The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (29 page)

It felt good having Patrick so close, his warmth calming, his embrace exhilarating, his body so much like Sam’s. She struggled to tamp down tears. A cool, gentle breeze lifted the ragged curtain at the window. The fabric twisted on itself, letting the pale moonlight cast its glow across the bed. Patrick was smiling at her.

And then the tears broke.

He kissed her cheek. “Shhh, love. Sam would like to be with you, too.”

“He’s bolted his door to me.”

“If he’s bolted it, it’s for his own sanity. The situation is unbearable to him.” Patrick met her eyes. “Clara, he’s terribly in love with you.”

“He is?”

“I’ve never seen him this way around a woman before. He brightens when you walk in a room. Listens when you talk. He talks about you constantly when you’re not there.” He closed the small span of space between their faces until their lips were almost touching. “He admires you. He desires you. He’s probably frigging himself right now and thinking about you.”

Clara reached up and caressed Patrick’s cheek. “You’re not jealous?” She trailed her fingers down his neck. “I know about the two of you,” she said below a whisper.

He pecked her lips. “I know. He told me. And no, I’m not jealous. I’m glad.” In one sudden move, he was on top of her and between her legs. He looked down at her, his brown hair spilling over to frame his face. “I rather like you myself.” He sat up and tore off his shirt, revealing his beautifully sculpted body, the twin of Sam’s. The moonlight heightened his erect nipples atop the angled planes of his pectorals. “And now your turn.”

A flame of desire scorched her core as he skillfully pulled her shift up and over her head. She lay naked before him, vulnerable to his demands, hoping he would demand a great deal.

He licked his lips. “Christ! You are as he says. Beauty, innocence, and sensuality all at once.”

Clara raised her hand to stroke his chest, but he stopped her. “No. Not yet,” he said.

He leaned over and unwrapped the twisted curtain, sending their small space into darkness. He lay on top of her, pressing the length of his body against hers.

“God, I want you,” he breathed into her ear.

The evidence of his desire nudged against her sex, rubbing the lips until they parted and he remained poised at her entrance.

“Let me make love to you, Clara.” He kissed her lips, her cheeks. “Pretend I’m Sam. When I touch you, it’s his touch.” He trailed kisses down her neck, across her shoulders. “You’re wet for him.” He sucked a nipple into his mouth. “You’ll open for him.” His insistent erection proceeded forward. “You’ll spend for him.” He embedded himself fully inside her and she gasped in astonished pleasure.

“Clara, my love.”

In the darkness, it was Sam’s voice she heard, it was Sam’s muscled back she gripped with her nails. Her lover moved to Sam’s rhythm, respired the same breathy grunts, knew precisely how to thrill her with his touch, and how Sam demanded his own satisfaction. He took her to the heights of ecstasy, sustaining her there, body and soul, while he climbed toward his own release.

“Sam, come inside me,” she moaned. “Like I told you before. I want you to come inside me.”

He paused for only a brief moment before he pushed on, driving through her clenching encouragements, murmuring her name until the words were merely delirious groans of lust. Then and only then, lost in his imminent culmination, it was truly Patrick pleasuring her.

As if she were engaging in carnal delights with both men at once.

He slowed his pace, trying to hold on, and the urge to force him over the edge overtook her. She slumped down, tucked her hips under, and bent her leg up as far as it would go. She reached her hand around his downy cheek to search for the tight aperture nestled in the ridge of his buttocks. She slicked her fingers in her own moisture, and massaged his puckered hole until it softened for her invasion.

“I’m Sam, too,” she whispered wickedly, plunging her middle finger into his tightness.

With a jerk and a stifled cry, Pat let loose his satisfied desire in hot jets inside her. For a moment he held himself aloft, his cock still spasming as she removed her finger.

He collapsed on top of her and burrowed his face in the crook of her neck. “You cruel wench.” He kissed her burning flesh. “Blast it, I’ll miss you,” he murmured morosely. “I can barely comprehend what Sam must feel.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sam stared at the piece of paper lying on the desk in front of him. He had read and re-read his letter from Paul seemingly for hours, not quite sure what he hoped to glean. Some new piece of wisdom, perhaps. Or something to appease his guilt. The candle had burned down to a stub. The wax-sodden wick flickered weakly, reminding him that the better spermaceti candles were dear and, for that reason, were among the items for which Clara was being traded the next day.

