by Holland Rae
At that, she looked at him. It was hard not to look at him, as his smooth voice, a little lower for the drink, curled around her mind, invaded her senses. This man could have been her husband. Well, perhaps not this version of him, but some variation.
“Have you ever considered going back?” she asked. It did seem as if all their conversations eventually returned to their first lives, but it had been so long since she’d spoken of it, that Catalina felt her past coming back to her in a rush whenever she was in Armand’s presence.
“Of course.” He said this in a tone so matter-of-fact it calmed her nerves in an instant. Whenever Catalina considered going home, it was usually a frazzled, tipsy thought, one that never seemed as clear or wise in the morning light of the next day. But Armand spoke as if he had considered each possibility, outlined every potential result, and decided to remain, rather than return. His rationality was soothing. “I suppose if I don’t marry soon, those titles will eventually revert back to the crown.” She gave him a small shrug.
“You’re far more likely to die young out here,” she said with a grin. “Perhaps you’ll need to find yourself protection sooner than later.” Armand drained his stein and shook his head, loose waves of dark hair rolling down his neck and curling near his jaw, his strong, powerful jaw. Beautiful indeed.
“No, thank you,” he said, turning to the beer barrel. “The world is better off without my efforts to procreate, I’ll tell you that.” It was Catalina’s turn to raise an eyebrow. When she didn’t speak, however, Armand simply took a deep sigh and continued. “I’m not the fatherly type, if you will. And most certainly not the husbandly kind either. No. I’m better off right where I am, no wife, no children, no estates to worry over.” The words were perfectly even, not a hint of tone coloring even a single turn of syllable.
And yet. She heard the longing in his voice as clearly as if he’d written it in the sky. Armand had never been a good liar. As children, it had always been her forte to concoct the stories that would ease them out of trouble, if they came home with muddy boots or ripped clothing. But far more than that, Catalina recognized the tone, because she knew it in her heart. One day, he might change his mind, she thought, if only he could get out of his own way long enough.
“Would you listen to that?” Armand put his mug down, all traces of his earlier statement gone from his voice. There was a hint of childish amusement in his words now. “This is the last song we ever danced to, Charlie.” The childhood nickname had obviously slipped from his mouth with his noticing, but Catalina noticed, and for a moment she was so struck by it, by hearing the name she hadn’t heard in so, so many years, that she hardly registered the rest of what he had said. And then.
“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked him. “I was fifteen when you left for India, Armand. Still in the schoolroom. We never danced together to any song.”
He raised his eyebrow again, a small smile playing upon the corners of his lips. So she turned her mind to the musicians, listening to the song.
Something in Catalina’s chest seized a little, almost as if her heart recognized the melody a breath before her mind. How could she possibly have forgotten that day in the ballroom? Surely, that should have been a memory that had stayed with her, and yet, much had changed in her life since then.
“Do you recall that afternoon now?” Armand asked. His smile was now of a different sort than before, friendly, less dangerous. “You were the worst sort of dancer imaginable, as far as my memory serves.”
She laughed, a true, deep laugh that had her feeling heady and joyous. “I was the worst dancer London had ever seen!” Flashes of her dancing instructors’ expressions crossed through her mind, usually including an elderly gentleman who had gone very red in the face. “Master Pingleton was distraught. He’d never had a failed debutante, and I was sure to spoil his record.” Her voice softened, as she recalled the afternoon in which Armand had accidentally strolled into her dancing lesson in the ballroom at the Derby townhouse.
“I do believe that was the afternoon he resigned,” Armand said, catching onto her memory. “And you were upset because your papa had promised you a new hat, if you were able to master at least one single dance.” She nodded, remembering more clearly now.
“Of course! The new fashions had just come out, and I was desperate for one of the latest bonnets, the ones with the extra bows. And you stepped in and saved the day, as far as I remember.” She gave him a grin, entirely to do with memories and not with ale. “My knight in shining—velvet, was it?”
