Surrender the Wind by Elizabeth St. Michel Page B

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