Journey of the Wind

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  bedchamber.

  Outside, the men of the Brotherhood who had followed them from the Council

  were beginning what Andre had told her was a charivari, a serenade to them as

  newlyweds. Music from concertinas, guitars, whistles, drums and other instruments she

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  could not name swelled in the air. The noise from the pirates’ merrymaking was loud

  and raucous as they celebrated a captain’s Joining. Rum was brought out, food

  provided by Andre’s staff, and both would be free-flowing until the last of the revelers

  left.

  She did not fight him.

  She did not shy away.

  She said not a word as he set her down on her feet in the bedchamber and put his

  hands to her shoulders to draw her to him. Though she did not close her eyes as he

  slanted his mouth gently across hers, she could not stop the twisting desire that gripped

  her womb at his tender invasion. She had begun to have feelings for this wounded man

  and even though she knew she shouldn’t, she wanted to know what it would be like to

  lie with him. When his hand moved from her shoulder to her breast to cup her tenderly

  she became bombarded by even stronger emotions she had not anticipated. As his

  thumb shifted over her swollen nipple, she thought her knees would give way beneath

  her. She hated herself for the forbidden thoughts that suddenly flew through her head.

  She hated herself for the longings that writhed deep in her belly. She was Alsandair’s

  wife, not Andre’s, yet her wicked body yearned for his in a way that left her wanting to

  cry with frustration.

  “I love you,” she heard him whisper against her lips. “With all my heart I love

  you.”

  It was wrong. It was sinful and it was a betrayal of Alsandair, yet unbidden her

  arms crept up around his neck. The gods help her but desire was running rampant

  through her veins and his body was a torch setting hers aflame.

  Their kiss deepened and when he began undressing her—his fingers trailing

  seductively down her back to unbutton her gown—she did not stop him.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  The noise of the revelers out in the courtyard of L’endroit Sûr seemed to know the

  moment Andre laid her upon his bed for their merrymaking grew louder, more

  insistent. Light from their torches as the sun settled lit the windows in a mellow amber

  hue. It was the only light in the room for Andre had yet to light a lamp. He removed his

  shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Sitting down on the edge of the bed,

  he tugged off his boots and let them fall to the floor with a hollow thud.

  Rylee was self-conscious about her nakedness and had half turned over so her

  breasts and thatch of red curls were partially hidden. She watched him stand up and

  unbutton his pants, push them down over his lean hips. The turn of his buttocks drew

  her attention and a wayward part of her wanted to reach out to that taut, sweetly

  upturned ass and caress it. He lit the lamp beside the bed and it was then she noticed

  the tattoo at the small of his back.

  “Did that hurt?” she asked.

  Andre twisted his head around. “What, bébé?”

  “The tattoo?” She had noticed it before but had not had the courage to mention it to

  him. “Did it hurt you when it was applied?”

  She saw a muscle jump in his jaw. “Aye, it did.”

  “Then why did you have it done?” She’d always wondered why men willingly did

  such things to their bodies. Alsandair also had a tattoo on his left pectoral but it was not

  as large or as intricate as the one Andre sported.

  “I didn’t,” he answered. “It is a mark of Bertrand’s ownership.” He sat down on the

  bed and stiffened as she put her fingertips to the tattoo, tracing it. He held still as she

  inspected it.

  “It’s a raven, isn’t it?” she asked. Her gaze roamed over the large tattoo that

  stretched from hipbone to hipbone just about the crease of his rump. The design was

  done in a dark blue ink.

  “Aye,” he replied. “Bertrand means bright raven in Françasian and he called all his

  boys by the name Raven. He liked putting his brand on those unlucky enough to share

  his bunk.”

  Rylee pulled her hand back. “ Is that why your ship is called the Vengeance des

  Raven? The raven’s revenge?”

  He looked around at her. “I wasn’t aware you spoke Françasian.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “Gaston told me what it meant.”

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  He swung his legs up on the bed and turned on his side to face her. “I don’t like to

  talk about that part of my life, precious.” He reached out to finger a tress of her hair that

  fell over her shoulder.

  There was deep hurt in his eyes that had not been there a few moments before and

  she realized his thoughts had gone back to the horror of being a child at Bertrand’s

  mercy. She put her hand on his wrist—amazed as she always was by the strength

  residing beneath that tanned flesh—and brought his palm to her lips. She turned her

  head and placed a light kiss on that calloused warmth. The hurt fled his gaze in a

  heartbeat.

  She looked into his eyes and their gazes locked.

  “I have waited an eternity for this,” he said in a hushed voice.

  It was wrong. She knew it was wrong. She knew she should not give in to the

  passion building in her heart for this man but the look in his eyes, the tenderness on his

  face and the need for her that seemed to seep from his very pores was her undoing. She

  moved his hand to her bare breast.

  Andre Corsair groaned as she turned so she was lying on her back beside him.

  He cupped her breast gently, lowering his head to the swollen peak to tease it with

  his lips and teeth and tongue. He worried it lightly, laved it and suckled gently as her

  fingers spread out through his hair to anchor his head.

