Devil's Daughter by Catherine Coulter
He gently kissed the tip of her nose, and straightened to strip off his clothes. It was like the night before, when Rayna lay sprawled on the bed before him, terrified yet trusting him. He was aware now, just as he had been then, that she was watching him, her eyes on his body. He turned slowly, naked, to face her.
“I didn’t remember you like that.”
Adam cocked his head to one side, not understanding. “Like what, Rayna?”
“It is impossible.”
He laughed. “We shall see, cara.” He slipped under the cover beside her to find her rigid as a board.
“Surely I, a simple man, do not frighten you?”
“You are not a simple man, Adam Welles, you are simply too much.”
“And you are small and beautiful, and I will fill you, Rayna, but not with pain.”
“Do you promise?” His eyes were nearly black in the shadowy light.
“I promise.” As he possessed her mouth, his body reminded him he had not enjoyed a woman since he met Rayna at the palace, long weeks before. Touching her, feeling her respond to him, made him shudder with need. He forced himself to think of her, to make her forget any pain he would bring her.
He threw off the cover and let his hands touch her breasts.
“I love for you to kiss me,” she said, her fingers stroking his face. “And I love your beard. It tickles.”
“You are so lovely, Rayna,” he said, and as he kissed her, his fingers stroked down her belly to find her.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“Soon, sweetheart, soon now.”
“Please stop,” she said suddenly. “I cannot bear it. Please, Adam.”
“You do not have to bear it, cara, you need only to enjoy it.”
“Adam,” she whispered, then her body convulsed, and she cried out his name again. He muffled her cries with a kiss and parted her legs.
“Rayna,” he said, “look at me.”
She raised vague eyes to his face.
“A moment of pain, love, just a moment.”
He entered her slowly, pausing a moment at her maidenhead.
“I love you, Rayna,” he said, and pushed into her.
He thrust again, tearing through her thin barrier, burying himself deep within her. He felt her tensing with pain and it brought him a measure of control. He balanced himself above her on his elbows.
“Lie still,” he said, and lowered his head to kiss her. He whispered into her mouth, “Is that better now, love?”
Rayna felt him deep within her. It was an odd feeling, yet comforting, as if his body had become a part of hers.
“Yes,” she said. She stroked her hands down his back, felt him quiver at her touch, felt the taut muscles tense beneath her fingers. For the first time she felt the power of her own body.
He was beyond words, beyond thought, beyond himself. He finally stilled.
He kissed her gently, caressing her face between his hands, whispering love words to her. For the first time in his life, Adam thought of the children he would have with her, of all the days and nights they would share, and he smiled.
“Whoever thought I would wed Rayna Lyndhurst,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“You must learn tolerance for the English, sir,” she said, grinning up at him.
He raised his hand and lightly traced her lips. “My love, I have more than enough tolerance for the English. You know, of course, that my sister is more smug than you can imagine, that we will wed. She fancies herself responsible for my passion for you.”
“Imagine, Bella my sister. May I speak to her now? Tell her that I know who you are?”
“I suppose it can make no difference now. I don’t imagine you intend to tell her also how you spent this evening?”
Rayna chuckled. “A woman should have some secrets, my lord. Besides, Arabella wouldn’t understand. Now I am certain I know something Bella doesn’t.”
“I wish you didn’t,” he said on a sigh.
“Adam, am I going to have a baby?”
He rolled off her onto his back. “Do you trust me so little that you came to me because you were hopeful I would get you with child?”
“That was perhaps part of it.”
He pulled her down upon her back and kissed her. “I hope you are not with child, cara,” he said quietly. “Your father will accept me, Rayna. I have told you that. There was no reason to resort to blackmail.”
“I did not intend to take any chances,” she said. “And now I believe I am suitably compromised. They would call me damaged goods, would they not?”
