Rapture in His Arms Page 2

  Jillian joined Priscilla in the small drawing room where the two women embroidered red rosettes on white pillowcases. The scarlet thread reminded Jillian of the Irish slave’s back, and she wondered if the man had suffered a whipping despite her vain attempt to help him. Just the memory of her outburst caused her flesh to heat. She’d made a fool out of herself and for what? The man was a troublemaker, and most probably deserved his punishment.

  “Are you happy living in Virginia?” Priscilla’s well-modulated tones interrupted her thoughts.

  Jillian looked up from her sewing at the pretty blonde whose creamy complexion glowed golden in the candlelight. Jillian thought that Priscilla and Sir Horatio made an odd pair, but evidently Priscilla loved her husband a great deal. She waited upon Horatio, almost like a servant, and took care of his every whim. Horatio adored his wife. Jillian and Edwin had been their houseguests for almost a month, and during that time Jillian had heard him refer to Priscilla as his goddess a number of times. More than once she’d entered the drawing room unannounced to find the two of them in a passionate embrace. “Very happy. I love living on Cameron’s Hundred. Our plantation is one of the most efficiently run and lucrative tobacco plantations on the James, thanks to Edwin’s fine management,” Jillian told her with more than a hint of pride in her voice.

  “Really? I’m certain it is,” replied Priscilla but she didn’t sound overly impressed. Priscilla fidgeted with the bodice of her blue silk gown, which Jillian thought was cut much too low for a respectably married woman to wear. Then Priscilla laid aside her needlework and got up to stand just inside the open French doors that led onto a stone terrace. The surf, hidden by the inky dark of night, rumbled gently in the distance. “Horatio and your husband won’t be home tonight, you know. They’ll spend the night at the inn. Once Horatio is at the gaming table, he can’t break away. Gambling is his weakness, I’m afraid.”

  “Edwin didn’t say anything to me about staying the night in town.”

  Priscilla shrugged a milky-white shoulder, not the least disturbed by her husband’s absence. “Husbands don’t tell us wives everything.”

  “Mine does.”

  A high, flutelike laugh escaped from between Priscilla’s perfectly shaped lips. “My dear Jillian, surely you don’t believe Mr. Cameron tells you his every thought, his every naughty deed? Just as I’m certain you don’t reveal your naughtiness to him.”

  “I’ve always been honest with my husband, and he’s truthful with me,” Jillian protested, not certain what Priscilla meant by naughtiness.

  “If you say so, my dear.” Priscilla gazed up at the sky, glittering with thousands of stars, for a few more moments before yawning and declaring she was retiring for the night.

  Glancing at the ornately carved clock on the mantel, Jillian saw that it was barely past seven, a rather early hour for Priscilla to retire. Jillian knew that the woman usually did not go to bed before nine, though Sir Horatio always retired much earlier. Jillian wasn’t sleepy, but she couldn’t stay up with her needlework when her hostess had already settled in for the night. That would be horribly rude.

  Jillian gathered up her needlework and rose to her feet. “I shall retire, too.”

  Priscilla seemed unaccountably pleased and grazed Jillian’s cheek with her lips. “Sleep well, my dear,” she said and hurried away to her room which was next to the one Jillian shared with Edwin.

  When Jillian entered her own room, she saw that a small dark woman who’d been acting as her lady’s maid since her arrival was already waiting for her. The woman undid the lacings at the back of her gown, and then she helped her slip her white nightdress over her head. Jillian dismissed her and unbraided her own hair before brushing and fluffing it about her shoulders. She thought that Priscilla had acted peculiarly that evening, almost as if the woman longed to be free of her company. Perhaps she and Edwin had overstayed their welcome. In the morning, after his return, she’d speak to him about making his choice of slaves and leaving Bermuda before the week was out. In fact, Jillian would be most relieved to leave Sir Horatio and Lady Priscilla. She didn’t care for either of them.

