Duncan pushed aside the thin material of the dressing gown he'd found for her in a trunk in the hold and caught her nipple between his teeth. He drew it into his mouth and sucked gently at first, then with greater demand.
Jillian signed . . . then she moaned. Duncan knew her better than she knew herself. He knew what she liked . . . what she craved.
"Jilly, my sweet Jilly," he crooned. His tongue teased her nipple to an aching torment. He found one breast and then the other, tugging, teasing her into a frenzy.
He unbuttoned her gown and flung it open. The cool cabin air made her skin prickle with goosebumps, adding to her sensitivity. His hot, callused hands roamed over her, sending shivers of desire down her spine.
She ran her hands freely over his rippling, muscular form, reveling in the feel of his skin against hers. "Take your clothing off," she murmured in his ear, nipping at his lobe. "Take it off, love."
Duncan complied with her wishes; and in an instant, he was stretched out beside her again, naked, his rigid member proof of his desire for her.
Jillian explored the colorful tattoos on his chest, the bulging biceps and triceps of his arms. She could never get enough of this man's body. She fantasized about it during the day; she dreamed of it at night. Since they had been reunited, she couldn't get enough of him. No matter how many times they made love in a day, it wasn't enough.
Their mouths met hungrily, and she tasted the wine he'd drunk, their tongues twisting in a dance of passion.
"Where else shall I kiss you?" Duncan murmured.
Her breath was ragged. "You know . . ."
He laughed, his voice husky with excitement. "I know, but tell me. Show me . . ."
Slowly, Jillian ran her hand over her belly to the source of her pleasure. She brushed the bed of red curls with her fingertips. "Here, touch me here, husband. Kiss me here."
"Of course . . ." Then he slid further down in the bunk, taking care not to disturb her injured leg. When he had lowered his head between her legs, she closed her eyes, arching her back against the hot, sweet heat of his probing tongue.
Jillian entangled her fingers in his long, dark hair. "Duncan," she moaned. "Duncan . . ."
He fanned the flames of her desire, teasing her into a frenzy of aching want. Then, finally sensing how near she was to the brink of release, he slid up in the bed again and lay beside her so that they were facing each other. She was panting heavily.
Duncan reached for his glass of wine.
Jillian open her eyes. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice strained and breathy.
"Resting." He sipped the wine. "I'm in no hurry, are you, love?"
"Resting!" Jillian flung her arm over her face, trying to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding, her blood racing. "You're a tease," she accused.
"Just the way you like me." He winked.
Jillian grabbed him by the shoulders and pressed her lips hard against his, sharing the wine still in his mouth.
A little liquid spilled from the glass onto his chest. When he went to wipe it up with the corner of the sheet, she pushed aside his hand. Two could play this game of exquisite torture . . .
"What are you doing?"
She flattened her tongue against his chest and licked up the wine.
"Jilly, I was just teasing." He tried to roll on top of her, but she pushed him back onto his side. She dipped her finger into his wine glass.
"Now what?"
She laughed deep in her throat, touching her fingertip to his nipple. He shrank back in reaction to the cool liquid.
Jillian brushed his nipple with the tip of her tongue, then pressed her lips against it to suck.
Duncan groaned, lifting his head. "Where did you learn that?"
"From you." She dipped her finger into the glass again, this time painting a red trail of wine down the middle of his tattooed chest and lower . . .
Duncan lay back as she began to lick up the dark wine, following the path she'd drawn. Lifting her head, she took a drink of the wine and, holding it in her mouth, she let it dribble onto his tumescent member.
"And that?" He lifted her thick curtain of hair so that he could watch. "Where did you learn that, sweet?"
She looked up, licking the wine from her lips. "I thought of that on my own," she whispered. Then she lowered her head over him, touching her tongue to the tip of his throbbing, engorged shaft, tasting the wine and his saltiness.
"Jilly," he moaned as she explored his length, taking her time as he had taken his.
"Jillian, you don't have to . . . your leg . . . the baby . . ." His words were coming in short bursts.