He grimaced. “We all made our mistakes. I was only seventeen myself, if you recall.”
Catalina did. Now that the dam had cracked, a flood of memories was coming through. She glanced over at the crew, who were playing a livelier version of “June Meadows” than that to which she and Armand had danced, all those years ago. A strike of madness shot through her, and Catalina stood up, holding out her hand to Armand.
“Let’s dance,” she said, the impropriety of it as delicious as a new spice upon her tongue. Never in her maddest dreams would she have entertained the possibility of asking a man for a dance, rather than waiting to be asked. But when was the last time she had been to any sort of affair where lords and ladies did that sort of thing, anyhow? It had been ages since she’d engaged in the proper etiquette for a lady befitting her rank, so why the sudden interest in the rules of propriety now?
Armand blinked at her for a moment, and he looked as though he might argue. She could see the expression cross his eyes, and Catalina knew she needed to stop the thought in its course.
“Come, Armand,” she said quickly, still holding out her hand. “We could have been married by now.” Both eyebrows rose into that silky hair, and she pursed her lips. “Please?”
It must have been the please that did it, because he was standing from the large wooden chest they had been sharing, with only a small stagger, and taking her hand. “Ask me properly,” he told her, and Catalina couldn’t keep the smile from forming upon her face, not that she would have tried.
“Lord de Bourbon,” she said, with a rather unladylike grin, “would you do me the honor of sharing this dance?”
He nodded and bowed low, nearly so low that he brushed the floor, and then the two took hands and began the familiar rhythm of the country dance, down and around the salty planks of the deck. Several of the crewmembers paired off and joined in after a moment, and soon there was a makeshift dance floor right in the middle of the sea, full to the brim of stomping feet, as the country song took them around and through and over, again and again.
Catalina couldn’t recall the last time she had enjoyed herself so very much. Her smile felt positively adhered to her face, and her feet—as horrid as they were at the actual steps—seemed to be moving of their own accord in a decent enough rhythm and speed to match the song. Her fingers entwined with Armand’s, and while they would have, under any other circumstances, both been wearing gloves, Catalina enjoyed the feeling of Armand’s strong fingers, his warm skin as it curved against her palm. For all that he was not a sailor, not a soldier, his hands were rough and calloused, setting unexpected contrast to the normally reserved man of proper decorum.
Then again, nothing seemed to be quite normal this night. Catalina found she was enjoying more than simply the man’s fingers. Even at the safe distance they kept through the song, she could feel the heat of him, feel the strong muscles in his arms, see the pulse of his thighs against his tight britches. She’d bet a month’s wage his thighs were thick with strong muscles as well.
A wildly inappropriate thought, but it seemed that the more time she spent in this man’s presence, the more her inappropriate thoughts wandered. She could hardly keep herself from watching the swell of his bottom lip as it jutted just slightly from his mouth. A delicious lip, Catalina thought with some amusement. What would it be like to kiss that lip?
The thought should have been terrifying. After all, Armand was the man who, until just t
wo weeks prior, had believed her to be the worst kind of villain, a pirate and a runaway. He was a league away from her, not better or worse, just so very different. And their past, colorful and strange as it was, made the matter a little more complicated and difficult to untangle. No, getting involved with Armand, in any sense of the word, was positively the worst idea she could have.
And yet, damn him, for the way his deep black hair glinted in the light that stretched across the deck from the lanterns. Damn him, for his sparkling eyes and knowing gaze that seemed to read far too accurately exactly what she never wanted another person to know. There was a draw about him, a need to be near Armand that Catalina simply couldn’t explain.
And they were having fun. By God, it was the most fun that Catalina had enjoyed in ages. She was dancing like a fool on the deck of a pirate ship with the son of an earl, who had once upon time been her best friend. Surely, if stranger days had happened, none were coming to her mind.
