Master of My Dreams (23 page)

She’s dead, Christian.

The words pierced him.

Dead.
Powerless. Unable to give him
nightmares unless he allowed it. Unable to torment him unless he
permitted it. Unable to harm him, hurt him, haunt him. For five
long years he had allowed it, yes, perhaps even
wanted
it,
as atonement for his failure to get her out of the burning house,
as punishment for leaving her for so long while he was away at sea.
The nightmares, the guilt, the grief—Emily had not done that to
him; he had done it to himself.

In the quiet darkness, lit only by the soft
glow of the lantern, he felt something open in his soul, like huge
black clouds filing out after a heavy storm, and the pain and grief
that had been his sole companions for so long began to file out
with it. He saw Emily’s face, lingering briefly; then she began to
fade, until there was nothing left but a quiet exhaustion and a
tremulous, fragile hope.

Through the stern windows, dawn’s pink light
began to glow against the sea.

Christian cupped the wet cheeks of the woman
who held him so tightly. “Deirdre,” he breathed, and on a broken,
victorious sob, claimed her lips with his own.

Chapter 20

Deirdre melted against him, feeling the hard
strength of his arm behind her back, sighing as his lips drove
against hers and his tongue slipped out to gently coax her lips
apart. She wiggled closer to him. She felt the gentle pressure of
his tongue against her teeth, and opened her mouth to him, touching
her own tongue to his, hesitantly at first, then growing bolder as
her confidence grew. Her heart began to pound. Her clothes began to
feel too warm, too tight, too constricting. The strange heat
between her thighs began to thread its way up her belly.
Breathe
, she thought, somewhat dizzily. She sucked in a
great lungful of air through her nose. She had it now. She was
breathing, all right, and breathing hard.

So was he.

He dragged his mouth away from hers, and when
she looked up into his face, she saw that his eyes were dark,
heavy-lidded and intense—and that he was smiling.
Smiling.
For her, and at her, in relief, in triumph . . . in wonder.

“Deirdre,” he said simply, and touched her
cheek.

He was looking at her as though he had just
discovered something beautiful and revered. His gaze roved over
every detail of her face, and she blushed, feeling suddenly shy. He
reached out and cupped her jaw against his palm, his thumb gently
rubbing her cheek as he studied her with an intensity that brought
a swirl of heat to her insides.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you . . .
for not leaving me, even when I asked it.”

His hand slid back, through her hair,
cradling the back of her head and pulling her close. She closed her
eyes as his lips, so hard, so warm, found her own once more. She
moaned deep in her throat and pressed against him, feeling his
other hand come up to gently touch the rise of her breast, and
then, the gold chain that hung around her neck, following it down
until he came to the cross.

Slowly he pulled away, his head bent and his
pale hair falling over his brow as he gazed down at the talisman in
his hand.

“It never leaves me,” Deirdre said, feeling a
need to explain.

“I know.”

“’Tis part of me . . . part o’ me heritage .
. . but if it disturbs ye for me to be wearin’ it in light of
what’s about to happen between us, well . . . I suppose I can take
it off.”

“Do you wish, uh, something to happen between
us?” he asked, with a little smile.

“I don’t think I’d be lyin’ here in a narrow
bed with a man as naked as the day he was born, if I didn’t.”

He looked up then, smiled, and gently let the
cross fall back against her shirt. Then he leaned close. His lips
touched her brow, and his breath grew warm against her temple.
“Leave it on, then,” he murmured. “It is as much a part of you as .
. . as that bottle of Irish seawater, or the bread that Tildy
ate.”

“Aye, Christian,” she said soberly. “’Tis
more than a part o’ me. ’Tis a part of
Ireland
.”

He gathered her close, clasping her tightly
to his chest. She shut her eyes again, her chin just touching his
bandaged shoulder, every nerve in her body jumping, every inch of
her skin tingling. Neither spoke. The silence stretched on, until
it became awkward for both of them; he, knowing what he wanted but
afraid of failing himself and her; she, knowing what she wanted but
innocent, unsure, and afraid to push him too far, too fast. The
cabin began to glow pink in the light of the strengthening dawn,
and tiny orange diamonds began to glint off the waves beyond the
stern windows as the sun slowly heaved itself above the horizon.
But neither noticed. They were aware only of each other: he, of her
soft, soapy scent, a strand of hair that was tangled in his
eyelashes, the swell of her breasts pushing against his bare chest;
she, of the hard muscles of his shoulder, the little scar on the
side of his neck only an inch from her nose, the scent of his skin
and the thump of his heartbeat against her own.

