How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series)

by Alexandra Benedict

  Another groan. He gathered her in his shaking arms. Skin nestled skin. Not even raindrops slipped between them. So close. That’s how he wanted her. Always.

  Quincy took her mouth in a gentle kiss, lingering over one swollen lip then the other. Again, one lip then the other. And again. He tasted her. Explored her. He sensed her every want—softness, intimacy, affection—and offered it all without hesitancy. The kiss stripped him raw. She rent every last vestige of darkness from his soul and inserted herself in its place. Christ, he almost broke under the breadth of her love.

  Deeper, he kissed her. Ached for her. Every part of her. And she matched his growing arousal, burrowing her fingers into his neck, tenderness giving way to fire.

  “Oh, Holly,” he murmured, reaching for the curvature at her throat. “Sweet Holly.”

  There, he rested his lips. Her pulse thundered beneath his tongue, and he bussed and nipped at the supple flesh, ravenous. He laved her shoulder, stroked her collar bone, then caressed the hollow between her breasts.

  Discovering his wife’s body was like exploring an uncharted part of himself, and with each new, sensuous find he took in more of her and revealed more of himself in return.

  She trembled under his ministrations, evoking his primal instincts. He dropped to his knees, rubbing her shapely hips, bussing her taut abdomen . . . her moist thighs.

  Holly clamped her hands over the iron rail and arched her back. She offered him a divine position to thoroughly probe and taste and know her.

  And he accepted her beautiful offer.

  “Lift your leg,” he bade in a desperate vein.

  Slowly she hoisted a quivering limb, hooking it over his shoulder.

  His blood flowed hot at the swirl of auburn curls shielding her quim. He parted the hair with his thumb, exposing her sultry flesh, and a savage hunger quickly ravaged his belly.

  He cupped her moist quim in his mouth, moaning in carnal gratification. As he sucked her sensitive skin, she wetted in his mouth. He moaned louder, stronger. He thrust his salacious tongue into her dewy folds. Her muscles constricted. He plunged even deeper. Ravished her. Over and over.

  “Come, sweet,” he begged, hoarse. “Come.”

  And when she orgasmed in his mouth, Quincy shuddered in violent satisfaction. His pulse pounded between his ears with such force, he hardly heard the storm. But he heard Holly’s sobs. Her sobs of pleasure.

  “Come to bed,” she enticed in a throaty whisper.

  He looked up at her, still struggling for breath, but there was no mistaking the inferno in her eyes. She grabbed his hand, guiding him into the bedroom, and together they tumbled onto the feather mattress.

  Quickly he found himself tangled in her arms and legs and hair. “Holly, are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

  He had broken her maidenhead, and he wasn’t certain she could endure another coupling so soon, but when she scraped her fingernails roughly down his back and pumped his arse, he growled, blood burning. “Blimey.”

  “Trust me,” she beseeched. “Touch me. Be with me,” she implored, mirroring her petition earlier in the day.

  And he groaned in abject surrender . . . though he vowed to love her ever so slow.

  ~ * ~

  Quincy opened his eyes as morning light entered the room and spread across the bed. The white light formed a fine line over a woman’s slumbering profile. It caressed her throat and travelled down her chest and across the peaks of her naked breasts.

  She stirred under the warm light, turned her head away from it. Her lashes fluttered, her dreamy green eyes appeared—and she smiled.

  His chest ached under the spell of her brilliant smile, more brilliant than the white light. A hand reached for him and stroked his temple, his cheek, and he sighed at the soothing touch. But when a finger traced the contours of his mouth, a simmering heat stirred in his belly.

  “Good morning,” she whispered.

  He was strapped for breath, for words. Holly rolled over him, her red hair spilling around him, sheltering him. Her smile never weakened. She brushed his chin with her thumb before her mouth covered his in a sensual kiss.

  When he opened his eyes again, her beautiful smile remained. Beams of light pierced her hair and flashed across her brow and nose. He wrapped his arms around her back, holding her tight.

