beneath him, as if attempting to free herself from his weight, the same fierce possessiveness he had known earlier surged through him. She belonged to him. He would claim her with his body and prevent her from leaving. He would make her his own, make her a part of him, bind her to him. He would make her his wife.
With a desperation he had never known before, Jason wrapped an arm about Lauren's waist, dragging her beneath him. She didn't protest, having steeled herself to submit to him, prepared to honor their agreement.
Jason raised himself up on one arm, somehow managing to loosen his breeches and free his rigid flesh. Awkwardly then, he pushed up her skirts, baring the feminine softness that only a short time ago had never known a man's touch, a softness that was still warm and moist from his caresses.
He felt her stiffen as he spread her legs with his knees. But then his arms gave out and he collapsed on top of her, pinning her beneath his large body, the impact nearly crushing the breath from her lungs.
Lauren couldn't know it, but her startled gasp served to revive Jason for a brief while. Mingled fury and desire drove him then, and with his last vestiges of strength, he rose above her again and pressed into her, forcing himself deep within her as she twisted helplessly beneath him.
Jason heard her whimper of pain as she thrashed her head from side to side, but it was if the sound came from a great distance away. He buried his face in the mass of golden hair, pressing his cheek against hers, feeling the warm wetness of her tears.
There was no joy in the knowledge that he had made her his own, only a deep, frustrated anger at his own helplessness. But as the blackness edged aside consciousness, his fury ebbed, and so did all other sensation.
Chapter Five
Cornwall, 1812
Planting his feet firmly apart, Jason braced himself against the icy wind that blew off the sea. He could almost imagine himself on the deck of a ship as the wind, a residue of the recent winter storm, ruffled his hair and sent the capes of his greatcoat whipping about him. Looking down at the boiling waters far below the cliffs edge, it was easier still to remember the many times he had scaled the rigging and been afforded a similar view of churning waves.
He couldn't fail to be impressed by the beauty below. The frothing surf exploded continually in a violent display of nature's power, while the heavy spumes appeared startlingly white against the storm-darkened brine, presenting the only contrast to dreary gray. Jason's gaze lifted to scan the horizon. Only a thin line appeared to separate the vast ocean from the leaden sky, and he guessed that in a few hours even the sea would be obscured by dense fog rolling inward toward the Cornish coast.
Jason couldn't totally define what had prompted him to travel such a distance in order to see for himself the stage of the tragedy. He supposed it was because he wanted to learn all he could about the young woman to whom he had been so briefly promised.
Again his gaze swept the cove below. The rock which lined the coast appeared to have been ripped from the earth and thrown into the sea by some monstrous hand. Gigantic formations rose in twisting, jagged shapes from the depths, as if in agonized protest of the constant battering from the crashing breakers.
There was nothing in the savage vista to remind him of pale, delicate features and soft, feminine curves, yet the image indelibly imprinted on his memory appeared unbidden before him. By now Jason was quite familiar with the portrait of Andrea Carlin as a young girl. His mind's eye, however, persisted in adding minor details to the youthful features: a haunting luminescence to the eyes; a graceful fullness to the figure; an unconscious seductiveness to the smile. That smile had easily set his blood on fire, while the enchanting beauty of her face still tore at his heart.
Yet at the same time he wondered how faulty his memory had become in the many
With a desperation he had never known before, Jason wrapped an arm about Lauren's waist, dragging her beneath him. She didn't protest, having steeled herself to submit to him, prepared to honor their agreement.
Jason raised himself up on one arm, somehow managing to loosen his breeches and free his rigid flesh. Awkwardly then, he pushed up her skirts, baring the feminine softness that only a short time ago had never known a man's touch, a softness that was still warm and moist from his caresses.
He felt her stiffen as he spread her legs with his knees. But then his arms gave out and he collapsed on top of her, pinning her beneath his large body, the impact nearly crushing the breath from her lungs.
Lauren couldn't know it, but her startled gasp served to revive Jason for a brief while. Mingled fury and desire drove him then, and with his last vestiges of strength, he rose above her again and pressed into her, forcing himself deep within her as she twisted helplessly beneath him.
Jason heard her whimper of pain as she thrashed her head from side to side, but it was if the sound came from a great distance away. He buried his face in the mass of golden hair, pressing his cheek against hers, feeling the warm wetness of her tears.
There was no joy in the knowledge that he had made her his own, only a deep, frustrated anger at his own helplessness. But as the blackness edged aside consciousness, his fury ebbed, and so did all other sensation.
Chapter Five
Cornwall, 1812
Planting his feet firmly apart, Jason braced himself against the icy wind that blew off the sea. He could almost imagine himself on the deck of a ship as the wind, a residue of the recent winter storm, ruffled his hair and sent the capes of his greatcoat whipping about him. Looking down at the boiling waters far below the cliffs edge, it was easier still to remember the many times he had scaled the rigging and been afforded a similar view of churning waves.
He couldn't fail to be impressed by the beauty below. The frothing surf exploded continually in a violent display of nature's power, while the heavy spumes appeared startlingly white against the storm-darkened brine, presenting the only contrast to dreary gray. Jason's gaze lifted to scan the horizon. Only a thin line appeared to separate the vast ocean from the leaden sky, and he guessed that in a few hours even the sea would be obscured by dense fog rolling inward toward the Cornish coast.
Jason couldn't totally define what had prompted him to travel such a distance in order to see for himself the stage of the tragedy. He supposed it was because he wanted to learn all he could about the young woman to whom he had been so briefly promised.
Again his gaze swept the cove below. The rock which lined the coast appeared to have been ripped from the earth and thrown into the sea by some monstrous hand. Gigantic formations rose in twisting, jagged shapes from the depths, as if in agonized protest of the constant battering from the crashing breakers.
There was nothing in the savage vista to remind him of pale, delicate features and soft, feminine curves, yet the image indelibly imprinted on his memory appeared unbidden before him. By now Jason was quite familiar with the portrait of Andrea Carlin as a young girl. His mind's eye, however, persisted in adding minor details to the youthful features: a haunting luminescence to the eyes; a graceful fullness to the figure; an unconscious seductiveness to the smile. That smile had easily set his blood on fire, while the enchanting beauty of her face still tore at his heart.
Yet at the same time he wondered how faulty his memory had become in the many
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