Starlight & Promises (15 page)

Her lips slanted upward. “Why do
you
believe they leap like that in front of the ship? You must have some theory.”

He returned the smile. “I daresay they’re playing, enjoying the thrill of the close encounter. I also believe they’re waiting for us to throw the galley waste overboard so they can obtain a free meal. They have an especial fondness for fish heads.” He winked, and a hint of devilry flickered in his eyes. “But I’ve noticed they have little liking for your jerked chicken.”

When she turned back to the rail, his lips whispered across the back of her bare neck, though she could have imagined it. Dare she find out?

Two nights later while Christian stood watch, footsteps tapped on the boards. Turning, he leaned back against the railing, folded his arms over his chest, and crossed his ankles. In the radiance of the lanterns and stars, Samantha came into sight, pausing by the ladder and nibbling at her fingernails—a familiar habit, one in which she indulged when nervous or fearful.

His heart gave a leap, as did his cock. He dismissed both unruly organs.

She moved toward him, seeming to push her feet forward.

He smiled warily, suspecting their meeting privately in the night boded ill for his peace of mind. “Dare I ask what mischief you’re about at this late hour?”

“Nothing.” She lowered her head and paid particular attention to worrying a nail head in the planks with the toe of her half boot.

“I beg to differ with you. What do you want?”

She looked up with luminous eyes glowing in the starlight. “I wish to request a favor.”

Warning bells clanged in his brain. “What?” he asked with caution.

“You see, I have developed this theory. You are a scientist, and scientists are fond of theories, are they not?”

“What makes me suspect I’ll regret my answer if I say yes?”

She pouted prettily. “Set aside your reservations for once and simply answer the question. I assure you the ship will not sink if you do.”

“Right, I’ll bite. I cannot wait to discover where this is leading. Indeed, I’m fond of theories. Now I suppose you plan to tell me yours?”

“Of course.”

Her infectious grin coaxed a smile from him.

“I have contemplated our kiss in Charleston and formed a theory,” she said.

“I die with anticipation.” He recollected that kiss, and a jolt of searing heat danced along his nerves like Saint Elmo’s fire.

“I imbibed a great quantity of wine that night,” she said after taking a deep breath, “and when you kissed me, I felt dizzy and … and strange. I can only conclude that my condition resulted from becoming foxed on the wine. You see, I seldom imbibe strong drink.”

His lips twitched. She consumed two small glasses of wine. She really
was
an innocent if she had no inkling of the emotions that flared between them. Though he suspected her ultimate destination, he allowed her to plow ahead into rough seas.

“The only true way to test my theory is to try it again when I’ve had naught to drink. Do you not agree?”

“I most emphatically do not.” He moved to turn away. Her small hand on his arm stopped him. Her eyes revealed a vulnerability that grabbed his soul and less saintly parts of his body. Blood pumped slow and heavy into his loins, and he groaned.

“Will you kiss me again, Chris?” Color rose into her face. “As a scientific experiment to test my theory?”

His resistance wavered, and he cursed his weakness. If he were to kiss her, could he trust himself not to become overwhelmed by this blasted obsession with her?

“For science?” she asked, her voice becoming very small.

“Very well, in the interest of scientific inquiry …” He bent over and bussed her on the cheek.

Her face fell, and tears welled up in those marvelous eyes. “You are mocking me, pretending to misunderstand. I should have known you would not take me seriously.”

He released his breath in a slow stream of air. “Why yes, Sam, I suppose I was, though I had no intention of giving offence. We’ll carry out this experiment properly. Pucker up.”

Holding her wrists in his hands, he pulled her arms behind her back and gently drew her up against him. A tingling shiver swept all the way to his toes. He dipped his head and moved his mouth as lightly as a breath over hers, kissing the corners and running the tip of his tongue over the curves. When she parted her lips, he moved on, kissed her nose and her eyelids, placed fleeting kisses across her forehead and temple and down her cheeks.

At last he settled his lips over hers and slanted his head, fitting and molding to the shape and softness of her mouth. He flicked his tongue barely inside, out again, ran his tongue over her teeth and tantalized himself with quick thrusts. When her tentative tongue found his and caressed it, heat fired his groin, and he eased back, leaving her lips, and pulled her up tighter against him, allowing his erection to pulse against her belly.