  “Am I dreaming?” he wondered, his mind cloudy with a sense of familiarity.

  “I hope not.” She bussed him again. “But if you are, don’t wake up. Don’t ever wake up.”

  He dragged in a draft of air as he remembered his dream—and the night he had almost perished from opium. That he might have missed this prophetic moment—and every future, loving moment—with Holly twisted his heart.

  Her brow creased. “Is anything the matter?”

  He cupped her warm cheek and pulled her down for another tender kiss. “Not a damn thing, wife.”

  EPILOGUE

  Quincy gazed around the sitting room, a drink in his hand. It was the eve before his brother’s wedding, and the entire family had gathered for a late night supper at Holly’s behest. She was being very secretive about the impromptu festivities. There was a draped canvas in the corner of the room that drew Quincy’s wary eye. His wife had cuffed him more than once for trying to catch a glimpse of the artwork before the official unveiling. Though he trusted it wasn’t another nude, her furtive behavior unsettled him just a bit.

  Forcing himself to avoid the mysterious painting, Quincy noticed his brother, William, also regarding the family from afar. He wasn’t engaged in the spirited chatter, though his expression remained thoughtful, even peaceful. The uncharacteristic melancholy that’d overshadowed him had lifted, indicating his troubles had been resolved. At least, Quincy hoped it the case. His enigmatic, impassive elder brother was always the most difficult to read.

  A cheerful Emma bounded toward him next, her cheeks a rosy pink. He thanked the Lord each time she greeted him with that beaming smile. And he shuddered at the memory of her near demise, his own intoxication on the night she and his wife had so desperately needed him. If he’d failed to treat the girl, or worse, if he’d made a mistake to hasten her death, he would never have forgiven himself. Guilt was a heavy, at times intolerable, burden, he knew.

  “What do you think it is?” she asked, pointing toward the veiled painting, the infernal painting that was starting to gnaw on his nerves.

  “I’ve no idea,” he grumbled.

  “She’s worked on it night and day, every day. I’ve not seen her in weeks!”

  “Nor I,” he grumbled again, thinking of the quiet nights he’d spent pacing their bedroom, restless and unable to sleep without Holly in his arms. On several lonely occasions, he’d even found himself outside her studio door, listening to her creative movements within. And on more than one occasion, he’d considered breaking down the barrier and dragging her away from her obsessive work. He’d worried about her health. He’d worried about her mind. He’d worried about her. About being apart from her. On their bloody honeymoon.

  But Holly’s talents would not be suppressed. At year’s end, she would formally show a collection of her work at an art gallery. Quincy had paid for the rental and publicity. His wife would sign each piece with the enigmatic initials H. H. and allow the public to view her work without any preconceived notions about her gender or station in life. The critics would have to look at her work—and her work alone—and form their judgments based solely on her talent.

  As vibrant laughter filled the room, Quincy turned his head and caught sight of his wife’s dazzling smile. In an instant, his chest tightened. His thoughts shifted. And a healing warmth spread throughout his body, seeping into his bones.

  He marveled at her brilliant smile: at its ability to chase away dark reflections and set the world right in his heart. She cocked her head and winked at him, having sensed his heated gaze, knowing he wanted her at his side. From the start of their marriage, she’d had that uncanny knack.

  After
a few more merry words with his kin, Holly excused herself and sauntered toward him with a fire in her eyes that matched his own.

  “When will you unveil the painting?” demanded Emma. “It’s almost midnight.”

  “Soon, my dear,” she assured her sister. “I just need a word with my husband.”

  Emma sighed and walked off.

  As his wife’s smoldering expression fixed on him again, his pulse quickened, and he had the urge to express the very same demand: When will you unveil the painting? It’s almost midnight . . . And I want you in our bed.

  “Well?” he drawled.

  She lifted a teasing brow. “Well what?”

  “You know damn well ‘well what’.”

  She chuckled, a sensual sound. “I’ll show you mine when you show me yours.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The letter. I know it arrived today. If you want to see the painting, show me the letter.”

