Heather Graham - [Camerons Saga - North American Woman 02] (22 page)

“Sea slime? Gentleman rogue, milady?” his eyes, flashing fire, fell upon hers. “This night, lady, I am no gentleman rogue, and a rogue at the very least. You wish a pirate, you expect one—”

“Put me down, Hawk!” she cried, her panic growing. The soft brandy blur was deserting her. She was naked, and his touch upon her bare flesh was an excruciating sensation. She was in his arms, and he was vibrant, burning with the heat of anger. He was a flame that seemed to consume everything, her will, her heart. She had to escape him, to stand outside that flame. She did not so deeply fear his anger; she feared the tempest within him that so seduced and beguiled her.

She pressed fully against his silk-clad chest. “Now! I demand it!”

He shook his head slowly. “You do not like to be treated with courtesy, not by a pirate, so you say. Well, take heed then, lady. This night you have the pirate, the demon, the monster, the rogue. And trust well, lady, that this night, the rogue will have you. If you have thought to cry for mercy, now is the time to do so, milady.”

VIII

“P
erhaps we
should
dine first,” Skye said softly.

He stared down upon her. “What?” he shouted in exasperation.

“Dinner!” she whispered desperately, meeting his silver gaze. “You wished to have dinner. It’s … it’s all right with me.”

He was still stiff with anger, as hot and radiant as a winter’s fire, but as hard as stone. “You’re drunk,” he said.

“What?”

“You’re drunk!”

“I am not! Ladies of good breeding do not get drunk, sir!”

“I shudder to suggest, Lady Kinsdale, that your breeding is anything but the absolute best, so I must beg to differ upon the principle itself. You are drunk.”

“Tipsy, perhaps.”

“Sodden.”

“Sir, you drive me to drink,” she said woefully. Her fingers curled about his neck as she held him tightly rather than fall.

“I drive you to drink, lady! My God, but a sane man would
have left you upon the sea!” He cast her down suddenly and with such vehemence that she gasped, for she was certain that her bones would shatter upon the floor. They did not, for he had come to the bed and cast her upon the soft down mattress. Like silver daggers, his eyes flashed upon her. “I drive you to drink? Lady, you would drive the very saints to despair!”

He whirled around and she clutched nervously at the bedclothes, dragging them around her. He seemed as explosive as a keg of powder, and though she had a reprieve, she wondered what his next action would be.

He wrenched open one of her trunks with a vengeance. Silks and satins and velvets went flying about. Then he tossed a soft green satin garment her way. She reached for the fabric as his footsteps cracked and thundered upon the floor and on the shattered door. “Dinner, milady, is already served.”

For the longest time she lay there, her hand at her heart, feeling the frantic beat. He was gone again. But not far. He stood away from her, through a doorway that could no longer be closed or locked. It had never meant anything anyway. He had always known and she was discovering that the barriers lay within herself.

And within him.

Skye lay very still. Night was coming quickly. It would not matter, she realized. If darkness fell, he would come back to light up the night for her, whether she did or did not rise. If she stayed just as she was, she would need have no fear. He would not touch her, nor would he let blackness descend upon her.

She rose quickly, glancing nervously to the open doorway. She could not see him. She scrambled into the gown he had left her, a satin dinner gown with a laced bodice, high collar, and sweeping train. She came to the dresser, observed her pale image within the mirror, and mechanically picked up the silver brush he had provided and swept it through her hair. The golden locks fell like waves of sun and fire upon her shoulders. The high collar of the gown complemented the deep cleft of the bodice. Her eyes were grave then, for the tender embrace of the brandy was fast fading away, and it seemed that very much lay at stake that night.

Impulsively she turned from the dresser to dig about in her trunks. She found a delicate gold necklace with an emerald pendant that was surrounded by a sunburst of diamonds. She hooked it about her neck and it fell far below her throat to touch the valley of her breasts.

She walked over to the open doorway and paused there, watching him.

He stood by the windows, and seemed as pensive as she. The drapes were open, the breeze blew in. He looked the gentleman then, the striking young gentleman, more lordly than any man she knew, lost in thought, tall and undaunted against the coming night. He held a silver goblet in one hand. Across the room, Skye saw that the small dining table was laden with a meal, with silver flatware and fine plates upon a white cloth. Candles were burning, casting a gentle glow over the table.

“Lord Cameron comes for you any day now,” Hawk said without turning to her.

“How can he?” she murmured. “How can he even know that I am here?”

“I sent your ship, the
Silver Messenger
, close in to Cape Hatteras as we traveled south. Her signalman sent messages to a merchantman. The
Silver Messenger
came here this afternoon, and my man assures me that his messages were received, and answers were sent.”

“That is … good to hear,” she said softly.

He turned around suddenly and his eyes swept over her from head to toe. They lingered upon the emerald that lay between her breasts, but he did not mention it. He bowed to her. “Milady, you wished to dine?” He indicated the table. She walked to it and he was quickly behind her, pulling out her chair. He poured her wine in a goblet before taking his own seat. The candles glowed softly between them, flickering occasionally, for the table lay before the open window, and both the colors of the sunset and the coolness of the twilight breeze rushed softly in upon them.

“Shall I serve you, milady?” he asked.

