And One Rode West by Heather Graham
She didn’t intend to respond to him. She didn’t exactly fight him, but neither did she simply allow her lips to part to his. He intended to persist. He threaded his fingers into her hair, and with a growing passion he forcefully invaded her mouth, bathing her teeth with his tongue, then plunging deeply into her mouth. He could still feel her heartbeat. And he could feel the trembling that still riddled through her.
There was so much passion within her. If he could only reach it, touch it.
Her mouth was sweet. The taste and feel of it seeped into his system, adding to the hunger that had begun for her, creating a harsher throb of desire within him. She no longer protested the kiss. Perhaps she did not aid him, but she did not resist him either.
He lifted his lips from hers. Her eyes were open and on his. Her breathing came quickly and shallowly. Was she afraid? Christa Cameron, afraid?
She’d kissed a man before, he was damned certain. She’d been so in love with Liam McCloskey. Just how much else had she done? How much was innocence?
And how much was hatred?
“You’ve never done this before?” he queried.
“Oh, you oaf!” she cried out, struggling then to free herself from him.
He laughed softly, pleased, and not at all sure why. He caught hold of her cheeks and kissed her again, deeply, hungrily, giving her no chance to protest. The heat surged swiftly to his loins now. He tasted her lips and tasted them again. He rose above her.
“I will try to be very gentle,” he told her.
She didn’t answer him. Her eyes were closed. She lay, her beautiful face pale against the ink-dark cloud of her hair. He kept his eyes on her as he lowered himself against her. He caressed her breasts once again, feeling the pulse within her, feeling the heat. He lowered himself still, burying his face against the dip of her belly. Then lower. He brushed his fingers over the triangle between her thighs. Stroked her lower and lower. Forced her thighs apart.
He stared up at her. Her eyes were still closed. There was so much inside of her! he thought. He had felt the quickening in her when he touched her breast. He felt the rampant trembling within her now.
But she wasn’t going to give to him. No matter what, she was determined to deny him.
Still, he didn’t want to hurt her. He slid his thumb through the silk ebony of her pubic hair, and then into the damp softness of her sex. He felt again the trembling. Slowly, sensually he stroked her. He lowered his mouth to the tender, intimate regions of her flesh and began to tease her thus, moistening her at the least, if he could not arouse her.
But he did arouse her, he was certain! For scarce had he touched her before she jerked and surged. Her fingers tore into his hair. Whispered protests flew from her lips, but he ignored them all, delving deeper and deeper within her, bathing her, savoring her. She began to shake. Hunger gnawed raw and painfully within him, a surge of heat came like a rush of anguish.
He rose over her at last. And at last, those magnificent blue eyes were on his. He said nothing more but seized her mouth once again, taking her lips just as he took her body. He tried to take care, tried to go very slowly. She hadn’t lied in her earlier protest—she had never made love with young McCloskey. Her body protested the invasion of his; she cried out briefly at the pain, catching her lower lip between her teeth to keep from letting out any other sound. He forced himself to stop completely, gritting his teeth against the will of his body as he awaited the acceptance of hers. Then he began to move with her slowly. Filling her with the length of his shaft, feeling the hug of her body around him. Dear God, it was good to be within her, sheathed by her. Even if she bit her lip. Even if she damned him for all eternity.
She had been made for this! he thought. For despite her protests, she gave to him, her body beautifully encompassing his. He thrust slowly at first, very slowly, bracing his arms at his sides, watching her face. But her eyes remained closed, her head to the side—her teeth upon her lower lip. Yet as he moved, she began to move with him, instinctively, naturally. The subtle undulation of her hips quickened the drive within him. He closed his own eyes, clenching down hard on his jaw, fighting for control. He maintained it as long as he could. Then his rhythm came faster, his drive stronger. He slipped his hands beneath her buttocks, molding her to him, and he gave free rein to the voracity of his hunger, taking her then with a volatile and fierce passion. Again and again he drove into her. Perspiration broke out in a fine sheen on his skin. He stiffened and thrust once, and once again, hard and deep within her, and his climax burst fiercely upon him, spilling his seed within her.
His weight was upon her, and his sex remained within her. She struggled beneath him, and, somewhat ashamed, he quickly lifted his weight from her, rolling to her side. Instantly she turned her back on him, like some creature deeply wounded. A rush of anger and impatience came to him. Dammit, she was his wife. And if he only saw her every five years or so, he intended to see her in bed.
He set an arm on the shoulder she had set so defensively against him.
“Christa, I’m sorry if I hurt you. It’s fairly natural, I understand, for a woman to cry the first time—”
“I am not crying!” she whispered.
But he thought that she was. He wanted to comfort her. He ran his hand down her beautiful, sleek back. “Christa—”
Her back stiffened like a poker. “You’ve had what you wanted. Now, please, leave me the hell alone!”
