“What are you doing?” she breathed.
“Captain’s orders,” he said. “We are to secure ourselves.”
She pressed her hand to her chest, the back of it brushing his shirt. “It will be that rough?” It was hard to talk. Her throat was tight.
“Look,” Cian said, nodding toward the porthole.
She twisted around to look through the small glass.
More than half of the sky was dark with storm clouds. The sea had turned gray, too. As she looked, lighting flashed, deep inside the clouds.
The ship rolled, as a wave lifted it.
Eleanore moaned, shrinking away from the porthole. It brought her up against Cian. His arm came around her. “You’re safe,” he breathed and she felt his voice against her.
It didn’t stop her trembling. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the glass and the terrible view beyond. She watched the black clouds consume the last of the blue sky, as the ship rocked and tossed in a corkscrew motion. Rain spat against the glass and ran in streaks—not down the glass, but across it.
The wind whistled and screamed, lifting higher than the sea and the thunder itself.
Eleanore cried out, a wordless protest. She was back in the cold, cold water, flailing and tired. So very tired. And frightened. Coherent thought had long ago congealed. She was a reactionary creature, with one ambition only—to stay afloat, no matter what.
She might have called out or screamed aloud her fear. She didn’t know, for the wind smothered every sound, as it did now—except for the steady beat of a heart. It was not hers which beat so slow and sure.
Eleanore didn’t know how much time passed before she realized she was no longer cold. Warm arms held her. A warm shoulder was against her cheek. Cian spoke to her. She couldn’t hear him for the shriek of the wind. Instead, she felt the rumble of his voice against her.
Soft words. Reassuring words.
The words and the warmth remained, even when they were lifted and slid down another wall of water. The ship tossed, yet she was secure in his arms.
Her heart did not slow, although it stopped echoing in her mind, her throat and every extremity.
Coherent thought came to her, bit by bit.
She remembered the storm now. Her storm—the storm. Only, she remembered it as she remembered other things from her past, not as an event which was happening now in her mind. She even remembered what had made her keep flailing her arms each time she was pushed below the surface, what had made her keep kicking her feet and fight to stay afloat, despite how weary she was.
“Two kisses,” she whispered.
Cian’s voice was only a little louder, enough to lift over the shriek of the wind. “Kisses, Ellie?”
“You kissed me. Twice,” she said, lifting her voice. “Before the storm.”
There was tension in his body—he was shielding her and anchoring her, yet she still felt his wariness build. “You…remember them?” he breathed.
Eleanore lifted her chin, drawing back so she met his gaze. His expression was neutral. He gave her no hint of what he was thinking.
“I remembered them. It was what made me keep swimming. Your kisses and returning to you.”
Cian’s eyes widened.
“When you kissed me in the carriage, when you got my book back…that’s when I remembered,” she added.
The ship rolled and tipped, the timbers groaning around them, only she barely heard the sound. What she did hear was Cian’s tiny intake of snatched breath.
Her heart leaping for entirely different reasons, now, she pressed her lips to his. It was clumsy—it could be nothing else, for they were being rocked in the sea’s mighty cradle.
It did not seem to matter to Cian. His arm tightened, pulling her against his long length, and kissed her far more thoroughly than she had managed.
He did not stop kissing her and it didn’t occur to her to halt him. His lips roamed her face and her throat, always coming back to her lips. His hands smoothed over her torso and traced the length of her legs beneath her skirts. Yet he did not undress her.
She undressed him, instead. His shirt was already half unfastened and the few buttons remaining were easy to slide apart so she could rest her fingers against his warm chest. His flesh was soft, rising over muscles and flexing tendons. She delighted in the sensations under her fingers and trailed them all over him.
Each time he groaned or tensed at her touch, she repeated it, learning swiftly what drew the strongest responses from him. When she fumbled at the buttons on his trousers, though, he caught her hand in his and kissed her fingers. “Not here. Not now,” he breathed. “Let this day be your own personal victory. The rest…can come later.”
