They were all beginning to regain a sense of awareness. They could
feel
again. They
wanted
to feel again. She thought she should be terrified by this immense awakening that she was experiencing, but all she knew was a gratitude that threatened to overwhelm her, to make her weep for what she’d denied herself for so long.
His mouth continued to work its magic, never leaving hers, never ceasing its explorations. She was beginning to wonder if she’d ever truly been kissed, because this was like nothing that she’d before experienced. It affected her entire body, made her want to crawl over him, made her want to sink into him until they were one. The cabin had grown so very warm that she wanted to rip off her clothes. Or maybe it was her, heated from the inside out, from the outside in. She barely knew any longer. Had little rational thought save for
pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.
Long. Slow. Leisurely. It was all there, and yet in spite of that, the kiss was wild, untamed, unyielding. It commanded, it tempted, it seduced. Thoroughly, irrevocably. She understood better now his restraint, because what he was unleashing had the power to conquer her, to have her writhing in his arms with no care for the consequences that would follow. She wanted what he was offering, wanted it all. Wanted nothing to go unexplored.
His hand slid lower and cupped her breast. She moaned with the intimacy of it, the pleasure that tripped through her when he skimmed his thumb over her pearled nipple.
She broke off the kiss, pressing her mouth to his chin, his jaw, his neck. She damned the cravat and the blasted buttons that kept her from going where she wished, from tasting him fully. Why tonight of all nights had he decided to prove that he did indeed understand the purpose of buttons and buttonholes?
He cradled her face between his strong hands, forced her to meet his smoldering gaze.
“I was wrong, Anne. I won’t be able to stop. So tell me now: do I take you to my bed or do I jump into the sea to cool off?”
She wanted to laugh, but all she seemed capable of doing was pleading, “Don’t go.”
T
hank God, Tristan thought. Thank God.
He’d known she’d be exquisite but none of his imaginings had prepared him for the reality of her responsiveness, her flavor, her heat. His burgeoning desire astounded him. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Even his past hunger for revenge was dwarfed by the need clawing through him to possess her completely and fully.
He wanted to exhibit the slowness with which he’d taunted her but he wanted her too badly. And she was wearing so damned many clothes. In between kisses he released buttons, untied ribbons, dragged off petticoats—
In between kisses she unknotted his cravat, gave his buttons their freedom, tugged at his clothes—
Between caresses he removed her slippers, rolled down her stockings—
Between caresses she pulled off his boots, drew his shirt over his head—
It seemed hours but he knew it was only mere minutes before they were breathing harshly, taking each other in.
“You’re so beautiful,” he rasped. Her breasts were high and firm, her nipples a pale pink that he longed to taste. Her belly was flat, her hips narrow. He watched as her gaze traveled over him, and he couldn’t mistake the appreciation in her eyes. It was without arrogance that he knew he had much to offer, but he also knew that for a virgin it could be frightening to see the clear evidence of his desire for her. He should have doused the blasted lamps. He should have—
She placed her warm hand on his shoulder, met his gaze. “I want you.”
She devastated him with so little. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to his bed, set her on the sheets with care, then followed her down.
A
nne welcomed the weight and length of him as he covered her body with his and once again took her mouth. She wanted to touch all of him, every inch. He was magnificent. Long legged, strong, powerful. She’d seen his muscles bunching with his movements as he made his way about the ship. In her innocent imaginings, she’d never envisioned that a man could look so beautiful. A handsome face, yes, but a beautiful body that promised something that went beyond pleasure. It was a fanciful thought, but it had raced through her mind when she’d finally managed to unveil him. She thought perhaps she should be frightened by what was to come, but she seemed to be capable only of anticipating it.
She skimmed her fingers over his chest, his shoulders, his back. She felt the raised welts that marred that incredible expanse of muscles and sinew and wanted to weep, knowing that he had once suffered such damaging punishment. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him tightly, wishing she could take the painful memories from him.
But she supposed they were partially responsible for shaping him into the man he’d become, the man who fascinated her, the man she now yearned for more than her next breath.
