Surrender the Wind (11 page)

In her growing indignation, he admired her wild beauty and, no doubt, her brazen insults could pale the most hardened of his seasoned soldiers. Above a narrow waist jutted the moist satin of her breasts, heaving with anger, and he savored the satisfaction that this passionate, glorious Yankee woman was now his
wife.

Like a saint to the pillar, she clung to the porch post, cultivating her pulpit of fire and brimstone. The real reason for her outburst was fear, fear of the magnitude of marriage, fear of being a woman, a wife. She had spent herself and slumped, and John could not imagine more of a picture of misery and desolation.

“Why did you throw away my glasses?” She asked near tears.

“I’m your husband. I will protect you now,” John said. “You’ll never need them.”

“You forget you are in Yankee territory, General Rourke. I have to protect
you
.”

“There is that,” he conceded. “I believe there is more to your story than you’re telling me. If it will reduce your worries, you can tell me in your own good time.”

She nodded, mollified with that concession. “Will I be fond of being…married?” She swiped a tear, the epitome of despair.

“I believe so,” he said, taking one step at a time so as not to frighten her.

“With absolute certainty?”

“With absolute certainty,” he repeated, and then took another step.

Like a small bewildered child caught in a frightful darkness, she turned away from him, her face upon the post.

“Will it be similar to your first marriage?” she asked.

“There is no comparison. You know there isn’t.” He took another step, giving her time to adjust.

“I will not be considered your property,” she sniffed, “that would be a tragedy.”

“We are equals,” he admitted calmly.

“What does a Rebel General’s wife do?” He heard the defeat in her words, revealing to him, her vulnerability. John’s heart clenched.

“Be a wife.” He smiled at the back of her head, and picking up a long strand of her golden hair, fingered it in his calloused palms.

“Be specific. I mean, will I have to knit sweaters for cannonballs or polish your rifle?”

“God forbid!” He broke into a laugh, and then added seriously, “I have an orderly for those duties.”

“He can knit?”

“Who?” he asked, inhaling her lilac scent.

“Your orderly, he can knit?” She turned toward him and bumped into his chest.

“Of course not. He polishes my rifle.”

“Oh.” She stared straight at his neck.

“Any more questions?” He lifted her chin until her eyes met his.

“Thousands,” she whispered.

He kissed her then, slowly, thoughtfully, senselessly.

“He doesn’t crochet, crewel or needlepoint either.”

“Who?” She was breathless and he liked that fact.

“My orderly.” He swept her up, weightless in his arms, crossing the threshold, he kicked the door shut.

This time he took the precaution of throwing the bolt down.

* * *

Catherine remained silent as he stood her in front of the bed. She thought she could speak, that there would be many more words to share. But there were no more words. John reached out to her, the heat and passion forged in his body, so great that she trembled, for she really did not know what to do. This was to be her wedding night, and no one had explained what was expected of her. She tentatively, then mechanically lifted her arms around him, locking herself into his embrace.

John pressed his lips to hers, caressing her mouth more than kissing it. She quivered at the sweet tenderness of his kiss, hoping it would last, but somehow knowing it wouldn’t. Then he pulled apart for a moment and studied her. She dropped her hands, then looked up to him half-expecting, half-fearing what was to come next. If only he would explain.

“Catherine,” he sighed, “Do you believe in me?”

She nodded. “I’m scared. More scared than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

John smiled his boyish smile trying to relax her, an expression of satisfaction glowing in his eyes. “What we are about to do is between us, as a husband and wife.”

Standing this close made it impossible to remain coherent. She tried to think of other things to occupy her mind…her home in New York, Jimmy O’Hara, the orphans, Dr. Parks. But none of these commanded anything immediate in her mind, the images, fleeting. And now she stood in front of a tall Rebel General, magnified and real, and her husband.

