Pirate Wolf Trilogy (31 page)

In a way,
he was glad. It had given him time to clear his head and focus on
the course that lay before him. She had distracted him. Unsettled
him. He had been full of rage and fury, bristling with a desire for
revenge when he had come on board the
Egret
. Isabeau Spence had lured him back into a world of
softness and sexual heat, her body had lured him into its silky
folds and he had lost himself there. He had not offered anything
and she had not demanded anything beyond that one night. She did
not want anything from him now, not even conversation, so it
seemed, and that should have suited him just fine.

So why was he
unable to concentrate on anything for any length of time without
closing his eyes and seeing her body stretched out pale and
luminous in the moonlight.? Why was he not able to look at her
without his usual detachment, or fall asleep at night without first
spending time staring into the darkness, craving the soft sound of
her breath against his throat?

And why was he
standing on a chilled, windy deck, hoping to pace Beau Spence out
of his system?

He still could
not rationalize his attraction to her. She was coarse and ill
bred—a snobbish thought, to be sure, but one that was as ingrained
as the manners and mannerisms that kept him from becoming anything
but the Comte de Tourville, regardless of how hard he tried to
avoid his titles and responsibilities. His former wife had been the
ideal, suitable match; a dazzling beauty with impeccable social
graces and a blinding ambition that would have left any man gasping
in her wake. He had indeed been dazzled and blinded, and she had
left him gasping at the coldness and treachery that flowed through
her veins. She had made him cynical and mistrustful, wary of ever
surrendering his soul to any woman again.

And yet,
Isabeau Spence was not like any woman he had encountered before. If
she had a thought she spoke it or wore it openly on her face. She
was fiercely independent and fiercely possessive of her freedom,
and he doubted there was any man alive who could tame her
completely … or want to tame her completely.

He felt
like a cat trapped in a cage, and he wished for stronger winds that
might blow them to England’s shores sooner. The quicker he was off
the
Egret
and away
from the temptation of those golden tiger eyes, the quicker he
could return to a more comfortable state of indifference. A
drunken, senseless night at a brothel was what he needed. What both
he and Pitt needed to clear their heads and shake them back to
reality.

Dante stroked a
hand along the cold bronze body of one of the demi-cannon. A glance
at where the lines from the topsails were dogged told him the set
without having to search the darkness above, and it was purely
force of habit that made him glance up. After all, it wasn’t his
ship, wasn’t his course to order, wasn’t his place to challenge the
bearing of the wind….

At first he saw
nothing but the pale bloom of canvas interrupting the tableau of
stars and night sky. But then he caught sight of the figure of a
man dangling down, swinging against the mainsail, one foot tangled
around the clew lines, the other crabbing as frantically as his
arms were windmilling to grasp hold of something more secure.

The scream was
brief and muffled, leaving the distinct impression of the owner’s
identity trembling on the air, and Dante was in the shrouds,
climbing, before the sounds of the wind and the sea had completely
absorbed it. He reached the stout upper yard and crossed it with
hardly any thought to his own footing or balance.

“Beau? Beau!
Hold fast, I’m almost there!”

“M-my—my foot
is slipping!”

Anchoring
himself to the mast with one arm he slid down and straddled the
yardarm, reaching down, lunging for a fistful of her clothing just
as the wind relented and the sail slackened. Her foot slipped free
and she screamed again, a short, panicked cry that was bitten off
when she felt the pressure tighten on her doublet.

“Grab my arm!
Reach up and grab my arm!”

Beau managed to
clutch at his sleeve. A powerful surge of strength tautened the
muscles as he hauled her upward and she felt herself upended and
lifted over the yardarm so that she sat straddling it with the mast
at her back and the bulk of his chest in front.

Dante released
her doublet in exchange for a more secure hold around her waist.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

A rapid shaking
of her head was the only answer she could muster.

“You’re sure?
You haven’t broken or twisted anything?”