The song came to its end, but the musicians didn’t lay down their instruments. Instead, before she and Armand even had the chance to return to their seats, a quick waltz started up. Catalina could feel herself longing to move, to dance beside him for another song. Those deep eyes quirked in her direction, asking the unspoken question. Instead of speaking, she agreed by taking his hand again, and soon they were waltzing. This song, for all it was quickly paced, required them to close the gap between their bodies.
When was the last time she had been this close to a man, Catalina thought, overly aware of just how warm Armand felt against her. His fingers were deliciously curling over her hand, and for the first time in ages, in far, far too long, she felt as though she could relax, could allow someone else to share her burdens and her joys. He was a friend, both old and new, and what did it matter if he smelled like spice and brandy and sea air?
“You’ve grown much better at dancing,” he whispered in her ear. His breath was hot and promising of something she couldn’t identify, and Catalina suppressed a shudder. However attractive Armand was, with his thick locks and dark brown eyes, flecked with gold, she had resisted temptation before—she would resist it again.
“I’ve had several teachers since Master Pingleton left that afternoon,” she said, rather amazed to hear a breathy tone to her voice. She was not a woman prone to that sort of behavior. If she had ever truly been a lady of society, Catalina Sol was not so now. The hand upon her waist seemed a bit stronger, a little more possessive as he spun her across the deck. Surely, it was her imagination that Armand was showing any signs of desire. He had no idea he was so close to her body now, she reasoned, no idea that his warm, muscled chest was pressing against her, making her long for something she had once expected never to feel. But in the light of a bright springtime moon against a background of music and frivolity, everything was tinged in sparkle and a little unreal, a little shiny and exciting and it made her believe in the sort of things she hadn’t ever before.
“Who was your favorite?” he asked her, and Catalina focused her mind back to the moment, trying to peel herself away from the thought of exactly what was hidden behind his form-fitting britches, and not entirely hidden with their close proximity, either.
“My favorite?” she repeated, a small breathy sound escaping her mouth.
“Your favorite teacher,” Armand said, and when he spoke, she let her eyes flutter closed, let the ripe sound of his voice, deep and rolling, like spoonfuls of honey, wash over her body.
And then, because she knew he wanted to hear it, because it was the truth, she whispered back, “You.”
She hadn’t been imagining his desire. In the next moment, Armand’s mouth was coming down upon hers, taking her lips with his own and pressing her against the wall nearest to where they had just been dancing. They slipped into the shadows of the hallway leading away from the open deck, hiding their desires in whispers and darkness. There was no question in Catalina’s mind of stopping the kiss. She couldn’t stop it if the regent himself had walked through the door. Instead, she sank into his mouth, sank into him, allowing the strong, powerful arms of the local magistrate to envelop her, hold her tightly, as he plundered her mouth, eliciting small, breathy moans from the back of her throat.
“Catalina,” he growled into her ear, nipping at the path of skin that led from the lobe down her neck. He was making it damned hard to concentrate when he did that, and her breasts tingled, her mouth wanted, as he continued his ministrations. “God, we should stop.”
Her eyes were falling back, her lids fluttering half closed, as he continued his delicious kisses down her neck. She shook her head languidly, finding it difficult to locate her voice. “I don’t want to stop,” she said, because if they did she felt as though she might simply explode, so tightly strung was her body, so deliciously anticipating his next kiss.
Armand nodded, and she could see the fire in his dark gaze, knowing it mirrored her own. How delicious it felt to be wanted and by a man with the dark beauty of tales of old. He was a knight, a warrior, powerful, commanding, and needy for her.
So she took his hand, half-pulling, half-pushing him down the hallway until they came to the door of her chamber. She couldn’t help but touch him on their short walk, running her fingers up the length of his arm, feeling his strong muscles, as he held her waist, keeping her tight to his side. Had he always been so large, so imposing a figure as he was now? In the mystery and excitement of the moment, Catalina felt as though Armand had grown larger, all bulk and muscle, hidden below his proper refined exterior.
