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Authors: Blackthorne

BOOK: Ruth Langan
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“What do you want, Olivia?” He lowered his mouth to hers. “This?”
The kiss was rough. Sharp-edged with need. He wasn’t so much kissing her as devouring. His lips plundering hers, and demanding more.
When he lifted his head she pushed against his chest and dragged air into her lungs. His breathing was as harsh, as ragged as hers. She could feel his heartbeat thundering. “How dare you?”
But as she lifted a hand to strike out at him he caught hold of her wrist and held her fast.
He saw the look of surprise in her eyes as he lifted both her wrists, locking them around his neck. “I dare because it’s what I want. What you want.” His hands slid down her arms, and along her sides, his thumbs stroking her nipples. He swallowed the little gasp of indignation that rose in her throat and kissed her with a thoroughness that had her trembling.
Heat engulfed her, searing her lungs, turning her blood to molten lava. Her bones seemed to have melted. She felt soft, pliant. His to mold as he wished. Even her mind had deserted her. She hadn’t the will to stop him.
He tasted like the sea. All dark, swirling waters and swift, compelling waves. Pulling her to him. Carrying her along with the tide of his passion.
He lingered over her mouth, drawing out all the sweet, exotic flavors. Against her lips he whispered, “Now tell me you don’t want this.”
Just moments ago she’d been determined to send him packing by any means necessary. Even if it meant resorting to shouting down the household. Now she couldn’t manage a single word.
When she didn’t answer he lifted his head. “Tell me, Olivia.”
In reply she stood on tiptoe to offer more. With a growl of pleasure he took, feeding all the hunger, all the loneliness.
He changed the angle of the kiss and took it deeper. His hands stroked and kneaded, adding to the pleasure until it was almost more than she could bear.
She was exciting to watch. All that sweetness, that innocence, masking a fire smoldering just below the surface until it suddenly ignited. She wrapped herself around him, returning kiss for kiss, touch for touch.
“You see.” He brought his lips to her throat and felt her shuddering response. “You want what I want, Olivia. The pleasure, the release, is ours for the taking.”
Somewhere in the distant recesses of her mind a warning bell sounded. It was something about the words he’d just spoken. She fought her way up through the layers of pleasure, struggling for the strength of will she had always possessed. The common sense to determine just what it was he was offering.
“So.” She took in a long, calming breath, then another. “What you’re saying is, we can pleasure each other.”
“Aye.” He pressed kisses across her forehead, her temple, her cheek. His mind was still clouded with her. His lungs still filled with the taste, the scent of her.
“But you’ve said nothing about love, Quenton. Or happiness ever after.”
He gave a short laugh and was surprised at how difficult it was to speak. Or even breathe. “You make it sound like a fairy tale. I can tell you from experience that there is no ever after.”
“For you, perhaps. And if that’s true, then I’m sorry. But I will not settle for less.”
He smoothed the damp hair from her face and framed it with his hands. “You’re much too sensible for such nonsense.”
“Nay, my lord. You are the one who’s much too sensible. As for me, I prefer to hold out for fairy tales. Or nonsense as you call it.”
She took a step back, breaking contact. He would never know how difficult it was. As she looked into those dark, troubled eyes, she felt her heart breaking into little pieces. Even now she wanted what he was offering. And would never accept it.
“Now leave my chambers. And don’t come back unless you’re invited.”
 
Olivia stood at the window, staring at the midnight sky. There was no point in trying to sleep. She was so agitated, she couldn’t even stand still. She turned, paced restlessly, then returned to the window.
What was wrong with her, that she could be attracted to a rogue? A blackhearted villain? When had her common sense deserted her? Her parents would be shocked and disappointed at her lapse.
She remembered the girl from her little town of Oxford who had returned to her parents’ home with a baby. Mum and Papa had clucked their tongues like all the other neighbors, and Mum had said that there were two kinds of men. Those who would honor their women and those who would take a maiden’s innocence and leave her with nothing but shame. And that poor neighbor lass had settled for the latter.
When Olivia asked her how to tell the difference, Mum had sighed. “Oh, Livvy. When you’re old enough, you’ll just know.”
