Nicole Jordan (3 page)

With long fingers, he lowered the bodice of her shift so that her bare, trembling breasts spilled out.

Caro tensed, wondering if he would be disappointed at her physical attributes, but the heat of his gaze never faltered as he surveyed her wet, glistening flesh. His brazen scrutiny made her cheeks flame. And when his hands molded to the swelling curves, they seemed warmer than the water.

He took his time, massaging gently, rhythmically, and she forgot her apprehension. He drew out his caresses, as if determined to arouse her the way she had unwittingly done to him.

The slow, languid motion was unbelievably sensual. Yet Caro was unprepared for the rush of feeling when he bent to capture a peaked nipple with his mouth. Her breath fled as he suckled her. Heat flooded through her, while a nearly unbearable ache curled low in the pit of her stomach and between her thighs.

For long minutes his lips and tongue aroused her. It was tantalizing, intoxicating, sending thrills of sensation to every nerve in her body. With the same languor his hands began to stroke down her back, tracing the curve of her hips, her buttocks, making slow, kneading circles.

Her head fell back, and she sighed at the sweet pleasure of his seduction. Finally his lips left her breasts and traced a blazing path back up her throat. His breath was hot in her ear when he asked, “Do you need this?”

Not waiting for a reply, he caught the hem of her shift and drew the dripping garment over her head, baring her fully to his gaze.

His eyes grew darker if that was possible. He seemed enthralled and fascinated by the sight of her.

It was the night magic, she knew. No doubt the island’s seductive sensuality was intensifying his hunger. But she didn’t care what the reason. She felt the same hunger. She felt beautiful when he looked at her.

A drugged, dreamy languor filled her as his hands slid down her body again, sensuously caressing. Slowly his palm moved over her thigh to her belly, then lower to the curls at the juncture of her thighs. When he found the most tender, vibrant part of her body, Caro shivered.

He cupped her, stroking. Then one finger slid slowly into her, making her gasp aloud.

Ignoring her instinctive protest, he went on exploring, arousing, his teasing fingers gliding inside her…lingering…withdrawing…only to begin all over again.

At his rhythmic assault, desire swelled dizzily within her, along with a wanton excitement. Caro arched against him, her aching breasts seeking closer contact with his naked chest.

“Easy,” he murmured, but the husky rasp of his voice held satisfaction.

Drawing back, he guided her hand to his loins, to the male member that swelled so rigidly erect against her abdomen. Even in the silken water, it felt hot, throbbing to the touch.

He gave her the choice, waiting. But there was no longer any choice for Caro. Foolish or wise, she wanted this. Wanted him.

“Yes,” she whispered, replying to his silent query.

His eyes burned as his hands went to her hips and lifted her up, centering her over the engorged crest of his phallus, only to gently lower her again.

His entry was infinitely slow and careful; her body was slick with feminine need. But even so, the invasion felt overwhelming. She went very still with the shock of it.

There was no real pain, but she felt stretched and penetrated almost to the breaking point.

His warm lips touched her fluttering eyelids, her cheeks, her lips, until her panting breaths began to lessen.

“Better now?”

“Yes…”

The dull ache had subsided, yet she was afraid to move with the huge, pulsing shaft so deep inside her. But then his hands closed over her hips, and he drew her the slightest degree nearer.

A spark of pleasure kindled inside her that made her shudder. When she felt his hard, masculine flesh press deeper, filling her, she realized her body had begun to accept and even welcome his impalement.

His mouth went from earlobe to throat, sliding down to her bare collarbone, then farther. He was suckling her breasts again, this time more strongly, his tongue rasping and licking, setting off a hot, urgent clamoring inside her.

Whimpering, Caro melted helplessly against him, pushing her quivering flesh hard against his searing mouth. She was trembling with sensations so vibrant, she thought she might burst into flame.

Then his wonderful hands slid down once more between their bodies, his thumb finding the slick bud hidden within her feminine folds.

“No…” She said the word instinctively in a raw, shaking voice as she tried to pull back from the frightening intensity.

“Yes,” Max insisted, not allowing her to escape.

One hand clamped on her hip while his other fingers stroked her sexual center. He kissed her again, his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth, just as his rampant arousal was doing to her body.

The dark waves of pleasure built relentlessly until the ache was almost intolerable. Caro writhed with the wild sensuality of it.