  His muscles relaxed. And then he frowned at his shifty wife. How had she known about the letter? Was she spying on him? The servants, he thought. She’d probably ordered them to mole about on her behalf.

  “Well?” she drawled this time.

  Quincy pulled the sealed missive from his inner coat pocket, handing it to Holly.

  “You haven’t opened it yet?”

  He shook his head. “I was waiting until after the wedding.”

  “But why?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t want the disappointing news to distract me during the nuptials. I have to be there for Eddie and Amy.”

  “I have faith in you,” she said softly, her voice rich with confidence. “Don’t assume the news will be disappointing . . . Can I open it?”

  After taking a fortifying breath, he nodded in assent.

  Holly carefully broke the wax seal and unfurled the papers. She scanned the lines, her expression blank.

  “And?” he demanded after several silent moments had passed.

  She folded the letter. “And what?”

  “What does it say, wench?”

  She returned coyly, “I thought you didn’t want to know until after the wedding? . . . Doctor Quincy Hawkins.”

  He delved into her shining eyes, searching for clarity. “Truly?”

  She offered him the papers.

  Skimming the flourished penmanship, Quincy read the announcement of his accreditation with the Royal College of Physicians.

  “Congratulations,” she whispered.

  He pocketed the letter, rather bemused. “Thank you.”

  Holly wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing him tight. He returned her joyful embrace, still in disbelief. The idea, nay the desire, to work formally in medicine had been stirring in his heart for some time. It was only after his sister-in-law’s near death he’d realized just how much he’d wanted to improve his knowledge, his skill and work in a hospital or perhaps even open a private practice. It would mean leaving his post aboard the Nemesis, though. He would have to tell his brother soon, after the wedding.

  Doctor Quincy Hawkins, he mused. That would take getting used to.

  “I’ve shown you mine,” he murmured into her ear. “Now show me yours.”

  She looked up at him, her cheeks flushed with color. “If you insist.”

  Holly separated from him and crossed the sitting room, positioning herself beside the shrouded canvas. She cleared her throat. “Might I have your attention?”

  The voices hushed.

  “In celebration of family,” she announced, “I would like to share with you all my latest work.”

  Flowers, he prayed. Please be flowers.

  Without fanfare, Holly pulled the fabric off the canvas.

  A tense energy filled the room. A silent, emotional outburst.

  Quincy had never sensed such a response, not from his kin or anyone else. Some were stone silent. Others gasped. Still others released soft sobs. What the devil was wrong? Or right? he wondered.

  He searched the taut expressions of his brothers, his tearful sister. He couldn’t understand what about the painting affected them in such a profound manner. Aye, the work was lovely, exceptionally lovely. A portrait of his sister and her infant son. Well, the babe had dark hair instead of his mother’s golden curls, but the minor flaw would hardly cause such strain in the room, surely?

  As the uneasy silence progressed, Quincy glanced at his wife. She twisted her fingers in expectation, and his heart pounded in sympathy with her. If so much as a negative word passed between a soul’s lips, upsetting Holly . . .

  “It’s exquisite,” whispered Mirabelle, finally releasing the pressure from the room. She turned toward James, her eyes overflowing with tears. “Is it like her?”

  Quincy frowned. Her?

  His eldest brother bobbed his head once, his expression still etched in stone. James then looked at William.

  “Just like her,” affirmed William, his voice unsteady.

  Edmund walked up to the portrait and stroked its cheek in tender regard. “I can barely remember her.”

  “I have to thank James and William,” said Holly, blushing with pleasure. “I could not have finished the piece without their vivid descriptions.”

  Quincy clearly wasn’t part of his siblings shared experience or his wife’s secret portrait. He glared at the painted face again, searching for the cryptic “her” everyone was talking about. He still saw Mirabelle, though. Aye, her brow was a tad wider. And the lines of her jaw were more narrow. Her chin had a dimple, but . . .