“Did you know right away that Papa was honorable?”
“I don’t know about honorable.” Mum’s eyes had burned with a strange, girlish light. “But from the moment we met, I couldn’t think about another man. Even my sister’s strong disapproval wouldn’t deter me. I had to have him. And he had to have me.”
I have to have you, Olivia.
Sweet heaven, what was the matter with her? She felt the sudden rush of tears and was caught completely by surprise. She would not cry over that man. She would not.
But despite her determination, the tears fell. She threw herself down on the bed and wallowed in misery.
Chapter Thirteen
 
 
O
livia made her way to the kitchen. Her eyes were still swollen from the tears and the lack of sleep. Across the room, huddled beside the ovens, stood the butler, the housekeeper and the cook.
“Ye’d best stay out of his lordship’s way this morrow,” Mistress Thornton was saying. “I don’t know when I’ve seen him so surly.”
“He was in a fine mood when I retired last night.” Pembroke sipped his tea while arranging breakfast on a tray. “Now he looks like he’d be happy to tear off a hide or two.”
“Well I don’t want it to be mine.” Cook looked up from the biscuits she’d just removed from the oven. “Good morrow, Miss St. John.”
“Good morrow.” Olivia struggled to paste a smile on her lips.
“Here’s yer tea, miss.” Cook set a pot of tea on Olivia’s tray. “Biscuits, miss?”
“Thank you. Just one this morning. Liat does love your biscuits.”
“And you don’t?”
Olivia was quick to soothe. “Oh, it isn’t that, Cook. I do like your biscuits. But I’m just not hungry this morning. I’ve lost my appetite.”
“From what I hear, you’ll lose more than yer appetite if you go near his lordship.”
“I’ll remember that.” She crossed the room and spooned fruit conserve onto a plate. As she worked she could hear the muted conversation.
“There’s talk His Majesty is so pleased with Lord Quenton’s...work for him that he’d gladly send him back to sea.” Pembroke added a flagon of mulled wine to the tray in hopes it would soothe the lord’s temper.
“Then ’tis true? His lordship did report directly to the king?” Mistress Thornton’s voice lifted in excitement “Was he a pirate then?”
“privateer,” Pembroke corrected gently. “From what I’ve heard, the best that ever sailed the seas. There wasn’t a sea captain alive who didn’t fear falling into the hands of Captain Quenton Stamford and his cutthroats. Though from what I’ve overheard recently, it was all done to protect his king and his country. He was fearless in battle. And heartless when protecting the king’s navy.”
“He looks the part” Cook giggled like a girl. “I’d let him plunder my ship anytime.”
All three looked up when Olivia picked up her tray with a clatter and beat a hasty exit.
The housekeeper watched her leave, then said softly, “Maybe whatever got to his lordship got to Miss St. John as well.”
“Aye.” Pembroke nodded. “You may have something there, Mistress Thornton.” He’d seen the way those two looked at each other when they thought no one would notice. He frowned, deep in thought. “You may indeed have something there.”
Upstairs, Olivia hurried along the hallway, eager for the sanctuary of Liat’s chambers. At least there she wouldn’t have to listen to any more of the staff singing the praises of Quenton the sailor, Quenton the privateer, Quenton the king’s hero.
“Ah, Miss St. John.” The king’s booming voice sounded overloud in the morning silence.
She froze in her tracks as Charles stepped into the hallway directly in front of her. Behind him, looking perfectly composed, stood Quenton.
“The very person I was hoping to see.”
“Good morrow, Majesty. My lord.” She managed to curtsy while balancing the tray, all the while cursing herself for lingering in the kitchen below. A minute sooner and she would have been safely inside Liat’s room and away from prying eyes.
“You’re looking especially fetching this morrow.” He turned to Quenton. “Don’t you agree, Lord Stamford?”
Quenton forced himself to look at her without expression. “Aye, Majesty.”
She hated the blush that crept up her neck and colored her cheeks. “Thank you.”
