Forbidden Fire (25 page)

“Why didn't he tell me?”

Lee smiled. “It will take him time,” she said. “He is his own master.”

On an impulse Marissa laughed and hugged Lee. For a moment the Chinese woman was stiff, then she warmed and hugged Marissa in return.

“Thank you!” Marissa said, then she fled to her bedroom.

The hour was very late. Marissa changed to a nightgown, then began to pace the room. In a sudden fit of anger, she locked the door between the rooms.

And then she paced the floor again.

She curled up at the foot of her bed and ran her hand over the spread. Lee had been in the room, it seemed. She had managed to serve dinner and clean the room.

Marissa hugged her knees to her chest and wondered if Lee was right, if Ian had come to care something about her. She smiled, beginning to weave dreams.

Then she gasped and leaped to her feet as the door between the rooms suddenly seemed to thunder, then came bursting open.

Ian had returned.

She stared at him, and at the door, and he offered her a wry, challenging smile. “It's my house, my door. I warned you, remember?”

She met the challenge with fury. “Your house, your door. My determination for privacy!”

He stripped off his cape, and tossed his hat aside and came striding into the room. She cried out, determined to escape him, but he was too quick. His fingers had already laced around her arms. She began to shake, furious, yet glad that he had come at last. Wanting to shake him, and wanting to hold him.

“How dare you!” she whispered vehemently, fighting his hold. “How dare you go running to your brothel and come back to me!”

He swept her into his arms. “I went to no brothel!” he swore, and tossed her hard upon the bed. She started up, but his weight came down upon her too quickly, pinning her there. And his blue gaze was full of both ice and fire.

“Don't—” she began, but equally vehemently, he challenged her.

“How dare you, madam!”

“How dare I what!” she cried indignantly. She felt the power of his arms, of his thighs. Beneath his trousers she could feel the heat of his body, and more. Against the flimsy fabric of her gown, she could feel the pulse of his desire, growing, insolent, demanding … exciting.

“Lie to me,” he whispered.

“I did not run to another!”

“Nor did I.”

He caught her lips in a passionate kiss. She surged against him, trying to escape. She was desperate that he understand he could not go to other women and have her, too. She twisted and tossed, and only managed to come closer against him, to become more aware of the promise that lay so boldly between them. She broke free of his kiss. “Ian, I'll not—”

“By God, would you still fight me!” He gazed at her with a fire in his eyes that sent her mind reeling and her heart drumming. A pulse ticked hard in his throat, and she felt the rigid pressure of his muscles.

“I'm not fighting you!” she gasped suddenly. “I'm fighting her!”

“Her?”

“That woman.”

“Madam, there is no one to fight.”

She believed him. She wanted to believe him. “And—” she whispered.

“By God, and what!” he thundered in sudden torment.

“The questions,” she said softly, meeting his eyes.

A breath escaped him. His head fell back, then he stared at her again. “Damn the questions, Marissa. Just hold me. Let me make love to you.”

A soft cry escaped her. She wound her arms around him, and when his lips caught hers again, she parted her own beneath him and gave way to the passion of his arms.

Chapter Thirteen

I
n the days that followed, Marissa made no further mention of Ian's night out. And Ian did not haunt her with questions.

It was a fascinating time for them both, a time for discovery, a fragile time in which they wanted to relish the amazement and wonder of one another. In her wildest fantasies, Marissa had never imagined what it could be like to love such a man. There were wonderful, tempestuous times in bed, and there were times of laughter, too, such as the occasion he crawled fully suited into a tub with her. And there were the gentle times, the slow, lazy, sensual times when they would sip champagne and eat tiny bites of fruit and cheese in bed.

There were evening rides, when Marissa discovered more of the city she was coming to love so very much. And there were the times they would go to the emporium. Marissa loved the store, she was terribly proud to see how very well Jimmy was doing, and she and Mary both became good friends with their one-time guide, Sandy, very quickly. Marissa was particularly fascinated with the orphans at the Sunday meal, finding that the little urchins with their feisty pride reminded her very much of herself when she was a child.