A moment later a panicky, anguished sound escaped her. Her fingers bit into the corded muscles of his arms as molten fire engulfed her.

She clung to him, shaking helplessly, her cries shattering the night as the inferno continued…so powerful, so devastating, it left her senses reeling.

Dazed and depleted, she collapsed on his chest, her heartbeat loud in her ears as he cradled her in his arms.

“I never knew,” she murmured long moments later, her voice hoarse with passion. “I suppose that is why they call it ‘the little death.’”

“That is exactly why.” She heard the smile in his voice, felt his lips press against the damp hair curling at her temple. “But there is more, sweetheart.”

“More?”
She gave a husky, disbelieving laugh.

“Much more.” He moved his hips slightly, so that she could feel his still-thick arousal thrusting deeper.

Breathless once more, Caro drew back to gaze into his dark eyes. “Will you teach me?”

“It will be my honor—and my pleasure.”

His hands cupped her buttocks once more, and he began to rock her gently against him.

His eyes squeezed shut as he surged slowly into her. He was just as careful this time, but she sensed his effort at control. His face grew taut, his jaw rigid, while his breathing became as tortured as hers had been.

She felt his desperate need when his mouth blindly sought hers, heard it in his voice as he whispered against her lips, “Heal me, fierce angel.”

At his plea, she was lost. His dark desire filled her with tenderness, with the ardent longing to soothe his war-ravaged soul.

Her arms came around him tightly, and she returned his fervent kiss with all the yearning she’d kept hidden for years.

For tonight she belonged to this magnificent man. Whatever he wanted, she would do. And what he clearly wanted,
needed,
was to surrender to the night, to the moonlight, to the island’s passionate enchantment.

To her.

Chapter

One

London, September 1814

Partially shielded from view by a potted palm, Max Leighton leaned against a marble column and surveyed the crowded ballroom without enthusiasm. After enduring so many years of war, he had returned to England resolved to banish his grim memories by losing himself in the mundane pleasures of civilian life.

But this was not what he had in mind—pursued by countless matchmaking mamas and their nubile young daughters, eager to ensnare him in their nets. In the current craze of victory celebrations, a wealthy, decorated war veteran made an extremely eligible matrimonial prize, Max had learned to his chagrin.

His mouth curled in a wry grimace. He had little appetite for fighting on the battlefield of love, especially when he had no interest in settling down in marriage. But even the more seasoned beauties of the ton were vying for his attention now. Needing a respite from his popularity, he’d escaped the ballroom floor moments ago and sought refuge behind the palm.

If only his cavalry regiment could see him now, Max thought, amused in spite of himself.

But few of his men would be sympathetic to his plight: nestled in the lap of luxury, courted and feted by so many eager females.

What had happened to him? Before his army days, he hadn’t considered balls and soirees and garden parties so trivial. But perhaps the genteel challenges of the Beau Monde simply couldn’t match the satisfaction of saving Europe from the bloody machinations of a despot.

Or perhaps it was the women themselves who aroused his dissatisfaction. None of them had the honest charms of one woman he’d found impossible to forget.

His gaze narrowing, Max let his mind drift back, as it had countless times since his mission of mercy more than a year ago.

He had never expected to discover a Mediterranean island paradise, or experience an enchanting night of passion with an innocent temptress. He hadn’t been able to forget that night on Cyrene or the bewitching woman who had offered him solace.

He’d fought the growing urge to return to the island and seek out Caro Evers simply to see if the magic he’d felt with her was real or the result of the extraordinary circumstances. If, during the long months of war, he had built her up in his memory into an impossible ideal.

He had no real excuse to make such a journey. By all reports Lieutenant Yates had recovered well enough from his injuries to lead a satisfactory life. Yates had found gainful employment as a secretary to an elderly noblemen on the island, and his cheerful letters showed no hint of bitterness at becoming a cripple.

But even so, Max told himself, he could use the pretext of checking on his former subordinate—

“Don’t tell me you are in hiding?” an amused male voice broke into his reflections. “Do you realize how many belles you are disappointing?”

Christopher, Viscount Thorne, stood before him, surveying him with wry understanding. They had met the previous year on Cyrene during Max’s brief visit there, and in recent months had become friends—quite against Max’s better judgment. He wanted no more close friends while he was still so raw from losing so many others.

“Here, perhaps this will help,” Thorne said, offering him a snifter of what looked to be brandy. “I thought you would prefer a more potent libation to my aunt’s insipid punch.”

