A Touch of Sin (28 page)

Head bowed, his hair light on her face, he lay above her, braced on his elbows, thinking, now that his rutting frenzy had passed, he shouldn't touch her with the clothes he'd worn in battle.

As he began to pull away, her hands tightened on him.

"My clothes," he said. "The dirt—"

"I don't care."

"Let me just take them off," he whispered, bending his head to kiss her lightly. "A second, that's all."

"A second?"

He smiled. "Watch me."

She chuckled. "Now that's incentive."

"I should bathe." He slid away, careful now of his boots on the coverlet.

"If I could wait, you could bathe."

"Or you could bathe with me." Standing beside the bed, he quickly stripped off his embroidered jacket and dropped it to the floor.

"Afterward."

"I'd forgotten how impatient you are."

"So you should hurry." She was slipping her gown off.

A sudden disconcerting thought arrested his fingers on the buttons of his vest. "How many other men have you said that to since I left?"

"None, if you must know."

"A woman of your appetites?" he suspiciously queried.

"A man of your propensities?" she countered, pulling her chemise over her head. "You've been celibate, you tell me. Why shouldn't I?"

"I'm not sure I believe you." Always indifferent to the concept of fidelity in the past, he found it suddenly mattered, and her frankness eased some of his apprehensions. He continued his undressing.

"Then we're both equally distrustful," she remarked, "because you celibate—of all people—is difficult to conceive. Especially with the harem women in your entourage tonight. I don't suppose you were planning on discussing Plato with them?" She dropped her slippers on the floor.

"Makriyannis brought them," he said, his casual flirtation with the harem ladies more habit than impulse; his interest in them had been minimal. Unlike his fascination with Trixi Grosvenor, he realized. "I find myself possessive about you. Now that you're here, now that I think about it."

"As I find myself. I'm glad you didn't sleep with the harem ladies. Really, really glad," she softly said.

"
I'm
glad you traveled so far to see me."

"Good. Now if we're both agreed on this mutual attraction, I'd like you back in bed." Her silk stockings sailed through the air.

"Don't be coy," he said, grinning, pulling off his shirt.

"Do you like coy women?" She stretched luxuriously in the moonlight, all gilded femaleness.

"I like you."

It wasn't an extravagant sentiment but she liked the sound of his simple admission because
she
liked
him
very much. And if she'd dared consider a future with a man like Pasha, she might have allowed herself to love him. But she mollified her susceptibility to sentiments he could more readily accept. "And I love to make love to you. Do you need help?"

"Restrain yourself, darling, for a second more." Nude now, he picked up the pitcher of water from the washstand, walked out to the balcony, and poured it over his head. After wiping his hair and body swiftly, he climbed back into bed. "A marginal improvement," he noted, sprawling on his back beside her.

"You're absolutely perfect," she murmured, half rolling on her side, sliding her palms over his sleek torso.

"This is damn near paradise, isn't it. Why didn't you come sooner?" he added, turning his head to smile at her.

"Had I known of your gracious welcome, I may have."

"I should have written." And for an odd moment it seemed strange that he hadn't. He was deeply content, seriously happy with her soft, warm body against his. He pulled her close.

"Now there's no need to write." Her tone was deliberately playful; she preferred not to consider the alarming degree of her attachment.

"This is much better, I agree."

"For us both," she whispered, sliding onto his chest, lying atop him. "Would you think me forward if I—"

"Need another climax, do you?" he lazily drawled, smiling.

"I don't, I suppose, precisely
need
one, although I would dearly
love
one. And seeing how you seem to be… ready," she murmured, rubbing his arousal with her thigh. "As usual…"

"Why not put it to good use?" he pleasantly finished, watching her move up into a seated position straddling his legs.

She grinned down at him. "Exactly."

They made love that night with a rare and special awareness, feeling a tangible physical accord—and more. Both were impatient, not Trixi alone, both heart-touched, hypersensitive to a raw, primitive need, their responses keenly felt, sharpened by their long privation.

The warfare and slaughter made Pasha more conscious, perhaps, of his own mortality, of their special nearness.

Trixi hadn't realized how truly important he was to her, how vulnerable her feelings were, how extravagant a joy he brought to her life. It was both terrifying and wonderful to feel what she felt; the pleasure layered nuances of bliss and trepidation.

But pleasure overwhelmed all else as the night progressed and she experienced rapture so sweet, so profound, that all the constraints that warned her against love disappeared.

And she allowed herself to acknowledge her love for him.

Hours later, bewitched, enchanted, reckless with feelings he could no more describe than acknowledge, Pasha murmured, "Would you like another baby?"

Her body immediately opened to receive him, the words triggered to a deep, unspoken longing. "Yes," she whispered, languorous after hours of making love. "Yes, yes…" she breathed with such feeling he felt her words strike his heart.