  His heart seized. Breath trapped in his lungs. He suddenly recognized a woman he had never seen in his life.

  Holly treaded back across the room. “Do you like it, Quincy?”

  “Is that . . . ?”

  She embraced him. “It’s your Mother.”

  Quincy struggled against the tears welling in his throat. As he stared at the beautiful image of his mother, her eyes warm, so full of love for the babe in her arms, he trembled.

  “She’s holding you,” continued Holly, her voice ever so tender.

  He shook his head, resisting the inexplicable swelling in his breast. “That never happened,” he rasped. “That moment never happened.”

  “It should have,” returned James, voice brusque.

  “Yes, it should have,” affirmed Mirabelle.

  His sister’s umber eyes, still sparkling with tears, weakened him. He looked around the room, searching for the expressions of resentment he knew his siblings harbored for him, resentment for taking away their mother’s life . . . but he saw none.

  William eyed him with conviction. “She loved you, Quincy. She loved all of us.”

  The poignant sentiment, from the most reserved of all his brothers, forced Quincy to take another look at the emotive artwork, and this time he allowed the inexplicable swelling in his breast to expand.

  He glanced between the portrait of his mother and his wife and soon, unable to distinguish the love in their eyes for him, surrendered his guilt at last.

  “Thank you,” he breathed.

  Her smile radiated. “You’re welcome, husband.”

  “I think the evening’s over,” from James.

  The family quietly vacated the sitting room, leaving the newlyweds in the intimate afterglow. The world seemed lighter, thought Quincy. Right. Balanced. And all because of Holly.

  “I suppose we should retire, too,” he murmured, stroking her spine in sensual caresses. “We have a wedding to attend in the morning.”

  As her smile broadened, she grasped his hand. “Come to bed, pirate.”

  And he followed her.

  Most willingly.

  EXCERPT

  Turn the page for a tantalizing preview

  of the next book in The Hawkins Brothers series:

  How to Steal a Pirate’s Heart

  Captain William Hawkins stood on the terrace outside his sister’s fashionable townhouse in the heart of Mayfair. The noise and frippery inside the ballroom had triggered another throb
bing headache, and he’d escaped the celebration in search of peace. The secluded garden, awash in milky moonlight, offered him tranquility, and he observed the gaiety through the glass terrace doors without feeling the disagreeable effects.

  “There you are, Will.”

  His youngest brother, Quincy, stepped out onto the terrace, two crystal tumblers in hand.

  The pup handed him a drink. “It’s a brilliant affair, isn’t it, Will? A celebration to remember for a hundred years. Amy looks prettier than a princess. And Eddie can’t stop grinning. Can you believe it? Eddie!” He sighed. “They’re finally going to be happy. It’s about bloody time.”

  William watched the twirling newlyweds, both resplendent in their fancy duds. He shared Quincy’s sentiment. His otherwise surly brother, Edmund, and his dashing bride, Lady Amy, had suffered enough hardship to last a lifetime.

  “About time, indeed,” said William. The twinge in his head worsened, and he clenched his eyes, grimacing.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he clipped. “It’s just a headache.”

  “Tough luck, old fellow.”

  William snorted at the “old fellow” bit. At forty, he was seventeen years Quincy’s senior, and ever since he’d reached the pinnacle year, his tactless brother had found it particularly amusing.

  As music swelled into the night, Quincy remarked, “Belle really knows how to host a smashing reception.”

  After rubbing the bridge of his nose, William turned his gaze toward his sister, Mirabelle, the Duchess of Wembury. She was dancing with her husband, her cheeks flushed, so full of life. Two short years ago, she had almost died giving birth to her son. Even now, William’s chest tightened at the agonizing memory.

  As they had all learned at one time or another, life was precious, and momentous occasions needed to be marked with the proper fanfare—meaning food, drink and merrymaking galore.

  A gust of laughter filled the terrace through the half opened doors.

  “Blimey,” from Quincy. “Now that’s a sound you don’t hear every day.”