“I do not wish us to have a seven-month child. You will be my wife, and I want no raised eyebrows.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Adam shook his head and laughed. “Here I believed you so very biddable and gentle. You have a stubborn streak, Rayna, that terrifies me.” He felt her fingers tangle in the hair on his chest, and despite himself, his breathing quickened. “No,” he said, pulling away from her. “We are going to clean you up, petite, and then it’s home for you.”
“I am no longer a virgin,” she said in a very cheerful voice.
“No,” Adam replied, a worried frown drawing his brows together, “you are not.”
Chapter 14
Arabella was pleased with herself. The pistol she had taken—borrowed, rather—from Lord Delford’s desk was snug against her thigh, where it would stay until she returned safely from the Contessa Luciana di Rolando’s villa.
Her thoughts veered toward Rayna and Adam, and she smiled. She knew well enough where Rayna had spent several hours of the previous night, for she had heard her tiptoe to her room and had seen Vincenzo moving quietly back to his post near the stables. She wondered briefly if Adam, in the throes of passion, whatever that was, had told Rayna who he really was. She hadn’t had the chance to find out, for Rayna was still asleep in her bedchamber when Arabella had left.
She rode past several small huts, their occupants, she saw, working in the olive groves. She was beginning to think she had taken the wrong road, when she saw a villa nestled at the base of a small hill to her left. It was an elegant house, painted a dazzling white and set amid tall cypresses. She turned her mare onto the drive that wound in circular fashion to the front of the villa. It was small and square, its balconies along the second floor overflowing with blossoming hyacinths, jasmine, carnations, and roses. She wondered cynically if the fat king had provided the contessa with this exquisite little hideaway. She reined in her mare and slid out of the saddle. An old man, his face weathered by decades of blistering Neapolitan sun, ambled toward her, nodded without speaking, and led her mare away.
The peaceful setting suddenly seemed chilling. Surely no harm could come to her over a simple luncheon, and besides she had her pistol. She walked to the front door, her pulse quickening. Today the contessa would talk freely to her.
Arabella was shown into a small parlor by a black-gowned servant, a woman who did not look particularly Italian.
“Ah, Lady Arabella. How delightful of you to pay a lonesome old woman a visit. I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten.”
The contessa did not look like a lonesome old woman to Arabella. She was splendidly gowned in ivory satin, her black hair pulled high on her head in a fashionable topknot, with curling tendrils falling down her neck. A lovely diamond necklace lay against her bosom. Arabella wondered if her father’s cargoes paid for it.
“It is my pleasure, contessa,” Arabella said in a smooth voice, touching her fingers to the woman’s outstretched hand. “You have a lovely home,” she added, looking about the parlor with its creamy white furnishings. “The fireplace is exquisite.”
“Yes, I admire Italian marble. There is nothing to rival it in all the world, I think. But I forget my manners, Lady Arabella. Will you not accompany me to the dining room? Luigi has prepared us a small meal that I hope will please you.”
Arabella nodded and followed the contessa from the parlor across a nar
“How lovely,” Arabella said.
“Yes, it is,” the contessa agreed. “I trust you like a cold shrimp-and-scallop salad, Lady Arabella.” She paused a moment, then added on a pained smile, “As I get older, I find I cannot afford to indulge in heavy luncheons.”
“But you are as slender as a girl,” Arabella said, diverted.
Again Giovanna felt a tug of liking for the earl’s daughter. “Thank you,” she said, and seated herself across from her guest.
“You are enjoying your stay in Naples, madam?”
“Ah, yes,” Giovanna said. “The king and queen are very kind.”
She placed slight emphasis on the “king,” enough for Arabella to wonder if the contessa was mocking her. She sipped the white wine placed before her, and decided it was time for her to become a bit more worldly. She gave the contessa a disconcertingly brilliant smile. “The king and queen are indeed charming. But I must tell you that I prefer some of the younger gentlemen in the court. They are much more exciting, I think.”
“Oh?” Giovanna asked.