She shuddered at the rich promise in his voice.
The squall blew itself out as quickly as it had arrived. Barely two hours later, the sun was shining again. The sea was as calm as it had been when they left Falmouth.
Cian put his outer garments back on, while Eleanore sat on the bunk and watched him, her heart beating heavily.
When he was once more the properly attired gentleman, he lifted her off the bunk and put her on her feet. “Come and see the sky now,” he told her. He undogged the door of the captain’s cabin and led her back up to the deck of the ship.
Eleanore looked around, amazed. Everything was sodden, or dripping with water, yet the sky was blue and cloudless once more…only the sun was dipping close to the sea. It was late.
The crew were setting the sails once more. The captain monitored their progress. Already the ship was leaning and running under the wind, the sea once more shushing softly along the hull.
It was a pleasant sound, Eleanore decided.
Cian drew her toward the side of the deck and pointed toward the bow. “There.”
Far in front of them was an angry mass of black clouds, with dark rain beneath them, turning the water black.
“You made it through,” Cian said softly.
She reached over her shoulder, searching with her fingers for him. His hand found hers. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Captain Connell strode over to them. His shirt and pants, both a grubby white, were soaked and clinging to him, yet he was calm. Happiness gleamed in his eyes. “A good little blow,” he said. “Did you fare well?”
“Yes, we’re fine,” Cian said.
“I’m very hungry,” Eleanore admitted.
Connell laughed. “We’ll have you back in Falmouth by sunset, my Lady, not to worry. Even if we catch up with the squall, it will be nothing but a rainstorm by the time it reaches Falmouth. They don’t like shallow seas.”
Eleanore glanced at the black mass before them. “I don’t mind the rain,” she said. Not anymore, she added to herself.
Cian touched her shoulder. “Would you like to stand at the bows once more?”
“Will the dolphins return?”
“Oh, they’ll be fishing for their supper, my Lady,” Connell said. “The squall stirs things up beneath as well as on top. Rich pickings for everyone.” He winked and moved back to the wheel.
Eleanore moved along the boat to the mast. This time, Cian did not keep her on her feet or guide her around the ropes and mast.
She walked by herself.
The room put aside for Eleanore at the Truworth Inn was their best, the inn keeper’s wife, Mrs. Truworth, assured her as she bustled about, drawing curtains and straightening the counterpane on the bed.
The room was not luxurious, although it was clean and neat. It would do.
Lord Innesford, Mrs. Truworth assured her, had only the second-best room just across the corridor, for he was a regular customer and a sailor and used to living at sea. And…well, he was a man, too.
Eleanore thanked Mrs. Truworth for the room and for the chicken pot pie she had served for their supper, downstairs in the private dining room. Finally, the lady left, still worrying about the warmth of the coverlet and the depth of the pillows.
Eleanore removed her day dress and undert
hings quickly, her hands shaking. She was used to seeing for herself, without the services of a maid. It gave her freedom few more dependent women understood. It had allowed her to leave a weekend house party without notice and travel back to London before anyone knew she was gone.
It also allowed her to play cricket in one dress and appear at after-game functions dressed as a proper lady, too.
Now it allowed her to undress swiftly. She pulled the silk wrapper from her valise with trembling fingers and slid it on. She did not bother with slippers.
Eleanore eased the bedroom door open and peered along the narrow corridor in both directions. The inn was quiet. No one lingered on this upper floor.
Her heart skipping heavily, Eleanore eased silently across the corridor to the door on the other side. She raised her hand to tap on the wood and paused. The knock might be heard downstairs. It would certainly be heard by any guests in the other four rooms.
With her heart galloping around in her chest, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. Trembling, she closed the door behind her.
Cian stood at the window, both hands pressing against the frame, his weight leaning. He had shed all his garments until he wore his trousers and shirt, as he had on the ship.