His mouth left hers to trail along her throat, and while she almost cried out at the loss, she welcomed the new sensations that arose with his explorations. He seemed to be intent on not leaving an inch of her unknown to his questing tongue. He lightly nipped her collarbone before easing down. He skimmed his lips over the swells of her breasts. He was wedged between her thighs. She rubbed her soles over his calves, arched her hips upward—
“Not yet, Princess.”
“Is this too to be long, slow, and leisurely?” she asked on a sigh.
“Long, slow, but hardly leisurely, once we’re into the thick of things.”
She wanted to laugh. Instead she moaned as he closed his mouth over her nipple and suckled gently. Conflicting sensations poured through her. Tension and lethargy battled. She wanted to relax beneath him, tighten herself around him.
He journeyed to her other breast and bestowed upon it the same attentions. She’d never imagined such dedication, had never realized the full extent of caressing, tasting, touching that making love would entail. She had always thought it would be over quickly. Instead she was discovering that it might last forever.
He ran his tongue up and down the valley between her breasts, turning his head one way to kiss an inside swell, then the other. She scraped her nails along his scalp, welcoming the long strands of his hair curling around her fingers. Easing lower, he dipped his tongue into her navel and her body tightened in response.
She raised her shoulders from the bed, clutched his, tried to pull him toward her. “I want another kiss.”
His eyes were heavy-lidded, held a hint of wickedness in them as he met her gaze. “I intend to give you one. Only on another set of lips.”
“Whatever—”
“Relax, Princess. I’ve thought of this too long to deny myself the pleasure of it.”
“The pleasure—”
His breath stirred the curls between her thighs and whatever words she might have been on the verge of saying scattered from her mind. She thought a proper lady would object, but tonight she was anything except a proper lady.
And as his tongue swirled over her, he made her glad for that fact. Never had she experienced anything so decadently wonderful. Sinking back on the bed, she drew up her knees, welcomed the intense sensual sensations cascading powerfully through her. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, needing purchase because she was in danger of being cast upon the winds of a storm and carried away.
Long. Slow. Leisurely. She wondered distractedly if this was the kiss he’d been referring to when he’d made his original bargain. Was this where he’d always intended to take her? Had the other been a ruse?
It didn’t matter. She’d always suspected that the bargain wasn’t as innocent as he’d made it seem, but she couldn’t be angry, not when her nerve endings were dancing wildly and a tempest of pleasure churned around her.
Then the tempest grew, threatened to drown her. “Oh my God!”
“Let go, Princess,” he murmured against her sensitive flesh. “Just let go.”
When his tongue returned to its task, she did. She fell into the storm and found herself being hurled through a vortex of intense pleasure. She cried out, certain she would die from it, but when it passed, she was still breathing—though harshly—and she opened her eyes to find him staring down on her, a satisfied smile on his handsome face. Had he felt it, too? How could he look so pleased if he hadn’t?
He lowered his mouth to hers, kissed her deeply, and she tasted the salt of her skin on his lips. Decadent.
She felt him nudging between her thighs and lifted her hips to receive him. She’d heard that it would hurt. Then, she couldn’t deny that she experienced discomfort, but more she felt the joy of having the length and weight of him filling her. Sliding a hand beneath her bottom, he raised her slightly and she was aware of him sinking even further into her, welcomed the fullness of him.
“God, you’re incredibly hot,” he breathed near her ear. “Wet. Tight.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, squeezing him, she relished the intimacy, the closeness. That he could say such things to her, that she could hear them without igniting.
Then he began rocking against her, and her body responded in kind. Sensations began to build again. Planting her feet on the bed, she met his driving need. She clamped her hands against his backside, felt his muscles bunching with his powerful thrusts as he drove himself into her, over and over. It was madness. She was lost in the storm again, only this time he was lost in it with her. She knew from his grunts, his tautening body, his increased rhythm. When the storm reached its apex and she cried out, she heard his guttural groan, opened her eyes to see his head thrown back, his jaw clenched. His body jerked, a final deep thrust, and he growled through gritted teeth.
Opening his eyes, he stared down on her as though he couldn’t quite remember who she was. Tears suddenly stung her eyes, because in spite of everything, she very much hated herself at that moment.
