Thea Devine - Captivated

Steam collected on his lashes, pearled on the black stubble covering his face.

" India is a diverse country," Abigail prodded. "What section were you stationed in?"

The thick black lashes lifted. He looked so terribly remote, staring at her out of eyes that were looking back twenty-two years. "Have you been there?"

"No."

"You are correct, Indiais a diverse country. It has jungles. It has deserts. And it has mountains. When the morning sun rises over the mountains, it turns the sand blood red."

"It sounds beautiful," Abigail said quietly, cautiously, wondering what could possibly have happened there to put that kind of expression on a man's face. "Were you there for the Sepoy Rebellion?"

The pewter-gray eyes filled with cynicism. "It's ironic, actually. The Sepoy Rebellion started because the Muslims and the Hindus objected to the British use of rifle cartridges greased with pig and cow fatwhereas the British infantrymen would have been perfectly happy to have some of that fat on their hardtack."

He shrugged, a fleeting scratch of hair and muscle against her back. "No, the rebellion was over by the time I arrived in India. My regiment was stationed at the foot of the mountains. I sneaked away to practice my drumming one morningit's easier to drum than to sew and cook, which were the duties assigned to me until I learned how to properly drum a march."

Robert paused, lifted his right arm. Long fingers gently stroked her throat.

She arched her neck, giving him access to her body, the only comfort, she suspected, that he would accept. "So that morning did you learn how to drum?"

"No. ASepoy a Bengal army mancame upon me where I was playing in the ravine. The rebellion wasn't over for him. He thought it sport to kill a drummer boyone less British soldier to deal with in the future. Not worth a bullet, but certainly I was worth the effort of skewering on a bayonet."

Abigail writhedinside. Outside, she calmly held his bleak gaze and accepted the gentleness of his touch while she tried to imagine her eldest nephewthirteen now, still playing with hoopsin the Army facing death.

"What happened?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes." Her voice was firm.

"TheSepoy taunted me, rushing me with the bayonet, drawing blood, pulling back. After a while he got overconfident, thinking that the English boy with blood and sweat and snot and tears running down his face was no threat. He forgot about the drumsticks. They're tapered, you know, and made out of good, solid wood. I drove the first one into the soft part of his belly."

Abigail's breath caught in her chest, seeing the blood red sand, seeing theSepoy, seeing the child Robert had once been.

"Did it kill him?" she asked evenly.

"No. But it took him off guard."

The fingers thrumming her skin pressed down at the base of her neck where her pulse wildly drummed. "I drove the second drumstick into his throat. The moment I did it I wanted to take it back. I will never forget the look in his eyes. He pulled the stick out and stood there staring at it while blood and air gushed out of his throat and I thought,he's not going to die. But it was too late, there was no stopping it, the blood, it kept coming even when the wheezing breath stopped."

Hot, salty steam ran down Abigail's cheeks.

"When my commander saw what I had done, he gave me a rifle. The rebellion hadn't really ended; wars never do. We weren't there to establish peace, but to establish British rule. I killed my first man three months to the day of my enlistment, Abigail, and I have been killing ever since."

"You had no choice, Robert." The words that were meant to be a practical condolence were curiously thick.

Something flickered in his gray eyes. His chest moved against her headhis left arm came up. He cupped her face in both hands, thumbs smoothing her cheeks.

Abigail tensely waited, willing him to say it all.

"When my enlistment was over, I went back to England, quite prepared to take whatever work I could find. But it wasn't the same England. I wasn't the same man. I couldn't tell my family the horrors I had committed, fighting for their beloved country. I couldn't take the same pleasures they did in their simple day-to-day lives, knowing what so-called God-fearing men were capable of doing. So I reenlisted."

He bent his head. A whisper of a kiss closed Abigail's eyes; hot breath caressed her lashes.

"In hand-to-hand combat there is a certain closeness; you almost feel an affinity with the enemy. Black man, white man, brown man, yellow man, it makes no difference. When a man is stabbed, or shot, his eyes open wide in surprise. Surprise that the impossible is indeed possiblethat they should die while the enemy lives."

