The Pirate Prince (16 page)

So much for vanity, he thought with a sigh.

He picked up his ivory-handled straight-edge, dipped it in the water, and commenced the pleasant monotony of shaving, wondering at his own procrastination, delaying Allegra’s ravishment. He wished she would wake up and fight him, hurt him a few more times with her stubborn denials of his identity. He had never taken a woman against her will in his life.

Of course, it might not be entirely against her will, he admitted, smiling slightly at the memory of how he had coaxed her into returning his kisses up there in the tower.

As he stirred the water idly with the straight-edge, he paused to wonder if he should hide the thing when he was through using it, in case his little captive took it into her head to cut his throat for ruining her life, much as Monteverdi had ruined his.

Ach, who cares?
he thought. She’d only be doing him a favor. He didn’t think she’d do anything so bloody anyway, especially when to kill him would leave her at the mercy of the crew. She wasn’t stupid.

He scraped the straightedge deftly along his throat, then came around over the edge of his squarish chin. At length, he rinsed his face, then stripped nude to give the rest of his body a brisk scrubbing, glancing occasionally at Allegra, because her reaction to the sight of her first naked man would no doubt prove amusing.

But she remained fast asleep even after he had donned fresh clothes, soft buckskin breeches and a loose-fitting shirt of fine-woven white lawn. He sauntered to the bed and sat down on the edge of it near her.

“Wake up, little kitten,” he called softly, petting her pale, silken shoulder, bared through a tear in her dress. He leaned down and kissed the shoulder.

She did not stir. He frowned, wondering how much laudanum Vicar had given her. He felt her brow, but she did not have a fever. No, he concluded, she was merely exhausted.

Well, he preferred her awake when he took her maidenhead. He rose, standing over her, hands on his hips as he looked her over. She appeared to have been through a war.

“
Chérie
, you will not
do
in such a state,” he told her.

Allegra slept on.

He sauntered back to the washstand, lifted out the porcelain basin, and changed the water, perfuming it with some of his cologne in a mysterious impulse to cover her in his scent. He returned to her side with the water and the softest washcloth he could find, and he sat down.

He took his time undressing her, ignoring his slowly thickening arousal and the fantasies that whispered through him as he easily rid her of her ruined dress. She lay full-length on his bed now, clad only in her chemise. He stared down at her, sorely tested as he studied the curving lines of her slender, elegant figure.

She was limp in his arms as he slipped the straps of the chemise from her shoulders. He wiped her tearstained face first, and she stirred a little, but then she merely nestled against his lap when he placed her head on his thigh.

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked in a barely audible murmur as he rinsed the cloth, stroking her white throat and chest, rounding her shoulders, taking his time as he traced the lines of her slender arms with the wet, scented cloth.

He rinsed it again, swallowing hard at the sight of her exposed breasts, the nipples like soft, peach-flavored candies. He worked the ivory satin of her chemise lower, to her navel, where he paused just to gaze at the creamy expanse of her flat belly. He laid his hand on her stomach, where she’d said Golly had punched her.

Punched
her.

Incomprehensible.

“Poor baby,” he whispered. She really was just a baby. How young twenty was, he thought. Eight years his junior, and a virgin. He caressed her cheek, then rinsed the cloth again. He was surprised when she moved a little in her semiconscious state.

“Lazar,” she whispered, loosely clutching at a handful of his shirt. She made a sound like a tiny groan of pleasure, then drifted still again.

Her whisper left him sitting there, momentarily blinded with desire.

“Oh, Christ,” he breathed, closing his eyes, his mouth gone dry. He could not resist the temptation. He leaned down and grazed her lips with his own as he cupped her breast softly in his palm, feeling the nipple harden under his touch.

Give her to somebody else? Do you seriously think you could ever share her?

He ignored the inner question, willing her to stay asleep as he stroked her sides and belly, explored the other breast. He kissed her throat, barely parting his lips.

She moaned again, shifting slightly in his lap, arching instinctively for him. Lazar stared at her, forcing himself to be still. Only his heart pounded, and his erection throbbed.

He sat up again and reached for the cloth, pressing it to his own brow, but the water did little to cool him. Staring, he cast it aside. Finally he pushed the material down over her hips, revealing the dark, silky tuft veiling her femininity.

She slept, but he found her senses were awake to him. He ran his fingers slowly through the tiny curls between her legs and stroked her, closing his eyes in ecstasy to feel her wetness lave the tip of his middle finger.

Exquisite
.

He opened his eyes again and watched desire play across her face while her hips lifted slightly for his softest caress. He did not push inside but waited for her to seek it, and when she did, he slid his finger into her deeply, holding his breath because she was so beautifully tight. He watched her round breasts heave, while her moaning breaths led him deeper into a trance of sensuality. When he rested his thumb ever so lightly on her rigid nub, her eyes barely opened. He met her drugged, heavy-lidded gaze, wet and hazy with longing.

Her eyes closed again, and he withdrew to slide the satin chemise down over her thighs, his mind made up to have her at once. He stood to pull the chemise the rest of the way off her, and that was when he saw the leather cords, still bound about her slim ankles from when he had hobbled her earlier in the gate tower.

