Finnea’s step faltered and she looked at the child. Yes, yes, say yes. Maintain the professional, businesslike mien, keep the distance. “No,” she said softly into the fading wind, unable to lie. “I wasn’t really. It just seemed like the right thing to say at the time.”
“I’m glad you weren’t.”
Relief and hope filled the child’s eyes, and Finnea felt her heart twist even more. Her head swam and she wanted to scream as she wondered about her own child. Would she have still carried a doll? Would she have laughed with joy at the sight of all this snow?
The senseless wondering circled unchecked in her mind like a whirling dervish until she thought she would go mad. She wanted to cease the endless replay of thoughts. They did no good, never had.
She looked out in the distance and saw the lagoon, the water frozen hard. The ice was empty of skaters, cold and beckoning. And just then the wind died down completely. The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds and danced on the surface of the tiny lake. Winter glistened on the tree branches.
Finnea took in the sight as if taking in a deep breath, swallowing back the scream that bubbled inside her. She didn’t want to think, was tired of thinking; she wanted to lose herself.
She didn’t have the razor-blade shoes the men wore on the ice, but she took a few determined steps toward the lagoon regardless, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until she ran.
“Finnea!” Mary cried out, but Finnea kept going, the wind pulling the tie from her uncovered hair.
She ran without stopping, straight for the lake, and barely broke her stride before she leaped out in her booted feet as she had longed to do since the first time she saw it. She hit the ice at a run, her head flung back, her arms extended at her sides like wings. Cold air stung her cheeks, bringing tears to her eyes as she slid across the lagoon.
Her cry of desperate release echoed in the snow-covered expanse, and for those few minutes time hung suspended and the endless circling of thoughts ceased. For one brief crystalline space of time, fear and panic didn’t twist in her heart like a knife.
She ended up on the opposite side, her breath shallow, but from exertion, not panic. When she looked back, she saw Mary racing along the path, her tiny black-booted heels kicking up the back of her knee-length coat as she ran. She barreled over the footbridge and dashed off the path into the snow-covered grounds toward Finnea. Mary didn’t stop until she stood in front of her. Only then did Finnea see the child’s tears.
“What is it, Mary?” she asked, climbing awkwardly off the ice.
“Don’t do that!” Mary raged.
Finnea was startled by the intensity. “Why not?”
“Because. Because it’s stupid and silly … and my father wouldn’t like it.”
At this, Finnea scoffed. “True, but I’d have to say your father doesn’t seem to like much of anything these days, now does he?”
Mary squeezed her eyes closed, and Finnea hated the stab of conscience she felt. She never meant to hurt the child, but obviously Mary thought the words applied to her.
“Oh, Mary,” she said softly, coming forward. “Your father loves you.” Didn’t he?
“No, he doesn’t!” she cried, her face mottled with blotches of red and tears. “And I don’t care because I don’t want him to love me. I hate him! I hate him! I wish he had never come back from Africa!”
Mary turned and fled, racing back the way she had come, leaving perfect footprints in the snow. Finnea stared at the tiny indentations until a gust of wind came up and erased them. But Mary and her tears could not be erased so easily. With a sigh, Finnea trudged through the snow to the path and followed her back to Dove’s Way.
Matthew stood in his bedroom doorway, doing little to control his anger with his wife. He had received a letter from William Winslet’s lawyer. On top of that, Mary had just charged past him down the hall, tears streaking her cheeks.
Seconds later Finnea hurried up the stairway, errant tendrils of red curling wildly around her face.
“What is wrong with Mary?” he demanded. He couldn’t tell if she looked guilty or if she was just leery of him.
“She’s upset.”
“I can see that,” he said carefully. “We made a deal. And that deal does not include you upsetting my daughter.”
“But—”
“Nor does it include this,” he stated, holding up an official-looking, cream-colored letter.
“What is it?” she asked warily.
“A letter from your father’s solicitor.”
“How dare he!”
Matthew turned on his heels and began to pace in front of the hearth in his room.
Indignant, Finnea followed him inside. “He had no right to contact you.”
“Did you think he wouldn’t? I am your husband. And beyond that, Jules Beetle happens to work for my brother.”