He sighed.

Patrick had already left his quarters. He had wanted to say his goodbyes to Constance before the meeting—and presumed battle—with Strathmore and his troops. Pat had been lousy company anyway. He was fretful and secretive about something—probably that he had slept with Clara. That wouldn’t surprise him at all and, with Clara now in the women’s dormitory, Sam half expected it. For some reason it didn’t bother him, either. She was never really his, was she?

He rubbed his tired eyes. He had cried earlier, but now was too aggravated with himself to be sad. He bent his neck and ran his fingers through his loose hair trying to massage away the tension. It didn’t work. He held his hands on either side of his head and pressed on his temples. A slight breeze and the sensation of a presence sparked him to look up.

Clara leaned against the door watching him, her face wet with tears.

“Clara.” He tried to mask his enthusiasm by rising slowly. “How did you get in here? Aren’t you under guard?”

“Corporal Bowman only has instructions to keep me from escaping, not to keep me from you.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t stop staring at her. She was a vision from his fantasies.

Clara’s eyes flashed at the page lying on the desk. She bit her lip. “Is that from Paul?”

Sam glanced down at the letter. “Yes. He says I should be with you. That you’re perfect for me.”

“He told me the same thing.”

In the dim light their eyes met, their mutual longing palpable. Sam took the lead, skirting his desk to move toward her. He stopped at the foot of his bed and held out his hand. Clara lowered her eyes and came to him, grasping his fingers. He pulled her to him, enveloping her, holding her tightly as she slipped her arms around his waist.

He breathed her in. “I was a fool to not believe you.”

She tilted her head back. “And what would you have done? Continue to hold me captive? He would have attacked the fort.”

“Hmm. I was thinking about that. He might have sent an emissary after a month or so to see you in person.” He kissed her nose. “To see how his child grew in your belly.”

“Ah. And when he saw I was no longer pregnant he would have left me alone?” She shook her head. “Sam, I’m still his wife. I’m his sole vessel for a legitimate heir. He could not very well find another English lady here in the colonies.”

Sam pulled her against him once more. “You’re right. I’m doubly a fool.” He pressed his face into her hair. “Clara, my love. I’ll come for you. Wait for me. We’ll win this war and I’ll come for you.”

“He’ll make me go to Manhattan Island again, for my confinement. You can’t possibly go there. It’s a British stronghold.”

She was right. Again. “What do you really know about Lieutenant Hawkins?”

“He’s loyal to a fault. He’s young and, I assume, ambitious.”

He stroked down her spine languidly. “He told Patrick he would desert when this mess with Strathmore is finished. He wants to see you to safety, then he will seek asylum with us at Fort Revolution.”

She pulled back, incredulity flickering in her eyes, quickly replaced by apprehension. “Might Hawkins have information that could be used against General Strathmore to relinquish his hold on me?”

“I don’t know. I can only hope.” It was odd how she referred to her husband by his military title. It spoke volumes about a marriage founded on nothing but political and social ambition and about an antiquated society that let such things happen.

He cupped the back of her head, threading his fingers through her hair still twisted under her cap. This woman in his arms, this utterly perfect woman, was going to be out of his life tomorrow and, despite what they were both hoping for and fantasizing about, she would most likely be out of his life forever. One side of him wanted to tear off every shred of clothing from their bodies and make passionate, rutting love to her. The other side of him wanted to simply hold her, like a precious jewel, guardedly yet jealously.

“Sam, take me to bed. Make love to me.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “Clara, I want you, you know I want you. But I’m afraid. Afraid it will be our last embrace.” He squeezed a little more tightly. “I don’t want our final union to be melancholy.”

“Sam, don’t think of it as the end.” She nuzzled into his chest. “Think of it as what we feel at this moment, this night in this place.”

“I want it to be perfect.”

“It will be you and me and that is always perfect.” She gazed up at him. “Remember, we are perfect for each other.”