Skye nodded, sitting back, her fingers curving over the arms of her chair. She watched his dark head and the fine, brooding
line of his features as he dished out food from the servers. She wasn’t sure what touched her plate, for she studied him so earnestly. He caught her gaze at last. She flushed and picked up her wineglass. But she continued to study him.

“What? What now, milady?” he demanded acidly.

And she smiled very slowly. “What manner of pirate are you, sir? I sit before you unmolested. In my jewels.” She leaned forward, fingering the emerald. “It’s worth a small fortune, Sir Silver Hawk. Of that, I am sure you are aware.”

“Perhaps, lady, I will receive a small fortune for your safe return.”

“Perhaps.” she murmured, but her smile remained. He swore softly and tossed down his serving implements. “Lady, I tell you, I am at the end of my resources. I am past being driven to mere drink, and I hunger for far more than dinner.” She picked up her fork and idly touched her food. She was scarcely hungry herself. She tasted some delicious fish, and steamed fresh carrots and potatoes and sweet toasted bananas. She could eat very little. Nor did he pay much attention to his food. He watched her, and a deep, dark tension remained with him. His brow continued to knit and a scowl played upon his lip beneath his mustache.

“He will come here?” she said. “Lord Cameron?”

“Aye.”

“He will feel safe?”

“He will know himself safe.”

She shoved about a piece of fish with her fork. He leaned toward her. “What is it, milady?” he snapped. “Who do you think you are, what sweet nobility sets you so confidently upon this golden crest of disdain you would cast down upon others? I am a pirate, yes, but you scorn a member of your own society, a man who is willing to sail a tempestuous sea for an unwilling bride?”

Her temper rose and her first impulse was to slap him. She smiled instead, holding her silver goblet, tracing its rim with her fingers. “I am my own mistress, sir, and that is all.”

He sat back, his eyes narrowing. “And what precisely does that mean, lady?”

“I—I am graced with my own mind, sir. My mother”—she
hesitated just briefly, swallowing—“my mother died when I was young, and I quickly ran my father’s affairs. He sent me to school in London, and neglected to tell me about a promise given at my birth!”

“So the promise is not your concern.”

“No.”

“You do not choose to honor your father?”

“Not in this.” She set her wine down and spoke to him earnestly. “One would think, sir, that daughters were created as slaves, to be cast to the highest bidder.”

His eyes were smoke, concealing his thoughts. “Perhaps he cares for the security of your future.”

She lowered her head suddenly. “He knows so little about me.”

“About your fear of the dark?”

Her head jerked up like a marionette’s. “I don’t care to discuss any of this with you.”

“Why not? Perhaps I can help.”

“Help!”

He shrugged, sipping more wine. “He is a cousin, distant at that, proper, stoic, and all those gentlemanly things. I do know something of him. He is sailing to retrieve you. He is no ogre.”

She smiled, touching her dangling pendant. “You are the ogre, right?”

“Don’t test me,” he warned her sternly.

“I have tested you time and again,” she said softly. “You have proven yourself, sir.”

“Have I? Lady, please, my mettle is in shatters. I promise you this, if I hold you again, I’ll leave no questions in your mind as to my true nature.”

She did not reply, but continued to smile. He reached over suddenly, grasping her wine goblet. He set it down upon the table with a small clunk. She arched a brow to him.

“I think you’ve had enough. How do you feel?”

“I feel very well. I dozed in the tub merely because of its comfort, and though I did consume a great deal of brandy, I did it throughout a very long day.”

“Oh. Is that so?”

“It is.”

He watched her for a long moment, his hands folded upon the table. “You are well and sober now?”

“I am, sir.”

He stood and caught her hands, pulling her slowly up from the table and into his arms. She should resist. Something languorous stole over her with the gentle touch of the breeze. Draperies fluttered and the soft fragrance of the tropic night whirled around them. The moon had risen as the fiery colors of sunset gave way to shadow, and then darkness. Candleglow was soft, and gentle as the ethereal beams from the moon falling down upon them.

“Run!” he told her softly. “Run away, and embrace the darkness, for you enter here into greater peril.” He clutched her hand and brought it to his chest, against his heart. “Feel the beat, lady, feel the pulse. Suffer the tempest, for I have been like a man long damned. Don’t take comfort in my presence, and don’t trust in my justice or honor, for by my justice you would lie with me now, and as I have warned you, what honor a rogue possesses ever dims within my heart. Run from me now, lady. And swiftly.”

It was fair warning, and well she knew it. Her palm and fingers lay over an erratic pulse, and a wall of vibrant, living heat. They pressed so close together that a fever danced throughout her and cast her into a field of sweet confusion far greater than any spirit could bring. She wanted him. Shameful, horrid, and illicit as it might be, she wanted him. That such feelings should rage within her heart left her aware that she could be no true lady, but in the night breeze, she could not care. This world was real, and he was a beacon, shining ever more brightly to her tempest-tossed soul. Codes and society could not matter here, all that had meaning were the earth and sky, the breeze, the primal power of the man.

She parted her lips to whisper, but knew not what she would say. Rescue came for her any day now, blessed rescue to her home, to a land of safety. To a lord, a man of the peerage, the betrothed who would give her the proper place in society, a gracious home, wealth, servants, security, all that she could desire.

Her security lay here, she thought. And the wealth to be found in the arms of such a man were all the riches she might come to desire.

“Go! Go now, I warn you!” he growled to her.