He withdrew his touch as if he had been burned. He laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. Liar! he wanted to charge her. She could have responded if she wanted. He had felt the response of her body. She was beautiful, passionate, sensual, and he could feel it all. Feel it in her hunger for life, in her will, in her spirit.
Even in her hatred.
Hate me then, he thought. But you will respond to me, Christa, you will.
He let her lie there, fuming, stiff, and keeping her distance.
Then he reached for her again.
He saw her eyes. Blue ice and blue fire. Rebellious, furious, she stared at him.
“It’s over—” she cried.
“It’s just begun,” he corrected. This time he swept her into his arms. From the very first touch of his lips to hers, he was filled with a force and passion that brooked no resistance. He kissed her until her lips were wet and swollen, then tasted her earlobes and her throat. He suckled her breasts, one then the other, taunting them with a slow rubbing motion with his thumbs, then suckling them again until she cried out. His hands, his lips, were everywhere. Hers flew about in protest, but he merely moved on. He rolled her onto her stomach, teasing the line of her spine with the caress of his fingers and tongue, nipping her buttocks, then rolling her over once again, parting her thighs, and having his way between them. When he took her again, he was so fiercely hungry himself that he could scarcely believe it. He should be sated with her. He wanted more. He knew her from head to toe. He had touched her, tasted her, from head to toe. But she moved, whether she wanted him or not. She writhed, and trembled, and created an ever greater fire. And it burned. Burned so that he stroked and drove until he was nearly mindless himself, and then amazed at the force of the climax that seized him again. She shuddered as he filled her. But no sound escaped her, no surrender even came in a whisper from her lips.
He fell to his side. Once again, she turned her back to him. Frustrated, he stared at her in the moonlight.
“Christa—why?” he demanded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied.
He touched her again, stroking her back whether she wanted his touch or not this time.
He grit his teeth. “Christa, you’re my wife. Why won’t you give in to me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rose up on an elbow. “Yes, you do. You’re flesh and blood, and you’re very much a woman. And you’re doing your damned best to deny me.”
“I didn’t deny you anything,” she said.
“You did, and you know it.”
She was silent for a second, then burst out. “I don’t owe you anything. You take what you want. There’s nothing else that should be yours. You’re not—”
She broke off suddenly.
He caught hold of her shoulder and rolled her around once again. He met her eyes, those blue eyes that were brilliant with tears that she would die before she shed.
“I’m not what, Christa?” he demanded harshly.
She shook her head.
“Answer me. No? All right, I’ll answer for you. I’m not Liam McCloskey. Well, my dear Miss Cameron, you’re not the woman of my dreams either. But you are my wife. Liam is dead, lady, and you’re going to let him rest. Do you understand me?”
She bit her tongue, staring at him. But then her lashes fell over her eyes. “Hail the conquering heroes!” she whispered vehemently.
“Damn you, Christa,” he said quietly. “Fine. Have it your way. It’s a conquered nation, Christa. Consider yourself beaten.”
Her eyes rose to his again. “The South lost the war. I have never been beaten.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You’ll surrender. I’ll see to it. I promise it,” he told her.
She wrenched herself from his touch once again, presenting him with the long line of her back. He lay back, staring at the ceiling.
He should have been feeling pretty wretched.
Oddly enough, he smiled.
It was there, somewhere inside of her. Something tangible to hang on to, to make a life with. Something made up of passion and spirit and glory, and all manner of hot and wonderful things. She might spend a lifetime hating him, but at the very least, they would have an interesting time of it.
He just had to discover the key to reach inside of her, to forge past the power of her will.
It would be something to think about in all the long nights to come.
Six
Christa arrived at Sterling Hall well ahead of the others. She observed the house as she patted her mare’s neck, thinking that it was a very beautiful place and it was a pity it had been neglected so long. The majority of the construction was brick, and much of that had been plastered over so that the edifice seemed to be a large white building with symmetrical columns. It was very much like Cameron Hall, and like the age-old family estate it was still equipped with all its outbuildings, smokehouse, laundry, kitchen, and slave quarters. There were no longer any slaves but a lot of the household servants intended to come along with Daniel and Callie. Numerous Negroes—and poor lost white souls too—needed work and a place to live. Things would never be quite the same, and they’d probably have to sell off a lot of the land. Still, her brothers would manage both places well enough. Jesse wanted to resign his military commission soon and come home and practice medicine. Daniel was the natural-born planter and horseman. He could manage both estates.
And where would she live, she asked herself. As close as Jesse and Daniel were, they had both wanted their own homes. Sterling Hall had been in their family since the Revolutionary War when their great-great-grandmother had brought it into the list of family holdings. They hadn’t worried about it much during the war years, but luckily neither had either of the fighting armies. Maybe that was because it had been cloaked by the overgrowth of shrubs and trees. The house was still standing, and except for the overgrowth and what some carpentry, paint, and a lot of cleaning would do to improve it, it was in very good condition. Callie would certainly make a very beautiful home of the place.