The more she learned about her husband, the greater the pride she came to feel for him. Perhaps he lived on Nob Hill, and perhaps he was welcome among the very best of society. But Ian drew his friends from people he liked. They included builders and policemen as well as the most influential businessmen. He abhorred the politics at City Hall, and would have no part in the bribery that went on there.

He was as willing to sip tea at the caretakers' cottage with Jimmy and Mary as he was to attend the most elite function.

As much as he loved San Francisco, he was not immune to the dangers within the city. One night when they rode, he showed her how close the wildness of the Barbary Coast lay to the quiet of Nob Hill.

“It's a city in which to take grave care,” he warned her. They had reined in atop the hill to look down upon the city below. “Murder can be bought for the price of a cheap bottle of whiskey,” he told her. “The police have started using automobiles now to patrol the city better, and it seems we have a decent chief in at last, but this is a place where there is a certain amount of crime. Shanghaiing occurs daily—”

“What's that?” she asked him.

He glanced her way quickly. “Ah, my love, you are an innocent! Shanghaiing is kidnapping. Young men and women are taken, sometimes to work on ships—more often to enter the brothels of the Orient. That's why the Barbary Coast is a place you should definitely avoid. I imagine that you'd be worth a fortune, with your hair and eyes, to some potbellied old geezer out there.”

“Well, I like that! I'd be worth a fortune only to a potbellied old geezer?” she demanded.

He laughed then, huskily, and the bay pawed the ground as Ian moved his horse closer to hers. “No, my love, though I don't think I'd dare tell you what your value is to me. It might be dangerous information in your hands, and it might well go to your very pretty head.”

Marissa smiled, pleased with his response. Their marriage still seemed fragile, but it was enough for now.

“Then you must stay away from the Barbary Coast, too,” she said sweetly.

“But there are certain pursuits there to be enjoyed by gentlemen.”

“My curiosity is awakened. Since it is not safe for me to go alone, I shall have to come in your company when you next seek your pursuits.”

“You, madam, are going to have to learn your proper place as a lady and a wife.”

“And you as a gentleman.”

“A Yankee,” he reminded her.

She sniffed, but after a moment she met his eyes and asked him softly, “Are you then resigned to having a wife once again?” Then she wished she hadn't spoken, for shadows seemed to cross his features.

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn't mean to cause you pain.” She nudged her horse and started off at a trot toward the house. Seconds later he was pounding up beside her, then he caught her horse's reins. Startled, she looked at him.

“I am much more than resigned to having a wife,” he told her. “I am grateful, for you made me see that I lived in a dark cavern of self-pity. You have given me the delight of the sun once again.”

“Oh!” she murmured, stunned by his words.

“I'm delighted to have a wife. Indeed, come along quickly. Let's return to the house, and I will show you just how delighted.”

Ian smiled at the soft flush that touched her cheeks. He was amazed at the change she had wrought in him.

From the first she had appealed deeply and sharply to his senses. And then she had wedged her way into his soul with her haunting passion and mystery.

He was in love again. Sometimes it was painful, because he felt that he betrayed Diana. But there was something more, for Marissa had taken him from his misery, and now, though he had not ceased to love the memories of his first wife, he had discovered that he had something to offer the new.

She had made his life full again.

And now, as he watched her, he felt the familiar hunger gnawing at his loins. She was part witch, he decided, part vixen to best the harlots of the Barbary Coast, part angel to spread her heavenly hair across the sheets and still blushed a virgin's rouge when she read his mind. He could not remember ever being so sated and content, then so aroused and thirsting from the sound of a whisper or a brush of her cheek.

“Come on—home!” he said, and nudged the bay, and suddenly they were both racing pell-mell for the house. He called to John to take the horses as they neared the carriage house, then he swore suddenly. “I gave them the evening off!” he said. “Ah, well!” He leaped down and helped Marissa from her sidesaddle. She followed him as he led the horses to their stalls. The light in the carriage house was muted as he closed the stalls. The scent of the new hay was sweet.

