Beyond paradise (35 page)

Elizabeth Doyle

She was leaning over the stern of the ship, smiling at him. It warmed him so that he broke into a smile himself. She began to wave. To this, he could not resist waving back. They were both smiling and waving now, as though parting the dearest of friends. It warmed him in the strangest of ways. It eased the ache in his breast. "I love you!" she called over the wind.

Jervais knew she did not mean those words in the way he longed for her to mean them, but he was glad to hear them nonetheless. "I love you, too," he said, though he made no effort to bridge the distance. He said it as though to himself.

"I really love you!" she cried.

"I really love you, too," he whispered, wiping his eye. He did not leave the deck until she was completely out of his sight. He savored every last glimpse of her in that pink gown twirling around her ankles, and that cinnamon hair caught so mercilessly in the dance of the wind. She looked happy. The wind suited her. "Grow old," he blessed her softly, "grow old and stay happy."

When there was not even a dot on the horizon, he forced himself downstairs to his cabin. The sky was beginning to lighten. A new day would soon dawn, and for him, it brought with it promise and a very good cup of coffee. Indeed, the strong brown brew in his cup smelled like morning itself, only richer. And his cabin no longer felt barren. He gazed around at its sparse furnishing, and realized that it seemed a happier place than it ever had before. It was inhabited by the fullness of his heart. A smile crossed his lips. He would not sleep. He would enjoy the night and the morning and the day that followed without interruption. It was his day. The day he had done the right thing and learned what love really was. He had never felt so full or so alive.

Thirty-four

There was much merriment among the rescued pirates of the European-bound vessel newly named Angel. Theirs was a group of men who were coming to expect a lot in the way of miracles, as every time they headed for death, it seemed their fates took a sharp turn. "I'm not sure we should let you keep her after we reach Paris," Sebastien teased his dearest friend. "What will become of the rest of us once Sylvie is out of our sight? Suppose we get in trouble?"

"You'll have to find an angel of your own," said Jacques, wrapping a possessive arm around his bride-to-be. "This one is spoken for."

"Spoken for?" asked Frangois drunkenly, for it had seemed an occasion to let the wine flow freely, and much had been stored in those hidden treasure chests. "I thought you were already married."

Jacques and Sylvie exchanged warm smiles. "No," he said, "we didn't really marry. But we will. The moment we settle into Paris, we will be wed." Sylvie squeezed his slen-

Elizabeth Doyle

der waist in appreciation, receiving a peck on the forehead in reply.

"What about all of you?" Jacques asked his shipmates. "What do you plan to do with your share of the gold?"

"Spend it in the first week and then starve for a while before becoming pirates again."

The sentiment came from Sebastien, but there were many nods of agreement. It seemed a good plan.

Jacques chuckled lightheartedly. "Then, I shall miss you all," he said.

"No, you won't."

"That's true, I won't. But it seemed the gentlemanly thing to say."

"If I had her," said Sebastien, tilting his goblet of wine at Sylvie, "I wouldn't miss me either."

"Stop it, all of you!" Sylvie scolded, her dark eyebrows furrowed firmly. "You all shall miss one another. All of you! I know that I will certainly miss every single one of you, and I think I am within the bounds of my station to announce that all of you are more than welcome to stay with Jacques and me in Paris, at any time you wish."

Jacques shook his head fiercely. "Sylvie, they'll never leave," he whispered half-jokingly.

"For a specified amount of time," she added.

There was laughter, clinking of goblets, and many a friendly wink directed at the lady of the ship. The night was spent in a whirlwind of revelry, and no one noticed when dawn broke. Night and day seemed one and the same when life was as merry as it felt just then. They had no need for rest, for there was no hardship they could recall from which they needed to recover. At least, no hardship that they could bear to recall. They drank on empty stomachs, secure in the belief that whatever they did tonight would be forgiven by all come sobriety. They drank first to joy, then to silliness, and

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then finally, to the point of illness. That is, all except for Jacques and Sylvie, who had found that the wine was not nearly as tempting as the opportunity to enjoy one another in a state of clearheadedness. They had done little but sip for hours upon hours, arms entwined, warming each other from the chilly winds.