Max accepted the brandy gladly and took a long swallow, letting the fire burn down his throat.

Thorne was the rakehell son of a duke—tall, fair-haired, and athletic. It was Thorne who had introduced Max to many of the notorious pleasures London had to offer. And Thorne who had coerced him into attending the ball this evening.

Max raised his glass of brandy. “This helps,” he said, “but you are still bloody well indebted to me.”

Thorne flashed a grin. “I am indeed.” He was primarily in London for the fall Season because he’d reluctantly promised his aunt, Lady Hennessy, that he would squire around his young debutante cousin, who was trying to acquire some social polish in preparation for her come-out next spring. He had asked Max to attend tonight so he didn’t have to endure Lady Hennessy’s ball all alone.

He gave Max a friendly cuff on the back. “It must be a severe plague, being hounded so mercilessly by so many women who love you.”

“It isn’t my person they love. It’s the size of my income and my prospective title that draws them.” As the only living male relative of an elderly uncle, Max was the heir presumptive to a viscountcy.

“Along with your charm and looks,” Thorne interjected. “And the fact that you’re a celebrated war hero. Have you any notion how many men would kill to be in your shoes?”

Max returned a pained smile. “I would rather be anywhere else than here. Back on your island, for example.”

Thorne shook his head. “I’m not certain that would be an improvement. Cyrene has more than its share of marriage-minded debutantes. There are some three dozen British families who lead society there. They have their own little ton and can be quite as ruthless as London’s Upper Ten Thousand.”

“I would be willing to risk it just for a little peace.”

Thorne gave him a scrutinizing glance. “Ah, I fancy I know what your problem is. You were infected.”

“Infected?”

“By Cyrene’s spell. It gets in your blood.”

Taking another swallow of brandy, Max shook his head. “I heard something about a mythical spell, but I don’t believe in such things.”

“Even so, the island affects some people strangely. It has seductive qualities that can be downright dangerous.”

That much was true, Max agreed silently. He had found it enchanting, seductive, beguiling….

“Is that why you settled there?” he asked his friend. “You were seduced by the island?”

To his surprise, Thorne gave an enigmatic smile. “In part. But Cyrene has other appealing traits that aren’t apparent at first glance.”

Reportedly, Thorne had been exiled to Cyrene years ago by his infuriated noble father. But even though he’d eventually reformed enough to appease his sire, he still chose to make his home on the tiny island in the western Mediterranean, between Spain and Sardinia. Max had never quite understood why; he wouldn’t have thought such serene allure could attract a man of Thorne’s reckless nature.

“Perhaps you should pay another visit there,” Thorne added. “The tranquillity might do you good.”

Indeed it might, Max reflected, remembering the peace he’d found so briefly. Warm, golden sun. Sparkling aquamarine seas. Mountain peaks wooded with pine and holm oak. Rich valleys lush with vineyards and orange orchards and olive groves. Ancient ruins. Spellbinding, moonlit nights…

Paradise.

The thought was so tempting. Though he loathed admitting it, he still hadn’t completely recovered from the years of war. The long conflict had been over since Napoleon’s abdication in April, yet Max was still plagued by the nightmare. By his own private hell. He had returned alive, when other, more deserving men had not. In the darkest hours of night, it was only by determinedly dreaming of his ministering angel that he could keep the guilt and grief at bay.

Just then his attention was diverted by a familiar curvaceous figure beyond the potted palm, and he let out an oath, barely quelling the urge to shrink farther behind the column.

“I certainly haven’t found tranquillity here,” Max muttered, eyeing the blond-haired widow who was scanning the ballroom, doubtless in search of him.

“Then come home with me at Christmas,” Thorne said. “My obligations will keep me in London until then, but I plan to spend the holiday on Cyrene and would be delighted to have you join me.”

“I could easily be persuaded. I’m eager to see for myself that Yates has recovered.”
And to meet a certain tempting angel again…

He knew better than to bring up the subject, but the question seemed to be dragged out of him. “What do you hear about Miss Evers?”

“Caro?” Thorne’s eyebrows rose with curiosity. “Ah, yes, you met her when she nursed Yates.” He smiled slowly, as if recalling a fond memory. “Why, she’s as singular as ever. Caro tends to set the blue-blooded denizens of Cyrene on their ears with regularity.”

“She did strike me as rather unconventional.”

