Authors: Linda Jones
Tags: #Romance, #Fiction, #Contemporary, #Historical, #Love Stories, #Paperback Collection
Into the Woods (38 page)
Julian paced across the Persian rug in the opulent bedroom that was to be his for the next four months. The coverlet and draperies were in shades of deep blue, the fine furniture crafted of mahogany. The lamps would be filled each day, so that he would never have to worry about conserving oil.
He was in such pain, he barely noticed the unaccustomed luxury. His physical arousal had decreased hours ago, but inside—deep inside—something still churned.
A test, he reminded himself once again. Anya was a test, sent to try his courage and his principles and his moral fiber. But who had sent her? God or the devil himself? At the moment, Julian suspected a demonic hand in this particular trial.
The door that connected his chamber with the sitting room opened, and the demon herself walked in. Tonight she had not even bothered with a scarf around her waist. Everything had been taken off. She was all fair skin, red hair, and the gleam of one small gold wedding band.
"Must we sleep in separate rooms?" she asked, pouting prettily.
"Yes," he insisted. Her own bedchamber was on the other side of the sitting room. Too close, he thought as he averted his eyes. Much too close.
Undeterred, she walked to the bed and lifted his nightshirt. "Do you sleep in this?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He sighed and closed his eyes. "I don't want to get chilled in the night."
"It is very warm here. You will not get chilled," she sounded very reasonable, and so he was on guard. "I think you are much too concerned about getting chilled,
cher
. This afternoon in the dining room, tonight in your own bedroom." She sighed. "When a man and wife need
never
be chilled," she added, lowering her voice to a slightly deeper pitch.
He ignored the way his gut clenched, opened his eyes, and looked at her. He would have to learn to deal with the sight of Anya, no matter how unnerving she might be. "It isn't proper to sleep unclothed."
"But it is much more comfortable. My grandmother bought me several nightgowns." Anya wrinkled her nose. "They all scratch. I tried to wear them, I swear I did. But I always woke in the middle of the night and tore them off. I felt like they were choking me, binding me down. Do you never feel that way when you wear your nightgown?"
"Nightshirt," he corrected testily.
Anya gave him a wide smile and lifted the garment to hold before her bare body. "If you insist." She lowered her head and sniffed lightly at one sleeve. "Your nightgown—night
shirt
—is much softer than mine."
"It's old and worn," he confessed.
Anya hugged the garment to her body. "I rather like it."
"You may have it," he said, hoping she would take the nightshirt and go. She made no move to leave the room. "In fact, why don't you try it on right now." Yes, clothing would be good, if she insisted on remaining here.
She lifted the garment and her arms, revealing more than he wanted to see... and he could not make himself look away as she pulled the nightshirt over her head. The linen hung on her, loose and misshapen. So why was she still beautiful, in an impossibly endearing sort of way?
"It is not so scratchy," she admitted, raking her hand over the linen. Her fingers danced over her full breasts and down across her flat belly, the motion making the linen cling to her flesh for an all-too-brief moment. "Not like the nightgowns my grandmother gave me. But if I take your nightshirt, what will you wear to bed to keep from getting a chill?"
"I have another," he said sharply.
Anya very slightly puckered her full lips. "Too bad."
He simply could not bear four months of this. They'd been married a few hours, and already Anya was beating down his defenses. Beating them down, slipping past, sneaking inside...
"Anya," he said sternly, "have a seat. We need to talk."
She ignored the chair he indicated and sat on the side of the bed. She crossed her legs as she had the day before, but fortunately tonight the length of his own nightshirt concealed the forbidden view he had been afforded at that time.
He gathered his courage and faced her. Hands behind his back, he glanced down at her. "I will not allow you to seduce me. We have not married for your amusement."
"Then why have we married?" she asked, wide-eyed and deceptively innocent.
"We have married so that I might make you into a proper young lady. So that you might take your place in society and make your grandmother proud."
"I would rather make you proud," she said, her voice low and slightly husky. "I would rather make you..."
He ignored her. "It looks as if I will have to set some rules for you to follow."
"Rules?" she smiled. "
Marido
, I make rules, I do not follow them."
"You must behave like a proper lady," he continued. "There will be no more episodes where you... touch me beneath the dining room table."
"When can I touch you?"
"Never," he answered quickly.
"Never?"
"It would be best if we maintained a platonic relationship."
"What does that mean?"
"It means we will be friends, and that is all." He nodded with a note of finality.
"You do not want me to touch you?" she asked, her voice low. He had expected she might be angry, as she had been that afternoon, but she took the new edict very well.
"That is correct."
She left the bed, moving with a cat's grace. "If you wish,
querido
," she said agreeably.
The hairs on the back of Julian's neck stood. "I appreciate your agreement on this issue."
She headed for the door to the sitting room, turning just before she reached it. "You will find that I can be a very agreeable person. Thank you for the nightshirt," she said, running her hand over the soft linen, letting the palm of her hand hug the curves of one breast, her side, one hip. "I like it very much. It smells of you."
His traitorous body reacted as she had no doubt known it would. Who was he kidding? She didn't have to touch his body to tempt him. She could be two rooms away, whisper a word, and he would respond.
"
Marido
," she said, her voice softly accented and so low his ears strained to hear each syllable. "You are here to teach me, I know, but I have a feeling I will become the teacher before many days have passed."
"Anya..."
"You think I am the beast, but be warned. There is a beast waiting within you. It sleeps deep and quiet, but it is there. I see it. It has fangs and claws and it is hungry."
"I do not have—"
"I am going to awaken the beast,
cher
. And then I am going to tame it and make it mine. And then I am going to feed it well." With that, she turned and left the room, tossing back a cheerful, "Sweet dreams."
The devil, Julian thought as he collapsed onto the bed. Anya had most definitely been sent by the devil.
Since the publication of her first book in 1994, Linda Winstead Jones has published more than sixty novels and novellas. She's a five-time finalist for the Romance Writers of America's RITA Award and—writing as Linda Fallon—winner of the 2004 RITA for paranormal romance.
Her leisure activities include retail therapy (she never met a shoe she didn’t like), easy hiking (as long as it’s not too hot or too cold), and, naturally, reading. She attempts to grow things in her garden, occasionally beating out the squirrels for fruit and vegetables. An active member of the Romance Writers of America, she lives in Huntsville, Alabama with her husband of more than thirty-nine years.
Linda enjoys hearing from her readers. You can visit her at
www.lindawinsteadjones.com