  She climbed into the bed and, by candlelight, she resumed on the pillowcases. They were to be used on Edwin’s bed at Cameron’s Hundred. Since her arrival at the Mortimer household, she’d shared a bed with Edwin, and she wasn’t totally used to the loss of privacy. At home, she slept in her own bed in her own room, and Edwin slept in his. Quite proficient with a needle, Jillian had not only sewn the bedcovers and draperies in Edwin’s room, but she also made Edwin’s clothes, as well as her own. This wasn’t an unusual accomplishment, for a good wife was handy with a needle and thread. But a good wife also sewed for her children, and Jillian knew that as long as Edwin lived, her desire to have babies was only a dream. And each time she thought about a baby, she felt disloyal to her husband.

  Tears misted her eyes; the scarlet stitches wavered before her. She remembered how her dear friend, Dorcas Addison, had labored lovingly over a pair of booties before the birth of her son four years ago. Jillian loved Dorcas as a sister, but she envied her friend for her perfectly beautiful little boy—a common emotion, she decided, but one she carefully masked behind a pleasant smile. Little Benjamin was Jillian’s godson, and she adored the child, but she was careful never to express her wish for a child to anyone, especially Edwin. More than once, when she held or played with Benjamin, she’d found Edwin watching her. The sadness in his eyes always tugged at her heartstrings and caused her guiltily to return the child to his mother’s arms. “I wish I could give you a child, my dear,” he’d said to her after one such play session with Benjamin. Jillian wished the very same thing but wouldn’t confess the truth, because she knew how much Edwin’s impotency distressed him.

  In delicate terms Edwin had explained his problem to her before their marriage. She’d known from the beginning that they wouldn’t have a normal marriage. At the time, she’d been very young and hadn’t quite understood all of Edwin’s explanation. She knew only that he’d sleep in his own room, and she would sleep in hers. There would be no chance for children since he’d been unable to perform a husband’s duty for a number of years. This arrangement hadn’t bothered her. In fact she couldn’t imagine performing with Edwin the very act which would beget a child. Their relationship was more that of a father and daughter than that of a husband and wife.

  She’d drifted happily along until Benjamin was born to Dorcas and Tyler Addison. Seeing Dorcas’s shining face as the baby suckled at his mother’s breast had caused a painful anguish inside of her. Never would she know what it was like to have a babe suckle at her breast; never would she experience the joys of motherhood as long as she was Edwin’s wife. A marriage to Edwin had denied her children, but she couldn’t imagine a life without Edwin. He made up her entire world. Now that he’d lost his only son, Jillian wished desperately that she could give Edwin a child to carry on his name, but she knew this was impossible.

  After more than an hour of eye-straining needlework, Jillian’s eyes started to burn. She placed her needlework on the table beside the bed, then blew out the tallow candle and tried to sleep. Croaking frogs and crashing surf broke the night’s stillness. But there was another sound, too, the sound of a person moaning in what Jillian perceived to be pain. She sat up and listened.

  “Oooo—oh—oh!”

  Was someone ill or hurt? Jillian got out of bed and padded to the French doors which led from her bedroom onto the back terrace. Her sheer white night rail clung to her legs as she waited, barely breathing, until she heard the moans again and realized the sounds emanated from Lady Priscilla’s room next door. Might Priscilla be ill and in need of help? Jillian had never heard such strange, breathy sounds, and wondered if she should get Priscilla’s maid. As the moans increased and grew huskier in nature, Jillian grew alarmed, frightened that Priscilla might be dangerously ill. There wasn’t time to seek out Priscilla’s maid. She’d have to tend to the woman herself. As mistress of
a large plantation, she’d taken care of a number of maladies over the years and felt certain she could help the woman until a physician was fetched.

  Hurrying across the terrace, Jillian was relieved to find the terrace doors to Priscilla’s room were ajar. The moans grew more intense as she pushed open the door and entered without knocking. “Priscilla, are you ill?” she asked softly, but then she halted in her steps. Her gaze traveled toward the bed, illuminated by at least ten candles in brass holders which were artfully arranged on the floor by the bed. She’d expected to find Priscilla in bed but the scene before her elicited a raspy gasp and the sudden sensation that she was strangling.

  The woman wasn’t alone.