“So sweet,” he murmured. “You have the most luscious mouth, Sam, soft as a jaguar’s fur, sugary as a mango, and smooth as butter. Hot, melted butter.”

When she opened her mouth, he delved back inside, deepened the kiss, filling her sweet cavity with his tongue and stealing her breath. He thrust rapidly in and out in imitation of what he ached to do, and she moaned and trembled, her head falling back. His tongue went deeper, his lips growing harder, greedier. She kissed him back with her lips, her tongue, and her body undulated against him. Heat rose swiftly and unbearably. His testes ached, and he rubbed his swollen shaft against her softness to dispel some of the discomfort.

Samantha broke the kiss. “Release my hands,” she said in a quavering voice.

“Not on your life.” He continued to trace a moist trail across her throat and under her chin, his tongue traveling across skin like hot silk.

“Why?”

“It keeps both our hands occupied,” he murmured against the hollow at the base of her throat, gliding his mouth downward, as low as her modest dress would allow. He brushed kisses back to her mouth again, tonguing the corners and the enchanting dip in her upper lip.

“Chris,” she said, her face heated and flushed, “please release me. I want to touch you.”

Had she thrown a bucket of cold water on him, he could not have pulled away faster. His back stiffened, and though he still held her hands, he stepped back until their bodies no longer touched. “Bloody hell,” he said, “you have no notion of what you’re saying.”

“I do. Please release my hands.” Her eyes darkened into turbulent golden pools. “I merely want to touch you, and I would like for you to … to touch me.”

Her words sliced the air like a pirate’s cutlass. He dropped her hands and backed up another step. “You know nothing,” he said harshly. “Your innocent touching wouldn’t stop there. Return to bed. I give you fair warning that next time you attempt a stunt like this, you’ll find yourself on your back with your skirt up around your ears, and I’ll be inside you faster than you can say … theory.”

Visibly stung by his words, she lowered her eyes, spun around, and ran away.

With a deep scowl, Christian watched her leave. Though he was relieved at her withdrawal, shame and disgust at his behavior pricked him. How could he set an example for Garrett when he couldn’t even keep his hands off Samantha? It made no difference that she had instigated the encounter. He had the experience, was older, supposedly wiser.

What attraction did the little imp have that drew him in so tightly? His mind and body had tangled into knotted threads, and he was helpless to find the ends to straighten them out. He had only to look at her, and his cock mutinied. He had to resolve this unseemly state of affairs in some fashion, but damned if he knew how. One wed a girl like Samantha; one didn’t simply fuck her.
Marriage!
He was disinclined to pursue that path, particularly with an aristocrat. From his perspective, the situation was more satisfactory when she hated him.

What was happening to him? Lust, love, insanity, middle-aged senility? He supposed he could take his pick.

T
hey approached Cape Horn on the southernmost tip of South America, and good weather paced them. Other than occasional rolling swells, the ocean remained glassy. Clear blue skies stretched from horizon to horizon. When the wind freshened and filled the sails, Captain Lindstrom cocked a weather eye skyward and pointed out the subtle signs of changing conditions. Gannets, gulls, and cormorants no longer accompanied the ship. Their desertion predicted heavier weather ahead.

Well known for its stormy, unpredictable seas, this stretch of water was the most dangerous they planned to cross. They would swing around the Cape through the Drake Passage, a narrow strip of ocean between South America and Antarctica. An alternative passage existed through the Straits of Magellan, but it would have added several weeks to the journey, and both Christian and Samantha expressed their impatience to reach their destination.

When they neared the Cape, sailing between the Falkland Islands and Tierra del Fuego, the ocean swells rose higher, lifting like the exposed backs of marine leviathans. They progressed beyond the islands dotting the coast, and deep troughs and foaming whitecaps began to mar the waters. Cold ocean currents streaming off Antarctic glaciers met warm tides flowing down the South American coast, creating a volatile mix. The waters clashed, and the sea grew turbulent, tossing the ship about.

The clement sky held until they reached the western edge of Tierra del Fuego and moved northward into deeper ocean. There the East and West Furies came together, and so many breakers disturbed the ocean’s surface, early explorers had named it the Milky Way.

