Burning Up (26 page)

And he . . .

He’d wanted to lay her down among the silver and china, between the puddings and the gravy, and lick her all over. He’d burned to take her upstairs to the master bedroom with its big, curtained bed and touch her, take her, own her.

Of course he’d done none of those things.

Sloat and the servants had been around to keep his lust in check. Whatever circumstances had driven her from her brother’s home and protection, she was a lady. He would not show her less than respect in front of his dependents.

Now, sitting in the open carriage with her hands folded demurely in her lap, she gave him the slumberous look he loved. “If you wished to satisfy your basic appetites, we could have stayed at the cottage. I have two chairs now,” she informed him smugly. “
And
a bed.”

His blood heated even as he laughed. She might be a lady, but he was still very much a man. He was urgently, painfully aware that he could have her back at her cottage and naked in under five minutes.

But he wanted more from her than civilized dinners or stolen rendezvous.

He turned the cart down the narrow track that meandered to the cove and the boat he had waiting. He was sensitive to every shift of her body on the narrow bench, of her thigh warm beside his. Beneath his tailored coat, he was sweating, his body as hard as the brake handle.

But he would not be distracted again. Every time in the past few weeks he had tried to broach the subject of marriage, Morwenna had turned the conversation aside, diverting him with a look, a touch, a whispered invitation.

Not that he had been that difficult to distract, Jack admitted ruefully.

He had planned this outing with all the care of a general plotting battle strategy. Out-of-doors, where she was most comfortable. By the sea, where he saw her for the first time. On an island, picturesque and private. He gave instructions for the basket, the blanket, the boat. His mother’s ring was in his waistcoat pocket. He had even directed Sloat to draft a letter to his lawyer.

This time everything was prepared.

Everything was perfect.

This time she would say yes.

M
orwenna sat in the front of the boat, trailing her hand over the side. The water flowed between her fingers, rippling along her nerve endings, murmuring her name. Beneath the stiff fabric of her dress, her breasts peaked. Her toes curled in her tight new shoes. She longed to be naked in the ocean.

And yet she would not have given up her place in the boat for anything.

She looked at Jack, his dark hair lifting in the breeze from the sea, the sun reddening his nose and cheekbones, and felt a rush of love for him so intense her heart stumbled.

It cannot last
, her brother had warned.

But didn’t that make the present even more precious?

This moment must be enough. She would make it be enough for both of them. She would fashion a string of perfect moments like a necklace of pearls—her gift to him. He would never regret loving her. While she . . .

Her throat felt suddenly tight.

We are finfolk.
Her brother’s words echoed harshly in her ears.
What do we know of love?

She had no experience with love, no example to guide her. Few pair bonds among their kind lasted through the centuries. Children were rare, grudgingly born and quickly fostered.

And yet . . .

She watched the muscles of Jack’s arms bunch and stretch, his big hands grasp the oars, and she lost her breath, falling into the creak and the rhythm of the oars. His scent, soap and linen, salty sweat and clean skin, tugged at her senses. He rowed strongly if not particularly well, digging deep into the water. One paddle caught a swell and shot a plume of spray into the boat.

He grinned ruefully. “Army men are better in the saddle than at the oars.”

“I love you in the saddle,” she assured him, and he laughed.

The sound warmed her heart and eased her doubts. He was so different. Different from her, yes, but also unlike any man she had ever known before.

All the men she had observed over the centuries were sea-faring men, Vikings, sailors, fishermen.

“You did not learn to row growing up?” she asked.

“Not in Cheapside. London,” he explained. “My mother’s family lived in Cheapside.”

Over his shoulder, she could see the island rising like a green wave from the blue and silver sea.

She wrinkled her forehead, struggling to recall what she knew of London. “There is a river in London.”

He glanced over his shoulder, angling the boat toward the narrow beach. “A very dirty one. Not for boys in boats and definitely not for swimming.”

“You cannot swim?” She could hardly fathom such a thing.

“I can paddle. Or I could.”