“I’ve just told Lord Stamford...” Charles paused, smiled broadly. “Though he seems a bit rough today. Perhaps too much ale. Or not enough excitement in his life here at Blackthorne. At any rate, I told him I wish to go sailing today. And I’d like you and the lad to join us.”
“Sailing?” She was trying to keep her smile in place, but it was impossible, with Quenton standing so close, watching her with that bored, distant expression.
“Do you sail, Miss St. John?”
“I don’t know, Majesty.”
“You mean you’ve never been aboard Lord Stamford’s ship?”
“Nay, Majesty. I’ve never been aboard anyone’s ship.”
He turned to Quenton. “Then the lass is in for a treat. Don’t you agree, old friend?”
“Aye, Majesty.”
At his lackluster response Charles threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, we’ll have a fine time. Tell Cook we’ll have a midday meal aboard ship.” He turned to Olivia. “Bring the lad down as soon as he’s broken his fast. We’ll take my carriage to the docks.”
As Olivia started away he called after her, “And Miss St. John?”
She paused, turned.
“I promise you Lord Stamford’s disposition will improve as the day progresses. I’ve never known him to be anything but cheerful aboard ship.”
Olivia hurried to Liat’s room. While the boy ate, she paced. How could she bear to spend an entire day under that cool, dispassionate gaze of Quenton’s? Perhaps she should feign illness. It seemed the coward’s way, but what other choice was there?
“What will we do today, ma’am?” Liat broke the biscuit into pieces and slathered them with fruit conserve.
Since it wasn’t in her nature to hide the truth, she was forced to admit, “King Charles has invited us to sail with him. But perhaps...” She turned to him hopefully as a thought struck. “Perhaps you get violently sick in boats?”
“Nay, ma’am. I sailed all the way here from my island with Lord Stamford. Never was I sick. Oh, I do so like the ocean and the feel of the boat.”
“You...do?” Her heart sank. So much for that idea.
“I miss being on the water, ma’am.”
“But you’re so young, Liat. Did you go out in a boat often?”
“Almost every day.”
“With your...father?” Her heart nearly stopped.
This was the first time that the lad had volunteered anything about his life in Jamaica. Though Quenton had discouraged her from initiating the discussion, he had said nothing about allowing the boy to speak his mind.
“With my mother.” Liat’s smile grew dreamy. “She caught fish, and sold them in the square. And I went with her every day.”
Would Quenton have allowed his lover to work at such a humble task as fishmonger? “Do you remember anything else? Your father, perhaps?”
His smile faded. He raced across the room and climbed up onto the trunk in the alcove, staring out to sea.
Had he been warned not to speak of his father? she wondered. Was that the reason for such a reaction?
When he turned, his sunny smile was back in place. “Let’s go, ma’am. I can hardly wait until we’re aboard ship.”
She swallowed back her disappointment. Liat’s life in Jamaica, it would seem, was as much a mystery as Bennett’s fall from the cliffs.
 
Like everything the king did, their day of sailing entailed dozens of servants and a caravan of carriages and wagons to transport people and supplies to the docks. Along the way, the road was lined with villagers, eager for a glimpse of their monarch. Charles waved to and acknowledged them, keeping his famous smile in place until they reached the docks.
By the time Charles and his party arrived, the chaos had been smoothed, the supplies stowed aboard ship and the servants dispatched.
At the docks Quenton glanced around. “Where are your servants, Majesty?”
“I had them sent back to Blackthorne.”
“You would do without your servants? What about your Yeomen of the Guard?”
“Dispatched to follow in a second boat. I want this day to be a private one, spent among friends.”
“I see.” Quenton understood his old friend’s need for freedom from the restraints of the throne, even if he didn’t always agree. Still, with the soldiers close behind, the king’s safety was ensured. He had earned the right to a day of leisure.
Quenton pointed to the gleaming boat anchored just offshore. “There is the
Prodigal,
Majesty.”
“Ah, Lord Stamford. Your grandfather’s ship. We spent many an afternoon sailing these waters. She looks none the worse for wear.”
