitement of the battle of the flesh.

Nothing happened for a few agonising seconds. Time seemed to stand still, the sense of antic.i.p.ation almost unbearable. Suddenly, she felt a hand touch her head, long fingers combing through her hair, fanning it out over her shoulders. He was standing behind her. She could feel the cloth of his coat. His mouth on the nape of her neck. Cool lips on hot skin, on the lobe of her ear, trailing kisses down to her shoulder. Fingers kneading her flesh. Hands reaching round to cup her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, trailing down to the curve of her waist, a tantalising flicker on the soft skin at the top her thighs. Belle stood motionless, her mind floating, empty of thoughts, allowing sensation to take over. Cloth on skin. Cool on heat. Dry on wet.

Ewan guided her towards a sofa and arranged her there on her stomach, running his hand along the perfect contour of her spine, curling into her waist, curving out to her bottom. Such skin, such softness. Curves and flesh, all so different from his own. She smelled of flowers and spice. As she s.h.i.+fted restlessly under his caress, he caught a glimpse of black curls curtaining flesh darkened by arousal. Desire twisted like a knife in his gut.

Quickly, Ewan divested himself of his clothing. To take her, possess her utterly was what he most desired. But first he needed her, more than he cared to admit, to put the evidence of her own desire into words.

The delightfully ticklish sensation of something unbearably light being trailed over her back raised goose b.u.mps on already over-sensitised skin. Belle s.h.i.+fted on the sofa. Between her thighs now, whispering down, on the backs of her knees, her ankles. Back again. She arched her bottom up, pressing her knees into the sofa to give her purchase, inviting the soft caress back, down, between.

A quite different sensation now. A tongue, licking down the curve of her bottom, velvet soft, dipping into the curve of her thighs, away again. She tried to imagine another man as he had commanded, but it was impossible. She did not need to see him. Her body knew it was Ewan. Could only be Ewan.

Something else now, playing on her skin. Silken, hard, nudging against her thighs. "Ewan," she said, arching against him.

Cold s.p.a.ce. "Say you want me, Belle," Ewan whispered.

Silence.

His erection was nudging against her, sliding against her. She felt the tip of him part her. Feelings almost painful in their intensity. Deprived of her sight it was as if all her other senses were enhanced.

"Belle?"

Silence.

Cold again. She was turned over. Sprawled on the settee, one leg trailing on the ground. She wanted to touch him, reached out blindly for him, found her hands pushed away.

Her legs parted. That tantalisingly ticklish sensation again. A feather...that was it. On her thighs. Between her thighs. Brus.h.i.+ng her heat. Tickling her curls. Now fingers doing the same. Now a gentle breath. His tongue. Oh,, his tongue. Licking her thighs. Closer. Flickering round the edges of desire. Then not round the edges. A gentle touch...too gentle. A sweeping movement now, hot on hot, wet on wet. Such sweet pleasure, she was melting. Belle pressed herself against his mouth. More.

Instead, his voice, insistent now. "Who is it you want, Belle?"

Edgy, he sounded edgy. Pa.s.sion, but it could be anger. She could not tell. She bit back the urge to plead with him.

Tongue and mouth again. Sucking and licking. Twisting and clenching. Throbbing. She was so close. He stopped. "Ewan." Her voice was husky with pa.s.sion and need. Her fingernails dug cruelly into his shoulders. "Ewan, for heavens' sake, I want you. Now." Co-operation, not defeat. There was a limited pleasure in resistance and she had expended it.

For what seemed like eons nothing happened. Belle waited impatiently in the enforced darkness. Then suddenly he was kissing her-a hard, insistent kiss. She could feel tension in his shoulders but it was not anger. He was as desperate as she was. All of a sudden, she wanted to give him what he needed. "I chose you. I wanted you last night. I did not care about the bet. I want you now."