She slipped down easily from her horse and walked up the steps to the porch. With her hands on her hips she surveyed the place, trying to imagine it brought back to grandeur.
It had always been the family plan that Daniel would come here. The house had been willed to him. Cameron Hall for Jesse, Sterling Hall for Daniel. No home for Christa, since she would, of course, marry properly. A fine southern boy from a fine southern home she would take over as chatelaine when the time came. It was the way it had always been. The natural order of things. The Camerons had always prospered—more of the natural order of things. The very first Cameron had been a titled aristocrat, seeking more adventure than riches in the new world. Their great-great-grandfather had given up the title to cast his lot with the rebels in the Revolution. Through that rebellion they had prospered.
Now those who had rebelled had been beaten.
She had brought saddlebags full of things to start to build a household for Callie. Instead of bringing them in, she wandered along the porch and took a seat on the broad railing. She leaned back against one of the structural pillars and closed her eyes.
It had been so bitter for them to see Jesse ride away in his blue. Kiernan, in love with him then but not yet his wife. Daniel, the brother he had been as close to as his own conscience his whole life. And Christa, the baby sister he had halfway raised and lovingly protected. She hadn’t understood Jesse’s reasoning when he had sided with the Union. But not even the war had divided them. She had watched him go, loving him fiercely no matter what the dictates of his heart.
Still, not one of them had imagined that, eventually, they would all be grateful that Jesse had chosen to fight for the North. They had property left because of that decision. And they had Yankee dollars.
Actually, she reminded herself, they had property left because of her.
And Jeremy McCauley.
She grit her teeth, suddenly feeling the breach between them and the worlds they knew to be incredibly great. Angry feelings were very high at the moment. With military occupation and harsh Congressional Reconstruction taking place, men and women were hostile enough. The lost cause of the Confederacy, and her failure to split from what she thought had been a voluntary union, was becoming something sacred. It lived with tremendous pride in the hearts of the vanquished southerners. Perhaps they could be physically beaten, but in the depths of their souls they would never give up.
Yet newspapers—North and South—had been filled lately with accounts of the execution of the “Lincoln Conspirators.” Callie had read of the assassination of Lincoln and everything that had followed. John Wilkes Booth, the actor who had killed the president at Ford’s Theater, had been shot and had died himself. But on July seventh, Mary Surratt—the first woman ever executed by the Federal Government—was hanged along with others involved in plotting first the president’s kidnapping, and then his assassination. Some said that Mrs. Surratt was guilty only of association with the killers, others that she had been as set on assassination as anyone else and that she had deserved to die. Mrs. Surratt’s son had been involved to some extent, but he had escaped. The conspirators had been tried by a military tribunal that some considered to be a mock court. It was difficult to find the truth, Christa thought. Lincoln had been horribly murdered, and although many southerners had considered him an awful tyrant throughout the war, they now felt that he had been the one chance for a decent reconciliation. Booth had thought himself a hero but he had died despised by many of his own people.
The executions, just like the assassination, made public sentiment run high and volatile. Tempers flared, fights ensued. And chasms seemed to grow ever deeper, old wounds to bleed afresh.
Christa stood up, stretching her hands against her back. The lower part by her spine had been giving her trouble lately. It was because of this move, she thought. She and Callie and Kiernan had already been inside Sterling Hall, all scrubbing away with Janey, the ex-slave who knew her business like nobody else.
When it was done, what was she going to do?
For all his threats and promises, Christa had yet to see Jeremy again.
He wrote volumes to his sister.
He kept up appearances for Christa.
He was still in Washington—not so very far away. There were great upheavals in the army. Men staying in, men mustering out. New companies to be formed and assigned. Jeremy’s command was being delayed. Since he really had nothing to say to her, he sent her newspaper clippings on t
She pressed her hand to her forehead, frowning, then shaking her head against a moment’s dizziness that seized her. It was the sun. Or the fact that she hadn’t been sleeping very well.
She sat again.
It was Jeremy’s fault, she was certain.
He’d been gone a little over five weeks now, and she wished fervently that she didn’t think of him. At first she’d been so delighted to wake up and discover that he was gone. On that morning she had been exhausted and sore from head to toe, and she had wanted nothing more than time in which to convince herself she had healed her wounds.
But days had passed. And when she thought about him, and that night between them, she had alternated between moments of deepest humiliation … and fascination.
Thinking of it now, she nearly groaned aloud, raising her knees to the rail and hugging her arms around them. Liam should have remained in her dreams. She should at least have fantasies of what might have been.
But thoughts of Jeremy preoccupied her too much now, when she was awake and when she was asleep. There was no denying the war-sharpened strength of the man, the size of him, the sleekness of his power. She tried to close her eyes and her mind from such thoughts, but they came to her again and again, unbidden. She could see his steel-gray eyes, warning her that his will was law. The rakishly tousled auburn hair, the naked length of him, stalking her, touching her.