She hesitated
and he could see her turning her ankles, testing her knees and
hips. She shook her head again and leaned forward, burying her face
in the crook of his shoulder.

He let go of a
lengthy sigh and waited for the pounding in his chest to abate.
“Should I even ask what you were doing up here?”

“I … come here
all the time,” she replied, her words muffled against his throat.
“To think.”

“To …
think?”

“
To
think
!
Sometimes I
just need to get away from everybody and everything and
think.
Is that so terrible? So hard to
understand?”

“
No, but
on a night like this, do you not
think
you could have found someplace a little less venturous? And
where the devil is the watch?”

“I relieved
him.”

“You—?” He
swore under his breath again. “If this were my ship, and you were
one of my crew, I don’t give a damn how good or valuable you are, I
would—”

She lifted her
head, lifted her eyes slowly to his, and he was startled to see a
bright film shimmering along her lashes, starting to swell at the
corners.

“—I would give
you the thrashing of your life,” he said gently, “for risking your
neck like this.”

“I told you,”
she whispered. “I have never so much as cut my hand or … stubbed my
toe … until you came on board.”

“Forgive me,”
he murmured, “if I have brought this ill fortune down upon
you.”

He reached up
and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, then urged her head back
onto his shoulder again. “Go ahead. You can cry if you want to, I
promise I will not tell a soul.”

“
There is
nothing to tell, because I never cry!
Never!”
“Forgive me again,” he said softly, stroking his
hand down her hair. “It must have been a trick of the
light.”

“Stop
that.”

“Stop
what?”

“That.”

He stopped
stroking her hair and moved his hand away. “This?”

She took a
small breath. “No, not that.”

He put his hand
back.

“Stop
1-laughing at me.”

“I swear I am
not.”

“
You
are,” she insisted. “You’re
always
laughing at me. You laughed when you found out I was a
woman, and again when you were told I was the ship’s pilot. You
found it amusing when I tried to shoot you on the
Virago
and you did not take me the
least bit seriously when I said I would fillet you into tiny pieces
if you kissed me. And in the cabin that night—” Her head came off
his shoulder and not only her eyes, but her cheeks, were
suspiciously damp.

“Yes? In the
cabin that night?”

“You were
laughing at my ignorance,” she whispered. “I know you were.”

Perhaps it was
because of the bad fright she had just experienced, or perhaps it
was the starlight playing with his powers of perception, but when
she looked at him, her guard was down and the full measure of her
vulnerability was suddenly, unwittingly, revealed in her eyes. The
ship still pitched side to side, sliding forward and rearing back
as it carved through each new swell, and he was forced to keep one
hand grasped around a mast brace, the other clamped securely around
Beau’s waist, but he could and did draw her even closer than she
had managed to insist herself.

“No,
mam’selle,” he said slowly. “If I was laughing at anyone’s
ignorance, it was my own. Believe me, Isabeau … it was my own.”

A small
huff of air escaped her lips, and while it might have shaped the
word
liar
, he did not
contest the charge with more words. The stars shifted dizzily
overhead and the wind snatched at locks of his hair, blowing it
forward so that when he dragged her mouth up to his, silky black
strands were trapped between them.

She scarcely
noticed. Or cared. He was kissing her, that was all that mattered,
and she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him back with a
desire that bordered on desperation.

They broke
apart, both gasping quick, shallow breaths, both staring at one
another as if expecting some form of rejection. When none was
forthcoming, they melted together again, open mouthed and open
eyed, holding one another hostage until the tremors in their bodies
threatened to rival the tremors coursing through the mast.

He tried to
draw her closer and cursed at the impossibility. He tried to
appease himself by devouring her with kisses, thinking it would do
until he could get them down out of the rigging and he could devour
her in other ways. His hand did not have as much faith and went
beneath her doublet instead, unfastening the belt that held her
hose snug around her waist. He gave the wool a fierce tug, tearing
the seam open from waist to crotch, and, with his mouth slanting
more determinedly over any effort to protest, he slid his fingers
deftly through the gap.

