All the while knowing he could not hear a word. All the while hoping, perhaps, he might, somehow, understand.
Awareness teased the corners of his mind. Damp, dank air weighed heavy on his skin. The salty, rotted scent of the sea assailed his nostrils. Dimly the roar of the ocean and crash of the waves sounded. Distant… hollow. A steady drip splashed and echoed. All in the blackest black. Was this a dream? Or death?
Nicholas struggled to fight his way back from the darkness, swimming against a sea of oblivion. He jerked his head, and hot pain lanced through the back of his skull. Pain. Familiar yet obscure. It pummeled his head and throbbed through his body.
He battled to open his eyes and failed. Was he too weak? Or did a blindfold shroud his sight? Voices drifted around him, only one penetrating the shadows of his mind.
The feminine voice was low, slightly husky. It might have been the damp in the air, it might have been the way she always spoke, but he was stunned to note the voice fired his blood. In spite of the impropriety and absurdity of his sudden desire, he wanted nothing more than to take her as his own.
Wanted whom? Who was this woman he longed for, ached for? Confusing images assailed his mind. Thoughts and memories jumbled together in an indistinguishable kaleidoscope of meaningless emotions and desires, colored by time, shaded by pain.
Gentle fingers stroked his chest. Cool, gentle fingers, light and teasing. Fresh cloths soothed his face. A tentative touch lingered. He sighed at the press of warm lips against his mouth. A delicious shiver ran through him at the unexpected contact. Yet there was nothing to ease the burning frustration filling every unguarded crevice of his being.
She paused, and he wondered at the tension between them. Wondered if she felt it as well. He caught her breath once more upon his upturned face and, faintly, her lips brushed against his. He started, then involuntarily strained toward her. Her lips parted and her tongue teased the inner edge of his mouth. Desire pounded through his veins. His mind worked feverishly. What kind of woman kissed so boldly as this? Perhaps… it no longer mattered.
What no longer mattered? Futility swamped him. Why couldn’t he remember? It was so very important. Who was she?
Sabrina. The name appeared like a buoy bobbing to the surface of his soul. Bree. She was … what? A vague, spicy scent wafted around him. Her scent, a memory from today? From yesterday? From forever?
His wife, that was it, she was his wife. Fragments of memory emerged. Not the passive, insipid child-wife of his youth. This was a woman to savor, to cherish, even to love. He had won her, hadn’t he? Or at least claimed her. His most impressive triumph, or was it … his greatest failure? He did not know.
Sabrina… Bree… Lady B. The names, the impressions and emotions, the scents and sounds from now and from the dim recollections of a decade ago scurried and scrambled in his muddled mind. Dreams and fantasy mingled with remembrance and reality, a haunting puzzle with questions he could not comprehend and answers that lingered just out of reach.
He sank back into blackness, his exhausted mind succumbing to the needs of his body for healing sleep. A thought nagged at the back of his consciousness, elusive and vague. He battled to grasp it, instinctively knowing it would provide the key he searched for and the solution to mysteries he had long ago put aside.
And it would give him peace.
Nicholas pulled his eyes open with a strength born only of determination. His vision blurred and sharpened, and his gaze flicked over a beamed ceiling. Where was he? He drew his brows together in an effort to recall and tried to sit up.
Sharp pain ricocheted around his head and radiated through his body. He gasped and sank back upon the bed, closing his eyes against the pain.
“Welcome back,” a low, sensual voice greeted him. Her voice. Sabrina’s.
He opened his eyes cautiously, avoiding the slightest movement. Her face seemed to hover above him.
“Where am I?” He croaked the words, his throat parched and thick.
“You are exactly where you belong right now, in bed.” A concerned frown furrowed her brow. “In your cabin. On the ship. Do you remember?”
The ship? Of course. The details remained indistinct but he definitely recalled fisticuffs with that arrogant American.
“How do you feel?”
“Bloody awful.” His head throbbed and pulsed, his muscles ached. Even breathing hurt. If he fared this poorly, surely Madison must be dead. “How is Madison?”