“Indeed,” Arabella continued, feigning a sophistication that would have made her father and brother stare at her as if she were a raree-show. “There is one gentleman who is ever so frightening, but withal, he makes me feel very much like a woman.”
Giovanna smiled. “You are drawn to dangerous young men, signorina?”
“Oh yes,” Arabella said. “The comte in particular I find terribly attractive.”
“The comte?”
“The Comte de la Valle, madam,” Arabella said, lowering her voice. “He is French, you know, and so very ah, charmant, and manly.” There, contessa, Arabella thought, sipping more of the fruity wine. Now what do you think of me?
Giovanna felt such a surge of anger that a small shrimp fell from her fork onto the white tablecloth. The little fool, baiting me, she thought.
“Yes,” Giovanna said, smiling. “I myself find the comte to my liking. He is particularly gallant in the bedchamber.”
Arabella couldn’t prevent the slight quiver of shock that widened her eyes.
Such a child you are, my lady, Giovanna thought, repressing a laugh.
“I would imagine so,” Arabella said after a long moment. Get hold of yourself, you fool.
Giovanna leaned forward. “But not so seductive a lover as some other men I have known. More wine, child?”
Arabella gladly accepted another glass, for she had the feeling that she was no longer in control of the situation. She drank deeply.
“Thank you, contessa,” she said.
Giovanna sat back in her chair and gazed pensively into her wine glass. “I remember one gentleman who could make me limp with his passion. I was much younger then, as was he, of course.”
“He was your husband, contessa?” Arabella asked.
“No. My husband was already dead, thank the Lord.”
“Oh.”
“This gentleman was an English nobleman, wealthy, powerful, and exquisitely manly.”
“But your son, contessa. You have not told me about your son, save that he is twenty-five years old.” Who cared about some English nobleman from her murky past?
Giovanna turned a ruby ring slowly about her finger. “My son, Lady Arabella? His name is Kamal.”
Arabella could not seem to keep her eyes from the glittering ring. “Kamal?” she repeated. “That is an odd name, is it not, madam?”
“His Italian name is Alessandro, as I believe I once told you. But you will meet him, my dear. Yes, you will meet him, and very soon now.”
Arabella tore her gaze from the ruby. “Alexander,” she said. “That is his name in English. And how will I meet him, madam? Is he coming to Naples?” Her tongue felt oddly thick in her mouth, and her fork, poised to spear a pink shrimp, seemed suddenly heavy.
She heard the contessa say, as if from a great distance, “No, my girl, he is not coming to Naples. You will journey to meet him.”
“That is impossible.” The words slid from her mouth, slurred even to her own ears. “I don’t feel quite right,” she said.
“Would you care to hear more about the Englishman who was my lover, child?” Giovanna rose from her chair and leaned toward Arabella. “I wanted him, signorina, but he cast me aside and chose someone else.”
Arabella pulled her gaze from the contessa’s face. Her face dropped to the wineglass still held between her fingers. The wine had tasted so sweet, too sweet. “The wine—” she said.
“Yes, my dear, the wine. You came here to bait me into revealing myself. You see, you have succeeded.”
The contessa gently pulled away Arabella’s plate.
“The wine,” Arabella whispered, the contessa’s words drifting like brittle fall leaves through her mind. The contessa’s face blurred. “Someone help me.” Arabella slumped forward, her arms cushioning her fall.
She heard a woman’s voice. “Sleep now, my girl. Enjoy it. When you awake, you will be glad for it.”
Gervaise, Comte de la Valle, fell forward over the woman, his head on the pillow beside hers. Damn her, he thought, his breathing calming. At least she could feign pleasure and not lie like a statue beneath him. He heaved himself up on his elbows and felt her squirm under his weight.
“You are always in such a hurry, caro,” Giovanna said. “A gentleman never takes his pleasure first.”