“Mr. Beetle is a solicitor, not a saloon worker!”
His eyes narrowed. “Beetle works for Grayson, not Lucas. And Grayson is the senior partner of the firm which employs the man.”
Finnea’s face flashed red with anger. But he saw the anger fade when he came toward her. He raked his hand through his hair in frustration. “I told you before, and I tell you now for the last time, there will be no annulment. Not now, not ever. Do you understand?”
“What I understand is that you have no say in the matter. If Jules Beetle won’t see to it, then I will find someone else who will.”
He took a step closer, and she began to back out toward the hallway.
“On what grounds do you think any judge will consent if I don’t agree?” he asked with a deceptive calm.
“On grounds that the marriage was not consummated.”
His movement was swift and decisive. He caught her wrist and slammed the door shut. “I can remedy that quickly enough.”
He pulled her close.
“Matthew,” she said, her voice quavering, “what are you doing?”
“What I should have done last night.” His eyes bored into her. “Undress.”
Finnea took on a startled expression. “Good heavens, no!”
“You want to do this the hard way, fine by me.”
She tried to escape, but he caught her against his chest. Pain seared through him. For one startling second everything seemed to cease—time, his frustration, his intent. Through the haze in his mind he could see her brow furrowed in confusion. But in the next second he pulled a deep, shuddering breath, his arm wrapping around her, and he could see her confusion evaporate, replaced by concern, this time for herself.
“A deal is a deal,” he said, the words a breath against her skin.
Then he kissed her, his mouth coming down on hers. She tried to resist; he could feel her muscles go taut. But he couldn’t stop the touch any more than he could stop himself from breathing.
“Kiss me, Finn,” he demanded, suddenly more desperate than demanding.
She turned her head away from him.
He pulled back to look at her, the crook of one strong finger nudging her chin until she faced him. With an infinite slowness, he ran his hand down the length of her arm, and he felt a tremor race through her. Her lips parted on a puff of breath as her gaze dropped to his lips, bringing a surge of blood to his loins. “I don’t want to do it this way, not in frustration.”
“I don’t want to do it at all,” she whispered, her tone shaky.
“Are you sure?”
She looked away.
He backed her toward the bed, the thick draperies pulled open on the window that stood just beyond. With barely steady hands, he undid the long row of fastenings of her hunter’s shirt. She opened her mouth to protest but snapped it shut when the tips of his fingers brushed her skin.
A glimpse of creamy flesh and a hint of cleavage were revealed where the soft muslin parted, taking his breath away. He stood for long moments and did nothing more than take her in.
A blush washed down her neck and shoulders, but she stood proud with her chin raised in challenge. It was always that way. She was always fighting.
Reverently, he brushed the material aside, then grazed his fingers against the swell of one breast. Her eyes fluttered closed.
“Do you feel that?”
“No,” she replied, her voice little more than a whisper.
“I think you do.”
“Think what you wish, I don’t care enough to try and set you straight.”
“Fine,” he answered.
Her eyes met his in a blaze as he worked the fastenings of her skirt until it slid off into a puddle around her ankles. Only her chemise and petticoat remained, and a glimpse of pantaloons beneath.
Her spine was straight, and her eyes were cold. But still she wasn’t defeated. The walls of her fortress remained securely in place, no breach to her armor despite the fact that she stood there in nothing more than undergarments.
Her strength slayed him. Her courage. Her beauty. Just as he remembered her in the jungle.
Long, golden rays of sunlight fell through the windows, washing over her. Full breasts with rose-dusted nipples. And while he couldn’t see through the petticoats and pantaloons, he remembered well how her rounded hips gave way to long, shapely legs.
“Come here, Finn,” he said, his voice a tender command.
Her eyes narrowed, and she started to step away. But he stayed her with his hand, a brush of palm down her arm. He stared at her, no longer understanding what he truly wanted from this defiant woman.
“Lie on the bed, Finnea,” he said softly.
“Why?”
His gaze slid to her mouth. “Because I’m going to touch you just like I said, sweetheart.” Facing her, he guided her closer to the bed with his body. “I’m going to kiss you and touch you until you are hot and slick with wanting.”
