Celine (9 page)

She didn't care.

His male hardness pressed against her. Her legs parted beneath her gown as she urged him to enter her.

“No, Celine. No.”

Was that the wind?

It could not be, for Trevor gasped her name again and again until his mouth found hers. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, tenderly, lovingly. And then he cradled her against him and gently rocked her. While she was wrapped in the warmth of his arms, her fears dissipated and the world faded into nothingness.

Chapter Seven

“Open the door, Miss Celine!”

Celine shot straight up in bed, peering through the darkened room. Numb from sleep, she dragged herself to the door and unlocked it. Hazy memories trickled to the periphery of her mind.

“Tch, tch, tch.” Marie shook her head as she set the tray of coffee and toast down and flung the draperies aside, letting in a bright swath of golden sunlight.

“I'll take breakfast on the gallery.” Celine fumbled for a robe, then changed her mind and let Marie help her into a simple green cotton dress. “Leave my hair.”

She walked over to the basin, splashed cold water on her face, and then picked up a brush to unsnarl the tangled mass about her shoulders. “On second thought, can you brush the snarls out?”

“Marie?” She was surprised to find herself alone. “Marie, where in the world did you run off to?” Oh well, she'd rather be by herself anyway. Scrutinizing herself in the mirror, she recalled her vivid, physically stimulating dreams from the night before.

They'd seemed so real.

Could Trevor have possibly been with her in the flesh?

Of course not.

The aroma of strong, black Creole coffee tickled her senses. A cup of the
petit noir
would clear her head. As she walked toward the French doors leading to the gallery, she spied a brown bottle of laudanum on the table next to the bed. And then the blue satin sheets with indentations where two bodies had lain.

A rush of emotion swept through her like a hot wind.

She swept her trembling hands over her breasts, and then slowly trailed them down her body, her mind clearing. Memories flooded in—of his warm body next to hers, of gentle words whispered in her ear, of strong arms enfolding her, and soothing kisses. God, they were sweet, and wonderful. But nothing had happened beyond that. Relief calmed her fluttering heart. She breathed an audible sigh.

Her stomach grumbled. She moved toward the gallery, but then hesitated and turned to stare at the bedroom door, its key still hanging in the lock. She looked to the French doors, and raised an eyebrow in question.

Had she not unlocked the bedroom door to admit Marie? And had she not observed the maid unlocking the French doors in order to take the breakfast tray outside? If so, how then had Trevor exited? Did he have an extra set of keys? With a shrug, she decided that was likely the answer since the room had originally been his. She stepped onto the gallery.

Trevor sat at the table, casually sipping a cup of coffee, his broad shoulders sheathed in a pale yellow lawn shirt and tan jacket, his long legs in suede breeches and boots.

“Good morning,” she said, as nonchalantly as she could manage, and seated herself across from him.

He smiled easily, but Celine sensed a seriousness in him she hadn't felt before. Perhaps if she pretended not to recall anything from the night before ... After all, there was the laudanum. “Marie tells me you remained the night to watch over me,” she fibbed. “That was very kind.” Lord, her heart thumped so.

Trevor's eyes narrowed. And then he looked to his coffee. “Ah, I see. I suppose things are better left that way.”

A heated flush crawled up her neck. He knew she'd lied. She fidgeted with the napkin that lay next to her plate, and then slipped the square of cotton onto her lap. “I . . . ah . . . had dreams that you comforted me in the night, Trevor. I—” Her words caught in her throat.

He covered her hand with his—warm and strong. And familiar.

He brushed his thumb slowly back and forth across her sensitive skin—a loving, comforting gesture that sent bursts of pleasure up her arm.

Then she remembered. Everything. How well she'd fit into the wondrous circle of his protection, how her hand had slid between the folds of his robe to tangle with curls on his chest before she drifted away to the sound of his soothing murmurs.

