A Pirate's Wife for Me (21 page)

With a soft murmur, Taran slid his arm out of the sling and gathered her close. "Poor lass." He rubbed his hands over her back. "My poor, poor lass."

"So now you know the tale." Taut and unbending, she sat there, waiting for him to release her so she could leap up and stride away. If she could do something — move, walk, work, anything — the hurt would lessen and she would be relieved.

Or so she always thought. Always, she was disappointed. Running away didn't help with this. Nothing seemed to help, but she always had to try.

Taran didn't understand. He held her as if waiting for her to melt into a sobbing puddle. He untied her bonnet and dropped it on the deck. He pulled her into the heat of his body, rubbed his cheek against her head, and in a gruff voice, murmured, "I can scarcely believe it. Kiernan. I looked up to him. I wanted to
be
him. He was strong and true, a master of his fate, yet he understood kindness."

"It was his kindness that killed him."

He shook her gently. "Never believe that. It was the bomb that killed him. He once told me that kindness was the requirement of every man for his fellows, especially for those who were smaller and weaker."

Kiernan had told her that, too. He had taken his duties as older brother seriously. After Taran left, after her reputation was in tatters and she'd fought her way through rebellion and into depression, he'd come to her and told her the only way to be happy was to make someone else happy.

These last few years, she'd tried. She'd succeeded, too, with her family, with the crofters, with the servants. She'd resigned herself to a small life lived in a small way.

She didn't know how to do that anymore. She only knew how to hate. She couldn't even grieve, but being in Taran's embrace brought up emotions she hadn't experienced in … well … years.

The first night in Poole Taran had swept her into his arms and seared her with the fires of passion, and reluctantly, so reluctantly, she had burned with him. Last night he'd held her, danced with her, and for the first time since Kiernan's death, she had laughed, freely and without guilt.

Now, today … well, today was different. Today she felt … she moved restively within his grasp, wanting to escape.

Taran wrapped her closer. "Recounting the tale of his life will make his spirit live."

She didn't want to struggle. Didn't want to make more of this emotion than it was worth. But she knew now she had been stupid. Last night, she had deliberately recalled their past; that day and night at Granny Aileen's hut when Taran's every touch had brought her ecstasy.

Oh, yes, that had definitely been a mistake, because now it felt right to have him console her. The young fool she had been believed she could bind him with her body and keep him by her side for all their lives, and right now that body which she believed she had schooled to stern chastity … her own body seemed convinced she'd succeeded. As she listened to his voice, smelled his scent, gathered his warmth, her body softened. Her head drooped onto his shoulder. Tears burned her eyes.

"No." Before, she would have given anything for the solace of tears. But she didn't want to cry now. Not here, in Taran's embrace.

More important, she didn't want to feel anything in his arms. It wasn't so much she didn't want him to see her weakness. She didn't want to have weakness. Not when weakness meant she had responded to
him
.

He rocked her back and forth, murmuring soft, indistinct words of reassurance. "When I was living with you, I used to think Kiernan was stiff-necked and far too honorable, but after I left Mull, whenever I didn't know what to do, I would ask myself what Kiernan would do."

"Become a pirate?" she mocked, but the pressure of tears behind her eyes grew. Her heart beat heavily in her chest, and she tried to breathe evenly, sucking salty air into her laboring lungs.

"Aye. When I took over the pirate ship, I was doing as Kiernan advised. Survive, he said. Survive at all costs." Taran's fingers stroked the side of her face. "Then do what is right. What we're doing today is a tribute to Kiernan."

Her breath scalded her lungs. She didn't want this.

"He wasn't that much older than I am, only six years, but he was years ahead of me in wisdom. Do you remember what he said to us when first we met? That we should be as brother and sister?" Taran laughed softly. "If he had only known, he would have struck me down at that moment."

The tears branded her skin. She pressed her cheeks against Taran's shawl, trying to blot her face before he realized how she had crumpled in the onslaught of grief.

He knew. Of course, he knew. He pressed a handkerchief into her fingers. "One of my greatest regrets was losing Kiernan's friendship, but I never could regret the pleasure I found in your arms."

My God. Her brother was dead, and the only person who understood her grief was her most dire enemy. Cate wept into the handkerchief, each tear an agony that offered no relief. No matter how much she cried, Kiernan was still dead, his life wasted in the service of his family. The anguish grew so strong, she coughed and wretched, and the only thing that kept her from collapse was Taran's strong arms swaddling her in the only comfort to be had on this earth.

He didn't try to stop her crying, but gradually she ceased. Her eyes drooped. And right before she dropped off to sleep, she told him, "Kiernan forgave you. He even missed you." On a sigh, she added, "But I never did."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

For nine years, Taran
had been consumed by one goal. Going home.

Now he
was
going home. Home to deceit, war and possible death. He'd taken all that into account. He'd been willing to fight, to die, even to sell his soul and lose whatever lousy crumb of honor he had left. Anything to return the Kane family to the throne. And it wouldn't be so difficult, really. The years he had spent at sea had gradually stripped him of all … oh, what had he heard his mother say? That he'd been stripped of his humanity.

She might be right, for even her condemnation had failed to move him to anger or to tears.

What was wrong with that, really? To suffer no fear, to be immune to affection, to make logical decisions unmarred by messy emotions. He'd lived with the highs and lows of love and terror, and he remembered well the absurdity of his decisions, the mistakes he'd made.

During his first weeks with the pirates, he had been wretched with homesickness. Consumed with fear. Constantly on guard. He'd been desperate with hunger and damp all the time. His face sunburned so badly his skin peeled off, then peeled off again. His fingers blistered from working with the ropes. He tasted brine every time he opened his mouth. When the sun rose in the morning, he wanted nothing so much as to still be alive when it set.