"Shhhh," she hushed, lifting her head to stare into his green eyes. "I want to. Lie back and let me give you the pleasure you've given me so often."
So, Duncan lay back, watching her, his eyes full of passion.
Again and again, Jillian took him to the edge. . . . He moaned, he called her name; she delighted in his pleasure.
Finally, when Jillian sensed her husband couldn't stand her sweet torture much longer, she slid up, throwing her good leg over him so that she could mount him.
"Jillian, your leg."
"Just a fracture," she answered. "Remember?" Then, before he could protest further, she raised up, guiding him with her hand until he penetrated her.
Jillian dug her knees into the feather tick, unaffected by the splint on her calf. Suddenly, her own desire was urgent once again.
Duncan caught her around the waist, his broad hands spanning her hips, his eyes drifting shut as she moved to the rhythm that was only theirs. Again and again, she raised and lowered her body over him, taking him deeply, her moans of pleasure mingling with his. Fire spread from her loins outward as she moved closer to that precipice she knew only Duncan could take her to.
Then, against her will, it was all over too quickly. She reached the edge and fell, dissolving into pulsing, molten ecstasy she could never experience often enough.
"Duncan," she cried as he lifted his hips beneath her.
"Jillian . . ." He pulled her hard against him, and then he, too, was satiated.
Jillian rolled onto her side, curling up against him, her back to his chest. She wiggled until her buttocks were settled against his groin. He wrapped his arm around her waist, kissing the damp curls at the back of her neck.
"I love you, Jillian," he murmured.
She smiled in the semi-darkness. "And I, you."
She wanted to just lie beside Duncan and bathe in her happiness, but there was one thing that she still felt separated them, something even more important than his past. It was a matter that Duncan refused to discuss.
"Duncan," she said after a few minutes. "It's important that you believe me."
He didn't look at her. "I told you it didn't matter to me. I wanted you to live at any cost. Whatever you did for the sake of our unborn child was honorable."
"But I didn't do anything with Indigo."
Duncan got out of bed and picked up his clothing. He dressed, his back to her. "You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?"
She pulled the sheet up over her bare breasts, suddenly chilled. "Yes, I do."
"I told you, it's not important to me. After all, if a man sips from the well, it's not drunk up."
"I don't want to hear any of that Mohawk nonsense!" she flung, hurt . . . angry. "I want you to tell me you believe me when I say Indigo never touched me."
He tucked his shirt into his breeches and sat down to pull on his boots, more booty from the hold of the pirate ship. "I can't do that." He stood, turning to look at her with those green eyes she had come to love and, at times like this, to hate. "All I can say is that I forgive you. I will never bring up the subject again, and you'd be wise to do the same." He started for the door.
"Come back here!" she cried, throwing her legs over the side of the bunk. He was running from her, the son of a bitch. "Come back here and finish this! I won't be your wife with you thinking I betrayed you! I swear to God, I won't!
I'll leave you, Duncan! I'll go home to London."
He stopped at the cabin door, glancing first at her broken leg, then at her protruding abdomen.
"I don't think you'll be going anywhere anytime soon."
Gone was her beloved Duncan. In his place stood the cold, arrogant man that she had met that warm day in her father's garden. Suddenly, Jillian realized she was fool if she ever thought she could change him.
He opened the door. "I'm going up on deck for some air."
Then he was gone.
Jillian flung herself back on the bunk, too furious for tears. He thought she had spoken her words in anger, but she was utterly serious. She'd leave Duncan if he thought she betrayed their love. Even if it broke her heart.
Constance rested against a silk pillow, an herbal poultice covering her eyes. It was late at night; the house was quiet. "How dare you come here?" she whispered harshly. "How dare you come to my private chambers uninvited?"
"I did everything you asked and, now, I want my payment," came the male voice.
Constance chuckled. "Considering the circumstances, considering who did what, I wouldn't think you'd be in a position to demand anything."
"But it was your idea. I only followed your instructions."