B
loody
damned hell. Tristan rolled off Anne and stared at the beams of the ceiling,
waiting for his heart to calm, his breathing to settle. She was unlike any woman
he’d ever known. She gave so much of herself, gave so willingly. He’d never felt
so shattered, so vulnerable, so . . . lost.
He wanted to take her again, but it was more than
her body that he wanted to possess. That strange yearning made little sense.
He’d never experienced it before. He enjoyed women, enjoyed the pleasures that
could be shared. But he’d never gone beyond that. Had never wanted to. Had never
been tempted to.
Perhaps it was because she’d been a virgin. He’d
never taken a virgin before. He felt a sort of responsibility toward her, a need
to protect—
She sat up, the sheet gathered at her waist, her
legs drawn up, her arms wrapped about them, her glorious hair cascading down her
back and pooling at her hips. He skimmed his finger along her arm, but she
neither acknowledged the touch nor looked at him.
“Regrets already, Princess?” he asked, shoring
himself up for the brutal blow of the truth, wondering why he should care if she
had misgivings. He’d gotten what he wanted from her, what he’d wanted from the
moment he’d seen her walk through the door of the tavern on that rainy
night.
With her knuckle, she swiped at her cheek. He
didn’t want to acknowledge the clutch at his heart because his actions had
brought on her tears. It was all he could do not to sit up and begin kissing
them away, but he knew once he was wrapped around her that it would be hell not
to continue on to another sated adventure.
“I lied,” she rasped.
His gut clenched and a fissure of unease went
through him. He narrowed his eyes. “About what precisely?”
“Walter. I didn’t see him off at the railway
station. I assume he was in uniform and that he looked as handsome as always. I
don’t know if he said anything about being home in time for pheasant hunting. I
heard the Duke of Ainsley’s brother did. I stole it for my memory, because I had
none. The night before we had an awful row and so I didn’t go to say a final
good-bye. Our last words to each other were spoken in anger. He wanted this from
me and I said no.”
“This?” He sounded like a bloody echo, but he
didn’t want her dead fiancé here now, between the sheets with them. By God, the
man’s ghost had been with them on the entire journey. Couldn’t Tristan at least
have tonight without the man haunting them?
She waved her hand over the bed. “This.” She
sniffed, scrubbed at her eyes. “We were walking in the garden. He wanted me to
slip out of the house later, meet him in the mews. He said he’d take me to a
room at a hotel, that no one would ever know. But I said no.”
She twisted around, clutching the sheet with one
hand to her breast, doing an incredibly lousy job of covering herself because
one nipple was playing peek-a-boo and distracting him.
“A proper lady says no,” she continued. “I wanted
this”—she jerked her hand back and forth between him and her—“to mean nothing.
But it’s so intimate, so personal. I wanted proof that what I had denied him was
of no consequence. But it wasn’t. It’s important. It’s larger, more than I
expected it to be. He must have died hating me for denying him this.”
“No.” He cradled her cheek, urged her down until
her head was nestled in the nook of his shoulder. “I can assure you that he did
not hate you.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you are the sort of woman a man could
never hate.”
He had expected her to be stiff in his arms, but as
always she melted into him. He wasn’t accustomed to talking afterward. Generally
he would simply go to sleep, but something was to be said for lying here in the
lethargy of lovemaking—even if the conversation revolved around another man, one
he was coming to loathe.
“You should know, Anne, that a man will always
strive to get a woman into his bed. It’s our nature. Even when he expects the
lady to say no, he will still try to convince her otherwise. He may be
disappointed if the lady turns him down, his pride may sting, but he won’t hate
her. If anything, it was his pride talking that night. Not his heart.”
She tightened her arms around him, and he felt warm
tears trickle onto his chest. “Yet, here I am with you, someone I don’t love.
Being intimate.”
“It’s easier if you don’t love the person. If you
make a mess of it you can just walk away. Besides, we’re not in Society. Out
here there are few rules. Who is to care what we do?”
“And you’re safe, I suppose,” she said quietly.