Storm clouds crouched on the horizon, hanging low and dark. The sea churned, buffeted the ship, and made passage along the deck perilous. The captain ordered lines strung as handholds and commanded the women to retire below deck.

Samantha languished in the cabin beneath the wind’s roar—screaming around the ship, growing in strength—as hard rain pellets struck the deck. The cabin floor pitched and bucked. Sailors’ shouts, words shredded by the rising wind, came from overhead. Gilly and Chloe huddled on the bunk and clutched each other, moaning and whining nearly as loudly as the wind. Samantha snapped at them and savaged her fingernails. Delia took the storm in stride, sitting in a captain’s chair bolted to the deck while she sewed and timbers groaned around her. Meanwhile, the ship shivered and screeched, plunged into and out of deep swells.

When Samantha had gnawed her fingernails to the quick, she threw herself out of the hammock onto the sloping deck. “I cannot remain here any longer! I must go up to see if I can help.”

“I’m sure you mean well,” Aunt Delia said, looking up from her sewing, “but the captain said we would be safer in our cabin.”

“Not if this ship should plunge to the ocean bottom.” Her reply elicited another loud wail from Chloe and Gilly. “Forgive me, but I must get out of here.”

She careened to the door and clambered up the ladder. Cold wind and rain blasted her in the face before she reached the top. By the time she crawled out on deck, the rain had turned to sleet. Biting wind whipped her skirt around her legs and threw her hair into her face. Sitting on the slippery boards, she tied her hair into a knot at her neck before climbing to her feet again. As the ship plummeted, she staggered, her legs braced far apart, buffeted by icy rain and sleet, tossed about by howling wind and a pitching deck.

Men ran in all directions, yelled into the wind, pulled in sail, and lashed down cargo. Samantha struggled against the gale and heaving planks to make her way forward, hugging a mast when a frigid wave smashed against her back. It soaked her clothes and almost swept her overboard. Clinging to the timber, she lifted her tearing eyes to the rigging, where sailors scrambled and climbed the ropes like spiders on a gigantic web. They swayed to the ship’s violent movements, furling sails and untangling lines.

She gasped. Over her head, Cullen hung upside down, halfway up the rigging, from a line wrapped around one leg. She screamed for help, but the wind stole her words, casting them overboard. The closest men, intent on their own missions, failed to note Cullen’s predicament. When the mast holding the rigging cracked and leaned, she released a sharp cry, then pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling.

Ripping off her skirt and petticoats, she flung them into the wind. In her blouse, short chemise, and pantalets, she scaled the rigging. Ice coating the ropes froze and deadened her hands, but she clung to the netting. When her boots’ leather soles slipped, she kicked them off and let them fall to the deck. She continued upward, keeping her gaze fixed on Cullen far above.

Samantha had almost reached the boy when a faint shout came from below. She dared not look down, terrified her courage would abandon her. She was so very close. When she came alongside Cullen, she grasped his freezing arm in her icy hand and pulled him forward, allowing him to grab the rigging above and untangle his leg.

“Can you climb down?” she shouted.

His eyes round with fear and his lashes coated with frozen tears, he nodded and began his descent.

She glanced down. ‘Twas a dreadful mistake. The world spun before her eyes, and a vise gripped her vitals. Clutching her arms about the rigging, she closed her eyes. She could not possibly climb down! Her chest cramped with vertigo and constricted her breathing. She would die up here, an icicle frozen to the ropes. The sailors would have to cut off her stiffened limbs to fetch her down.

Out of nowhere, a strong arm curled around her waist. A warm body moved up behind her and leaned against her back. Large hands gripped the rigging above hers.

“I have you!” Christian shouted, unbuttoning his heavy coat with one hand. “Turn about and put your arms around my neck.”

She could not do it, could not let go.

“I gave you an order, Sam!” When she remained frozen in place, he pried her arms off the ropes and turned her upper body into his chest. “You’re safe now. Wrap your arms around my neck like you did when I kissed you.” Her arms crept up, then clasped him with all her strength. “Good girl. Now put your legs around my waist.” He had to help her, but soon her thighs gripped his waist as tightly as her arms squeezed his neck. With some difficulty, he fastened one button on his coat behind her back. “Keep your eyes closed. I’m taking you down.”