Laura Kinsale (24 page)

Getting herself into the dinghy without overturning it was the most difficult problem of all. After several abortive tries, accompanied by enough splashing to wake the entire French garrison, the little boat happened to drift over close to the main hull. That time, when she put her weight on the dinghy’s side and it tilted, instead of threatening to turn over, the dinghy’s gunwale caught under the boarding ladder. She heaved herself upward on trembling arms, and managed to flounder into the boat before it broke free.

She rested again, and then struggled into the robe, for the night air was chilly on her wet skin. The dinghy provided an easy platform from which to mount the boarding ladder, and in a moment, she was on deck. She turned and tried to pull the boarding ladder up after her. When she couldn’t manage, she dropped it overboard, ruthless in her fear that the intruder might somehow have followed her. The ladder hit the water with a loud, splashing plop, sank, and then surfaced again, drifting slowly away.

T
he ship was dark and absolutely quiet, no sign of any watch, though Tess called up and down in a soft voice. She could see fairly well, enough to find the steps up onto the quarterdeck and then the companionway hatch. Her dark-adjusted eyes picked out the dim glow from below; she made her way down the steps and saw that the light glimmered from the captain’s cabin.

She shivered in her damp robe, and peered timidly around the part-open door.

Gryf was there, stretched out on the horsehair couch in the day room, his blond head propped against the locker that served as an armrest. The oil lamp on the wall burned a low, steady flame, but he was sound asleep. She said his name. He didn’t wake, only took a longer, deeper breath. She slipped across the cabin and touched the sun-browned hand that dangled over the side of the upholstered berth.

“Gryf,” she murmured, and sat down on the edge of the couch. It was impossible to be angry with him as he lay there with his stiff white shirt unbuttoned and his feet bare below the formal trousers he had worn for their wedding. She leaned over and whispered again, directly into his ear.

He drew in another deep breath, and his eyes flickered open. From her closer position, she could smell the sweet, heavy odor of rum, an unspoken explanation of why it took him so long to focus on her. When he did, instead of the rebuff she half-expected, his face broke into a lazy smile.

Tess felt an answering smile tug at the corners of her mouth. Her hero, she thought wryly. It was fortunate she had managed to escape her intruder by herself, for clearly Gryf would have been no help. He seemed to have trouble just keeping his eyes open. He lifted his head, and dropped it back onto the locker with a thump that appeared to knock some awareness into his brain, for his eyes flew open and he gave her a hurt look, as if she were somehow responsible. He levered himself onto his elbows. “How did you get here?” His mumble was rather more lucid than she had expected.

“Why did you leave me?” she countered.

He sat up, elevated one knee, and propped an arm across it, lowering his forehead into the makeshift support. “God, I’m drunk.” He rolled his head sideways to peer at her. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Neither are you.”

He considered that for a moment. Then he asked, “Why are you wet?”

“I couldn’t find a boat.”

He groaned, and turned his face down again. “You’re crazy.”

“Well,” she said. “Maybe I am. But I didn’t leave you on our wedding night.”

“Go away, will you?” His voice was muffled. “Leave me alone.”

Tess pressed her lips together. “No. Someone was going to murder me back there.”

“Murder you,” he repeated into the crook of his arm.

“There was someone in the Frasers’ house. I found him in the kitchen. I think he was looking for a knife. Maybe he was a thief.”

“A knife thief.”

Somehow, safe here on the ship, with Gryf’s hard thigh pressed comfortingly against her hip, the episode had lost much of its terror. “Well—” she said apologetically. “He was looking in a drawer in the kitchen hutch.”

“Possibly a spoon thief,” Gryf suggested thickly.

Tess frowned. “I suppose it might have been Moana tane. He lives behind the house. If he needed something, he wouldn’t have wanted to disturb us—” She glanced at Gryf sheepishly. He did not look up, but he had angled his head a little to the side. Tess followed his gaze, and saw that her peignoir had fallen partially open, revealing a smooth expanse of skin above her knee.

“I think you’d better go,” he muttered.

She set her jaw stubbornly. “Why? I don’t understand you.”

“I don’t want you here, Tess.”

“But I’m your wife—”

“Fine. That’s what you were after, wasn’t it? You’re my wife. Now go away.”

She looked at him, nonplussed. Then she covered his hand with her own. “I didn’t just want your name.”

“Well.” He moved his hand. “That’s about all I’ve got. And I don’t even have that, most of the time.”