“I’ll never see you again. I can pretend this didn’t happen.”
Could she? Could he mean so little to her? And why
did he care if he meant nothing at all to her? What did it matter if he was
simply an itch that she had a need to scratch? How many women had he left in
ports throughout the world and never given another thought to them?
Why was he certain that he would not so easily
forget her? The one woman he
should
forget.
He became aware of her soft, even breathing. Gently
he slid out from beneath her and covered her with the blankets. He’d never had a
woman sprawled in the bed on his ship. Now he would always see her there.
After drawing on his trousers and a shirt, he
slipped silently out of his quarters. The ship creaked and rocked, and he found
comfort in the familiar sounds as he made his way to the quarterdeck. Gripping
the railing, he stared out at the vast expanse of black sea and star-blanketed
sky. He remembered the first time he’d done so. How small and insignificant it
had made him feel. How frightened. He hadn’t known then what awaited him. He’d
never felt so alone or betrayed. All he’d thought about was making his uncle pay
for sending him into hell.
In time he’d conquered his terror, mastered the
hell to such an extent that he couldn’t envision leaving it. He was a ship’s
captain. Traveling the world was what he knew. In spite of what he and his
brothers had accomplished two years ago, he couldn’t imagine giving up his
roving life, his ship, his unencumbered existence.
He didn’t know why his thoughts were trudging along
this path.
Perhaps because she had not wanted him per se; she
had simply wanted the sensations. He thought of all the women he’d taken to his
bed over the years—for pleasure’s sake. Had they left his bed feeling as
. . . used, as dissatisfied? Were they as he was now: wanting
more?
Why? Why did what he shared with Anne suddenly seem
as though it wasn’t enough?
“Jack?”
“Tristan,” he said quietly, so quietly he wasn’t
certain she heard. She stepped nearer until he could feel the warmth emanating
from her body, could smell the lavender and citrus scent that was such a part of
her, but layered now within it was the fragrance of their lovemaking.
“Pardon?” she asked softly.
“My name is Tristan. Jack is simply . . .
a name I use on the sea.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her wrap her
hands around the railing. After all they’d shared, he should place his arm
around her, but that somehow seemed far too intimate, more so than what had
transpired in his cabin. He was floundering here, like a fish tossed onto the
sandy shore. He didn’t like it, wasn’t certain how to regain his footing,
because everything seemed to be shifting beneath him.
“Why? Why do you use a different name?”
“I lied,” he forced out, repeating the simple words
that she’d used earlier, “when I said I went to sea for adventure. I went to sea
because someone was desperate to kill me.”
“Dear God, why?”
“It doesn’t matter. That part of my life—” He
tightened his own hold on the railing. How could it not matter when it had
shaped him into the man he was? He didn’t want it to matter; he didn’t want to
consider that in some perverted way his uncle had won. “—is unimportant.”
Her delicate hand crept slowly across until it was
resting on his. He wanted to fling it away. He didn’t want comfort. He hadn’t
had comfort in years, fourteen to be exact. Half his life he’d lived without
tenderness or care. It unmanned him. His eyes burned. Damned salty air. Or maybe
it was the breeze causing his eyes to water. But it wasn’t her. He wouldn’t
allow it to be her.
If not for his uncle, he might have grown into a
man who would be worthy of Anne. He’d have been embraced by Society, instead of
perceived as a pariah. He might have met her at a ball before she’d come to love
her fiancé. He might have been the young lord she’d denied, although for the
life of him he couldn’t imagine that he’d not have enticed her into his bed.
From the moment he’d spied her, he’d wanted her too desperately.
“Why Crimson Jack?” she asked.
He swallowed hard. He didn’t want to tell her and
yet he seemed incapable of holding in the words. “The captain named me Jack. He
knew I was running from someone. At first I was angry, wanted to smash
something. Got into a fight with one of the mates. Roughed him up good. Captain
said I had to apologize. I wouldn’t. They took the lash to me. Still wouldn’t
apologize. I was a bloody mess when I finally lost consciousness.”
