The following is a rough draft excerpt of what I am currently working on. This is a historical romance set in the late 1700′s near New Orleans, Louisiana
Soft beams of moonlight caressed the lying form of Veronique Dubois through the open window of her bedchamber. Sleep eluded her as she tried to rest her swirling thoughts and let the sweet tendrils of unconsciousness pull her into the serenity of dreams. Dreams that wouldn’t come… dreams that had long ceased to bring calm and comfort. Dark, thick clouds rolled in across the lush fields of cotton and sugar cane bringing a tempest. Angry streaks of lightning flashed in random. The air hung with a thickness of heat and humidity. A small stream of sweat trickled between her soft breasts and the small of her back, her white sheer sleeping gown sticking to her steaming skin. The fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle permeated the air bringing with it a memory of another kind of scent that was so similar to the aroma of honeysuckle. Inevitably, the night’s impending storm brought flashes of memory that she fervently wished she could forget. But how could she ever forget the sensuous feelings of womanhood that he had awoke within her? He, who must surely be the devil incarnate, had stolen her soul. From the first moment she laid eyes upon him he had captivated her. The pull of his stare had been as electrifying as the night sky this night. There was something not of this world about him that lured her… it made her burn for his touch. Although she had never been touched in that way before it awakened feelings that she did not understand or know existed until him. It was an urge so strong that it frightened her yet elicited feelings that she surely knew to be sinful that even a lifetime of penance would not redeem her. She had been like a woman possessed at the feel of his touch. An earthiness had sprung from within her that surpassed all feelings she had ever felt for anyone before. She lay in deep repose, missing his touch, yet hating him for the otherworldly pull of desire for him. She was no man’s property. She would not be treated as chattel. She was a woman of independent means. She was from a long lineage of kings and French royalty. She would submit to no man upon this Earth. But to her shame and dismay, she had submitted to him, wholeheartedly, body and soul.
Lost in thought, twisting and turning, trying to find comfort in the very large, very empty bed, tears of frustration threatened to erupt from cerulean pools of blue. Her long dark lashes lay softly upon the highness of her cheekbones, evidence of Creole running through her veins. The heavy air gradually changed to a thick stillness. A pregnant silence fell upon the land right before hard, pounding raindrops fell from the dark sky. It was then she felt a presence in the room. Flashes of lightning illuminated the dark recesses and she saw the outline of a man for the briefest of seconds at the window. Her heart began to pound in staccato rhythm with the rumbling thunder, her breath held, a scream stuck in her closing throat. Frozen with fear, she lay stuck to the sticky sheets, waiting…and then it came again, another streak of lightning showed him to be standing at the foot of the bed. A scream of fright escaped her trembling lips, but the booming claps of thunder buffeted the sound. She just knew it was Satan coming to take her soul to hell on this darkest of nights for all the nights of pagan lust she had surrendered to him. His seemingly calm stare belied a simmering heat of anger. It rolled off of him and straight to her heart, stabbing her with a mixture of fear, anger and a desire that surpassed all understanding. His dark hair hung just below his shoulders in thick braids, pulled back by a black leather thong. His stance was one of command that no man in his right mind would ever refuse. No man, woman or child, except her. She had defied him from the very beginning he had laid eyes upon her. Her beauty had mesmerized him just as he was sure every other man alive had, but it was more than that. He had tupped many a young lass in his 26 years, many who had even more lush curves than her and were definitely less vexing, yet it was as if his soul recognized the other half that he had been yearning for since he left the bedside of his dying mother back in Scotland.
Liam MacLeod’s first thoughts as he saw her lying form was of instant lust. Every part of him became alert with a throbbing desire, his heart most affected by her constant denial of him. His first instinct was to strip off his clothes and take her in the softness of the large bed. She would not deny him, even if he had to make her submit to him. He knew deep down that although she would fight him and hate him afterwards, he would surely give her as much pleasure as he knew she would give him, but she would hate him all the more for it. She was such an enigma, possessing both demure inhibitions yet reluctantly, a hearty dose of yearning and want. It was as if she fought herself as much as she fought him. She stubbornly defied him at every turn, struggling with her own sense of what is right and wrong. Her mind telling her to rebuke him, but her body and heart screaming for release. He stealthily approached the bed, his stride purposeful and direct. He would brook all argument from her sultry lips and take what was his. She was his and his alone, whether she liked it or not. She became his on a night very much like this one many moons past. He saw the fear in her eyes at first and then a defiance that would rival any man’s. Without a sound, he ripped the sheet from her, gazing at her perfect form, and momentarily forgot why he was there. Lightning flashed, thunder roared bringing him back to his senses. He reached down, covering her mouth with his hand, none too gently, and heaved her across his rough-hewed shoulder. Through the tempest of the night’s storm he carried her to his awaiting ship. The crew, waiting for his approach, began preparing the rowboat that would take them to his ship further out to sea. His first mate, Connor, would be waiting aboard the ship for further instructions, the captain’s chambers already prepared for the master and his woman. Into the night, a windswept passion of hate and longing, defiance and submission, this dark, dank night, two souls yearning for the other would find love’s waiting embrace.