  Stretched out beside Priscilla’s writhing body like a golden tiger was the Irish slave named Donovan. Both of them were naked and sweating. His hand caressed one of the woman’s ample breasts, and his very touch appeared to have driven Priscilla into a frenzy. Strangely, he was the one who glanced up at Jillian’s voice. His dark gaze swept disturbingly over her, starting at her face and raking down to her bare feet and up again to take in each curve of her body, ill-concealed by the white night rail.

  Stains of bright red bathed Jillian’s cheeks. Never had she seen such a sight as this before in her life and she was horrified, so taken aback that she couldn’t move. Moreover, she truly didn’t comprehend why Priscilla seemed to derive great pleasure from this man’s hand upon her breast. Priscilla continued moaning and writhing upon the bed, though the man’s hand had stilled. Her eyes were closed, and apparently she didn’t notice Jillian’s presence until Donovan muttered lowly, cautiously to Priscilla, “We’re not alone, milady.”

  His words must have penetrated Priscilla’s passion-fogged brain for Priscilla opened her eyes and followed his gaze to where Jillian waited in the doorway. Her mouth fell open in surprise. “My Lord! What are you doing in here?” the woman shrieked and pulled the sheet over her breasts. “You should have knocked first!”

  Jillian’s throat grew dry; she could barely speak. “I—I—thought you might be ill. I heard strange—sounds—”

  “Get out, just get out!” Priscilla ordered, her face so red that Jillian thought the woman might be suffering a fit of some sort. Suddenly Jillian’s shock dissipated and her legs moved of their own volition. She ran across the terrace to the safety of her own room and closed the terrace doors to block out Priscilla’s angry words. However, the woman’s upraised voice carried through the wall. Worse, Jillian heard the slave’s husky laugh.

  God, the man was laughing at her! A slave, a fornicator, had the audacity to be amused at her reaction to a sinful situation. She sat on the bed and placed her hands on her heated cheeks. She was so embarrassed; she wished to curl up into a tiny ball and disappear into the thousands of grains of sand on the beach. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, she knew she hadn’t, and she shouldn’t feel this way. All she’d wanted to do was offer her help to a woman whom she’d believed might be ill.

  In her mind, Jillian kept hearing Priscilla’s moans. Why did the woman make such strange sounds during lovemaking? Though Jillian was married, she knew very little about what happened between a man and a woman in bed. She and Edwin shared a bed while in Bermuda with only a goodnight kiss between them, but evidently there was much more to lovemaking than the act which begot children. Priscilla’s moans hadn’t been from pain but from pleasure. Could a man’s touch cause such overpowering pleasure that a woman would break her marriage vows to bed with a man other than her husband? Jillian was mystified.

  The image of the slave called Donovan replayed over and over in her mind. She couldn’t forget how large and handsome he’d looked—like a bronzed god instead of a slave—as he lay stretched out on his side beside Priscilla, his naked thigh well-muscled and glistening with sweat. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d seen. Jillian groaned into her pillow, detesting herself for such wicked, sinful thoughts and more than bewildered by the strange heat that slithered through her veins.

  In the morning, when Edwin returned, she’d definitely broach the subject of returning to Virginia. She couldn’t wait to leave this sinful house where the mistress freely cavorted with a slave—no matter how handsome the man. What Priscilla had done was wrong, a great sin against Sir Horatio. Never would she, herself, be unfaithful to Edwin. There wasn’t a man living who could tempt her to break her marriage vows.

  Believing herself to be a virtuous wife and immune to other men, Jillian fell asleep with a prim smile upon her face. Yet her dreams recaptured the image of what she’d witnessed and she saw—not Priscilla writhing beneath Donovan’s skilled hands, but—herself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Noon had nearly come and gone and Edwin hadn’t returned from town. Jillian paced the porch in front of the house, her eyes ever alert for Sir Horatio’s carriage, but all she saw was the deserted, shell-strewn drive. Only when a servant informed her that Lady Priscilla had requested her company for luncheon did Jillian leave the porch and enter the cool dining room.