“I”—he took a deep breath—“I do not know if I
. . . if I can do this, Deirdre.”

She pulled back slightly and looked into his
eyes. Gently, she said, “If ye can’t, Christian . . . only the two
of us will ever know.”

He tightened his mouth and stared at the
checked flooring. Long moments went by, and she sensed the inner
war he was waging; for him, the courage he had to muster for this
most manly of acts, this most supreme test of his masculinity, must
be far more than that of sending a ship into battle.

And then he raised his head and looked at
her, his voice commanding and direct.

“Go lock the door, Deirdre.”

Her heart began to race. She slid from the
bed and did as he bade. It took her a moment to accomplish the
task, so badly was her hand shaking. Then, taking a deep breath,
she turned and slowly faced him, suddenly aware of the sensuous
feel of her hair falling in thick, riotous disarray around her
shoulders and back and breasts.

He smiled, looking unbearably handsome in the
warm, pink and orange light.

“Come here, Deirdre.”

Shivering, she wrapped her arms around
herself and moved back across the cabin to where he lay, her gaze
never leaving his. Every sensation was heightened, acute: the scent
of the sea outside, the taste of nervous anticipation in her mouth;
the fear and eagerness of the unknown; the chill of the air, the
hard deck beneath her shoes, the thunderous echo of her heartbeat
in her ears.

He raised his hand, stopping her several feet
away from the bed.

“Deirdre—” His voice was hoarse, shaky, a
direct contrast to the boldness of his eye. “I think this is the
last chance I shall have to invite you to leave.”

She hugged herself tighter, knowing that
despite his injured shoulder, his fears, and his tenuous, slipping
grasp on his standards of behavior as an officer and a gentleman,
he did not want her to leave.

She walked straight up to him and into his
arms. “I don’t
want
to leave, Christian. Not now . . . not
ever.”

“Ah, Deirdre,” he murmured, pulling her down
with him. “Against every principle I hold dear, against every rule
I enforce, against every shred of my conscience, my morals, my
better judgment . . . you have broken me.”

She cradled his face in her hands,
shamelessly kissing his lightly-stubbled cheek, his jaw, the
corners of his mouth.

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“I haven’t done this before.”

“Slide under the covers with me.”

She did so, wrapping her arms around his neck
as he kissed her once more, his mouth moving urgently against her
own. Beneath her shirt, his hands—big and warm, the palms rough
with callous—cradled her breasts, teased the nipples, burned a path
over her skin. She kicked off her shoes, heard them thump on the
deck flooring, and broke the kiss long enough for him to coax her
shirt over her head, the trousers following it on its way to the
floor. Cold air swept against her skin; his palm roved over her
bottom, down her thighs, and then he pulled her protectively close
and back under the blankets with him.

The heat of his powerful body was like a
furnace. She molded herself to it, delighting in the roughness of
his chest against her naked breasts, the rocky muscles of his arm
pulling her close. There, that stab of sensation deep in the pit of
her belly again; there, a flood of dampness between her legs. Her
toes curled with pleasure, and she quivered in eagerness as he drew
the blanket up to their chins, encasing them in warmth and making
her feel delightfully wicked and wanton in the knowledge that they
were both shamelessly naked beneath.

She felt his breath, warm against her nose
and cheeks and brow. She moved restlessly as sensation built within
her and her nipples tingled with a gnawing ache. Anticipation
rocked her body, and suddenly she realized that now it was she who
was shaking, he whose hands were confident and masterful.

“Yer shoulder,” she said weakly, pushing back
a bit so that they lay side-by-side, facing each other.

“Bugger my shoulder.” Beneath the blanket,
his palm trailed down her arm and over the concave dip of her hip.
“I know what it is capable of.”

Face-to-face on the pillow, they gazed into
each other’s eyes, touching each other beneath the covers, learning
the shape and feel of each other’s bodies. Never had Deirdre
experienced the sensation of a male body against hers, and the
feeling left her deliciously weak. She was aware of his chest hair
against her breasts; the heaviness of one hard, muscled leg thrown
possessively over her thigh; the scrape of his foot as it moved up
and down her calf. . .

And the feel of his manhood—strong, rigid,
hot, and pulsing with life—against her soft belly.