There was a rawness in his voice, beneath the sarcasm. Tess wanted to reach out and embrace him, to hold him and tell him it did not matter. But she was learning. All this was pride, the same thing that had held them apart from the beginning. Her money, her position, all of her advantages: there was no way to make up the difference on the surface. Simple words would not suffice, but she knew where his weakness lay. She
hadn’t spent a month in the islands without absorbing a thing or two about how a woman could communicate with a man.

Think like a Tahitian, Hina had said.

Tess rose, careless of how the peignoir fell open, and reached up as if to tuck back her hair. As she raised her arms, she knew the damp silk clung to her skin, molding the material to the curve of her breasts. She knew it because that was where his gaze traveled before he tore it away and looked up at her face. She smiled into his frowning eyes, and pulled at the comb that held up her hair. A soft tangle of flowered tresses fell across her shoulders.

“Tess—”

She stood before him, smoothing her hair against her skin. She drew a thick lock across her mouth, taking in a deep breath of the sweet scent. “You really want me to go?” she whispered.

He said nothing, only looked at her. She sank down beside him again, taking his lack of answer as permission, and leaned over to make a trail of her fingers down the center of his back. In the process, her lips came close to his ear, and she murmured, “I’d like to stay.”

She slipped her hand beneath the loose tails of his shirt and then made the same journey back up, caressing the curved muscles beneath his skin. He slowly turned his head, and his breath warmed her shoulder. The heady smell of rum clung to him; his eyelids lowered as he surveyed the shadowed hollow where the peignoir gaped open between her breasts. She let her hand drift along his jaw and trace the outline of his mouth.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked again, a smile playing on her lips as he leaned a little toward her. “I can still leave.”

He reached up; she felt his fingers, hot and callused at
the pulse of her throat. They slid downward, snagging the edge of the robe. “No.” His voice was husky. “I want you to take this off.”

The low command sent a chill of excitement through her. She dipped her shoulder, so that the garment fell free under the weight of his hand. He slid his fingers over her other shoulder, and the fabric came with them. He pressed his lips against her skin. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re beautiful.”

“All yours,” she said lightly. “Would you like me to rub your back?”

He smiled, the same, slow, lazy smile he had shown when he first opened his eyes and saw her. “No.” His hand moved beneath the peignoir, cupped her breast. He added, in a drink-slurred voice, “Rather keep you where I can see you.”

She teased. “I thought you didn’t want me here.”

“Did I say that?” He brushed the robe aside. It slid from her onto the floor. “I was lying. Must have been…lying.” The last word was muffled against her throat. She shivered as he touched his tongue to the tender hollow. Almost unconsciously, she curled her legs up onto the berth. He caught her arms, pulling her with him as he lay back. His chin was scratchy with day-old beard; the tickling touch elicited a bubble of delight.

“Laughing?” he growled against her skin. “We don’t let ladies laugh at the captain on this ship.”

That brought forth a clear-cut giggle. His arm came up and caught her around the waist. Tess shrieked as she felt herself roll, and then he was on top of her, kissing her chin and her shoulders and everywhere he could reach while his hands sought out her breasts. “Mutiny,” he accused between kisses. “You know what that means.”

Tess arched a little beneath the delicious coaxing of his fingers. “The…the plank?” she added breathlessly.

He shook his head in disgust. “Waste of a good lady.” He ran his tongue around her mouth, leaving the sweet taste of rum on her parted lips. “We have more refined tortures.”

He nuzzled her throat and shifted downward, following the path of his hands. When he reached the soft, pink-tipped mounds of her breasts he paused and gazed at her. “The only trouble is,” he said hoarsely, “it’s the captain who’s being tortured. Why’m I dressed, when you’re so ravish—ravishish—” He stumbled over the word, and finally settled for “—indecent?”

“Because you’re completely foxed,” she said frankly. “I doubt you could manage your own buttons.”

He gave her a half-lidded grin. “Three sheets in the wind. Royals and foremast gone to smash. Buttons…are in your watch, mister. Pardon me.” He planted a kiss between her breasts. “Madam.”

His inebriated good humor was irresistible. As he hiked himself up, he stole a series of nips and kisses, and then lay back expectantly on the couch, with his hands behind his neck and his hair falling over his forehead, for all the world like some pickled pasha surveying his harem. His gray eyes gleamed silver; the smooth contours of his chest and ribs seemed to beckon to her to reach out and push the starched shirt aside. She had a moment’s hesitation, some belated thought of maidenly modesty, but his whimsical smile banished all shyness. He was her husband. The wonder of it filled her with warm eagerness.