He stopped abruptly, taken aback.

He touched one white ankle and saw the redness of the chafed skin, like a rope burn.

Allegra suddenly turned onto her side again and curled up into a ball as if it had been nothing but a strange dream. She began breathing normally, both hands tucked under her cheek.

He stared at her gold-tipped lashes fanned against her freckled cheek, thinking how she looked absurdly like a little girl.

“Jesus, what am I doing?” he whispered. He stood there for a second, wanting her as he had never wanted a woman before, but he couldn’t do it. Not this way.

Somehow he turned himself around and paced away from the bed, heart pounding. He crossed his arms over his chest and glanced back at her hungrily, eyeing the soft curves of her backside, but he kept his distance until guilt adequately overcame his lust.

He went to his armoire, pulled out a soft linen shirt like the one he had on, and returned to the bed, dressing her in it. He cut the leather cords from her ankles. He meant to leave her in peace then, but he couldn’t bring himself to go.

Instead he lay down behind her, molding his body around hers while he held her close against him, his right arm around her waist. They fit together as if they had been made for each other.

She let out a pretty sigh of contentment, nestling against him, and though the wriggle of her derriere against his groin was torment, he gave in to a slight, weary smile as she slept on. His smile faded, however, when he admitted to himself that—all his useless vaunting aside—he had no right to her, no right to any of this.

Bold, noble Miss Monteverdi had made her oath in the heat of the moment to save her family, but it was him she had saved, in truth. He had no right to hold her to her reckless, selfless vow, but he
would
hold her to it. He locked his arms around her as if she were his life raft and swore to the Heaven that hated him that he was never letting her go.

The hell with giving her away. Ever.

She was his now. He had brought her into his exile, carried her off like Hades with his springtime goddess, an unwilling bride to share his sufferings—not that he had any intention of marrying her. For reasons he could not explain, he needed to make her see that what he’d become was never what he’d intended. She must understand he had suffered.

He nestled his face in her streaming hair. It smelled of smoke and gunpowder now, but the scent of flowers was still there, very faint. Then he petted her silky hair back from tickling his nose and asked himself a simple question. Honestly, was it so imperative to regain mastery of the situation over this defenseless girl? He was secure in his own strength, and she was surely terrified. Need he break her for the sin of stopping him from doing something that curdled his blood in the first place?

For many long moments, he considered the question as he listened to Allegra’s breathing and gently caressed her hip.

He had lived the past fifteen years of his life fueled by hate, ridden by death, with no other purpose than revenge, and look, he thought, what it got him.

Nothing.

If he had gone through with it—wiped out all those lives—he would have felt just as empty as always. And yet, lying here with Allegra, he didn’t feel empty at all.

The knowledge did not frighten him, though perhaps it ought to. He felt as though she’d cut him free from a millstone that had been tied around his neck so long he’d forgotten it was there.

He could feel something profound happening inside him, deeper than arousal, surer than all his fears, could almost feel his life charting a mysterious new course for him. All he had to do was let it happen. He was not even sure he had a choice, so certain it felt inside him, a sea change.

Everything he’d been living for had just ended. She had ended it for him in an instant, but it did not feel like an ending to him.

Perhaps, he thought as he held her warm body close, a new voyage in his life had just begun.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Allegra leaned against the rails, staring out to sea. The day was hot and overcast, the waves the gray-green of tarnished copper, and her whole world was as unsteady as the rocking deck beneath her feet. She was pondering the weighty fact that her life was over.

She was alone in earnest now.

How could Papa have done this to her? she asked the sea over and over again, brooding. Surely he had known that after Mama took her life nine years ago, another suicide was the one thing she could not bear. Disbelief had left her numb, and grief exhausted her, but now the raw, broken feeling of loss was beginning to give way to anger. At least the anger held a spark of life in it.

Until this morning, she had been too devastated to assess her situation or to think about the future, but she was beginning to feel her strength return, and, as the captive of a notorious pirate, God knew, she would need it.

All her efforts, all her principles, all her high-flown ideals—all for naught. The victress of the people had become the plaything of a man, she mused bitterly. A man who stood for everything she despised—vendetta and violence, crime and trickery.

She could even have believed he was the Prince except for one small problem: he had boarded his ship, lifted his anchor, and sailed away from Ascencion.

No, he was a pirate, and she was his captive, and what a perfectly absurd situation in which to find herself.

She scowled down at the waves.

Really, she was much too sensible for this sort of thing, and back on Ascencion, she had work to do.

She caught Lazar’s scent on the humid breeze a moment before he appeared beside her. She had come to know that scent, that warmth, and the rhythm of his breathing when he slept.

He said nothing, only folded his arms on the wooden rail and joined her in staring at the sea. Neither looked at the other.

Two mornings now she had awakened in his arms, but beyond the admitted comfort of his embrace, he kept a respectful distance while she grieved. When she cried about Papa during the night, though she tried not to make a sound, he stroked her hair and her back, never saying a word, simply giving her his soft reassurance.