At last, Sylvie sensed that Jacques was too weary to remain at play. She tugged at his jerkin and said, "Come. I'll take care of you."

He set down his goblet and allowed himself to be led by her tender hand. They left the cold winds of the main deck for the colder but calmer air of the cabins below. Sylvie told him to stay still while she fetched him a bath, and this he did with a lazy smile, resting his elbows on their bed. When Sylvie returned, she urged him from his clothes—not that it took much urging. She dipped a sponge in a bucket, resisting the sight of his manhood which peered up at her. "Cover yourself," she said softly.

"You're the one who uncovered me."

"Don't be so smart. I meant for you at least to wear a cloth." She handed him a scrap of silk, but he only smiled at it, realizing what she did not—that it wouldn't cover him. Courteously, he reached behind him and retrieved his shirt from the bed, using it instead to achieve some modesty.

Sylvie loved watching droplets of water wander through the crevices of his muscles as she squeezed the sponge. She loved the squeak of his freshly cleansed skin under her probing fingers. But most of all, she loved tending him, for he was, though she knew not why, everything she had ever wanted in a man. "May I bathe you next?" he asked.

Sylvie flushed, but continued to stroke him with the sponge. "I don't need bathing."

"That wasn't the question." He raised his eyebrow enticingly and grinned.

Elizabeth Doyle

She returned his smile with a soft one of her own, but said, "Jacques, I'm in no mood to play."

He didn't need to ask her why that was. He felt the reason in her pulse, beneath the thin wrist he rubbed so surely with his thumb. His eyes said, "I understand," but he said nothing.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I know that." And it was not a cocky reply, but one of absolute appreciation. It was the acknowledgement of a miracle.

"I have never been so happy in my life."

"Then it must be love," he said, glancing about the sparse cabin, "because I don't think this voyage is exactly a lady's ideal holiday."

"It's mine," she told him. "It really is mine."

He let go of her hand and reached instead for her jaw. He held it as though her face were a painting and he was witnessing art in its most natural form. "Sylvie," he began with a very tense swallow, "I don't know how to ask you this .. ."

He'd hoped she might guess the question, but it did not look that way, as her head was cocked inquisitively.

"I, uh ..." He cleared his throat with a grunt. "I, uh . . . I want you to know I'm not asking this because it would change my opinion of you in any way. I don't know exactly why it is I need to know at all, because it really shouldn't matter, but... well, when you agreed to marry Jervais, did you .. . that is, did he—"

"No," she said flatly, "he never touched me, he never tried." It was very nearly the truth, for not once had his hand met bare flesh on that turbulent night of their near-union. Sylvie was not such a fool as to give the entire truth when it would do no one any good to hear it. What she'd said seemed truth enough.

He licked his firm lips nervously. "I was afraid," he said. "Not so much that you might bed him willingly, but that..."

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"Jervais has a difficult temper," she finished for him, "that is true. And I understand your fear, but nothing happened."

Jacques felt relieved, for Sylvie was not the only one who had told a half-truth. He cared first and foremost that Jervais had not hurt her, but the thought of her lying willingly in his arms . . . well, it had been on his list of burdens. Not that he would have blamed her for doing so under all of the grave circumstances, but.. . well, it would have made the weaker side of him jealous. He planned never to tell Sylvie of that as he privately agreed with her that unions required as much tact and sensibility as they did passion.

"Are you very tired?" asked Sylvie, something youthfully hopeful in her eyes.

Jacques considered the matter carefully, averting his eyes for a moment in thought. "I suppose it depends on the offer."

Sylvie broke into an infectious grin. "Give me your hand," she begged of him. He lifted it to her cheek, but she caught it. Slowly, she moved it to her breast.

"That's quite an offer," he agreed, indulging in a few gentle squeezes.

"Make love to me, Jacques."