Oh, how she would love to be able to relax, allow the sheer joy of being touched by him to take them where it would. Instead, she turned away, barely aware of the sun-kissed day, cognizant only of his exquisite touch blurring her thoughts.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

She was afraid to do so. Would he see raw desire in her eyes? The confusing longing that went beyond anything she had the ability to cope with? And what if he did? She couldn't avoid his scrutiny forever. Not until she removed herself from Carlton Oaks, at least.

Her bottom lip quivered when she took in a breath. Surely he noticed. She wrapped her pride cape-like around her, so intimidated was she by the feelings this man evoked in her.

His thumb ceased stroking her; his cupped hand applied a gentle pressure. “Now, Celine.”

She returned her gaze to his, the tension so great that she closed her lids and swallowed hard.

The pressure on her hand increased.

He would be relentless.

She opened her eyes.

Her lips went dry. She wet them with her tongue. He watched her every movement, like a cat stalking a mouse.

A fickle wave of desire swept through her.

If he carried her to a bed this very instant, she doubted she could refuse him. And then she would be sorry later. So very sorry when he'd had his taste of her and moved on.

“We're not finished, you and I,” he murmured huskily. “It's time we admitted our mutual attraction,
ma petite.
”

She didn't feel very brave right now, not with her womb like tinder about to ignite.

Something more than desire emanated from the depths of him. A force she couldn't quite translate into thought. Could it be the same kind of compelling energy gathering in her?

He leaned forward and pressed his cheek to hers. “
Mon amour.
I want you as you want me.”

Yes, she wanted him. A part of her wished he would take her up in his arms and end all her frustration—carry her back to the blue satin sheets. Yet, another part of her wanted to run, to protect herself from what she could not have. Had any other human felt so vulnerable?

Good God, he was a rakehell, a man merely passing through her life. Which meant only one thing—a tryst. “I . . . I cannot, Trevor.” Hot pain clogged her heart. “I'm not made of the same fabric as you. I cannot lie casually with a man and then carry on as if nothing happened. It's not in me.”

He eased back, a vague shadow crossing over his features. “We are more alike than you realize, Celine.”

For a split second, she saw him in all his desperate loneliness, a solitary figure of a man whose passions ran as deep as his pride.

He was hugely successful by every social standard—an instinctive genius with business, a fine figure of a man whom many admired, despite his questionable behavior. But from what Celine had gathered at last night's event, even his improper deportment garnered secret admiration—from men who silently wished they had the courage to commit half of what they heard gossiped about him, and from women who secretly wished to share his scandalous conduct.

Yet did he still struggle with life? Was he trying to find meaning and purpose—like her? If that was what he meant by his remark, then perhaps they were alike. She dared not ask—she feared his answer.

“What do you want from me that most other women wouldn't freely give you?” She withdrew her hand from his and placed it in her lap, well away from his reach. “Because I sense your desires are more complicated than simply bedding an available female.”

She sat back, found the strength to butter a piece of toast, and waited.

 

 

He did not deign to answer. He himself did not know what it was he truly wanted from her, what compelled him to seek her out, to taunt her.

His desire to make love to her was undeniable. But even that seemed strangely secondary since last night.

Frustration curdled his gut. He had always enjoyed the company of women, had taken their pleasure on his terms, amused himself with their passions at will. Yet, he pursued this woman as though he were a smitten schoolboy. Was he merely trying to capture the bird that insisted on remaining just out of reach? Or was there more—much more?

He physically turned away from her question, toward the view of the gardens. A vague anger he didn't understand rose in him like thin smoke from a chimney. He wanted to strike back at her blatant rejection of him, and at her maddeningly superior calm.

“You'll never have me on your terms, Trevor,” she said softly.

Primal emotion ran through him at her last remark, turning his blood cold. He regretted his whim to take breakfast on the balcony with her. What the hell was wrong with him anyway?

“And just what are your terms, Mrs. Kirkland? Marriage?”

His words stung; he knew it by the shock sweeping over her face. He was instantly sorry. But it was too late to retract them—a crisp click of heels sounded along the gallery, coming from the front of the house.

Cameron rounded the corner and bore down on the two of them.

