Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📗

so fearful, pequena. If there were an alternative you know I would not force my attentions on you."

Maranta opened her eyes and saw the pain reflected in his face. Of course. If only Innocencia could give him his heir, then he would never come to her bed.

She heard the door close. Maranta was now alone; for Ruis had disappeared to his library across the deserted hall.

Relieved, Maranta rang for Sassia. And soon, she was relaxing in the brass tub of warm, soapy water, with her black hair piled high on the top of her head.

She'd been so intent to get away from him that she had forgotten to ask Ruis about the paints and brushes. But she could do that tomorrow at lunch, if he were not off somewhere on the fazenda, too far to return in time for lunch.

Maranta slipped her toes under the pile of suds at the end of the tub and lifted her foot into the air. And at that moment she looked up into the amused face of the conde, standing over her.

Quickly she lowered her foot into the water and held the sponge in front of her.

"Shall I bring you a toy from the nursery, pequena?"

"I am no child, senhor."

The pink-tipped nipples of her breasts peeked through the suds, in spite of the sponge she held in front of her.

Ruis's eyes narrowed. "Yes. I can see that you are no child, Maranta. And so it is time to stop playing games."

He reached for her hand. "Climb out of the tub, Maranta," he ordered.

"Sassia. . ."

"Has gone to bed. She will not be back tonight."

"My gown—"

"There is no need to put on what will only be removed in a few minutes."

Maranta's lip quivered, but Ruis ignored her look of distress. He held the toweling for her and wrapped her in it. She trembled as his knowing hands dried her body and then pulled the ribbon loose, making her hair tumble to her waist.

She was swept up in his arms, with the towel left on the floor, and Ruis carried her across the room to the bed.

His dark hair was still wet from his own bath, and his tanned body glistened in the candlelight. Maranta attempted to pull the sheet over her, but Ruis's hands stopped her. His eyes traveled the length of her body, and Maranta whispered, "The candle. Please blow out the candle, senhor."

He shook his head. "Ruis. My name is Ruis. And after tonight, I dare you to call me senhor. You'll never be able to think of me as a stranger, Maranta. For you will know my body as intimately as you know your own."

"R-Ruis."

"That's better, pequena." He took her hands and placed them on his muscular body. And at the feel of his firm flesh, she shuddered and closed her eyes.

"Keep your eyes closed, if you must, Maranta," he taunted. "It matters not." He pressed his mouth against her ear and whispered, "Tonight, I shall make you forget that you ever had the desire to become a little nun."

Her body was not her own—but his to do with as he wished. Under his gentle assault, Maranta responded against her will to this new world of sensual pleasure—feeling his hands caressing her body and his lips covering her with kisses.

Not realizing what she was doing, Maranta ran her hands through his hair and touched the tanned cheek that lay against hers. And at the moment his body met hers, filling her with a promise of ecstasy, she encircled him with her arms, drawing him closer.

In a primitive response to the rhythmic motion of his body, Maranta moved. Her need overwhelmed her—this feeling that possessed her body and mind, driving out all fear, all guilt, everything but her desire.

Her body tensed, and she clung to Ruis, her hands entwined around his neck.

"Do you still wish to become a nun, Maranta?" he whispered, stopping his lovemaking for a brief moment.

In agony, she denied it. His cry was triumphant as he began again, bringing her to the precipice. In waves, the alien feeling came, so that no part of her body escaped from it. And then she was lost in eternity, with the man who demanded her very soul. Willingly she gave it to him.

"Maranta," he cried. His body gave a giant shudder, and Maranta gasped at the intensity.

Her rapid breathing matched his, her breasts moving against his chest, while the air he breathed invaded her mouth. He drew her close and held her. Face to face they remained, while the candle flickered its last remnants of light and was extinguished.

She awoke in the middle of the night and sat up. Ruis was beside her, breathing steadily. In the darkness, Maranta felt a terror that she had never encountered in her life. That night, she had denied ever wanting to become a nun. Ruis's kisses and caresses had made her forget every precept that had ever guided her life.

The terrible truth struck her. She had not wanted him to stop his lovemaking. She had welcomed Ruis's advances as ardently as some slave mistress in love with her master. The sin was multiplied—a double sin—hers as well as Ruis's, because of her own desire.

With a tiny groan, Maranta climbed out of bed. Groping for the peignoir at the foot of the bed, she wrapped herself in the garment and sank to her knees, where she prayed for forgiveness for the rest of the night.

In the distance, over the slopes of the terra-roxa, the sun came up. Ruis, restless, reached out for the woman beside him, but she was not there. He opened his eyes and looked down on the small figure kneeling by the bed. Her long silken hair spread over the white coverlet, and Ruis captured a strand in his giant hand.

"Climb back into bed, Maranta," he said in a gruff voice. "It is too soon for morning prayers. Besides, the chapel is the place for religion—not here in the bedroom."

When she did not respond,