She reached down beneath the covers and
touched it, feeling it throb with response; but he gently pulled
her hand away, guiding it upward and murmuring that she must not
rush things. Her fingers splayed against his chest, tangling in the
mat of crisp hair as his hand moved over her skin. Her breathing
grew harsh, raspy, erratic with each new spot he touched, each
previously unexplored inch of flesh.

Gently he pushed her onto her back and,
supporting his weight on his good side, he pushed the blanket down
her belly, leaving it bunched above her knees. She shut her eyes,
trembling as he rained gentle kisses over her face, her lips, her
eyelids.

“Relax,” he murmured, remembering that she
was an innocent virgin. “You have taught me how to hug, how to
smile, encouraged me to live again. Now let me show you what it
feels like to be cherished, adored, worshipped . . . loved.”

Deirdre melted inside.

Unsure what to do, she settled back, quaking
at the vibrant bursts of sensation each touch of his hand, each
press of his lips, brought her. She felt his fingers moving over
her collarbone, her breasts, the rise of her ribs, and the curve of
her hips. His mouth grazed her cheek, leaving hot kisses in its
wake; then he kissed her, gently at first, then fiercely, drawing
the very breath and soul from her with the searing intensity of his
desire. Fear filled her, fear that she was not behaving the way she
was supposed to, that she might do something wrong, that in doing
so she might upset the delicate balance that he was so afraid he
would lose.

But he did not seem to share her concern.

He lifted his head again, his breath coming
harder. “I am going to kiss you now, Deirdre.”

“But . . . wasn’t that what ye were just
doin’?”

“I have only just
begun
kissing
you.”

She shut her eyes tightly, quivering and hot
inside, as his mouth roved deliciously over hers once more. And
then, kiss her he did—her forehead, the base of her nose, her
cheeks, her fluttering lashes, the coarse spirals of her hair. He
lifted each of her hands and kissed her palms; he kissed the inside
of her elbow, her forearm, and touched his tongue to the underside
of her wrist until gooseflesh puckered her skin and feathers of
sensation darted through her belly. He bent to take her mouth once
more, and she felt his thumb grazing the wildly beating pulse at
the base of her throat as she met his kiss with building need and a
hunger she was only just beginning to understand.

His head lowered, and she threaded her
fingers in his hair, holding him close. His lips were warm against
the side of her neck, her collarbone. He nuzzled the cross aside
and she heard herself making little noises in her throat as his
mouth brushed across her breasts, warm and gentle and leaving her
wanting more. She felt his lips against one aching peak. Wetness as
his tongue slipped out to touch and taste the erect and hardening
nipple. Deirdre caught her breath and sat up with a gasp.

“Lie back, foundling.”

“Are ye
supposed
to kiss me
there?”

“Yes, love. I’m supposed to kiss you
everywhere
.”

“But, Christian, I don’t know if ye should. I
mean it’s been a long time, and ye might be forgettin’ just where
ye’re supposed to be kissin’—”

His lips twitched and he bent his head once
more, hefting her breast in one hand and kissing his way around her
nipple. “I can assure you, dearest, that I’ve not forgotten a
single, blessed thing.” He looked up, touched her cheek to reassure
her, and pressed firmly against her shoulder to coax her back down
to the bed. “Now, lie back . . . or do you not enjoy this?”

“I . . . I’m scared, Christian.”

“Shall I stop?”

“N-no!”

He smiled then, and never had she thought a
man could be more handsome than her Lord and Master. And then she
forgot all else as his head lowered once more, his lips, and then
his tongue, playing with her tightened nipple until the fire
between her thighs became unbearable. She sucked her lips between
her teeth and touched tremulous fingers to his hair, crushing the
pale locks in her fist as the pressure of his lips became a little
less gentle, a little less hesitant, a little less restrained . .
.

His mouth moved to the other breast, and she
gasped as she felt the hot-cool wetness of his tongue against that
nipple, too, tracing circles over it until it tingled and ached.
His hand was warm against the underside of her breast, pushing it
up so that he could better taste it, and then he drew the nipple
fully into his mouth, sucking it hard while his hand returned to
the other breast and his thumb stroked the hardened peak. Deirdre
whimpered with need, her lips clinging desperately to his, and then
felt his palm skimming down the curve of her waist, flaring out
over her hip, his thumb nearing that aching, throbbing, burning
part of her that was begging so shamelessly for his touch.

His mouth left her breast, and cool air
rushed in to take its place. She lay there, her breath coming hard
and fast through her lungs as he eased himself onto his side,
resting his weight on his good shoulder while his admiring gaze
swept over her.