She adjusted the soothing eye-poultice. A mixture of chamomile, rose water, and cow dung, it was supposed to eliminate crow's feet. "You have no proof of that. You have no proof of anything, twit."
He exhaled. "Just give me the entire payment, and I'll go. I'm afraid the dowager is suspicious. She keeps asking questions."
"Old, nosy fool. I never liked her and her brassy hair." Constance sighed. "Well, I don't keep those sums about. You'll have to give me a few days."
"You've been saying that for weeks."
"Well, I'm saying it again, damn it!" She ripped off the eye-poultice and flung it at him.
He retreated into the shadows of the doorway so that she couldn't see his face.
"Come back in a few days." She reached for the glass beside her bed.
"Just give me my due, and I'll never trouble you again."
"Get out," she hissed, "or I'll call Peter. Get out!"
He closed the door quietly behind him.
Twenty-eight
"It is beautiful," Jillian conceded. She stood on the deck of the Royal Fortune beside Duncan, leaning against him for support. It was early June, and the bright sunshine was warm on her face. Last night, they had sailed into the Chesapeake Bay and were now approaching the cove used by Duncan's tobacco ships.
"There's the house." He pointed. "Do you see it?"
In the distance, she spotted a three-story, white-brick house far off the bank. It was surrounded by trees and a grassy lawn that led down to the water's edge. Were circumstances different, she would have thought the view nearly perfect.
"It's nothing like the homes in England, but for here, it's quite nice. Once we have furniture—"
"I'm certain it will be fine," she said, cutting him off. They had not settled the matter of Indigo. Duncan refused to discuss it and so, once again, their relationship was strained. He obviously thought she would get over her anger and resentment. He obviously didn't know her as well as he thought he did.
Jake called to set anchor and the ship slowed, came about, and drifted to a halt. A dingy was lowered over the side and, within half an hour's time, Jillian found herself in the small boat, being rowed to shore. Duncan was at her side.
"My land runs to the north and south along the bay and then to the west." He stood on the bow of the boat as they neared the grassy shore. "Once you're up to riding again, I'll show you the tobacco fields. Last summer, we were cutting one to the northwest. I sure as hell hope the men finished in my absence."
Someone appeared on the shore, waving. Duncan waved back. "It's good to be home," he said softly, dropping his hand to Jillian's shoulder. "Good to be home."
Home? Jillian thought dismally. Where was her home, now? She could not, she would not, remain in Maryland if Duncan wouldn't believe she'd not had relations with Indigo. Where would she go? To England, she supposed. Back to Breckenridge, for surely her father wouldn't take her in.
Jake's men rowed the boat onto the sandy shore beside a wooden dock. An old black man in a red shirt jumped up and down excitedly. When Duncan stepped onto the beach, in the shallow water, the old man went down on his knees clasping his hands.
"That's Atar's father, William," Duncan explained.
"A ghostie!" the man wailed. "Ghosts have set upon us."
"No ghosts, Billy," Duncan called, good-naturedly. "It's me in the flesh."
The man got to his feet, squinting in the sunlight. "You certain that's you, masta', and not a spirit?" He still appeared suspicious, even upon closer inspection.
Duncan laughed, hitting his broad chest. "It's me, all right."
"But . . . but yer dead. We got the word weeks ago, masta'. We done had your funeral. Yer dead and sunk to the bottom of the sea wit' yer new wife."
"I'm telling you, I'm not dead." He leaned over the side of the boat and swept Jillian into his arms. "And here's my new wife, come to set this household straight. Just as I promised."
"Put me down, please, Duncan," Jillian said in his ear. "I can walk. I've been walking on the ship for weeks when ever you weren't about." She hung onto his shoulders. "This is not how I want to meet your staff."
"Hush, Jillian. There'll be no argument. It's too far for you to walk to the house." He started up the gently sloping bank. "And when we get there, you're going straight to bed."
Jillian gritted her teeth. She didn't want to make a scene out of Duncan's homecoming, but neither did she want to be treated like a child, too foolish to know what was good for her. In the last week, she'd had just about enough of Duncan Roderick and his cool control.