“Ah, there you are, old boy. You have a guest eagerly awaiting your appearance in your father's office. A certain Mrs. Beaudrée.”

Cameron focused on Celine, smiling. “Care to go for a ride, my dear?”

“Perhaps you and your guest would like to join us?” Celine offered Trevor, her words dripping with sarcasm.

Trevor barked a cynical laugh. He rose, pushed the wrinkles of his brown suede breeches down his leg, and ran the other hand carelessly through his hair. He stretched, catlike, and covered a yawn, feeling perversely mischievous. “No, thank you. Mrs. Beaudrée and I have ... ah . . . other plans.”

Celine's cheeks flushed and her mouth opened to speak, but then she hesitated. “A pity.”

She turned to Cameron. “Meet me at the stables in an hour's time. You showed me the marvelous oak; now I have a special place I would like to take you.”

Trevor could have spit. He feigned lack of interest instead.

“At your service,
ma chérie.
” Cameron bent and kissed the back of Celine's hand, then whispered something in her ear, which Trevor couldn't quite catch. She laughed softly and stood.

Well, he'd be damned if he was going to play this game. Where the hell could she be taking Cameron? He turned to leave before the muscle twitching at his set jaw gave him away.

“Wait, Trev, old boy. I'll walk with you.” Cameron slapped him on the back.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Trevor muttered, suddenly wanting to knock the smirk off his cousin's face.

“Oh, and see if you can round up a bottle of champagne, will you?” Celine called after Cameron.

Both men turned at her words.

“We can cool it in the stream.” Straight-backed and with an elevated chin, she disappeared into her quarters.

 

 

Once inside, she disintegrated and flung herself onto the bed in tears. She was so sick of playing games, of being on edge all the time, pretending one emotion while feeling another, looking for Trevor in every shadow.

She wanted to run as far away as she could.

San Francisco. She couldn't get there fast enough. Had she not lingered over Dianah's invitation, she would already be there. But it wouldn't do to try and book passage quicker—to do so would break Justin's heart. Her emotions were in shreds, all because of some rutting bull of a man wishing to bed her.

And why had she agreed to go riding with Cameron? The
garçonnière
was her little secret, her private world, and now she was taking him there? The last thing she felt like doing was carrying out the little farce she'd created with him. Enjoying his friendship was one thing. Using him to taunt another man was beneath her. The headache she'd barely gotten rid of returned with a vengeance. A good reason to beg off.

Bring champagne, Cameron,
she mocked herself. God, she wished she'd never been rescued from under the wheels of that wagon. She was a widow, but worse, she'd been left barren by the accident. She could never consider life with a man wanting a family. Loving, or being loved by such a man, was out of the question.

 

 

Trevor sat in his father's office pretending to listen to Giselle and her ramblings while he racked his brain for answers. Where the hell was Celine taking Cameron that she could cool a bottle of champagne in a stream?

He was well aware that the meeting Giselle Beaudrée had requested was pretense. She had claimed she wanted to go over their agreement to ship furniture from Europe on the Andrews Company shipping line. Everything was already in order. He knew it. She knew it.

He wished he'd taken Celine up on her offer to join them on their ride instead of implying that there was something going on between him and Giselle.

Frustrated, he shifted in his seat and flung a leg over the arm of his chair, causing Giselle to look up from the records she and Justin were poring over.

She threw Trevor a bold glance aimed at his crotch, and then worked her gaze slowly up to his eyes. A knowing smile played upon her mouth.

They'd been insatiable together at one time. His mind flickered back two years earlier—to the last time he'd been with her. Both had drunk far too much champagne, and he'd taken her on the bare floor in a wild frenzy. She raked his back with her fingernails and announced she was pleased he would sail off to England bearing the distinct markings of their mutual passion.

She'd been an addiction then. The more he got, the more he wanted. Revulsion stirred in his gut at the memory of his past behavior. Her low-cut widow's weeds, heavy perfume, and come hither look disgusted him. He fought the urge to walk out, knowing full well what she was up to, bending over the bills of lading in such a wanton manner.