A Pirate's Wife for Me (19 page)

"Caitlin?" He tilted her chin up. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

His silky hair hung around his face. His eyes smoldered, holding her with their ardor. She could see it. He wanted to hurry, like a bull in rut. Instead he whispered, "Watch me. Let me watch you."

He advanced inside her. Vaguely she was aware of burning, of pain, of the shattering of her maidenhead. But more than that, she acknowledged their joining. He laid claim to her body. She did the same with him. She shifted her hips, brought her legs up to hold him, saw the change in his features as he recognized her entreaty.

Take me. As I take you.

At last he was seated in her. She had accepted him, all of him.

His chest heaved as he watched her face, waiting for … she didn't know what he was waiting for.

He smoothed the hair back from her forehead, kissed her brow, her cheeks, lingered on her lips. "Caitlin …"

Only her name, but it was enough.

The movement started. Slowly at first, a slight withdrawal, then a firm forward pressure. That forward pressure … at the return of satisfaction, her eyelids drooped again. "That feels … good." Her voice was slurred, as if she'd been drinking strong spirits, and that startled her.

"How about this?" He pulled out farther, then came back in an even more leisurely manner, drawing out the anticipation until she panted from eagerness.

Then that pressure again. Her hips rose of their own volition, pushing against him, seeking gratification for the whole of her body. The hair on his chest rasped against her breasts. Heat from inside scorched her skin. She wanted … she wanted.

He set a rhythm, deliberate and steady. She held his shoulders, traced the length of his spine. Her fingers skidded along on a fine sheen of perspiration, and he trembled with the difficulty of holding himself back. He wanted so much more, he wanted it quickly, and she loved him all the more for his care of her newly-created womanhood. She wished she could watch him, see his enjoyment, tell him how much this meant to her, but one by one, the needs of her body conquered her ability to speak, to see, even to move with volition.

It was the length of him inside her and the motion of his hips that commanded her. Her breath came in moans that gradually grew in volume and intensity. She clutched at his arms. She braced her feet on the ground. Deep within her, desire coiled and heated, generating more moisture, making her urge him on.

The pace increased in purposeful measures. He hunched over her, intent on her, only her. He drove forward, lingered for a moment deep within her, then drew out. In and out, over and over — and finally, finally lightning struck. She convulsed, helpless, insensate, desperate and pleasured. She clawed at his back, thrust herself upward, clutched him tightly between her thighs. The spasms swept her again and again. She quivered, suspended for one long moment in an agony of pleasure.

And he lost control at last. He plunged into her, lost to anything but his own satisfaction.

She allowed him gladly. She wrapped him in her embrace, reveled in the failure of his restraint. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his neck strained, he groaned.

His enthusiasm took her to another climax, longer than the first one, more restrained, searing in its sweetness.

They finished together. Sank down onto the blanket. Clung together as their breaths slowed. Sank into sleep and woke to the onset of evening, a fire in the hut, and more love-making. More …

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

In the wee hours of the morning,
Taran put down his pen, rose from his desk and stretched, and groaned as every bruised and battered muscle in his body protested.

He was too old to fight like a maniac, with no thought of tomorrow or anything beyond the pleasure of letting loose that primitive fury which raged in his soul. The younger men were faster. They took the punches better.

He grinned.

But older warriors like Gerry Williams — and Taran — were well-versed in the tricks that had eventually given them the upper hand.

As Gerry, that whey-cocked old salt, had finally shouted, "Old age and treachery always wins out over youth and enthusiasm."

Of course, then Lilbit had hit Gerry and knocked him out, but the fight had been fun while it lasted.

Taran went to the window and looked out. Morning was two hours away, but no sign of the sun pierced Poole's stinking black fog, formed half of cloud and half of coal smoke. He hated this city; longed for the fresh air of Cenorina.

Tomorrow, after so many years, he would be there, standing on the shore, looking up at the mountains, smelling the freshness of home. He closed his eyes against the great wave of longing that struck him and tried to suck him under.

When he opened them, he gingerly touched his throbbing, swollen lip and the cut on his chin. He couldn't imagine what Cate would say when she saw him in the morning. Something scathing, he was sure.

Speaking of Cate … returning to his desk, he picked up the sheet of paper, pursued what he had written, and nodded. He folded it, set his seal on the seam, took it to his mother's bedchamber and slipped it under the door. In the missive, he confessed the truth about his marriage to Cate. He was very glad he would not be here when she received it.

Then he took to his bed for a few hours of much needed rest.

The sky was gray, winds puffed
at the small ship's sails, and Cate clutched the rail and fidgeted as she watched two sailors stagger up the gangplank under the weight of her trunk. The trunk was the last of the freight; no other passengers traveled to Cenorina or on to the other ports of call. With any luck at all, Taran would miss this sailing and she would be free to go to Cenorina and do her job without interference. She didn't need him tagging along in some ridiculous costume. She didn't want him watching over her, threatening to seduce her with every touch, every glance of his dark gaze. She didn't deserve that kind of distraction when she was desperate to prove herself brave, strong and intelligent enough to warrant another assignment in the netherworld of spying.

She watched a poor, haggard blind man make his way along the dock. He had obviously once been tall, with broad shoulders and a handsome face. Now he wore a bandage over his eyes to protect them from the light, and his face was bruised and cut. He shuffled along, his left arm in a sling that covered him from fingertips to elbow, a cane hooked on his elbow, leaning heavily on the arm of his shorter companion. Both men wore clean clothing of middle class styling, and short, gentleman-like haircuts. The blind man wore brown wool trousers, a brown coat and had a knit shawl of brown and maroon stripes laid across his slumped shoulders. Still he shivered as if chilled by the fresh wind off the Atlantic.