Before the injuries that scarred his leg, she guessed.

He turned back to her, his gaze lazy and amused. “I suppose you swim like a fish.”

“I can swim,” she admitted.

Her belly hollowed.
Exactly like a fish.

The boat rocked in the shallow water. A tumble of gray rock protected a pale sickle of sand. Above the beach the hills swelled, covered in long grass and white and yellow flowers, yarrow and meadowsweet.

The paddles gleamed in the sunlight. The round hull scraped bottom. Morwenna stood, holding on to the side of the boat.

“I’ve got you.” Jack swung her into his arms.

She clutched at his shoulders. “You will hurt your leg.”

“You’ll soak your hem.”

“No matter. I—”

But he was already striding through the ankle-deep water. He set her gently on her feet, his broad hands lingering at her waist before he left her to fetch the basket.

She sighed and spread the blanket on the grass. The sun was very warm. She straightened, stretching her back, looking longingly at the bright blue water. She wished now she had waded ashore. Her dress chafed. Her boots rubbed. For a moment, she felt as confined by her human role as by her human clothes.

“Show me,” Jack said.

The sight of him, dark and muscular in his tight blue coat, soothed her. Steadied her. “Show you what?”

“How to swim.”

Longing surged under her skin. She resisted the temptation. “I cannot Change. Um. My clothes.”

“You don’t need to change.” A smile creased the corners of his eyes. “We can swim naked.”

Her heart tripped.

He had seen her naked many times. This was no different, and yet she felt curiously exposed. The ocean was hers, her life, a part of herself she had kept carefully separate from him. Now he was asking her to share it, to bring him into her world.

Jack stripped off his jacket and tossed it on the blanket. “There’s no one to see.”

He pulled his shirt over his head.

Her gaze traveled the heavy definition of his muscles, the pattern of his scars, the dark hair that fanned across his chest and narrowed to a line below his navel. Lust stirred, easy and familiar.

“We do not need to swim,” she said.

He unbuttoned his breeches. He was already half aroused, dusky and thick. “It will be fun.”

She did not need fun. She needed . . . She was no longer sure what she needed.

“The water will be cold,” she warned.

Jack glanced down at his erection. “That’s probably a good thing.”

She smiled in acknowledgment, reaching slowly for the front closure of her dress.

“I can do that.” His hands were there, between her breasts, slipping the delicate buttons from their holes. “Let me.”

His breath was warm against her face, his expression intent.

She trembled, undone by more than his hands. “I can manage.”

“You can do anything,” he murmured. Her bodice sagged open. Her breath caught. “But let me.”

He cupped the soft weight of her breasts, his thumbs skating over her nipples. “Let me take care of you, Morwenna.”

Desire clenched her insides. An unfamiliar ache lodged in her throat. No one in her life had ever wanted to take care of her. Even Morgan knew better than to try.

Jack’s fingers brushed her throat, traced her collarbone, found her wildly beating pulse in the hollow below her jaw. Sliding the pins from her hair, he combed the smooth strands over her shoulders, arranging them over her breasts, caressing her through the long curtain of her hair. His touch made her feel attended. Cherished.

Loved.

He nudged her dress from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet.

They stood together in the sunlight like the first man and the first woman, naked and unashamed. His arousal brushed her stomach, silky and hot. She flushed with anticipation, her skin blooming.

He laced his fingers with hers. “Take me swimming with you.”

Her heart hammered. She glanced down at the blanket, sideways at him. “Don’t you want to . . .”

His smile lit his serious eyes. “There will be time later. Time for everything.”

The memory of her own words haunted her.
Their lives will be short and hard enough. They should love each other while they can.

How could she refuse him this? How could she refuse him anything?

She would not Change in front of him. But she could give him this much of herself.

“All right,” she said.

They walked hand in hand to the water’s edge, the boundary of her world.

Jack grimaced. “Damn, that’s cold.”

She laughed. “Better to go in all at once.”

She ran forward, kicking up spray, and dived into the cold salt sea.

Joy.