“Nearly as bad off as you.” Her dry tone left no doubt as to her opinion of the entire incident. “Not that you both don’t deserve it.”
Nicholas drew his brows together, struggling to remember. Gradually the fog in his mind lifted. The fight on the deck … the final blow … the fall. “I would have beaten him senseless if I hadn’t tripped.”
“Yes, well, you did trip and that’s the end of it.” Her brisk manner signaled a close to that particular topic. Pity. He was extremely interested in knowing just how his skills compared to Madison’s, but apparently that was not information to be gleaned from Sabrina.
Only concern and sympathy shone in her eyes. “You are terribly weak, you know, Nicholas. You’ve been unconscious for more than a day. You really need to eat or at least drink something. Do you feel up to that?”
His throat rasped and hunger gnawed at his stomach; food and drink could only help. “I think so.” He winced. “As long as I don’t have to move.”
“Excellent.” She beamed at him and moved to the door. “Stay put and rest. You need it. I’ll be back in a moment.” The door closed gently behind her.
Flat on his back, he stared at the ceiling. Tentatively Nicholas flexed and relaxed his muscles, one at a time, in his arms, legs, hands, and feet. Aside from an overall ache, he seemed relatively fit. With slow, studied movements, he pushed himself upright to a sitting position. The throb in his head did not diminish, but it did not increase either.
He had not experienced pain like this in … how long? A decade perhaps? Not since the last time he’d received a blow on the head that had rendered him unconscious. Not since he had awakened alone on a deserted beach near a remote English village, the smugglers he had sought long gone. There was something important about that recollection. Something he needed to…
“What are you doing?” Sabrina’s voice cracked from the doorway. He jerked his head toward her, and agonizing pain fired flashes of light across his vision. Nicholas doubled over, catching his head in his hands as if the pressure of his fingers would alleviate his suffering.
“Please, if you have any compassion in your soul at all, if only for children and small animals, take pity on me and do not raise your voice.” Even his whispered words took their toll in pain. “My head feels as if I have consumed barrels of whisky single-handed.” He moaned. “And not very good whisky either.”
She marched to the table and set down a tray. She stepped to his side and thrust several pillows behind him for support. “I can’t say you haven’t earned it.” Sabrina retrieved the tray and returned to the berth, settling on the edge of his bed. The tray balanced precariously between them.
He eyed the mug and accompanying bowl of steaming liquid through the gaps between his fingers. “What is that?”
“It’s just broth.” An amused smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “You needn’t be so suspicious. I’m not going to poison you.”
“You’d be a rich widow if you did.” Nicholas uncovered his face and glared at the innocent soup.
“You’re right.” Her eyes widened as if she were considering his suggestion. “I hadn’t thought of that. What a cunning idea.”
“Sabrina.” He caught himself. The twinkle in her eye gave her away. “I am in no mood to be teased,” he grumbled.
“What a shame,” she said lightly, her manner annoyingly pleasant and brisk. “Now, will you eat this yourself or shall I feed you like a child?”
He relaxed against the pillows and gazed at her. She appeared weary. Abruptly he real
ized she must have been by his side the entire time he had slept and probably had had little sleep herself. She looked fragile, ethereally vulnerable, and infinitely appealing. An odd urge to protect and care for her surged through him.
His gaze trapped hers and lingered. The moment lengthened, without warning intense and weighted. Her smile faltered. His breath caught in his throat. Deep in the emerald waters of her eyes, her soul simmered, calling to him. Somewhere, in their clear, shining recesses, inevitable passion beckoned. The urge to protect shifted, changed, evolved into a need more imperative and insistent and inescapable.
The ache in his head eased and he smiled slowly. “Feed me.”
Heat flushed up her face, and she dropped her gaze to the tray beside her. Flustered, she battled to compose herself. This was absurd. Could she only express her newfound feelings when he lay silent and unconscious and there was no fear of his response? Why did his eyes, dark, devastating, and brimming with danger, seem to search out her secrets and peer into her soul?
