A Pirate's Wife for Me (27 page)

"You promised you'd love me forever." He didn't leave her time to scream a denial. Instead he swept down on her, holding her captive with his knee across her legs. Holding her head in his hands, he kissed her swiftly, ruthlessly. Drawing back, he ran his hands down her, pausing to caress her breasts, caressing her inner thighs.

She trembled with a humiliating combination of hope and passion. "I hate you."

"You might hate me, but you'll never forget me. And you are my wife." He glanced toward the window where morning's light leaked through the shutters "I have to leave, but your brother's on his way. You'll be all right."

Cate woke with a start
and clutched the covers to her throat.

Taran.
Taran was gone.

But she wasn't at Granny Aileen's. She was at Giraud.

It wasn't early morning, but the middle of the night. The moon was high, shining through the open window.

She could see an unmoving lump of pillows and blankets on the chair in the corner. She should have been comforted to know he had kept his vow and stayed out of her bed, but somehow she wasn't satisfied.

Something didn't feel right.

She looked around the strange room, noting the shadows, the furniture twisted into gothic shapes by the flat white moonlight. She saw no glowing eyes, nothing out of place. The curtains fluttered; perhaps that was what had woken her.

Cautiously, she sat up. She pushed the blankets away, swung her feet to the floor and stood, oh so carefully, her eyes straining as she looked at the chair. At Taran.

She couldn't hear him breathing. He lay motionless. She didn't know if he was feigning deep sleep to lure her into his grasp, or … but how could he? He didn't know she would wake. Tiptoeing toward the chair, she watched the furniture, avoiding the fringe of the rug, giving the ugly cabinet a wide berth, only too aware of the dangers of wandering about a virtually unknown room in the moonlight.

She almost made it, she reached out her hand to pull back his covers — when the board beneath her foot squeaked. She froze, sure he would rise in a rage.

Nothing. He didn't move, he didn't … "You faker!" She flung back the covers.

He was gone.

Again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

With many a reassurance,
Taran put Harkness in his bed in the butler's bedchamber. He returned to the entry hall, and stood in the pale moonlight, listening to the approaching storm. Tonight he would have liked to visit the stables, to assess if any of the king's fine horses had survived. He would have liked to visit Arianna, to see what was left of loyalty among his people. He would have liked to visit the tower where his mother had been imprisoned, and where Miss Jeannette Bennett even now masqueraded as the dowager queen.

But the hour was late, thunder rumbled in the skies, and the storm prowled closer, rampaging across the mountain peaks and toward Giraud. He had accomplished more tonight than he could have ever hoped … and his bride was upstairs in her chaste bed.

Anticipation rose in him.

She hated him.

She loved him.

She wanted him.

And he wanted her, desperately, like a constant hungry grumbling in his blood.

But he had left her sleeping. Tomorrow he could sleep, but she had work to do, important work, work that would save his kingdom. He could not wake her with seductions that would last all the night through.

Yet how much longer could he hold onto his restraint?

He moved steadily up the stairs, not bothering to muffle his steps. Why should he? Harkness had assured him that no one stayed at Giraud. Only the ghosts.

The second flight was darker, narrower, the shadows deeper. A landing cut the stairway in half, and as he climbed and turned, ever-brighter flashes of lightning bit at the darkness in bursts of stark white.

The flight to the fourth floor was narrower yet, lit only by fading moonlight from windows far above. He put a foot on the bottom step of the third flight, and halted, his ear caught by the sound, above him, of his bedroom door opening, then gently shutting. A soft tread moved purposefully across the landing.

He recognized those footsteps. He'd been caught. By Cate.

His heart leapt. She would be angry with him for leaving her alone, for making her worry. Very angry, her Scottish temper snapping and sparking like the storm outside. Anticipation of a tangle with Cate kept him in place, waiting … waiting …

She came down the first half-flight, then reached the landing and turned the corner toward him. In the gloom, she was a pale ghost in a long white nightgown, her auburn hair tucked into a short braid. As she descended, she kept her head down, watching her feet, and she was almost on top of him before some instinct brought her head up. She saw him. She gave a short, sharp scream and checked briefly.

He opened his mouth to say her name, to assure her it was him.

But lightning flashed, and thunder cracked. She saw him, recognized him. Her temper flared. She launched herself at him and grabbed his shoulders. "No wonder you didn't demand to sleep in my bed. You didn't intend to stay!"

"And that annoys you?"

She shoved at him, moving him down with the sheer force of her fury. "Where were you? What were you doing?"

"Reconnaissance."

Her voice rose in disbelief. "In the middle of the night?"

"Did you expect me to do reconnaissance in the daylight?"

"I didn't expect you to do reconnaissance at all. That's my job!"

And he hated that. "Being here is a chance like no other, and I seized it."

"Where did you go?"

"I looked around the palace. I sought knowledge that would help you in your search, but also … I wanted to know if the situation was as dreadful as you'd said."

"Did you think I would lie?"

He reminded himself that she didn't know what Giraud had meant to him; that Giraud had been his home. "I had to see for myself."

Lightning flickered. The skies rumbled.

She said, "Tomorrow night I'll go with you."

"You will not. I'm here. I'll take care of everything."

She answered him in kind. "You will not. I came here for revenge. A person like Davies — he killed my brother."

"You don't have the strength or the ruthlessness to kill him back."