She had swept off her elegant little bright green riding hat with its dashing feather, and her hair was neither pinned nor tied, but streaming free and wind-tossed down her back in a cascade of gold and flame. In the dim light, her eyes were a beautiful emerald fire. She was very proper in her green riding habit, yet the excitement in her eyes and the curve of her smile were anything but innocent.

She stood several feet from him, watching him, waiting for him. He leaned against the stall door, and allowed his gaze a leisurely stroll down the length of her.

“Ever made love in the hay?” he asked her.

“No,” she told him, warily backing away.

“We can correct that.”

“No, no, I'm not starting now. You can wind up with hay in your hair and hay in your clothing and—”

She broke off. He had caught up with her and crushed her into his arms. His mouth closed on hers and he tasted the sweetness of it. He buried his face against the streaming silk cascade of her hair, and the lilac scent of her shampoo evocatively pervaded his system.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the carriage house, to the rear left corner, where fencing hid the loosened hay. He set her down and swept off his riding cape, laying it over the hay. Throwing himself down on it, he looked at her, certain that he was going to have to do a bit more coaxing.

He was not.

The simple light bathed her. She had cast aside the green jacket and skirt already. She wore only stockings and a silk chemise and pants, fabrics that molded to her body.

Her eyes met his, and she stepped toward him, smiling beautifully. He rose to his knees and circled his arms around her waist. Again, her sweet scent assailed him. He laid his face against her belly, holding her close. Then he kissed her stomach, teasing the soft silk over her body. He drew her down and closed his mouth over her breast, teasing the hardened pink crest beneath the silk, running his tongue over it again and again. She moaned at his touch. He felt the quiver of her heart, the movement within her, felt her surge to his touch. Her lashes had fallen over her eyes. He kissed them, then laid her down, his hands finding the hem of the chemise to pull it over her head. Her breasts, pale and glimmering as perfectly chiseled marble, came free in the night. He touched and caressed her, and found the ribbons of her pants. He pushed them down slowly, and as he bared her flesh to his eyes he bathed it with leisurely kiss after leisurely kiss. Beneath him, she moved more erotically with every teasing flick of his tongue. Mesmerized he watched her. Watched her head toss lightly in the hay, her hair like tangled fire. Watched the rhythm of her hips, her growing impatience, her growing desire.

Then he stripped away his pants, and settled between the sleek temptation of her thighs. He paused to gaze at the beauty of her face. “Marissa, open your eyes,” he commanded her. And when she did so, he teased no more but boldly kissed and caressed the heart of her womanhood. With each cry and surge against him, he felt the hammering of his desire rise hard and hungry. She begged him to come to her, to take her then. He did not. He loved her as she quivered and trembled and whispered until the whole length of her exquisite body tightened and shuddered, and seemed to explode like quicksilver. Until she cried out with ecstasy and anguish. And only then did he shed the rest of his clothing in the hay and come to her.

She had risen to her knees. Hungry for him. Eager to hold him, to press kisses against his shoulders. To nip at them lightly … run her tongue against him. To bring sweet ecstasy and anguish to him as he had brought to her. He groaned, casting back his head as she caressed and teased and tormented his body, her tongue like sweet laps of burning honey, her hands and fingers deft and demanding. She slid lower and lower against him until the longing was something he could bear no longer. He cried out, lifted her and laid her flat upon her back. He parted her thighs and sank deep, deep within her.

She wrapped him in her arms and thighs. The glory of her hair entangled them both in a golden cloud. She gave everything, and he marveled at her beauty even as the shattering passion rose to strip away thought. He felt her movement, felt her rise against him, meet him, dance with him, accept and caress him. He whispered words of longing to her, and told her graphically how she made him feel. He rose to a volatile, shuddering climax, pulled away from her, then sank deep, deep within her once again, and there he held.