After four years, he'd woke up one morning from a doze high in the rigging and realized — he didn't feel anything anymore. His body had adjusted to hardship. He didn't miss his family. He didn't care if he lived or died. The heights of emotion were freezing cold and lonely, and while up there he lost his youth. He lost his ideals. He knew one thing and one thing only — he was the crown prince of Cenorina, and to right the great wrong he had done, he would sacrifice himself for his people.

Emotions. Years ago, that great emotion, lust, had led him to take advantage of Cate when he knew he would not stay. Then another emotion, pride, had sent him back to Cenorina to save his country from tyranny. Instead, Maddox Davies had showed him what an arrogant young fool he was, and sent him off on a voyage to hard-won maturity.

Now, many years had gone by and Cenorina had been gutted and left bleeding.

Today, the ship sped through the waves, a voyage that would take no more than a day and yet would transport them into a different place, a different world. Taran cradled the sleeping Cate, protecting her against the wind and the sea spray, and wondered savagely how one little woman could destroy so many plans. He had fancied himself protected against emotions by a sheath of steel indifference. Now he saw that sheath was no more than a knitted blanket, unraveling in uneven holes and leaving him open to the cold.

Why? What was it about this woman that clung to his mind through fire and water, days and years?

The kerchief completely covered his eyes. He couldn't see her, and he had to trust in her guidance.

But he could rest his cheek on the top of her head, and inhale the scent of her hair. She smelled of orange and sandalwood, and mixed with the perfume was the faint, elusive odor of Cate.

She burrowed deeper into his chest; thumped her cheek against his muscles as if trying to soften her pillow.

He wanted to laugh, and that was curious, too. For the second time in two days, to laugh out loud in pure amusement — it had been years!

Before Cate arrived, he had given himself no better than a fifty percent chance of surviving the takeover of Cenorina. He planned to be on the front lines, rallying his people to the cause of freedom. Now he had his duty to his people,
and
his duty to Kiernan, and that duty was to keep Cate safe. She would not die in Taran's fight.

He ran his hand down her spine and cupped her buttocks. Beneath the coat, the gown, the corset and the corset cover and the chemise and all those other preposterous items of clothing women used to disguise their flesh — was Cate. Her long, strong limbs, her breasts, the nipples tinged a dusky rose, her narrow waist and that grand flare of her hips. It was all there, he knew it, and he wanted to remove her garments, lie down with her, taste every bit of her silken skin, caress every inch of her glorious limbs, wrap himself in the warmth of her body and let the world fall away. Left alone with her, he would win her back. It would be a battle. It would take time. But before it was over, he would once again find pleasure with her such as the world had never known.

Of course, he would give pleasure with the same munificence.

He wondered if she realized how thoroughly she'd betrayed herself. She had informed him, and shown him, too, that she had grown to be a woman of sense, not given to flights of great emotion. Yet every time he'd taken her in his arms, she had demonstrated to him the passion and the fire of the younger Cate. Yes, she might wish to be the prosaic female who had learned her lesson in a hard school, but when he scratched the surface, he found the same girl he'd fallen in love with all those years ago.

He unbuttoned the middle buttons of her coat and slipped his hand inside. She was warm. So warm. He pressed his fingers up her ribcage and that damnable restraining corset to her breast. She filled his hand to overflowing, a flawless size and shape, and when he slid his thumb over her nipple, it tightened to a bead that would fit perfectly into his mouth. She moaned, a sweet, half-sigh of a moan, and she rolled her cheek on his shoulder.

He let his head fall back on the bench. He was so hard he could stand on a board, tie a sail to his mast, and cruise to Cenorina by himself.

He shouldn't renew their liaison. Yes, they were married, but no honorable man would act in such a disgraceful manner. But he'd lost his honor the first time he'd taken her to bed. Now, he had her in his arms again and, because of her, the flame of his desire to live flared high. He wanted to explore these emotions, to feel the pain, the joy, the pleasure — one last time.

He'd made his vows. He had reparations to make. Probably he would die. But by God he would taste life first, and he would take the memory of Cate with him.

With difficulty, he withdrew his hand from her coat and slid it up to her neck. There he stroked the soft skin at her nape, and tilted her chin up. She frowned and wrinkled her nose in her sleep, and he brushed her mouth with his. Her frown smoothed; she took a long, deep breath. He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, and when she parted them, he kissed her as he had wanted to. He went deep, tasting her, loving her with his tongue, giving himself over to the complete enjoyment of this preliminary claiming.

For many years, sex had been an agreeable exercise, a slow, gratifying thrill, a piece of action greatly enjoyed and quickly forgotten.

Kissing Cate was a courtship, a reacquaintance with passion, love-making in its purest form. The sweet liquid of her mouth joined with his to form a promise, jointly given. Her tongue rose to meet his; he touched it, caressed it with his own.

She shivered.

He felt her breath catch as she came awake, felt the jolt that struck her body as she realized that he held her in his embrace. She tried to pull away; he kept his hand on her neck and shushed her, his lips still against her lips. "It's just a kiss. We're married." He might have got away with that assurance if he had left it at that, but he had to add, "You liked it."

Her fist came up and struck him on his gunshot shoulder.

"Blast it!" He let her go and grabbed his wound, doubled over with pain. "Why did you do that?"

She launched herself to her feet. "Why did
you
kiss
me?
You took advantage of me. Took
advantage
of me."

She hadn't done permanent damage to his arm. "I'm probably going to bleed to death on this ship before we dock."