"I know that, but I can help bring him to justice. This" — she stomped her slippered foot on the step — "this is my job, my prospect for vengeance, my chance to leave scandal behind and find a new occupation out in the world. You will not get in my way. I am not going home in disgrace, and
I want my revenge."
She turned and stormed up the stairs.

He had waited half his life to return to Giraud. He had expected that putting his plan into action would be easier than the anticipation. But his homecoming was more difficult than he had thought. To see his home devastated. To know his servants were gone or sunk in despair. To live every minute with the fear his wife would involve herself so deeply in the coming events she would be caught between the cruel millstones of duty and vengeance — and be killed.

He couldn't stand in her way.

He couldn't
not
.

He bounded after her and before she reached the top, he grabbed her sash and pulled her to a stop.

She twirled to face him. "Let go of me."

She stood above him on the stairs, fierce and proud as hell. He couldn't make out her features, but he knew she was glaring at him, eyes hot with fury, her lush mouth set in a stubborn line.

"Damn it, woman, why can't you simply do as you're told?" Taking hold of the lapels of her robe, he jerked her into him.

She stared down at him, her warm body resting against his, and he knew the lightning flickered on his features. What she saw there, he didn't know. Didn't care. He only cared that she wrapped her hands in his newly shorn hair, tilted her head, and pressed her lips to his.

It was like kissing flame. Smooth, excruciatingly hot, with tiny licks of her tongue that intruded into his mouth. Her scent rose from her, carried on the waves of heat, and all he wanted was to taste her, bury himself in her.

He would possess her. She belonged to the one part of his life that was truly his. He slid his arms around her waist, relishing the slow slide of material across her skin.

Yes …

Then, in a sudden reversal of affection, she grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away from her as hard as she could.

He staggered down two steps, almost lost his balance and tumbled the rest of the way down.

"Bastard," she hissed. "Don't think you can rob me of my role in this game." Turning with an elegant sweep of her robe, she climbed the stairs.

She didn't understand. He had to have her. Now. Life was brief. Justice was cruel. And death … death was forever, and very close. Savage, senseless with desire and frustration, he bounded to her side. "Not tonight, my darling. You're not leaving me tonight."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Cate wasn't afraid.

She was angry. Angry that Taran dared to try and tell her what to do. Furious that he imagined he could kiss and cajole her out of doing what she must to avenge Kiernan.

Doubling up her fist, she hit Taran as hard as she could on his wounded shoulder.

It had to have hurt.

He didn't even flinch.

She wound up to hit him again.

He caught her fist, kissed the knuckles, and backed her against the wall. This time when he kissed her, it was without her cooperation.

He didn't care. He thrust his fingers in her hair, tilted her head to meet his lips, and leaned his body against hers.

With his weight, he thought to still her rebellion.

That wouldn't work. Did he really think she would simply … surrender to him? Because he manhandled her?

She broke his hold with a swift upward and outward thrust of her arms.

His fingers tore at her braid, bringing tears to her eyes.

All right, that had been stupid. Especially when, as if it had never happened, he clamped his hands back to her head. And kissed her again. Thrust his tongue into her mouth and massaged her with erotic strokes that took her, for one moment, to the brink of desire.

He couldn't do this to her. She wouldn't let him. So she bit him. Bit his lower lip, hard.

This time he did flinch. Pulled back … laughed softly.

He had to have gone insane. Coming here, to his island home, seeing the devastation, had driven him to the brink. What other explanation could there be for his impervious disdain for pain? For his driving need to … to mate. He wanted to mate.

She was not an animal, and he would not use her as one. She shouted, "I don't want you!"

Throwing back his head, he laughed aloud. "You have never stopped wanting me. We want … each other. We need each other. We are one."

He used simple direct language more potent than poetry … for it was the truth. Damn him. Damn him!

Leaning against her, he cupped his hands beneath her bottom. He lifted her, tilted her. His erection pressing hotly against her stomach, a long, hard memory.

She had only ever been with one man, and that was nine years ago. Never mind that that man had been Taran. Never mind that he had been her husband, that she'd given herself to him joyously and passionately. In the long and bitter time since, she had been her own woman, yielding nothing of herself ever, to anyone. Now he stunned her with the heat and the fury he generated, and the intimacy … he was too close. She had to get away.

He wanted her. Oh, yes, he wanted her, and his wanting curled in the air like smoke and flame. She could scarcely breathe for knowing his desire.

Worse, as he shifted her, rubbed himself against her, her body reacted like dry kindling to a flint. Sparks shivered along her nerve endings, and she wanted … she wanted … With his mindless thrusting passion, he was turning her into a she-beast, and she wondered … what would it hurt if she seized at passion? Just passion?

Not love. Not closeness. Only two bodies writhing together for their mutual pleasure.

But no. No! Cate would not descend to such depths.

Inching her hands between them, she shoved at him. "Taran. Get away, you oaf."

For a long moment, he didn't move. His chest heaved, and she could hear the rasp of his breath.

Alarm stirred in her.

Then he let her slide to her feet. He backed up, head down, hands dangling loosely at his sides.

She wanted to walk away, with dignity and pride. But she saw the glint of his eyes watching her, and she didn't dare. She told herself she used good sense; she kept her back against the wall. She slid sideways up the steps. One step. Two.

She could barely see the dark silhouette of his head turning, tracking her. He commanded, "Cate. Don't go."