The force, the shock, nearly forced her Change. Water enveloped her, embraced her, slid over her limbs, flowed through her hair.

She dived, free from gravity and the planes of earth, dizzy with freedom, feeling the magic bubble through her veins, wrap her sinews, stretch her flesh, soften her bones. Her thighs fused. Her toes spread. She opened her mouth to drink, to inhale, intoxicating briny gulps.

In the sea, she was free, she could be . . . anything. Anything at all.

“Morwenna!” A voice, louder than the cry of the gulls or the pounding of her heart or the rush of water in her ears. Jack’s voice, calling her back to shore.

Disoriented, she drifted, caught between Change and thought.

Jack.

Her hair floated around her in a cloud. She righted herself, found her feet and the direction of the light. The surface.
There.
She kicked, feeling her legs, bone and muscle, respond.

Sunlight and air broke on her face.

She forced herself to breathe. To be. To be human.

She turned, blinking the water from her eyes. Jack stood waist deep in the cold water, his wet hair molded to his skull. Water ran down his chest, emphasizing the masculine shape of him, the sleek, hard muscles, the tension of his broad shoulders.

The tension evaporated when he saw her. His face relaxed. “You were under a long time.”

Time.
They had so little time.

She glided back to him. “I am here now.”

Let it be enough, she prayed. Let me be enough for him.

They played together like otters or children, bobbing, laughing, splashing in the water. He chased her, shrieking, diving, until she let herself be caught. Breathless, she floated in his arms, twined around him like kelp. Her hands drifted over him, enjoying the textures of him, rough and smooth, under the water. In that moment she had everything she wanted, Jack and the sea. Inside she was melting, flowing, brimming with love.

He trapped her hands; held them. “Come with me.”

“Yes.”

“Lie with me.”

Oh, yes.

They waded dripping from the water and lay side by side on the blanket, lacing their fingers together. Turning her head, she pressed her lips to his shoulder. His skin was cool and tasted of salt.

“You are cold.”

He shrugged. “The sun will dry me quickly enough.”

She rolled to face him, smiling, draping her leg over his hip. “I can warm you.”

“Better than the sun.” He turned on his side toward her, combing her damp hair from her face with his fingers. His brown eyes were steady on hers. “My light. My love.”

He covered her mouth with his. Soft and quiet, wooing her. Her heart lurched and then raced. He touched her gently and with purpose until she trembled in his arms.

He smiled. “Cold?”

“No.”

Her skin flushed as he continued to touch her, to taste, trailing his fingers from throat to breast, from hip to thigh and everywhere in between. His hands left fires in their wake, a bone-deep glow, flash points of pleasure.

“
Jack.
”

He gathered her close, body to body, skin to skin, heat to heat. Their mouths met and explored before he grasped her hips and nudged forward. She gasped, her fingers biting into his shoulders. He thrust.

Ah.
She shuddered, her teeth biting down on her lower lip. “Again.”

He paused. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

She wriggled. “Which will get you to do what I want?”

“Either,” he admitted frankly. His neck arched, the cords straining as she touched him. “Oh, God, Morwenna.”

She melted against him. “Please. Do it. Now.”

He surged.

She cried out in passion, in possession, in joy. He was in her, part of her, as she clenched around him and made him hers, as he thrust inside her and made her his, all their boundaries blurring, all their divisions melting away. They moved together, flowed together, fused together by sweat and heat and need.

One.

Tenderness cracked her heart.

“You are the first,” she told him.

He focused on her face, his pupils wide and wild. “What?”

She touched his cheek. “My first love.”

Her last.

Her only.

“Good,” he said with masculine satisfaction and sank into her again.

The ripples began inside her. He held himself deep and still as she shuddered, as she shattered, feeling him everywhere inside her, surging inside her, in her blood and in her loins and in her heart. She wrapped her arms around him to hold him closer, wrapped her legs around him to bring him deeper, felt him push into her, pound into her, until he plunged with her into the heart of the whirlpool and they both were swept away.