He chuckled. Once more she was correct. He released her, took her hand, and led her to the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, curved his hands along her form as she stood between his thighs. She was beautiful. She was his. He was determined to make the night last as long as possible for the both of them.

He waved her away. “Undress for me. I want to watch you.” He pulled off his shoes and sat cross-legged on the mattress.

Her mouth fell open as she blushed. His cock tingled at her artless modesty.

“Perhaps if you started with the tie of your bodice,” he suggested with a salacious grin.

She proceeded to untie the boxy top, slipping the garment off her shoulders too quickly. With a shiver, she wrapped her arms around herself against the chill of the night air.

She would need a little incentive.

“Ah, my lady, you know how deliciously warm my bed is, how soft the coverlet. If your performance does not please me, I will send you back downstairs to sleep in the frigid dorm with its scratchy woolen blankets.”

She held his gaze, her features twisting into mischievousness, a scintillating smile curling her lips. His heart beat a little faster.

She turned her back to him, removed one arm from a sleeve, then the other, still keeping the top poised on her shoulders. She turned her head and glanced back to toss him a smile.

Damnation.
He was utterly hard.

She reached her arms behind her and untied her overskirt. It dropped as far as her knees where it hovered while she untied her under-petticoat. She crushed both skirts down to the floor, thrusting out the white mounds of her shift-covered derriere in the process. Still bent over, she bunched up her shift, inching it up only enough to reveal the backs of her pale thighs and her garters fastened below her knees. She untied one garter, then the other, flinging each in their turn behind her, just missing him. As she straightened to standing, her shift and stockings dropped simultaneously, concealing and revealing her luscious ivory flesh.

His fingers trembling with excitement, he unwound his cravat.

She reached her hands behind her once again, this time to untie and loosen the laces of her stays, the top still balanced on her shoulders screening the activity. She bent her head down to carefully untie her cap and untwist her bun, then arched backwards. The bodice dropped to the floor as her tresses fell in waves down her back.

His cock ached. He unbuttoned the fall of his breeches, the fly of his drawers, and reached inside to allay his desperate need.

She curled forward to strip off each shoe and bunched stocking in its turn, then shimmied out of her stays.

She stood with her back to him, clad only in her sheer shift, the delicate fabric clinging to her curves accentuated in the shadows cast by the flickering candle. She looked over her shoulder. He grinned at her.

She loosened the tie at her neckline and, clutching the delicate garment to her body, she pulled one arm out, then the other. She held the underdress to her breast as she sauntered over to him. With a provocative twitch of her lips, she let go and the filmy fabric floated to the floor.

Sam wrapped his legs around her hips and his cravat around her shoulders and pulled her to him, taking her in a languid and lustful kiss. Her hand roved under the opened plackets of his breeches and drawers to tickle his hardness. He pulled away. “Get under the quilt before you catch cold, love.”

As she scrambled under the covers he tossed the cravat on the pillows, then went to his desk, divesting himself of his jacket and waistcoat along the way. He retrieved the sputtering candle, then spied the oil lamp. He grabbed that too and placed both objects on the nightstand. She stared as he stripped fully, and giggled when he joined her in bed.

He held her, warming her in their downy cocoon, bracing against the November cold. The heat of their bodies mingled and spread through their chilled limbs. She burrowed and nuzzled in the crooks created by the tangle of arms and legs, as his hands wandered, stroked, caressed her silky, taut flesh, memorizing every sensuous curve.

He propped himself up on an elbow to better brush his fingers across her breasts, watching the rosy peaks crinkle and stiffen, their color deepening against the dove-white skin. Another memory to hold on to. He drew delicate circles around each nipple before continuing down to her belly button, then raked his fingers through the hair of her motte. Clara sighed and snuggled against his chest, offering up her lips to his kisses. His tongue in her mouth mirrored his finger tormenting the locus of pleasure below. She was more than ready for him, swollen, slick, and eager.

He moved on top of her, separating her thighs with his knees, and entered her, groaning at the rush of relief. She was warm and inviting. He worked slowly, remembering every inch of her, ensuring she remembered every inch of him. He crushed his mouth against hers as he quickened his pace, encouraging her climax, knowing her orgasms came swiftly and often. Another memory.