The blindfold was torn from her, and she saw amber eyes gazing at her, dark with pa.s.sion. A mouth sculpted into a victorious smile. She cared not, secure in the knowledge that she possessed him as much as he did her. Her nails dug harder into his flesh.

Ewan knelt between her legs. No teasing now, he licked her roughly, unerringly, tugging and sucking with just enough friction to drive her into a frenzy, pulling her hard against his mouth as she climaxed, pulsing into him, onto him. Waves turned to ripples and he licked again, turning the tide back from ebb to flow, pulling her to her feet, bending her over the sofa. She could feel him behind her, the hard length of him nudging against her.

Ewan rubbed himself against the perfect white cheeks of her bottom, his hand cupping her, feeling her rippling, so achingly arousing on his palm. He could see her, dark pink and wet as he entered, slowly, pus.h.i.+ng in between layers of heat and damp, her muscles pulling him in, feeling her parting, gripping, holding him as he pushed in and in and in, all the while watching himself as he thrust into her, feeling as if every fibre of his body was being set ablaze.

Belle clung to the back of the sofa. Her knees were pressed against its edge. Ewan's legs pressed into the backs of hers. Rough hair. His breathing heavy. His hands clutching. Higher than before he was going, more and more until there was no more and he paused tantalisingly. She pushed back against him, gripped him, experimentally rocked back and forth, loving the way even such a tiny movement rippled inside her. He felt thick and hard and high.

Ewan withdrew then plunged in again with that same deliberate, excruciatingly exciting slowness. It became another battle; the need to keep him inside her, to stop him withdrawing, to hold him. And she was winning. He was thrusting harder now, faster. She could feel the delightful slap of him against her bottom as he bucked. She could tell from the way he seemed to expand inside her that he was close. She felt her own muscles contract in response. An echo of her climax or a continuation or something new, she didn't care, except it whirled her away unexpectedly, and immediately she felt him shuddering in response, a thrusting becoming a pounding becoming a release, and she felt him spilling into her and she moaned his name without realising, holding him vicelike to feel and feel and feel as he spent himself.

Afterwards, he was tender, sitting her down beside him on the sofa, holding her close, stroking her hair as she nestled into the hollow of his shoulder. They sat thus for a long time, neither willing to break the spell. Later still he took her by the hand and led her to the bed chamber. They lay in the dark together under soft cotton sheets gazing without seeing.

"Is Belle your real name?" Ewan asked unexpectedly.

"Why do you ask?"

"A feeling. At times-these times-you seem to be Belle. But in the day when I speak your name, you look at me as if I am talking of a stranger."

"You're right in a way." She felt as if their love-making had reshaped her. "Belle is a shocking creature. She has dark thoughts and dark needs. Isabella, my real name, the real me, knows nothing of them."

"Isabella. I like it-it suits you. We all have a dark side," Ewan said softly. "It's just that most people do not have a name for it."

"Some abuse it," Belle said with a s.h.i.+ver.

Ewan pulled her close. "Yes, some do. I have seen it in the aftermath of battle many times. But that is not what I meant."

"No, you meant what we have together," she replied with growing understanding. "We clash because it enhances the defeat as well as the victory. Like tonight, there is as much pleasure in submission as there is in domination. Provided we both stick to the rules, of course."

Ewan ran a possessive hand down her spine. "That is it exactly. I knew when I saw you that you would understand me, though, I could not have articulated it so. And you knew, too, you will admit that now?"

Belle smiled into the dark. "Why not? You won after all," she teased.

"Yes, I did. And I am not finished with you yet," he said with a growl, pus.h.i.+ng her onto her back.

Afterwards, she slept deeply and dreamt she had been s.h.i.+pwrecked, drifting at sea alone. In the distance, at last, she could see safe harbour.

Chapter Five.