He nodded, scooting across the floor so they were side by side, and he could pull her into his powerful arms. He bent her head back and feasted on her sweet mouth, pulling away periodically to inspect her lovely face. Every time he bent for another kiss, he used her hair as a gentle lever to make her look right up at him and receive his kiss. His embrace was sturdy and his tongue merciless. He held her still by the soft hair so she would feel her complete vulnerability, and know that he could be trusted with it. "Let's get you on the bed," he whispered, rising to his feet, pulling her with him. "Lie down," he said.

"I'd rather have you throw me down," she teased, wrapping her arms around his strong shoulders.

Elizabeth Doyle

"You would, would you?" he grinned in turn. "Well then, I can see this will be quite a night." He lifted her off the ground and tossed her, just enough to make the bed bounce but not enough to endanger her.

Sylvie landed in a fit of laughter that ceased when he fell upon her and silenced her with a fierce kiss. She felt his hand move between their bodies. And that changed her expression to one of wide-eyed expectation. He pecked her on the lips and then gazed down at her startled eyes. "Is this all right?" he asked, for it had, after all, been a while.

Sylvie shook her head, and he made it a point to move more slowly. Smiling warmly, he touched the crest of her breast through the gown and made circles around it. "I think there's far too much cloth between us," he said, and with her nod of approval, began to tear it off.

"Wait!" she cried. "You don't have to tear it!"

"It's Jervais's gown," he growled. "I'd rather tear it."

This she understood perfectly, and thus, after a moment's thought, decided to assist. Together, they tore off everything, leaving her bare and chilled except where his warm breath caressed her. "I'm cold," she said, warding off goose bumps by rubbing her shoulders.

"Really?" he asked in a low voice. "Where are you cold?" She only smiled cautiously in reply. "Are you cold here?" He touched her naked belly, making her jump with ticklishness. "Are you cold here?" he asked, touching the curls between her thighs.

"Yes" she answered seductively, "I'm very cold right there."

Jacques smiled naughtily and moved to warm that very spot with his hot breath. Sylvie trembled at the softness of his cheek at her thigh, of knowing exactly where his eyes were, and what he saw. He blew a long, steady breath of air deep inside her, so deep she could feel it in her belly. Then

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he kissed her pink bud, licked it, and gave her another long blow. Sylvie thought she could bear no more. "For heaven's sake, will you just take me?! 11 she cried. "Stop this!"

Jacques grinned in a strangely triumphant manner. "1*11 take you" he said, "when I'm ready." Then he gave her another sweet kiss and a gentle bite on her thigh.

"Mmmrn, 1 liked that," she said spontaneously.

"Mmm, then let's leave a mark, shall we?" He bit her thigh again, very close to her womanhood, sinking his teeth just deeply enough to cause redness, but being very careful to apply the pressure gradually. He backed away and examined his art. "Very nice," he said. "Perhaps I should always leave a mark there."

"Perhaps," she groaned, "you should take me before I kill you!"

Once again, he grinned, but he did not cover her with his body. Instead, he returned to his eerily seductive task. He thrust his tongue deep inside her and moved it as though they were kissing. She lurched with a gasp as he fluttered his tongue more rapidly, more fiercely, making her swoon until, at last, he needed a breath. He pulled away and touched her sensitive bud, and when Sylvie complained about needing to find her release, he said, "Go on. It's all right."

"But what about—"

"Go on," he said, "find your relief. No need to wait for me," he added with a wink.

She tossed back her head and spread her legs as wide as she could, inviting him to rise to the challenge. He did so without any trouble. He ravished her with kisses until he sensed she was on the verge. Then he dove in full force, flicking his tongue in strong, speedy flutters until she started to cry out. This, Jacques could not hear. But what he could feel was a certain vibration in the thighs. So he kept at his husbandly duty until she had made her way over that bridge,

Elizabeth Doyle

and fallen into the warm waters below. He felt her quake all around him, and it warmed his heart. The sight of her cool skin all dressed in beads of sweat, her reddened, passionate face, and her still-quivering lips made him feel like a man.

"You must be cold," he said, sliding up beside her to wrap her in a blanket. He squeezed her against him and cradled her as the most precious of bundles.

"But what about... what about you?" she asked.

"I'm not cold."

"I don't mean that. I mean, your ... your needs?"