She went to work, rising to her knees on the couch. It was strangely exciting to take the initiative; to see him submit to her ministrations as if anything she might do would please him. She made him sit up long enough to remove the shirt, and then pushed him back, reveling in a slow exploration of him; his sun-blackened shoulders,
the hard bone and muscle beneath, the paler, softer skin inside his arms. She traced the same trail with her lips, tasting heat and the faint tang of perspiration. Her tongue grazed his nipple in passing; he groaned, arching, and tangled his hand in her hair to pull her closer.

The discovery of that pleasure point was the beginning of an exhilaratingly sensual mapping project. She found that the tip of her tongue in the hollow at the base of his throat could make his pulse jump. She learned that a pattern drawn by her fingertips on his pectoral muscles made him close his eyes and flex his arms. That same pattern, extended downward to free the buttons on his trousers, made his breath come harsh and faster.

She paused after the buttons, not sure of what to do next, but he did not wait for further experiments. He drew her up and kissed her, his tongue delving deep into her mouth. His hands were occupied; she felt him move awkwardly beneath her, and then her thighs touched bare skin. He broke the kiss and slid his open palms down over her hips, guiding her over him.

He was hot, his skin satiny damp in the cool sea air. Her knees and hands rested on the slick, tight-woven upholstery as she knelt across him, enclosing them both in the dark curtain of her hair. He drew her hips down, pressing himself upward, and she bit her lower lip as she encountered his hardness. It was still surprising, still intimidatingly masculine, but now she saw his face, too. The strain there, the anticipation and controlled desire as he gazed at her lips and waited for her to respond to the steady pressure of his hands was intoxicating. She eased herself downward. He tilted his head back. “Oh, God,” he breathed, “Tess.” She took him into her, deep, reveling in the penetration. It no longer hurt; it was all pleasure, and her lips curled in the same savage smile as his.

He pulled her forward, drawing his knees up behind her. His mouth found her offered breast, his tongue stroked the taut nipple. She arched, gasping. She moved against him again and again as he tugged and sucked. His hands helped her and encouraged her: she rocked, and a sound began to rise in her own throat, a panting, wordless moan. What she had felt with him before had been good, but this was more, far more; this was a growing frenzy that clutched the very center of her being, that made every sensation unbearably vivid. When his mouth opened as if to take in more of her swelling breast she whimpered and trembled and arched to let him. When he drew back and thrust upward, she felt as if she might explode.

His fingers dug into her waist and he pushed her down, rolling on top. She relaxed her legs, opening to his urgent mounting. The feel of him ignited her. He carried her upward until she could no longer think, no longer exist except as part of him; until she could not hold back the wild cry that grew and grew and finally burst from her…a breathless, helpless echo of his own.

For a full minute afterward she lay dizzy, hardly able to take in enough air. He sagged on top of her, equally short of breath, then with an incoherent mumble lifted himself just enough to slide away. He kissed her ear, spread his hand in her hair, and turned her head so that he could kiss her mouth. Then he fell asleep, with his lips still brushing her skin.

Tess smiled, and smoothed a lock of burnished hair from his temple. She, too, drifted off, on a sea of love and security, and the pungent scent of fermented cane.

There were awakened by a loud hail. Tess jerked spasmodically at the unexpected shout, which seemed to
come from just outside the cabin, and her movement elicited a sleepy moan from Gryf. The hail came again, and he opened bleary eyes. “Aye,” he croaked, and shut them.

Tess sat up, blinking in the clear light that poured through the open porthole. She shook his shoulder, leaned over and kissed his ear. “Company coming aboard, Captain.”

He said something that sounded like, “Uhhrrug.”

A vigorous thumping on the hull somewhere just forward of the cabin brought him finally to an upright position. Tess stood, giving him room. He shook his tousled head and pulled his open palms down his face, then looked up and saw her through his fingers. “Oh,” he said. “The devil.”

Tess grinned. “Good morning.”

He turned at more insistent shouting from outside, then heaved himself to his feet. He looked none too stable as he hunted up his duck trousers.

“Would you like me to go for you?” Tess asked, as he tottered a little pulling them on.

He gave her a leveling glare. “You stay here. You don’t have any clothes.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly and sat down. It was quite entertaining to gaze at his golden, muscular back and shoulders as he dressed. She particularly liked the way his trousers hung low-slung on his hips, with a little line of untanned skin that peeked above the waist. He did not bother with shirt or boots, but swung out the door barefooted. She noticed with a smile that he let it bounce closed, and then a moment later came back and turned the latch from the outside to secure it.