She awoke in the morning alone and feeling strangely contented, as if she had emerged from a dark tunnel into the light. New. Replete. For the first time, Isabella examined Belle cautiously in the light of day, like a scientist surveying a new-found species. Alien but familiar. Part of her, once caged, now set free by this game of theirs. Like an alchemist, Ewan had conjured something new from two separate elements.

Something destined to be short-lived, she realised poignantly. After tonight it was a part of her which would forever go unnourished. Without Ewan, Belle would surely wither and die. The thought squeezed her heart, and she banished it. Plenty of time for pain on the morrow.

After dressing, Isabella found Ewan in the library reading The Spectator. He held out his hand in greeting, looking much younger in the daylight, almost boyish. Welcoming. She remembered her dream. Here was a man to keep confidences. A man to trust. A man of integrity, so different from the dark soul she crossed swords with at night. And yet...

Two Ewans; one for Belle, the other for Isabella. Opposite sides of one coin. Like her. Exactly like her. Like an animal with hibernation in mind, she stored up this comforting crumb for the bleak months ahead.

Wandering aimlessly about the room, Isabella spotted a large map of America laid out on the desk. "Is this the New World?" she asked excitedly. "Tell me about it, Ewan."

He described cities and plantations, a land of contrasts and plenty. "But no words can convey the sense of s.p.a.ce the sheer size of it," he said with a sweeping gesture.

Isabella ran her finger over the vast empty s.p.a.ce to the west of New England. "The Frontier, they call it. Think what that could mean. The chance to start afresh, without the prejudices and constraints of England."

"That is precisely why the early settlers went there in the first place. But it is a life of hard work and many dangers, too," he cautioned.

"Think of the rewards, though," Isabella said with a glowing smile.

"You are serious," he said wonderingly.

Her smile faded abruptly. "A dream, that's all." She was silent, frowning down at the map. "As a woman, I am allowed no ambitions," she said bitterly. "But you can do anything you want. You are marking time with your h.e.l.l raising I think, but it does not satisfy you, does it?"

"You're very perceptive. It's not the danger I miss, nor even the battles-it's the challenge, the unpredictability. I had forgotten what that felt like until I met you."

"Your dark side," Isabella said, flus.h.i.+ng. "You will need to find another outlet for it after tonight."

He was hurt. "And you, too," he said roughly, testing her reaction.

She shook her head. "Tomorrow, perhaps even tonight if I win, Belle will be gone forever."

"Don't talk like that," he said, putting a hand on her wrist.

She brushed him away. "This is not real life, what has transpired here between us. It is a game. A necessity for me, a diversion for you." She stood, brus.h.i.+ng out her skirts, and left the room, seeking refuge in her chamber. She would not give house room to this stupid sentimental feeling the day-time Ewan aroused in her. He was her adversary. For if he was not, then what was he?

The question would not go away. As she bathed and dressed in an evening gown, as dusk fell and night ascended, Isabella and Belle waged war in her mind.

It's ridiculous to imagine an acquaintance which can be measured in hours could amount to anything important. I hardly know Ewan.

I know the important things. I have known those since almost the moment I set eyes on him.

Extreme circ.u.mstances brought us together. I am here only to save my brother.

I came here for Robin but I am staying for my own reasons.

I am simply in thrall to my own pa.s.sions then...that is it, surely?

This chemistry between us is a symptom, not a cause. My pa.s.sions are the result of my feelings, not the other way around.

So I am in love with him?

Yes, I am in love with him. Deeply, irrevocably in love with him. There, it is said!

I am not foolish enough to think my love returned, though.

No. And I do not want his pity, either.

My opponent he must remain then, Isabella said.

My opponent, Belle agreed sadly.

But by the time Belle faced Ewan over the dinner table, her mood was black. She would be gone in the morning. She wished she could be sure Ewan would miss her. She wished she did not care whether or not he did. She wished she could stop wis.h.i.+ng. She cut viciously into the capon on her plate.

"You have the look of someone with a hunger food won't satisfy."