She stood with her arms at her sides as John’s long thick fingers grasped her shoulders, finding an incredible consolation in the gentleness of his grasp and undeniable look in his eyes. The stroking of his fingers sent pleasant jolts through hers. The tiny hooks and buttons of her blue day gown melted away. His hands slipped inside the neckline of her dress, pressing down the soft material from her shoulders, searing a path down her abdomen, over her hips and onto the floor in a soft swish. Lifting the lace-edged strap of her chemise, his lips pressed to the spot where it had been. He caressed and teased the flesh beneath the fine silk, until her breasts budded full and hard against his palm.

Like quicksilver his palm moved, the gentle massage sending currents, spreading like embers on a newly turned fire, spiraling down her stomach and lower, eliciting a trembling between her thighs. Her body craved his hands, his mouth upon her lips, and distinct warmth flooded the area between her legs.

“John.”

He removed her chemise and petticoat.
Naked.

His tongue traced the soft fullness of her lips, his hands glided over her shoulders then down, exploring the hollows of her back, pressing her length to the hard contours of his muscled body and hard thighs. Dragging her mouth from his, she took John’s lead, imitating what he had done to her and with shaking hands began to unbutton his shirt. She ran her hands over his chest, tracing his nipples with the light touch of her fingertips. His jaw clenched involuntarily as she moved her hands up and over his shoulders until his shirt fell to the ground. They stared in mute silence, sharing an intense physical awareness of each other.

With one fluid movement John gathered her up into his arms, placing her on the center of the bed, her body hot on the cool sheets. Somewhere in her maidenly musings she had dreamed of her bridal night upon satin sheets with poetic refrains, and vases and vases of roses and soft candlelight.

But none of that mattered.

Instead of candlelight, she had the bright light of the noonday sun bathing the room in all its dazzling glory, the scent of honeysuckle, sweetly drifting in from the open window, and for words, the gaze of her husband, desirous and ravenous which no poetic refrains or flowery phrases could surpass.

John shrugged out of his pants and boots, fully exposed, a demigod from some immortal time and place? His shoulders were broad and bronzed, his chest had a light furring of dark hair, his bold stance emphasized the force of his thighs and slimness of his hips—and something else. And it was that something else that caused her to bite her lip and look away, her embarrassment and admiration evident. She had seen him when she cared for him, but now was the startling proof of his desire. She yanked the sheet up to her chin.

The bed sank beneath his weight. She waited, her breath solidifying in her throat. John tore the sheet from her, cupped her chin in his hand. In a voice like rough velvet and raw hunger, he whispered, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

His mouth grazed her neck, her earlobe, and then swooped to capture her lips. Coaxing them open, his tongue explored the recesses of her mouth, firm, demanding. Catherine groaned.

His arms encircled her, his hand splayed at the bottom of her spine holding her in intimate contact. She gasped as her bare breasts crushed against the firmness of his chest and the hard intimate contact of his arousal against her stomach. Suddenly his hands were everywhere, her body aching for more. Outlining the tips of her breasts with his fingers, John brought their tips to crested peaks. Slowly, languorously, his hands moved downward, skimming either side of her body to her thighs. He explored her thighs then moved up to her taut stomach then plunged down again searching the warmth that lay hidden intimately between. She gasped, and snapped her legs together, her eyes widening.

In a hushed agonized breath, John whispered, “Catherine, I want it worthy, memorable for your first time.”

She allowed his expert touch to drown her in a shower of lush sensuality. She arched against him, wanting more, demanding more, the naked emptiness inside her needing to be fulfilled.

The huskiness of John’s voice betrayed his cost of control. “I desire you, Catherine.” Then his mouth came down on her neck, trailing a warm wet line to her breast, rousing a melting sweetness, her nipples glistening from his mouth. She grabbed his dark head and held him to her, the feel of his rough skin against her smooth breast, kissed him upon his head, his lips, his mouth, and shoulders. Drugged by his earthy scent and to what he was doing to her, passion inched through her veins like hot honey until she could not tell time or place or reality.

She felt his body with all its inherent tension, felt the intense power of his chest, the rigidity of his thighs. She felt the firm demand of his hips and the unyielding potency of that which lay within his loins. He raised himself above her then, and Catherine shivered where cool air touched her body, wanting him to turn back into her embrace.

“Look at me, Catherine,” he commanded.