She drew a deep breath and picked up the spoon. Her hand trembled, and she steadied it through the sheer strength of her will. She dipped it in the broth and brought the spoon to his mouth. His lips did not part, and her surprised gaze flew to his. His eyes smoldered and burned, and she struggled not to spill the spoonful of soup.
“Open your mouth,” she said, her voice quiet and firm, belying her inner turmoil.
“With pleasure.”
She pushed the spoon into his mouth, and he took the broth. His gaze never left her face. A second spoonful followed the first. The soup in the bowl steadily decreased. A tension inside her coiled tighter with his every sip. She avoided looking into his eyes, but it was impossible to feed him without staring at his lips.
Full and sensual, they did not merely accept the spooned offering, they welcomed it, enfolded it, caressed it. She could well remember those lips on hers, recollect the sensation of his kisses trailing down her neck, recall the sense of urgency when he took her breast in his mouth—
“I’m finished.”
“What?” She jerked her gaze from his lips and glanced at the empty bowl. How could she not have noticed? “I can fetch you more, or something else, if you’d like.”
“I should very much prefer something else.” Intensity edged the soft tone of his words.
Delicious anticipation shivered through her. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and directed him a challenging gaze. “What do you want?”
He stretched a long arm over the tray and cupped her chin in his hand. Gently he pulled her toward him until their lips barely touched, soft and evocative, more a whisper than a kiss. He brushed his lips over hers, to and fro, delicate strokes, hot and silken.
Her eyes closed and her lips parted and a sigh whispered through them. She leaned nearer, the yearning inside her demanding more than this teasing, this hint, this mere suggestion of what would come.
Abruptly Nicholas drew back. His gaze searched hers. “Sabrina, I want to make certain…” A question hovered deep in his smoldering eyes. “That is, if you…” Confusion played across his face. With an insight born of her heightened emotions, she realized he wanted only to make sure this was her desire as well as his. This man who was so well known for taking what he wanted from women was obviously concerned about her feelings. It was definitely out of character and absolutely delightful.
Joy surged through her, and she wanted to throw her head back and laugh with exhilaration. Surely, somewhere in the vast reaches of his heart, he truly cared about her. And if he could care about her, then one day he could love her.
“If you are wondering about violating one of the terms of this marriage…” She shrugged and cast him an inviting glance. “I have discovered I find privacy highly overrated.”
He stared for a moment, as if he didn’t grasp the meaning of her words. Like a spark bursting to flame, understanding broke on his face. With one powerful arm, he swept the tray to the floor in a clash of metal and broken pottery. With the other, he pulled her into his embrace, dragging her forward, across his body, until she lay flat upon him, her heaving breasts pressed hard against his naked chest. The thin coverlet came only to his waist, and his hard arousal nudged her through the layers of blanket and her own clothing.
Sabrina gasped and stared into his eyes. “What about your head? Doesn’t it hurt?”
He grinned. “I believe it has been replaced by a more persistent ache.” He bent his lips to her neck and nuzzled the sensitive flesh. “An ache, I suspect, that can be most pleasurably attended to.”
With wild abandon, she threw her arms around his neck, and he clasped her tight to him. Their lips met, violent and exacting. Passion erupted in full force, demanding and greedy.
His tongue invaded her mouth to plunder and pillage. She responded in kind, not a submissive defense but a counter battle with her own weapons, her own commands, her own objectives. Her fingers twined through his hair. His lips crushed hers, intent on defeat, requiring surrender.
He nudged her back until she sat upon him, her legs straddling his. Impatiently he pulled the man’s shirt she wore out of her breeches and pushed it upward, his hands sliding over flesh taut with need. His searching fingers reached the underside of her breasts and she moaned aloud, her head falling back. He cupped her breasts with a gentleness that belied the raging hunger arcing between them and teased the pebbled nipples with his thumbs.