As she shut the door, he spun to look at her. His face was unreadable.
Eleanore had no idea what to say. What did one say to a man they propose to seduce? There were no rules to cover the situation.
As she cast about for something to say, her heart thudding hard, Cian strode across the floor and came up against her. He pushed her up against the door, his hand around her waist.
She drew in a startled breath. He was hot and hard against her, in a way she had never felt before. The silk let her sense everything, including the fine trembling in him.
He leaned down and pressed his lips up against her neck. Her cheek. His lips hovered for the longest moment over hers. His dark eyes were smoldering.
“I didn’t have the courage,” he said. “I wasn’t sure…”
“I am sure,” she said. “Kiss me.”
He kissed her and it was as good as every other kiss he had ever given her. It was far more intense, now she wore so little. She felt every inch of him, with her wide-awake nerves and her highly sensitized flesh. Every little brush against her skin sent sparks flitting through her.
The flesh between her thighs throbbed. The depths of her belly ached. It was a very pleasant ache.
Cian straightened and stepped away from her. He picked up her hand. “Where were we?”
He pulled her toward the bed and she realized Cian intended to return to the place where he had halted things, on the ship. He helped her onto the bed. Because she had guessed his intentions, Eleanore laid as she had been on the bunk—on her side.
When Cian laid beside her, she let her feet tangle with his as they had been on the bunk and he drew in a sharp breath. “You’re hot everywhere…” His length pressed up against hers again, so barely the width of a hand was between them. He kissed her, his hand sliding over her body. This time there was no corsetry to get in the way, nor layers of petticoats and a thick bustle. His fingertips slid over the thin silk, shaping themselves against her waist and the curve of her hip.
She trembled as his hand cupped her bottom and drew her hard against him. His thick member jutted against her, pressing through the gabardine of his trousers.
Cian moved his lips down her throat, his thick hair tickling her jaw. His tongue touched her flesh, making her shiver. He kissed her throat, all the way to the base. His mouth pressed the soft flesh between her breasts and her heart slammed against her chest. Her breasts were heavy and hot tipped, and even though she wasn’t certain what Cian intended to do, she did know she wanted him to touch her there.
He tugged on the belt of her wrapper and the slippery silk unraveled. The bottom half of the robe dropped away, revealing her hip and thigh. The edge of the robe caught on her painfully tight nipple.
Cian drew in a hoarse breath. He slid his hand beneath the edge of the robe, over her waist. For a moment he paused. Did he hesitate to savor, or to second-guess himself?
Eleanore pushed the silk aside, revealing all of her—breasts, hips and thighs and everything in between, including his hand resting on the indentation of her waist. She drew in a quick breath at her own daring and the touch of air on her flesh. The air was cold.
Cian groaned and swept his hand up her torso. His fingers curved over her breast as he bent his head and sucked in the tip of her breast.
It was such a marvelous sensation that Eleanore gave a soft cry. Her head rolled back, her back arched, driving her breast into his mouth. She was astonished at herself. It was such a primal action, such an instinctive one.
The pleasure of his mouth on her breast was perfect. Or, at least, she thought it was until his teeth closed over her nipple and tugged and scraped.
Eleanore lost track of all externalities. All she could focus upon was the sweet pleasure of what Cian was doing to her. Her body fizzed and rippled with building intoxication. She realized her hands were moving restlessly against Cian’s back, encouraging him.
Eleanore wanted flesh beneath her fingertips, not cotton. Such a thought had never struck her before, yet now all she could think of was what it might feel like to run her fingers over his arms and back and chest…and perhaps lower down.
She shivered at the wickedness. The pure heady sensualism made her drunk and fully alive at the same time.
Why had she not explored this aspect of life a long time ago?
Because it would not have been Cian I shared it with. The thought intruded enough to make her heart beat a little harder. She shoved it away and tugged at the back of Cian’s shirt. “Off. I want this off.” Her voice was lower and thicker, heavy with arousal.