He heard her tiny cry of dismay, knew if he looked
he’d see tears in her eyes. So he didn’t look. It was easier not to feel
anything.
“Crimson.”
“Yeah. After that I was known as Crimson Jack and
no one wanted to risk upsetting me.”
She squeezed his hand. “I hate that they hurt you
so badly.”
He didn’t want her sympathy. It made him feel weak,
not quite the man he knew himself to be.
“It all worked out satisfactorily in the end.” He
turned to face her. Her hair was loose, flying in the wind. The moon was full,
and her features were limned by its pale glow. Touching her cheek, he felt the
dampness of her cooling tears. “But what am I to do about you?”
She smiled sweetly. “Remember me, perhaps.” Her
inflection was that of a question, doubt, insecurity.
“That I most certainly will do.”
He captured her mouth, relishing the taste and feel
of her. That she scared the bloody hell out of him was something to be dealt
with another day, another night. For now, he was greedy for whatever more she
would give him. He would leave her in port. He would watch her march away,
disappear into the fog-enshrouded shadows—
He would be left behind, but this time it was what
he wanted. He wanted to sail the seas. He wanted to command his ship, his men.
He wanted only memories of her.
She would waltz in ballrooms, walk through parks,
and flirt with gentlemen. She would be sought-after, desired. She would have a
husband and children. She would possess everything that he had no aspirations to
own.
So it was with a measure of regret for what he
could not give her that he swept her into his arms and returned to his bed for
what he could bestow on her.
T
ristan, Tristan, Tristan.
She murmured his name as she nibbled on his neck
and ear while he carried her to his cabin as though she weighed little more than
a cloud hovering on the distant horizon. How strange that she had never thought
he looked like a Jack to her, had never called to him by what she thought his
name was until after they’d made love.
And only then to discover that his true name was
Tristan. It suited him. Jack was too common. But Tristan belonged with the
dashing sea captain.
He shouldered his way into his quarters and kicked
the door closed without releasing his hold on her. He set her on her feet near
the bed. She quickly undid the buttons on her gown and let it slide down her
body. It was all she’d bothered to put on before seeking him out on deck.
She saw his eyes darken with appreciation just
before he dragged his shirt over his head. He unfastened his trousers and
dropped them. Would she ever tire of the sight of him straining with desire for
her?
When he made a move to come in for another kiss,
she stayed him with a hand on his chest. “Not yet.”
She knew once he claimed her mouth again, she would
be lost to the sensations and would allow him to steer the pleasure. “I want a
moment at the helm.”
He flashed a purely masculine predatory grin. “By
all means.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it dim when
she eased behind him.
“Anne—”
“Shh, Tristan.” She studied the crisscross of lines
marring his back. “How many? How many lashes?”
“The first time or the second?”
His voice held no emotion. He might as well have
been asking if she preferred marmalade or jam. “It happened more than once?”
“I had a lot of anger in me.”
She trailed her finger over the longest, thickest
welt. Crimson Jack. Covered in blood. “How old were you?”
“Princess, this is hardly conversation that will
lead to seduction.”
“How old?”
She felt him tense beneath her touch, heard him
swallow.
“Fourteen.”
She slammed her eyes closed. She hoped she’d been
wrong. That he’d been a man better able to withstand the pain and humiliation of
it. She pressed her lips to the center of his back, for the boy he’d been, the
man he was.
“Is he still alive . . . the man who did
this to you?”
“Yes. A captain called Marlow. Our paths cross from
time to time.”
“I hope you beat him.”
“I never blamed him. He needed order on his ship
and I was of a mind to create havoc. The one I blame is the man who wanted me
gone. He’s now dead.”
“I’m glad.”
“No more than I.”
He twisted around, cradled her face with his palms,
and gathered her tears with his thumbs. Only then did she realize that she was
crying. “Don’t weep, sweetheart. As I’ve told you before: it was a long time
ago. I never think of it.”
How could he not? It had shaped him, was part of
his life. She supposed it was a testament to his character that he had moved on,
that he thrived in spite of knowing that the world could be unkind. He didn’t
wallow in self-pity or bemoan the unfairness that had been bestowed upon
him.