“Nicholas!” She gasped for breath and her head lolled on her neck. In one quick movement he twisted up to sit facing her. Swiftly he jerked her shirt over her head, freeing her breasts to his gaze and his touch. His hands encircled them, and he lavished attention first on one, then the other, teasing with his lips, his tongue, his teeth until she thought she would surely lose her mind from the exquisite torture.
He turned without warning, holding her close, shifting his weight, and abruptly she no longer sat atop him but lay beneath. Gazing up, she read her own yearning mirrored in his stormy black eyes. She tunneled her fingers through his thick, dark hair and drew his mouth back to hers, losing herself in a sea of erotic promise.
His hands, his mouth, his tongue sought out every part of her, drifting from lips to breasts and lower, ever lower. He trailed his touch over the flat of her stomach and beyond, slipping his hand between her legs and the secret heat still hidden by her breeches. He cupped the mound at the joining of her legs and fingered the point of her yearning, throbbing beneath the fabric.
Nicholas’s hand moved to the waist of her breeches, and he dipped his fingers beneath the material, stretched tight across her stomach. He fumbled with the laces, and she strained against him, desperate for the scorching feel of his skin against hers. She gripped his shoulders and strained for his touch, the tension inside her coiling tighter and tighter.
He groaned against her neck. “Sabrina.”
“Oh God, Nicholas, please.” Yearning throbbed through her. Why didn’t he take her now? Why did he continue this sweet, intense torment?
“Sabrina.”
“Nicholas.” She nearly wept with desire, the ache for him threatening to overwhelm every thought but one searing truth.
“I can’t get the bloody thing untied.”
“What?” His words barely penetrated the haze of her arousal.
“It’s these damn breeches.” He ran an impatient hand through his hair and glared. “I’ve never tried to untie someone else’s breeches before and I’m afraid I’ve gotten them in a knot.”
She propped herself on her elbows and looked down. The laces crossing her stomach were indeed tangled and knotted. She gazed up at him in amazement. “Get them undone, Nicholas. Now.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
She stared at him in disbelief. “I don’t care what you do. Chew them off for all I care, just get the bloody things off.”
He bent to examine the problem. His nearness alone was enough to set Sabrina trembling. He shook his head. “Sabrina, I don’t know�
�”
She widened her eyes in alarm. “Nicholas, I have come to a number of realizations about you and me. About what I want and what I need, about concessions and compromise. This is not merely a moment of mindless passion.” She gripped his arm. “I do not give myself freely. I have had opportunity but I have not lain with a man…” Her gaze dropped; the intimacy of what she was about to reveal astounded her. She drew a deep breath and turned her gaze back to his. “In thirteen years.” Insistence rang in her voice. “Now get these blasted breeches off me.”
The enormity of her confession seemed to stun him. A resolute gleam appeared in his eye. “I have an idea.” He pushed her flat back on the berth and rolled over her, his feet nimbly hitting the floor by the side of the bed. In three long strides he crossed the room to his valise and fumbled inside the bag.
In spite of her frustration, she noted with awe the power of his nude form. His bronze skin glowed. His legs stretched long and lean. The muscles in his back rippled with his efforts, and Sabrina’s desire rose once again. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes, only to open them abruptly when he grabbed her elbow and jerked her, with one strong hand, to her feet.
“This is your last chance.” His black eyes glittered with promise and passion. “Do you trust me?”
Did she trust him? She wanted him. Needed him. But trust? She did not trust him with her secrets. Could she trust him with her heart? She lied. “With my life.”
He laughed. She had not fooled him; he did not believe her words any more than she did. Nicholas pulled her tight against him, her naked breasts rubbing against the rough hair on his chest. In his other hand, he displayed a long, sharp dagger, plain in appearance, obviously more for utility than display.
Sabrina gasped. “Nicholas, you’re not—you wouldn’t.” The expression on his face said he would, without hesitation. “Wait. You don’t understand. I have saved these breeches for years. I have only two pair.”
The Perfect Wife Page 15