Cian’s eyes were lazy and hooded as he lifted his chin to look at her.
“All of it,” she insisted.
His jaw rippled. He sat up.
Eleanore caught at his arm. “Don’t get off the bed. Don’t move away from me.”
Cian’s smile was heated. He stayed where he was and swiftly unfastened the buttons, drew the shirt out of his trousers and tossed it so it hung over the end of the bed. His hands fell to his trouser buttons.
Eleanore pushed herself up on one elbow. “I want to see.”
Cian drew in a harsh breath. “Lord…!” he whispered. He undid the six buttons as swiftly as he had his shirt. With a lithe roll onto his lower back, he pushed both trousers and underdrawers off his hips, down his legs and off in one smooth movement. The garments dropped softly to the rug beside the bed.
Her gaze was caught by his throbbing shaft. As Cian rolled onto his side once more, Eleanore reached out and curled her fingers around it.
Heat. Flesh softer than the silk of her wrapper.
Curiously, she stroked the ridged end. Touching it made her heart gallop and the emptiness between her legs noticeable.
The murmurs and gossip and hints she had gathered over the years about the intimacies of men and women swiftly realigned themselves into a comprehensible whole.
Cian hissed. “If you continue with what you are doing, this will be over before it properly begins.”
Eleanore snatched her hand away, startled.
Cian laughed and pulled her up against him. His eyes were hot with arousal and the sight of them made her shiver. So did the touch of his body. She ran her hands over his flesh as she had wanted to and marveled at the sensations. His back was broad and strong. His shoulders, too.
Daringly, she smoothed her palm down his back to the narrow hips, then to the curve of his cheek. Her fingers brushed between the cheeks and he caught his breath. His hips shifted and his shaft pulsed between them.
Eleanore swallowed.
“Turn and turn about,” he breathed and swooped his hand down to her bottom and cupped it. He squeezed and at the brush of his fingers between her cheeks, she caught her breath. It was a pleasant sensation.
He brought his hand up to cup her hip. He slid it down her thigh. His long fingers spread and her breath hitched again, as her thigh rippled and trembled at his touch. The flesh between her thighs ached.
As if he knew what she felt, Cian drew his hand higher and brushed her mound.
She gasped at the touch. Yes, this was what she wanted.
His fingers pressed even deeper.
Eleanore lost track of her thoughts once more. Her eyes closed as his fingers stroked and explored. She sensed the folds were damp. The flesh was so overly sensitive her entire body leaped and tightened at his touch. Her hips lifted, which made her breasts rise, almost in offering.
Cian’s mouth closed over the tip of one, and he drew the nipple out, stroking his tongue over the end.
Eleanore pummeled the bed with her fist. The double assault of his mouth and hands was overwhelming. She shook with the building pleasure, stunned at the delightful sensations.
Cian did not stop his ministrations. He slid his fingers a little higher, to bump up against the tiny nub there and Eleanore cried out at the thrill which tore through her at the single touch.
He did it repeatedly and she gripped the counterpane, her breath coming in soft little pants, as her body gathered and responded to the rhythmic stroking. She wondered if her head would explode, or her heart. Yet the pleasure built and built until she didn’t think it could possibly rise any higher.
For long moments, she shook, every muscle clamped tight.
The peak of silvered, sublime excitement coursed through her. Her groan was deep, pulling from the heart of her and tearing at her throat. The pleasure washed over her in wave after wave.
For long moments, she laid recovering, with little after-shocks sizzling through her. “Oh my dear God…!” she whispered in wonder, her voice strained.
Cian lifted himself over her. His smile was small and heated, as he settled between her thighs.
Instinctively, she spread her knees as his shaft pressed against her. With a start, she realized the slick dampness would aid this moment.
The thick head pushed between her flesh, unerringly finding the aching channel. Cian’s gaze was steady. He watched to measure her discomfort, she realized.
Rules of Engagement Page 11