“She is that indeed,” Thorne said with a low laugh that suddenly faltered. “What in blazes…?” His eyes narrowed. “Speak of the devil.”

Following his gaze through the palm fronds, Max glanced past the throngs of dancers, toward the main entrance to the ballroom. A woman stood there, looking starkly out of place among the begowned, bejeweled, befeathered ladies. She wore plain dark traveling clothes, and she was searching the crowd impatiently.

Max felt every muscle in his body tense. He recognized her from his dreams. The proud carriage of her slender body. The delicate strength in the set of her jaw. The compassion in her healing touch…

Wondering if he was again dreaming, Max blinked rapidly, just as Thorne said in a suddenly terse tone, “Excuse me. Caro may be looking for me. I need to discover what brought her here.”

As his friend strode away, Max stood momentarily rooted, feeling slightly stunned. Like Thorne, he had no idea what had brought Caro Evers here to London, specifically to Lady Hennessy’s ballroom.

Yet he had no doubt whatsoever why his life had suddenly brightened.

Relief flooded Caro when she spied Thorne approaching. At least she wouldn’t have to search further for him.

When he reached her, she forced herself to return his smile of welcome, knowing that she was the object of countless curious stares. The notoriety didn’t bother her—she was fully accustomed to it by now. And in the five years since her horrible Season in London, she had conquered the sick, hollow feeling of being an outcast. But no one needed to suspect that she and Christopher, Lord Thorne, were anything more than longtime acquaintances and neighbors, or that she had come here to fetch him for an urgent mission.

“Did you just arrive in London?” he murmured as he bent gallantly over her hand.

“Yes. I called at your house but was told I could find you here. Thorne, it is Isabella. We think she has been taken captive.”

His pleasant smile never wavered, although a spark of dark emotion flared in his eyes. “I am delighted to see you again, Miss Evers. Come, you can give me all the news from home.”

Tucking her arm in his, he ushered her from the ballroom and along the elegant corridor to a large library.

Caro shivered as he closed the door behind them. A fire had been lit in the grate, but it was still far colder here than home on her beautiful island.

“So tell me what happened,” Thorne said brusquely, all business now that the need for pretense was over.

“Five weeks ago Isabella was returning home after visiting Spain, but her ship never arrived on Cyrene. In all likelihood it was overrun by Barbary pirates and she was enslaved.”

Caro heard the note of fear in her voice, saw the dismay in Thorne’s frown as well. There was always danger in sailing the Mediterranean. Now that Napoleon had been vanquished, the French fleet no longer threatened merchant vessels. But for centuries corsairs from the Barbary Coast of North Africa had menaced the waters, practicing the lucrative business of seizing ships and selling their captives as slaves. In fact, a decade ago the American navy had fought a war with Tripoli over that kingdom’s enslavement of its citizens.

“Sit down and start from the beginning,” he suggested as she began to pace.

“I couldn’t possibly sit. I have been doing nothing but sitting on board a schooner for two weeks now. I wish it didn’t take so blasted long to reach London!”

“Well, you won’t do Isabella any good by wearing out my aunt’s carpet,” Thorne replied. “Would you care for some sherry?”

“Yes…thank you.”

His pragmatic tone had a calming effect. Taking a deep breath, Caro moved over to the hearth and held out her gloved hands to the fire while Thorne went to a table and poured her a glass of sherry.

Memories rushed through her mind as she stared at the flames. Lady Isabella Wilde was her dearest friend—a beautiful Spanish noblewoman who had outlived three husbands and now frequently traveled the globe, living life as she pleased. The adventuresome Isabella had been like a mother to her, ever since Caro’s own mother died when she was a girl. Isabella was also a role model of independent thinking and had encouraged her in countless ways to pursue her dreams.

Caro was fiercely determined to save her friend from captivity—and so were all the other Guardians. This was not just a personal mission for them. As the daughter of an exiled Spanish statesman, Isabella had been granted sanctuary on Cyrene many years ago. And the capture of someone under the Guardians’ protection struck at the heart of their order. Their leader, Sir Gawain Olwen, considered their very honor to be at stake. There was no question they would mount a rescue if necessary. Caro had come directly to London to give Thorne his orders.

He handed her a full wineglass, then settled himself on a sofa while she explained the facts they had pieced together after Isabella went missing—facts that suggested she’d been taken captive by Barbary corsairs.