“Aye. She ages gracefully.” Quenton directed a muscular lad to lift Bennett from the carriage, then led their party toward a boat manned by several oarsmen. Pembroke helped them aboard and they were rowed across the narrow channel to the
Prodigal.
As they climbed aboard, Bennett was seated in a comfortable chair, with Minerva beside him to see to his needs. Quenton went to the helm, leaving Pembroke to make them comfortable.
The craft was a small, beautifully appointed sailing vessel, with a covered deck to shelter guests from the sun and wind. Below was a cozy cabin with padded benches suitable for sleeping and a table and chairs anchored to the floor.
As soon as he was aboard, the king removed his brocaded jacket and wide-brimmed hat and handed them to Pembroke. Seeing the surprised looks on the faces of Olivia and Minerva, he gave them a boyish grin. “I am among friends now, my ladies. I hope you will not be disappointed if I insist on removing some vestige of ceremony.”
“Nay, Majesty,” Olivia managed to say. “All we desire is your comfort.”
He chuckled. “You see, Lord Stamford? There are some loyal subjects who still care about their king. You, Miss St. John, are a source of constant delight to your king.”
With an economy of movement Quenton tossed aside his jacket and hat and unfurled the sails. Olivia marveled at the sight of the breeze filling them. Even more of a marvel was the sight of his broad shoulders and muscled arms, his strong, capable fingers. The wind ruffled his dark hair, sending it spilling across his forehead.
With his hand at the wheel Quenton guided the boat from its mooring and into the open water.
“May I steer?” Liat asked.
Much to Olivia’s surprise, Quenton agreed. “Let’s see what your governess has been teaching you. Come, lad. Put your hands here.” Standing behind him, Quenton watched as the boy took the wheel.
“Every good sailor knows how to read a compass,” he said softly. “Here are your headings. Do you know what they mean?”
“Aye, sir. Miss St. John said
N
is north,
S
is south,
E
is east and
W
is west.”
Quenton arched a brow, and the king, listening, gave a nod of approval.
“Now, Liat, you can see from the billowing sails just which way the wind is blowing. Which way do you think we ought to turn the boat in order to use the wind to our advantage?”
With great concentration Liat studied the sails and compass, then said, “The wind is coming out of the south.” He turned the boat until the compass heading showed north, away from the wind. “With the wind behind us, we ought to move smartly through the water .”
Quenton smiled his pleasure. “Quite right, lad. Why, you’re a natural sailor.” He allowed the boy to keep his hands on the wheel, while he deftly assisted in keeping the boat on an even keel. When he could feel Liat’s strength ebbing, he said, “I’ll take over now, if you’d like to join the others.”
“Aye. Thank you, sir.”
The boy beamed with pride as he danced over to take a seat beside Olivia. Pleased, she ruffled his hair.
Charles, watching Olivia’s face, had seen the look of appreciation as she’d studied the man at the wheel. “How about giving his nursemaid a lesson now, Lord Stamford?”
“That isn’t necessary, Majesty.”
She blushed when he dismissed her objections with a wave of the hand. “I insist, Miss St. John.” He turned to Quenton. “Come on, Lord Stamford. Let her have a feel of the ship beneath her own hands.”
She squared her shoulders and walked to the helm. Quenton moved back a step, allowing her to stand directly in front of him. When she placed her hands on the wheel, she was startled by the tug of the waves. Even with both hands firmly grasping the wheel, she could barely hold it steady.
“It feels... alive,” she said with a trace of awe.
“Aye. The sea is a living, breathing thing. With a mind of her own.” He leaned against her and closed his hands over hers to steady the wheel. He became achingly aware of everything about her. The dark curls tied back with a simple white ribbon. The high color on her cheeks. The intoxicating scent of lavender that seemed as much a part of her as the soft voice and warm laughter. “Sometimes she’s as gentle as a woman in love. And sometimes as violent as a woman betrayed.”
“Why do you refer to the sea as she?”
“She’s a woman. Every sailor knows that. Everywhere you look, she nurtures an abundance of life. There, just ahead, is a school of marlin. See how sleek they are. They can cut through the water faster than any ship. Faster even than the wind.”

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