Cate wrapped her own green wool greatcoat tighter about her. It wasn't stylish, but when a woman lived on the coast of Scotland, she sometimes had to eschew fashion for warmth. At least, Cate did. She expected the day's journey south on the open ocean to be chilly, and beneath the greatcoat she wore her black traveling gown, her corset, her warmest chemise, and underwear made of the warmest, thickest cotton. She nodded firmly. Let Taran try anything while she wore all that!

Below her, the blind man and his shorter companion were deep in conversation, the companion nodding in vigorous agreement.

Then he glanced up at the ship, and Cate gasped.

It was Blowfish. He touched the brim of his hat in greeting, then indicated she should come to the top of the gangplank.

Her gaze flew to his cohort. It couldn't be…

It was.

Taran. He'd cut his hair.

An inappropriate dismay filled her. He'd cut his beautiful hair, black and straight, shining like a beacon, beckoning her to touch. She should be glad he had cut it and removed temptation, but she wished she could run her fingers through the strands one more time for the pure tactile joy of it. Now it was gone, sacrificed for the mission, and she doubted he would ever grow it again. Shoulder-length hair was barbaric, the mark of a medieval warrior or a pirate captain, not of a civilized man.

Taran. Civilized. What a joke.

He'd dressed like a wounded soldier. He even carried a short sword in a leather scabbard hanging from his belt. So many men had gone to war. Many of them had been hurt, had scars, were blinded. In his costume, he wouldn't warrant a second glance. More than that, the indignity of his wounds made people reluctant to look closely at him.

He'd said he had a masquerade; she hadn't imagined it would be so effective that she wouldn't recognize him.

Without enthusiasm, she moved into place and watched as Blowfish led Taran toward her. Taran's blindfold covered his eyes completely. He couldn't see where he was going. At the top, Blowfish directed his feet, then placed Taran's hand on her arm. "There ye are, Madam, 'e's 'ere safe and sound and ready to sail."

"Oh." Cate's voice dripped sarcasm. "Thank you."

"Darlin', I'm ready to go anywhere you take me." Taran ran his hand up her arm.

She swatted him away, then glanced up to see one of the ship's sailors glare at her, scandalized. "This will never do," she said.

"It will do very well." Taran took her arm again.

She asked, "Don't you think it's dangerous having Blowfish bring you down here? Doesn't everyone know him?"

Taran laughed. "Contrary to what you might believe, my love, pirates and sailors mix as little as possible. The pirates are afraid of being recognized. The sailors don't want to be conscripted – or tempted by sin."

Because no one she knew was as tempting as Taran Tamson.

In a lower tone, he said, "Blowfish, you've got your instructions."

Blowfish recited, "Sail in a week. Wait offshore fer the beacon. If in four weeks no beacon is lit, well then, you're taking the long dirt nap —"

The long dirt nap?
What did Blowfish mean?

"— and we are to come in and rescue the Caitlin and take out Sir Wicked Britches." Blowfish nodded in satisfaction.

The two men were discussing Taran’s death. "No one is going to die," she pronounced.

"Dying's never
in
the plan, young mistress. At least, not for us." Blowfish seemed unduly cheerful. "But it's a hazard of the job, ye know, and we plan fer all eventualities."

"Death is unacceptable," she told them.

"Ye just remember all them fightin' skills I taught ye, and ye'll do fine," Blowfish said.

He was trying to comfort her, as if she faced death, too. She was merely the thief. Taran was her escort. "Neither one of us is going to die. Of that I am determined."

"Aye, ye're a grand woman," Blowfish said to her. To Taran, he said, "I do now understand yer nine-year Cately obsession, Cap'n."

Taran wore a ghost of a smile. "Blowfish, I always knew you to be a man of intelligence." He sobered. "Now — you know what to do if, while I'm gone, trouble starts?"

"That I do, sir." Blowfish's sharp eyes got sharper and bluer. "But I hope ye're wrong, sir."

"As do I."

Blowfish tipped his hat. "Farewell, Madam.
Bon voyage
. Best of luck."

She watched him make his way down the gangplank. "What was that all about?"

"Instructions."

"What trouble are you expecting?"

"Have you heard the expression,
When the cat's away, the mouse will play?
I'm the cat." He certainly smiled with a cat's complacency. "Blowfish is my first mate. He is a good sailor, an excellent pirate, but he's past his prime and some might think to take advantage of that, and of my absence."

She thought of his crew, of the men she had met, and how much she liked them all. "You suspect someone of mutiny."

"Aye."

"Who would do such a thing?"

Taran shrugged. "No point in speaking evil of a man based on a mere suspicion."

"'Scuse me, Madam." Two of the sailors waited to carry another trunk onto the ship.

She turned away, dragging Taran after her.

At once, he tripped on a coil of rope.

Appalled, one of the sailors gasped and frowned mightily.

"For heaven's sake!" As she helped Taran recover, she tried to look suitably contrite. In an undertone, she asked, "How much can you see out of that thing?"

"Nothing at all." He adjusted the kerchief over his eyes.

"If you could, you wouldn't tell me. You're enjoying this far too much."

"What man wouldn't?" He pecked at her in the general direction of her forehead.

She wanted to slap him down, but a quick look around proved that the sailors watched them and whispered, and from their glares she could imagine very well what they whispered about.

This isn't how she'd planned it. If she did have to sail with Taran, she had intended to keep a good distance from him at all times. She wouldn't touch him. She would speak to him no more than necessary to ensure the success of their mission.