She was
sleek and slippery, and he stroked deep into the heated folds of
her flesh, groaning when he felt how hot she was, how tight, how
soft and wet and quick she was to respond to the intrusion. The
first shivering volley of pleasure was starting to tighten all the
grasping little muscles even as her hands clutched at his shoulders
and her head shook side to side in denial. Spasms drenched her with
more heat and it was not enough, suddenly, just to hear her crying
out his name in disbelieving whispers. He withdrew his fingers and
made a similarly accommodating gap in his own clothing, then, with
her body still quivering with shock, with pleasure, he hooked her
legs over his thighs and lifted her onto his lap.

“You’re mad,”
she gasped. “We’ll both fall.”

“Not if you
hold on,” he snarled savagely, “and trust me.”

Beau spared a
glance for the deck, still thirty feet below, and then she spared
nothing, for the solid shaft of his flesh was furrowing up inside
her, so hard and thick and unyielding, she had no choice but to
lock her arms around his shoulders and trust his madness. Both of
his hands were braced on the mast now, his feet were stirruped
through lines of rigging. Every muscle and sinew in his arms and
across his back stiffened as he pushed up into her clinging heat
and a primitive sound broke from his throat.

The ship took a
frisky leap through a deep trough and one of his feet slipped,
leaving him scrambling a moment to balance himself and his precious
burden on a yardarm no wider around than a tree trunk.

“Wait,” he
commanded desperately. “Wait. Hold yourself there, or I swear—”

Beau was
panting lightly against his neck, her body paralyzed, not from fear
but from the almost inconceivable depth of his penetration.

“You might be
right,” he admitted raggedly. “This is mad. I can’t move. I can’t …
do anything. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You are not
hurting me,” she assured him on the outward escape of another
breath. “And you don’t have to move. You don’t have to do anything
at all.”

To prove
it, she arched her back and let the ship’s motion press her hips
forward, swallowing him to the hilt. They both groaned, then
groaned again when the
Egret
rocked back and the pressure eased.

“Don’t … do
that again,” he warned softly. “Or I will explode.”

“
I …
can’t help it,” she cried, half laughing, half sobbing, as
the
Egret
plunged
again. The rocking motion, less pronounced on deck, was magnified
by the weight and pull of the sails, by the rush of the wind, and
the vibrations that shook the stem of the mast. Each giddy swoop
brought him deeper and deeper inside her until it seemed he might
touch her heart.

Dante’s arms
were shaking, his teeth were clenched tight enough to make his jaw
ache, but there was nothing he could do. His body tensed and his
flesh reared, and his pleasure did indeed explode with a stunning
lack of finesse. Beau felt the throb of each scalding burst and bit
down hard on his shoulder to keep from crying out, to keep from
screaming as the waves of ecstasy began to sweep through her with
an equally fierce and unrelenting mercilessness.

“It occurs to
me,” he said some time later, his voice hoarse and muffled against
her throat, “we might both need rescuing.”

Beau shuddered
softly and burrowed closer to the massive bulk of his chest. The
conflagrant waves of heat had passed but not the pleasure. If
anything it remained steady and threatening, sending small spirals
of warm thrills along her spine and through her limbs.

“We should try
standing up,” he suggested gently.

She
opened her eyes and debated the question from the point of if
she
wanted
to stand
up.

“I don’t think
I can,” she whispered. “I don’t even think I can move.”

Dante
risked unclamping a hand from the mast ring and found her chin,
forcing her to look up at him. Her eyes were glazed and
heavy-lidded. Her mouth was deliciously puffed and moist but he
refrained from kissing her, suspecting if he did they might never
find the strength to untangle themselves and climb safely down the
rigging. Even now the motion of the
Egret
was working its mischief again, making him aware of the
sleek, molten friction where their bodies were still
joined.