Dazed, Catherine opened her eyes to meet his steel-blue gaze, dark as lapis…and poised above her was the scourge of the North, the man whose reputation made Yankee Commanders blood turn cold. Yet all he had yielded to her was an aching tenderness and fierce, surrendering desire.

Catherine glanced downward and her eyes widened. No way could it happen…could fit.

John stared at her. “We are man and woman, Catherine. We are made to fit. You must believe in me.”

With trembling fingers, she placed her hands on both sides of his face. No words were needed. He shifted upon her. The thrust of his knee parted her thighs, and the weight of his body spread her further. He pressed inside her, but paused when he felt the barrier of her virginity. She was tight and so damp. Hanging on to his control by a thread, John bowed his head, his breathing ragged next to her ear.

“I will not hurt you Catherine. Only a moment will there be pain. I promise.”

She clenched his shoulders expectant.

He shifted his hold on her, continued his probing, perspiration beading at his brow. Fighting the need to bury himself in her moist warmth was sweet agony, the last vestiges of his restraint disintegrating.

She pushed at him, scrambling to get away. He had hurt her. He stopped, his mouth came down on hers, and he whispered into her mouth, reassuring her. Grabbing her hips, he plunged hard with one solid, powerful thrust. She cried out, pounded his shoulders, but John held her in place. “No more.”

John stayed rock still inside her, waiting for her to adjust before he started moving again. “My love, the worst is over.” He hated hurting her. But, she felt so damned good.

In answer, her arms entwined his neck in an aching tenderness that tore at his heart.

John began to move, slowly at first, a whisper of a caress, his manhood deep inside her. He groaned as the dormant sexuality of her lush body burst into full bloom. His control shattered like a million shards of glass, nights of control he had harnessed, now unleashed, his ardor mounted as she rose to meet his searing need, welcoming his entry.

In a mating ritual as old as time, John matched her movements, thrusting his thick fingers into the silkiness of her hair and lifting her hips to meet his rhythm Her fingers dug into his shoulders and John buried his face in the side of her neck and let out a raw groan, the pressure building inside of him unlike anything he had ever experienced. Lush. Exquisite. From the soft core of her body, she abandoned herself to him, clamping iron chains around his heart. The bed gave way with every forceful thrust. In a raw act of the total possession he craved, he was mindless to everything except the indulgence of granting them both complete satisfaction.

She arched, and her body vibrated with liquid fire. John taut above her, poured his seed into her. Breathing labored, he rolled to the side, keeping her intimately joined to him. Reveling in the sensation of her wet warmth and the brush of her lips against his neck, John cradled her in his arms, his hand drifting up and down her spine as she leaned her soft cheek against his chest. His chin nestled upon her head and his fingers buried in the golden waves of her hair. For the moment, he abandoned all the fears of the past and future, basking upon the wonder of the intimacy they had just shared.

“Cold?” John asked, pausing to pull the sheets up over them.

“Mm-m-m.” She nestled deeper into him.

“John, did I…” She was too inhibited to ask him if she pleased him.”

John exhaled a long sigh of contentment, basking in male arrogance that she was shaken as much as he. He kissed her head, the soft scent of lilac mixed with the musky scent of their lovemaking permeating the air.

“Perfect,” he said.

“Is it like that for everyone? I mean does it feel that wonderful for everyone…the first time?”

She was swimming through a new haze of feelings and desires, and she wanted him to explain what she was experiencing. “Seldom,” he said.

Will it always be like this?” She squirmed closer to him. Her innocent movements and conversation put tantalizing thoughts into his head. No woman he’d known had ever ignited this uncontrollable surge of lust. Despite his growing desire for her again, he seemed to enjoy her struggle with future expectations of which he had no doubt.

“Better.” His voice husked firm and final.

“I wish you would have told me it wasn’t as frightening as I imagined.” She smoothed a finger down his neck. “I’m quite certain I would have traveled south and captured you myself.”

“Ah. But you have captured me, woman. I am your prisoner, the nights I have lain awake holding you, tortured with wicked thoughts, not being able to touch you the way I desired.”