Page 47 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“Phaedra ... my sweet Phaedra.” He breathed her name in a fierce whisper, making her love the sound of it upon his lips. Yet once again she found something vaguely disturbing and different in the seductive tones of his voice, like notes of a familiar melody played out of key.
But she forgot all else as he kissed her again. His hands moved over her, paying homage to every curve of her body. She fought to keep her own hands still. During those brief times Ewan had taken her, he had never liked her to caress him. He had said her fingers were coarse and clumsy.
Yet as Armande brushed against her, her hands seemed to move of their own accord, reveling in the texture of his hair-roughened chest, the feel of hard muscle corded beneath the pulsing heat of his flesh. Fearful of his reaction, she hesitated, but when he made no move to stay her, her palm skimmed lower, seeking out the most mysterious region of his masculinity, the velvet sheath of his manhood.
She heard the hiss of Armande’s indrawn breath as her fingers closed about him. She was wicked, shameless. In another moment, he would thrust her away in disgust. But he emitted a low groan and pressed kisses behind her ear, a shudder shaking his frame. His caresses became more urgent.
Gently he forced her to her back, suspending himself above her.
“My love ... can wait no longer.” His voice was a plea, nearly apology. But she already was opening to him, bracing herself for the first violent thrust.
He eased himself so carefully inside her, it was she who felt the need to pull him closer. His slow, rhythmic stroking evoked waves of pleasure, and yet a part of her tensed, resisting the culmination of their passion, the fulfillment which had been forbidden her for so long.
Armande bent down and kissed her, deep and hard. “Don’t deny yourself, Phaedra,” he breathed. “Surrender.”
Mercilessly, he increased the tempo of their mating, each movement calculated to drive her to the fever pitch of desire. She closed her eyes, aware of Armande’s hoarse cry, the shudders wracking his frame, moments before a wondrous sensation burst inside of her. The exquisite pleasure was far too intense to last for long, but when it was gone she was filled with a sense of sweet release.
More sweet and miraculous still, Armande’s strong arms yet banded her close to him even as he sank exhausted beside her, drawing in deep breaths, pressing his lips against her hair. Ewan always had-
As her pulses slowed to a more normal rhythm, Phaedra cradled her head against Armande’s shoulder, not suppressing the thought of Ewan so much as simply losing it. Suddenly, it did not matter what her husband had done or said. Somewhere in the dark, in the gentle fury of Armande’s lovemaking, it was asthough the shadow of Ewan Grantham had been banished from her life. She felt so warm and secure lying in Armande’s arms, and content-a rare emotion for her restless heart. A deep sigh escaped her.
Armande planted a kiss upon her forehead, and she could feel the smile curving his lips as he asked, “Was that a sigh of pleasure or regret, milady? Perhaps you are sorry you strove so hard to lose the game.”
Phaedra vehemently shook her head. Sorry? How could he even ask such a thing? She had no words to describe what Armande had done for her. He had given back so much of what Ewan had stolen from her-her belief in herself as a desirable woman, capable of giving love and receiving it.
“No, I shall never regret this night. No matter what happens.”
“Hush, Phaedra. You tempt fate with such reckless vows.” He tipped back her head, covering her mouth with his own as though in some superstitious dread of what her words might invoke, their kiss the charm that would hold evil at bay.
Phaedra melted willingly into his embrace. She wanted only for him to hold her, any doubts vanquished by the darkness and the warmth of their bodies entwined. Once more she was lost to everything but Armande and his tender caress.
It was some time later when she first realized the storm had ceased, leaving only the rain. She nestled against Armande, both of them lulled by the pattering against the window. There was no need to think or say anything more tonight, to remember anything but Armande’s lovemaking, how gentle, how fierce he had been.
Her eyes fluttered closed, drifting into a state of half-dreaming, half-waking. She splayed her hand upon Armande’s sweat-dampened chest, her fingers rising with the deep, regular rhythm of his breathing. He felt so warm. Even as he slept, she could yet sense the pulse of his lifeblood rushing through hisveins. And to think, the first night she had met him, she had thought him so cold, a man carved of ice and snow.
Her lips tilted into a drowsy smile. Ah, but he was French. Did not Frenchmen like to boast they were the most skilled of lovers? From the beginning, she had been seduced as much by the silken tones of his voice calling herma chere
His voice ... Once again something niggled at the back of her mind, a vague uneasiness. But Phaedra could no longer resist the pull of her own exhaustion. The disturbing thought drifted further and further out of reach. Cocooned in the security of Armande’s arms, she fell asleep.
Dawn crept past the windowsill,shading the bedchamber in hues of pearly gray and soft rose. The morning star came up on a world new-washed by the storm, tinting the sky with promise of a bright summer’s day. But for Phaedra, the strength of those first rays striking her eyelids were an annoyance, an intruder come to steal away her dreams.
Such sweet dreams they were-of a dark-haired lover with chilling gaze and burning touch, a man of ice and fire. She flung one hand over her eyes, trying to shut out the insistent sunlight, cling to the image of the hero the storms had cast into her bed. But as she stirred, she became aware of something pinning her to the bed.
Her eyes opened and focused with some confusion upon the naked length of her own body, the paleness of her skin in marked contrast to the powerful arm banding her waist. Her gaze traveled up the length of the arm, to a sinewy shoulder, a broad expanse of bare back, her eyes finally coming to rest upon the countenance of the man who slept beside her, flat on his stomach, his face half-buried in the pillow.
It hadn’t been a dream. A blush firing her cheeks as the events of last night flooded back to her. She had truly taken Armande as her lover. But what had seemed so right, so natural in the dark of night now seemed a little overwhelming in the cold light of day.
She tried to ease herself out from beneath the weight of Armande’s arm, groping for the counterpane. But the movement woke him at once. He flung himself over onto his back and jerked to a sitting position, his hand flying to the scar on his throat. In that unguarded moment, Phaedra thought she saw an expression akin to terror in Armande’s eyes.
Timidly, she touched the smooth bare skin of his shoulder. Armande?”
His eyes slowly focused on her. “Phaedra.” Her name on his lips was almost a breath of relief. He smiled and stretched out beside her, pulling her in his arms, seeking her lips. Although not prepared for the sudden fierceness of his embrace, she did not resist, wanting as desperately as he to recapture the magic she had shared with him last night. How right he had made it all seem. She had felt she belonged nowhere else but in his arms. It would have all been perfect except for that uneasy feeling that now crept over her, the same disturbing sensation that had tugged at her just before she fell asleep.
What had triggered it again? Was it something in the way he had said her name?
Phaedra strove to forget her uneasiness as Armande kissed her. His mouth was warm and enticing, the look he gave her so tender that it was as though the sun had risen in his eyes. His fingers tangled in her hair as he murmured, “Good morrow, my love.”
Phaedra froze. That was it. His voice.