Yet he hesitated, the concept once voiced so utterly heedless of all his former pragmatic principles and assessments, alarm bells went off in his brain.

But she was lying beneath him, warm, hot, receptive, and the inescapable specter of death ever present in his thoughts gave warning he could be killed tomorrow. Today, he corrected himself, with the moon on the wane, their marching orders assigned. "Are you sure?" he said, his voice taut with indecision.

She reached up to kiss him, her breath warm on his lips. "I'm sure."

"It might not happen anyway." A sop to his conscience, to the indecision and demur.

"Or it might." She felt afraid suddenly for his life, afraid she might never see him after tonight.

"I have to leave very soon." Time seemed to be ticking away, and his whole life was in the balance.

"Come back to me," she whispered, stroking his cheek, smoothing his hair behind his ear.

"God willing," he softly replied. Moonlight washed the room in a silvery glow, the cool night air carrying the scent of the sea. "If there's a child," Pasha said, kissing her cheek, knowing he was making a commitment however tenuous, knowing there was one thing more he must say, "and I don't come back—"

"Hush." The word came heated and low as alarm flared in her eyes.

"Everyone's time comes," he gently declared. "I
want you to see that my family knows. I'll leave a note, but tell them—"

"Please, please… don't talk that way."

"Not another word." He smiled. "Kiss me instead, and we'll pick out baby names in the morning."

Waking while it was still dark, Pasha eased himself from the bed, careful not to disturb Trixi. He had to make arrangements for her safety before leaving. Their troop had orders to guard the supply train coming from Tripolitza to Nauplia, the transfer of the new harvest to a more secure location critical to the maintenance of the army. He had only a few hours before their scheduled departure at first light.

Jules materialized as he entered his dressing room, a cup of coffee in his hand.

"You're a lifesaver," Pasha murmured, taking the offered cup.

"Your clothes are laid out, sir," Jules quietly said. "And your bath is ready."

Pasha grinned. "You're worth a fortune, Jules. Give yourself a raise."

"You pay me sufficiently, sir." Jules's bank account, in fact, was adequate to support his entire family residing in Normandy. "I took the liberty of having your saddlebags packed."

"Did you happen to find any brandy?"

"I brought a case from your cellar, sir. You have three full silver flasks in your saddlebags."

"Enough to take the edge off the rough ride. We're to make all speed to Tripolitza this morning." He drained his coffee cup and set it down. "Lady Grosvenor will be moving to the Monastery of St. Elijah before I leave, so see that her things are packed," Pasha instructed, stepping into the white marble bath. Taking the soap Jules held out to him, he sank into the warm water with a sigh. "Damned Turks are keeping us on the move. I wouldn't mind a day or so of rest sometime soon."

"Nikos tells me of your success at Lerna. Perhaps Kolokotronis's army will give you some respite now."

Pasha was cynical. "And maybe he'll restore all the money he stole from the Greek treasury while he's at it."

"The factions are as corrupt as ever, then?"

"Worse, since the English loans have given them larger prizes to fight over. Loyalties are everywhere for sale. Except for Makriyannis. His troop's accomplished damn near miracles this summer. Now if we can
get
the supplies out of Tripolitza in time, Ibrahim won't have the advantage of starving out Nauplia this winter."

"When do you anticipate returning?"

"Three or four days," Pasha said. "I'd like you to watch over Lady Grosvenor while I'm gone," he added, coming to his feet in a sluice of water. "And stay armed," he cautioned, taking a towel from Jules. "If she wakes before I return, tell her I'll be right back."

"Will you have time for breakfast when you return?"

"No."

He dressed swiftly in the clothes Jules handed to him, his weapons added at the last. Even in Nauplia one never traveled unarmed. Minutes later, he was riding through the courtyard gate.

On entering his bedroom an hour later, he silently moved to the foot of the bed and stood utterly still for a moment, captivated by the delectable sight. It still didn't seem completely real—that she was here in Nauplia, sleeping in his bed. She lay uncovered in the summer warmth, curvaceous, lush, the image of fecund womanhood, perhaps fertile motherhood, he thought, beguiled again by the possibility, although in perverse contrast, her arms were thrown over her head in the sleeping pose of an exhausted child. He momentarily chastised himself for selfishly keeping her up all night. But she'd been silken flesh and playful eagerness and wild and demanding and tearful at the very last, the precariousness of life in wartime terrifying to her, only too well known to him. And now he had to see that she was kept safe until his return—from the spies in town, from the thieves and cutthroats, from the entrepreneurs who viewed a golden-haired beauty such as she with an eye to her price on the slave block. It was dangerous for a beautiful woman in this hotbed of intrigue and rivalries, in this city that was living in the shadow of war. But he'd found the most secure residence possible.

Moving to the side of the bed, he sat down beside her, the dip of the bed under his weight bringing her half awake. Her eyelids fluttered open briefly before falling shut again.