Calypso Magic (Magic Trilogy 2)

"Lyon!"

His eyes were closed a moment, a look of intensity on his face. What was he feeling? His finger was moving in and out of her, and she felt herself stretching, yielding.

She was panting, wanting, aching.

"Bend your legs, Diana. I want to come into you now."

He eased over her, pressing himself against her, now touching his damp fingers to her face, fingers damp with her.

"You are very nice," he said, nibbling on her earlobe. He reared up and she felt him guiding himself into her. Slowly, he eased inside her, and without thinking, she raised her hips to bring him deeper.

He came his full length into her; she looked up at his face and saw strain there, and something like pain. He lowered his body and she felt him pressing against her, and the sensation built like a raging fire.

"I never thought my body would be ---" she began, and moaned as his fingers came between their bodies and found her. "Lyon," she gasped.

"Yes," he said, gaining a bit of control. "Yes, Diana, let me see your pleasure."

She whirled out of control, her body heaving, her back arching back, mewling cries bursting from her throat.

"You are so beautiful." His control snapped and he surged into her, feeling the aftershocks of her climax, the tightening of her muscles about him, driving him wild. He gave it up and gave himself to her.

Lyon stood quietly on the balcony smoking a long thin cheroot. It was just a few minutes before dawn, he thought, gazing toward the lazy white-capped waves that seemed to melt onto the white sand. He'd been told by Captain Carstairs that some men felt the pull of the tropics deep in their souls. Lyon didn't know if his soul was involved, but he did feel something akin to a pull within him. Standing alone in this magnificent setting, it was easy to forget that in but a few hours, black men and women would be toiling beneath a hot sun, black men and women owned by a white man.

He cursed softly. What a damnable situation. He turned slightly to look back into the bedchamber. He could see Diana lying on her side, her beautiful hair tangled wildly on the pillow, only a sheet covering her. She was his wife, his responsibility. And this was her home. He cursed again and inhaled deeply.

Suddenly, his attention was caught by a shadowy movement near a mahogany tree below. He took a step closer to the balcony railing and strained to see more clearly. He saw a woman emerge, her movements furtive and quick. She was covered by a long cloak.

This was interesting, he thought, and stood very still.

Her pace broke at the distinctive call of a turtledove. She paused, raised her head, and her cloak fell back a bit. He could make out long hair, loose, and thought it was Patricia Driscoll.

Then he saw a man behind her. But he was in the shadows and Lyon couldn't make out who he was. The only thing he was certain of was that it wasn't Daniel. What the devil was she doing out here? He watched her hug the man, then hurry away, toward the back of the house. A back entrance, he imagined. Where was Daniel?

The sky lightened, it seemed, from one moment to the next. He saw clearly the thatched huts in the valley to his right where the slaves lived. Their own small village, Diana had told him, complete with their own gardens. At the opposite side of the great house was the overseer's house, where he had lived until six months ago with a black girl who had borne him three children. It occurred to him that Patricia could have been coming from the direction of the overseer's house and that the man had been the overseer, Grainger. Perhaps he would recognize him when he met Grainger today.

He saw red. A betrayed man's cynicism rose in force. A betrayed man's rage. Women, he thought, lying, dishonest cheats, all of them. Here Patricia Driscoll had been married to Daniel for only three months and already she was playing him for the fool, the cuckold. Just as Charlotte had done to him, without even three months on her plate, hell, without even a marriage ceremony on her damned plate! God, was there no end to a woman's treachery?

He heard a soft moan at that moment coming from the bed, and he frowned. His dear wife for how many days now?

He ground out the cheroot on the stone at his feet and walked purposefully toward the bed. Women needed to be kept on a tight rein to keep them honest. Women needed to be mastered. He pulled the sheet off Diana. She didn't wake, but turned onto her back, flinging her arms wide. He grasped her ankles and pulled her legs apart. He came over her and with one powerful thrust entered her body.

She cried out, suddenly coming awake.

"Lyon!"

"Hold still." She was tight, unyielding, not ready for him. He could feel himself stretching her unnaturally. He felt her hands pushing at his shoulders, heard her harsh breathing. He was hurting her, but he didn't stop. He felt her body quivering, not from desire, felt her shrinking from him.

He cursed, thrust deep, holding her hips still in his hands.

He moaned his release and fell over her.

Diana bit her lower lip, but she couldn't stop the tears from sliding down her cheeks.

Lyon came to his senses. He felt dazed. He pulled out of her, easily now, since she was wet with his seed. He rose from the bed and looked down at her. The bedchamber was bathed in early-morning light.

He saw her tears, but she made no sound. She lay as he had left her, her legs sprawled wide. She was staring up at him, her eyes clouded, filled with confusion, with hurt.

"Why did you do that?"