TearsAbigail distantly recognized the hot, salty substance that spilled down her face as tears, not steam. She was crying the tears that he was unable to.

"Four months ago, I didn't shootso I got shot." His thumbs continued smoothing her slippery cheeks. "They shipped me back to England. The leg healed and I knew I would go back to the Army. And I knew that the next time I looked into the eyes of a man, that the surprise would be in mine. And I found out something about myself while I was laid up, convalescing."

She had to strain to make out the rest of his words, feeling them rather than hearing them. "I found out that I did not want to die without knowing what it is like to lose myself inside a woman."

He raised his head and rested his chin on her forehead, a soft prick of stubbly beard. "I am not indulging you, Abigail. You are indulging me."

Dear God, she had wanted to know, and now she knew.

Abigail swallowed the lump in her throat. "Robert."

"Hmm?" His response was a low rumble in his chest.

"I think the sponge is growing."

The rumble grew, until it erupted full force into a shout of laughter.

Her head fell back from loss of support.

Robert leaned over the tub and extended long, brown fingers.

Without a moment's hesitation, she placed her hand in his. And was hauled up in a cascade of water.

"No. Don't stand. Squat down."

She stiffened, tears forgotten.

"Trust me."

The stark gray eyes were warm pewter.

She squatted.

"Spread your legs."

"In case you have failed to notice, Robert, this is a hip bath. There is no room to spread my legs."

Before she could divine his intentions, he bodily picked her up and faced her sideways in the tub.

"There is now. Lean back against me and spread wide, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. No man had ever called her by an endearment. Five-foot-nine-inch-tall women were not endearing. Yet this was the second time he had used the word. Once in the dark of night, and now in the light of day.

Excitement coiled in her stomachand spine-melting vulnerability. Spreading wide her legs, she pressed her back against his chest, trapping her hair between them. The small pain seemed insignificant in comparison to what was going to happen.

Very firmly, very gently, he reached between her legs.

"Relax," he whispered. He nuzzled aside a strand of damp hair and rimmed the tip of her ear with his tongue. "Bear down."

His tongue stabbed into her ear. At the same time, his fingers delved inside her, creating pain, giving pleasure. And then he had it, the sponge, and he was pulling it out and holding it up for her inspection.

It was engorged, as big and swollen asas if she had washed dishes with it.

Amusement was rife in Robert's voice. "A far better fate than to be scrubbing the back side of a pan, I would say."

Abigail threw her head back and laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

It was so totally ridiculous, that a common household item could be used for sexual protection.

It was so totally unexpected, that a man like Robert Coally would have a sense of humor.

He nipped her ear. "Still sore?"

"How can I tell?" she asked tartly. "My whole body is boiled."

"English meat, Abigail. Time to eat."

Abigail opened her body willingly when Robert pushed the brandy-soaked sponge inside her. And tangled her fingers into his hairunbelievably soft and warmwhen he commenced "eating."

The orgasms she had experienced last night faded in comparison with the sensations that spiraled higher and higher inside her body. Last night she had not known what to expecttoday she did.

She lifted her head up from the pillow and glanced down. The sight of his tanned fingers digging into her pale hips and his dark brown hair buried between her flexed thighs plummeted her over the edge.

When she opened her lashes he was there, leaning over her with pewter-gray eyes narrowed intently.

She smiled, equally intent. "My turn."

"I don't believe in waste. The sponge is ready."

"But you have the advantage over me."

Two hard, hot, hairy legs settled between hers. "In what respect?"

"You have seen my all, whereas I…"

"You saw my all before you decided to trek outside."

"But not like this." Abigail lifted her hand and touched his cheek. It was prickly with dark stubble. She wanted more than anything to examine this man, to record every inch of his body, every texture of his skin. She wanted to make herself as much a part of him as he had made himself a part of her. "In my books it says that a man changes color when he orgasms. I want to know, Robert. I want to know everything there is to know about you."

His gray eyes grew shuttered. Rolling off her, he lay down on his back and threw an arm over his eyes. "Then know me, Abigail… and let me know if I change color. The knowledge might come in useful on the battlefield. I could, armed with the information, astound and confound the enemy. Like a chameleon."