Halfway up the lawn, a familiar figure appeared on the steps of the great white house, surprising them both.
Jillian looked at Duncan. "Daphne? It can't be . . ."
The old woman with her bright red hair came down the steps and trotted across the lawn. A young manservant chased after her. "Your cane, madame," he called, waving it. "You've forgotten your cane."
"Grandmother!" Duncan hollered.
When the dowager reached them, she threw her arms around Duncan, embracing Jillian as well. Tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks. "I thought you were dead," she said over and over again. "Drowned at sea. That's what the message was. Constance said the ship went down with all hands."
Duncan seemed genuinely delighted to see her. "You don't think a few pirates would get the best of me, do you, Grandmother?"
She laughed, patting his arm. "Oh, and heavens, child, what's happened to you?" she asked, noticing at once Jillian's splinted leg.
"It was broken, but I'm much better now, as good as new." She glared at Duncan. "I could walk if he would let me."
"It's wise to keep her off her feet," the dowager said, falling into step beside Duncan. "How much longer before the baby comes?"
"Six weeks, I would guess." Jillian answered before Duncan could. "Now, what in sweet heaven's name are you doing here, Daphne? We left you in London."
She threw up a hand. "I decided to come and see Duncan's Maryland for myself. That and my great-grandchild."
They reached the simple, three-story, white-washed brick house and Duncan carried Jillian up the front steps with the dowager directly behind him.
"Take her to the master chamber," Daphne ordered. "I've been staying there, but of course you and Jillian must have it." She clapped her hands to get her manservant's attention. "Joshua, run to the kitchen and tell Mary we'll need clean linens and tea. Decent English tea for the new mistress!"
"Yes, madame."
Duncan carried Jillian up the grand staircase as she turned in his arms to catch a glimpse of the sparse, yet elegantly furnished house.
"Stop wiggling," Duncan chastised. "There'll be plenty of time for exploring the house later."
The dowag
er hurried up the staircase behind Duncan, holding onto the polished oak banister for support. "So tell me how it is that you managed to survive, grandson. I still can't believe it's you!"
Duncan took Jillian down the hall and, with his foot, pushed open a door. The bedchamber was large and airy with a masculine tone.
Carefully, he set her on the bed. He reached behind her to arrange a pillow. "Comfortable?"
"I'd be more comfortable in the chair. I'm not sick, Duncan, just pregnant."
"With a broken leg." He crossed the room to adjust the thick, burgundy drapes so that the sun didn't shine directly in her eyes.
"A mended fractured leg," Jillian corrected, turning her attention to the dowager. "Our ship was captured by pirates and it was sunk, but we managed to get away."
"It's a very long story, Grandmother." Duncan came to the bedside. "Perhaps we should let Jillian rest and talk later."
"I'm not tired," Jillian snapped, glancing at Duncan. "Tell her what happened. He's her grandson, too. She has a right to know."
Duncan frowned. "Jillian."
The dowager grabbed Duncan's hand. "What is she talking about? I have a right to know what? Tell me, boy. I'm not so old that you must shield me from truths."
Duncan crossed his arms, looking over the bedchamber he'd not set foot in in nearly a year. "We were attacked by pirates in Caribbean waters, Grandmother. Pirates sent by my dear cousin, Algernon. I've proof this time or, at least, proof enough for me. The pirate captain said he was hired by an Englishman to murder me and my family. It was only by luck and through Will's death that we survived."
The dowager covered her mouth with her hand. "No," she whispered.
"Listen, Grandmother, I understand that you love Algernon. I understand that you—"
"No, no," she insisted. Her rosy complexion went pale. "You don't understand. He's here."
Duncan's hands fell to his sides. "Here? Here, where?"
"Here in the Colonies. In Maryland." The dowager rose, her ringed hands trembling. "Why . . . I brought him with me on the ship. He said he hadn't tried to harm you in London. He said he had to make amends."
My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity) Page 30