But then she wasn’t thinking much of anything anymore because she unlocked the door and opened it to the room. Then Armand pushed her up against the wall in one swoop and slammed the door shut behind them.
Chapter Thirteen
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” Armand asked, his hand running down the curve of her cheek, cupping her chin steady. “Do you know how difficult it is to watch you wear those britches every day, and not run my hands over the curves of your hips, your arse?” His hands were doing just that right now, cupping each buttock and squeezing lightly. Catalina let out a surprised gasp, and Armand took it as the chance to kiss her again, invading her mouth with his tongue as their kiss deepened. If his hands simply holding her backside had this kind of effect, what would he do to her once they were naked upon the bed?
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” she managed to whisper against his mouth. “I hope I haven’t caused any lasting damage.” There was only a hint of sarcasm to her voice.
Armand pinched her rear, and she squirmed. “Wench,” he whispered, and the filthy word upon his tongue sent a pool of heat to the space between her thighs, an unfamiliar but not unwelcome sensation. “Do you feel that?”
He throbbed against her, and Catalina gasped. It was hard and hot pressed against her belly, and part of her longed to reach out her fingers and stroke him through the taut fabric.
“That’s what you do to me, Catalina.”
He was tracing a line of kisses from her neck down to her collarbone, each one punctuated by a sharp bite. The small pain should have sobered her, but instead it sent her rushing headfirst deeper into her mad fog of desire.
So, this time when he pressed against her, she did reach out, allowing her fingers to skim the side of his throbbing hardness. It was a light touch, tentative, but Armand sucked in a deep breath and nearly growled.
“You’ll be the end of me,” he said.
She rather liked holding that sort of power over him, and so she did it again, a little more confidently this time, stroking the thick organ between her fingers and marveling at its response to her. Armand obviously didn’t like her to have too much control. His mouth moved from her collarbone to the sloping swell between her breasts, kissing each mound, until he was pulling her linen shirt down, exposing the very tip of one nipple to the room. She felt a wash of cool air, but it was instantly replaced by his fingers, which took her peaked nipple and squeezed gently.
She
bucked against him, feeling his hardness meet the soft space between her legs. Even behind the fabric he seemed large, too large. Surely he wouldn’t fit there, in that space which so seemed to be craving him. Catalina was fairly sure she wanted to find out for herself.
Just before she could ask, perhaps even beg, Armand’s mouth was coming down upon her nipple and sucking it between his lips. One hand flew to his hair, and the other stroked more desperately upon his hardness, pulling and pressing back into the organ as if everything depended upon it. Armand groaned, and after a moment, he pulled his mouth from her breast.
“I need you,” he growled, and the tone of his voice sent a pure thrill of pleasure down her body. He made her feel like a different woman, when he spoke like that.
“Then have me,” she said, her voice as equally colored with desire. Armand picked her up from the ground and carried her over to the large bed in the middle of the room. Instinctively, Catalina wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing his hardness deeper toward where she most longed for his touch. She had never known she could feel this way. Surely the women had spoken of it, but this…this was pure, maddening bliss.
He pulled off her boots, and they landed upon the floor with a dull thud. Then his hands worked the buttons of her britches. The fabric had been perfectly tailored to fit her body, and for a moment, Armand struggled to pull them down, but then those, too, fell to the ground.
She was quite sure she made a sight to see, the moonlight casting a bright glow over her chamber, over her body, clad only in a large linen shirt and her garters and stockings. What would the ton say of her now?
That didn’t matter. What mattered was the way Armand looked at her, as if she were a cherry tart straight from the kitchens. His gaze was deep and intense, and it made her breasts tingle with anticipation.
“Now that you have me, my lord,” she said, quite deliberately, “what are you going to do with me?”
Armand nearly tore at her shirt, tossing it off to the side, and then he stood, keeping his eyes upon her as he slowly began to remove his own clothes, one piece at a time.