Rayna Lyndhurst’s beautiful pale face rose in his mind. He pictured her body as he had seen it briefly the night Pietro raped her. She was so white and slender, so tantalizingly young. But not innocent anymore. He felt himself grow hard at the thought of having her beneath him, struggling against him, if she wished.
“Ah,” he heard the contessa murmur, “I knew you would not disappoint me.”
He stroked Rayna, caressed her with his mouth as he moved slowly over her. He quickened when she tightened her white thighs about his haunches, and eased his fingers between them to caress her. He heard her breathing sharpen, felt her body writhe beneath him. He opened his eyes, and the vivid image was gone. The contessa, her black hair tangled, her face contorted in her climax, lay shuddering beneath him.
Gervaise groaned his disappointment. He withdrew from the contessa and fell away from her onto his back.
He is young, Giovanna thought, and young men are selfish. But he had given her pleasure, at last. She felt satisfied, both with herself and with him.
“Caro,” she said, turning on her side to face him. “I am leaving Naples.”
Her eyes traveled down the length of his lean body and she nearly laughed out loud at her memory of the king’s paunchy belly, his nearly hairless groin and legs.
“When, contessa?” Gervaise asked at last, pulling his thoughts from Rayna Lyndhurst.
“As soon as you leave, mon brave.”
He wondered why she had asked him here in the early afternoon. He usually rode to her villa in the evening, under cover of darkness. “Why do you leave so quickly?”
“My business is completed here,” she said. “I have enjoyed our time together, Gervaise.”
He frowned, for her voice sounded different, perhaps mocking. He shook his head. The payment she had given him for his services wasn’t enough in his mind for having made love to her several nights a week. “What is your business, contessa?” he asked abruptly. “You have never told me.”
“Revenge,” she said lightly, trailing her fingers over his chest.
“Revenge,” he repeated. He pulled away from her stroking hand and sat up. “I thought you wished to support the French, and that was your reason for—”
He froze at her laughter.
“Your arrogance, my dear young comte, is of continual amusement,” Giovanna said. She appeared to eye him thoughtfully. “I do not mean to criticize, my dear comte, but your arrogance also leads you to believe that women find pleasure with you if you but toss a few soft words and thoughtless caresses. It is not the case, you know.”<
“You prefer the king, madame? He is nearer your esteemed age.”
He was surprised that the contessa only smiled at him. “The king is very earthy,” she said. “He enjoys a woman’s body, and not just for his own pleasure.”
“You disgust me.”
“Does Arabella Welles disgust you as well, Gervaise?”
The comte twisted about to face her. “Arabella Welles? Why the devil do you mention her? I barely know the girl.”
“How interesting,” Giovanna murmured. “I thought she was lying to me. Of course you are not her lover.”
“What did you say?”
Giovanna shrugged. “Naught of anything, really. I have made you rich,” she continued, “though I cannot claim to have improved your skills as a lover.”
He heard mockery in her voice again. He clenched his hand into a fist, but he couldn’t strike her. He knew she was guarded by at least a half-dozen men, well-hidden, to be sure, but close by.
“You have served your purpose, Gervaise,” she continued, smiling at his obvious anger.
“Purpose.” He turned to her, his face flushed. “What does that mean?”
“I mean, caro,” Giovanna said gently, “that you should consider leaving your band of patriots and returning to your homeland and your emperor. It is likely that the queen’s secret police will shortly discover that the rich cargoes you have been selling to your fellow countrymen were never yours to sell. They were not mine to give you, you see. You have played your role, my little man. If you do not leave Naples soon, you will find yourself rotting in chains.”
Gervaise bounded to his feet. “You have used me,” he shouted down at her. “You have betrayed me.”
“Please do not act the outraged little boy, it ill suits you. Now, the queen’s secret police will also suspect that you are responsible for the disappearance of Arabella Welles. I am not betraying you precisely, comte. I am giving you warning.” She shrugged. “If you wish to warn the other members of your dissolute club, it is up to you.”