His words cut into her thoughts. He was not smiling, but he was laughing at her all the same. Pettishly, she pushed her plate away. "You flatter yourself if you think it's you I hunger for," she snapped. "You are a skilful lover, and you have taught me a few tricks, but I am a quick learner. I don't need you. Rather it is you who has need of me."

Her words were meant to hurt him. He knew that, but they hurt all the same. He could not read her mood. When she had left him earlier, he told himself it was part of their game. But she was still angry; so angry with him, and he did not know why. With the curtain up on their final act, it was as if he was in the wrong play. He had not thought of the ending, but he did not want this ending. "Isabella," he said urgently, "it doesn't have to be like this, you know."

"Yes, it does," she said at last. "We agreed on the rules at the outset. And you must call me Belle, not Isabella," she added coldly.

As he followed her for the last time to the upstairs parlour, uncertainty made him apprehensive. He had convinced himself that the fall of the dice tonight was irrelevant. He realised he had been horribly wrong. He picked up the ivories. "Three," he called, for the nights of their wager. "No, four," he amended superst.i.tiously, casting the dice reluctantly.

Belle watched unblinking as they landed. Five and six. When it was her turn to throw she looked at Ewan, not the dice. "Three," she called, and three is precisely what fell.

He could not believe it was over. Striding over to the silver salver standing on the table beside the fireplace, Ewan poured himself a large brandy and downed it in one draught.

"Slowly, take your time," Belle said, in a deliberate echo of his own words that first night. "I would have you sober. You have a debt to settle, Captain Dalgleish."

Ewan looked up. Blue eyes, alight with something. Mouth curled up in a mocking smile, a direct imitation of his own. "But you won," he said stupidly.

"Indeed I did. Which means that I decide what happens." She crooked her finger and swept imperiously from the room.

Ewan followed, his heart thumping with antic.i.p.ation. By the time they arrived at the door of her chamber he was already hard. Never had he wanted something so much.

"Undress," Belle commanded him, busy rummaging for something in the tall chest of drawers set against the far wall.

He did so. She turned to find him magnificently naked before her. She caught her breath, allowed her eyes to travel slowly over him, from his flaming mane down past the breadth of his shoulders, his chest, the rippling muscles of his abdomen, his powerful thighs, her breath coming shallow and fast as she took in his aroused state. She forced herself to continue down the length of his legs, the beautifully defined muscles of his thighs and calves. Standing thus, there was no trace of the sophisticated gentleman; he was all raw power and overwhelmingly male. Untamed. But not, she hoped, untameable.

She wondered if it was possible to tease a man in the same way as she had been teased. Brought to the brink of pleasure and suspended there, time and again. She was resolved to try.

"Well," Ewan demanded, more aroused than abashed by her scrutiny. "Do I pa.s.s muster?"

"You are a fine looking specimen," Belle said dismissively.

He laughed, genuine amus.e.m.e.nt rippling through his stomach muscles, making his eyes crinkle attractively at the corners.

She could not help it; she returned his smile.

"Come here, Belle."

His words brought her up short. "No! It is for you to do my bidding tonight. Lie on the bed."

A quizzical look, but he obliged. "What do you plan to do with me?"

She looked down at him, trying to etch his image in her mind. Anger gave way to tenderness. Desire, as ever in his company, lurked in the wings ready to take a leading role. "Tonight you are the vanquished. My prisoner. I intend to make use of you. Raise your arms."

Warily, he did so, watching as she produced two silk ribbons, sashes from dresses, he realised, and tied one around each wrist. When she concentrated her tongue peeped out between her lips. He wondered if she knew. He wanted to kiss her. As she tested her knots and began to tie the other end of the sashes to the bed posts, he relaxed. She wanted revenge, but it was not his demoralisation she sought; it was the upper hand. In this dark part of themselves were they not made of the same clay? Tonight, she needed him to resist before he submitted. A reversal of last night. He understood that, too.