The backs of her knees hit the mattress, and she sat down with a start. Her eyes went wild. But he didn’t let up. He pressed her down until her red hair spilled across the coverlet.
Still standing, he leaned over her and planted one hand beside her head.
“Go on, then,” she stated. “Get it over with. Do what you need to do so I can get on with my day.”
As always, proud, defiant, never giving an inch. Would she ever?
He knew he should leave, knew he should walk out the door and agree to her annulment. It was hard having her in the house with him, so close, so difficult to hide when his body was tired and weak, but he couldn’t do without her. The fact was that when she wasn’t making him crazy, she made him feel whole again. And because of that, he would have done anything for her—but let her go.
Leaning down, he gently caressed her firmly sealed lips with his tongue. “You taste like sunshine,” he breathed against her.
“Thank you for that tidbit of information,” she quipped, turning her head.
He chuckled quietly, his lips trailing across her cheek. “You’re welcome. Sunshine and lemon. Tart. With just enough of a bite to make it worthwhile.”
“We’re a poet, are we?”
Despite her antagonistic tone, his lips lifted in a crooked smile. “Do you think?”
She snorted. “Hardly.”
He laughed at that, then grew serious. “I would never hurt you, Finn.”
He watched as her defiance shifted and changed to something more elusive. Dark and stormy.
“Does that mean you’re going to let me go?” she asked.
He lowered himself on top of her in answer. “No, Finnea. You’re my wife. Whether you want to be or not.”
He kissed her, his lips dancing on her skin, and he could feel her tremble.
His kisses turned to nips as he worked his way down her body. His teeth grazed her skin and the fine cotton of her underclothes. Impatiently, he pulled off the chemise, before reaching beneath the petticoat and tugging her pantaloons down her legs.
She wouldn’t look at him, so he dipped his head and laved one nipple with his tongue. Her breath caught and she jerked her head away, staring at the wall.
He groaned his satisfaction as the rose-colored tips pulled into tight buds. Red seared her cheeks as she bit her lip, and he knew she was keeping herself from moaning out loud.
“I hate you, you know that, don’t you?” she whispered, the words an echo from that long night in the jungle.
He chuckled, much as he had all those months ago; he ran his tongue around first one nipple, then the other, his teeth gently grazing the tender flesh. Her breath grew shallow.
“Do you hate that?” he asked.
Her head was back and she swallowed hard. “Yes.”
He smiled against her. “Liar.”
He trailed down her body, from the sensitive swell between her breasts to the waistband of her fine linen petticoat. He went lower and lower until he was kneeling on the floor between her thighs. He didn’t bother to take off her petticoat; he only slipped his hands under the hem and touched the bare silky flesh beneath.
“Stop!”
“Why, Finn? You said you didn’t care enough to make me stop. Do you care now? Do you feel?” His smile disappeared. “Just say it, Finnea. Say you care, say that you feel.”
Her eyes flashed with ire, but she remained stubbornly silent.
Determined, he skimmed his hands slowly up to her belly as he drew closer between her knees, the gauzy material of her undergarment bunching against his wrists as he watched her eyes flutter closed. Her mouth opened on a silent breath when the heel of his palm grazed the hairs that curled between her legs. Slowly, he brushed his hand back and forth.
“You feel, Finnea,” he whispered. As if to prove his point, he dipped his head and tasted her.
“Matthew!” she gasped.
But her surprise was no match for his resolve. With the boldness of a man unwilling to give in, he pulled her knees up and came between them, then gently stroked the delicate folds of her womanhood with his fingers.
She sucked in her breath, and her hands fisted in the downy coverlet. Her body arched traitorously to his touch, and he spread her thighs against her waning resistance.
“God, you have such passion.”
He planted her feet on the bed, cupping her hips and tasting again. Her hands flew up and grabbed his hair. But when he stroked and gently sucked, a deep strangled sound filled the room.
“Yes, Finn,” he murmured against her. “Let go.”
And she did.
The touch shattered her fortress. Her hips began to move, her determination not to feel giving way, nothing more than a faint memory. He laid one hand on her abdomen, his fingers splayed. With his tongue, he stroked her, brushing the tight nub hidden beneath the folds, her breath coming in short staccato bursts. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she began to whimper.