  Priscilla was already seated at the mahogany dining table when Jillian took the chair across from her hostess. A servant placed a tray of oranges and bananas before them, followed by a plate of fresh vegetables, surrounding a conch salad. Jillian dutifully ate the offerings, but she could barely swallow. Not only was she embarrassed to be in Priscilla’s presence again, but she couldn’t stop remembering the naked slave who’d lain with the woman. There was something so disturbing about the memory of his hands on Priscilla’s breast and Priscilla’s ecstasy because of his skillful touch … Jillian hadn’t understood what Priscilla experienced, but evidently the woman hadn’t suffered any ill-effects because of her adulterous behavior. She positively glowed, looking far prettier and more relaxed than Jillian had ever seen her. They ate in silence until Priscilla cleared her throat. “I trust you shan’t mention last night to anyone, Jillian. Please, I beg of you, don’t tell your husband. I fear he’d be honor-bound to tell Horatio about my—impropriety—with Donovan.”

  Jillian primly wiped her lips with the napkin before she deigned to look at Priscilla. Purposely, she filled that look with frosty disdain. How dare this woman make light of such a serious situation! Impropriety, indeed! “If you’re so worried about your husband learning the truth, then why dally with another man in the first place?” Jillian pointedly asked, and not without condemnation in her tone.

  Priscilla winced, her expression serious. “One only has to see Donovan to learn the answer to such a question, my dear Jillian. Evidently, you are blind, or so filled with self-righteous prattle that you can’t comprehend my situation at all.”

  “Pray tell me, what is your situation? What could drive you or any woman to be unfaithful to her husband? Sir Horatio seems to love you and has provided you with a lovely home and clothes. I don’t understand how you can behave in such a scandalous fashion—with a—slave.”

  “Would you approve of my infidelity if the man were more worthy, if he were a nobleman, perhaps?”

  “Nay! But you do not need my approval, milady.”

  “I definitely do not,” Priscilla replied, with what Jillian could only take as condescension. “But I shall tell you that ’tis evident to me that, filled as you are with ideals of fidelity and morality, you can never have tasted true ecstasy in a man’s arms. I truly doubt you even know about what I am speaking.”

  “I admit I do not for I have never sinned in such a fashion. A wife must be faithful to her husband.”

  “Why?”

  Jillian was flabbergasted at such a question and couldn’t believe that Priscilla would even ask it. “Because—a woman owes her love to her husband, her provider.”

  “My dear, you are naive besides being a prig.” Priscilla laughed and shook her head at Jillian. “I fail to see why I should be faithful to my husband because he provides for me. What is the point of fidelity if my husband is a poor lover and doesn’t satisfy me? I assure you that Horatio isn’t a cuckolded fool. N
ay, I believe he knows of my dalliances, but as long as he doesn’t catch me and I am discreet, then he pretends I am his good and true wife. His pride is spared. No one is harmed.”

  “But you have committed an offense against God,” Jillian strongly objected. “And one day you shall be punished.”

  For a number of seconds Priscilla was quiet. Then in all seriousness, she said, “Gladly will I suffer the heat of hell for a few moments of stolen pleasure with a man who makes me feel like a woman.”

  Jillian couldn’t hide her shock and rose to leave the table. “Lady Priscilla, you are an immoral woman.”

  “I admit that I am, but what are you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Priscilla wound one of her long curls around a manicured finger and coolly assessed Jillian. “I believe you have never been pleasured by a man, that you have never cried out in ecstasy when he makes love to you—if a man has ever made love to you—which I truly am beginning to doubt. I think you are so self-righteous only because you know nothing of the pleasures involved in lovemaking. If you did, you’d be less apt to condemn me for being unfaithful to a husband who cares only for his own pleasures and leaves me wanting in the bedroom.”

  “I choose not to hear any more talk of such a highly personal nature, Lady Priscilla. The whole subject is offensive to me.” Jillian moved away from the table, but Priscilla followed her and grabbed Jillian by the arm, stalling her. Priscilla’s large, blue eyes gleamed viciously.

  “You truly are a prim little moralist!”

  “Say whatever you wish about me, but I am not an adulteress.”

  Priscilla tugged hard on Jillian’s arm. “I should take your word that you won’t tell anyone about last night—especially not my husband. If he knew, he’d do something horrible to me—or to Donovan. I could lose everything if Horatio knew for certain about all the times I’ve lain with Donovan. Have I your word? Please, I must have your promise that you’ll tell no one.”