  The taste of her flesh was heavenly, the warmth so inviting as he swept his tongue

  over her nipple. He eased one long leg over her thigh and lifted his knee to her heated

  core, feeling the spiky curls of her fiery bush against his flesh as she opened her legs to

  him. He moved so he could give her other breast the same worshipful attention.

  Rylee stared up at the white ceiling with its exposed beams. His tongue was

  tormenting her breast with exquisite pleasure. His mouth was warm, the slight weight

  of him lying partially on her making her want to know the full weight of him atop her,

  pressing her down into the mattress. She could feel the stab of his cock at it grazed her

  thigh and ached to have that steely length inside her.

  Andre lifted his head from her breast and moved up on the bed until he could kiss

  her, thrusting his tongue smoothly into her mouth. He tasted of heady wine, taking her

  breath away with the depth and passion of his kiss, the possessive way he plied her

  mouth and claimed her lips. His hand upon her breast tightened, his thumb running

  back and forth over the straining nub as he kissed her. The slide of his shaft probed at

  the junction of her thighs.

  She writhed beneath him, wanting to know the heaviness of him upon her. Her

  hands went to his
shoulders to encourage him to stretch out fully atop her but instead

  he slid down in the bed, raining fleeting kisses on her chin, upon her neck, between her

  breasts, along her belly and past the wiry tresses of her triangle. She sucked in a

  gasping breath as his tongue flicked against her clit then his lips settled over that

  swollen nubbin to suckle it. She drove the fingers of both hands through his dark curls

  and held his head.

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  The taste of her was intoxicating and Andre swirled his tongue around and around

  the burgeoning peak of her clit then dragged it along one velvety fold then up again,

  bringing the full flavor of her nether region into his mouth. He shifted his attention to

  the other fold and did the same, laving her with the heat of his tongue and taking in the

  essence of her as she oozed her readiness. At last, he stabbed the tip into her wet

  warmth, chuckling in his throat as she arched her hips up at the invasion.

  He was torturing her with his knowing tongue and the sound of him tasting her

  drove Rylee mad with desire. All other thoughts flew from her head. She brought her

  legs up so the soles of her feet were flat against his shoulders and lifted herself up for

  his expert invasion. She nearly screamed when he insinuated a finger to replace his

  tongue—then two, then three—and had to slam her hands to the sheets and wad them

  up to keep from crying out.

  Andre probed deeper into her hot sheath, aching to have his cock where his fingers

  were. She was tighter than he could have imagined and the hard squeeze she gave his

  fingers was nearly his undoing. Quickly, he withdrew and moved over her, shouldering

  aside her thighs as he slid up her, reaching down to take his cock in his hand to guide it

  into her moistness.

  Rylee locked her legs around his waist as soon as he settled his body over hers. The

  feel of him, the weight of him and the power of him hovering over her as she felt the tip

  of his cock at her entrance was a heady sensation she felt to the very depths of her

  being. She was moaning and he was breathing heavily. Both their bodies were already

  slick with perspiration and the moment he drove into her, she cried out.

  He went deep inside her—pressing his cock all the way in. He wedged his hands

  beneath her sweet rump and lifted her for his penetration to go even deeper, so it could

  reach the very core of her. Her arms were around his neck, her legs around his waist,

  her heels digging into his spine.

  Then she began moving beneath him, arching her hips even higher for his invasion.

  She could feel the beginnings of her release as he began pumping in and out of her,

  slamming into her with such force they both grunted and the top of her head actually

  struck the headboard of their bed. The mattress squeaked vigorously with each thrust of

  his cock and she was thankful for the noise of the charivari outside their window.

  “Come for me, bébé,” she heard him whisper as he slammed his shaft deep inside

  her. “Come for me.”

  Nothing save the sweet pleasure he was giving her registered with Rylee. She was

  lost to his lovemaking, adrift in the artful, lustful passion that drove into her. The tiny

  little quivers that began deep in her womb soon became swelling waves that pulsed

  through her entire body to claim her.

  “Alsandair!” she cried out at the moment her climax came.

  Andre went utterly still at the sound of that hated name but the muscles of her

  vagina were milking him, pulsing around him, bringing along his own release,

  vibrating around him like a tiny fist opening and closing quickly over his straining shaft

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  and he let the sensation take him, though his eyes filled with tears as he threw his head

  back and roared his release.

  * * * * *

  Alsandair’s dreams had become crippling nightmares that brought him awake with

  a pounding heart and sweat dripping from his forehead. He would run a shaking hand

  over his face and cover his mouth to keep from crying out in his grief. It seemed no

  matter how tired he forced himself to get during the day, how late he stalled going to

  his makeshift bed, the debilitating dreams would come to tear at him with vicious,

  unrelenting claws.

  He imagined his lady lying helpless to the rutting fever of her brutal captor. He

  heard her whimpers of protest drifting through the night, her moans of humiliation as

  the beast took her over and over and over again in that never-ending nightmare. Even

  the smell of her sweet heat came to him in waves of merciless punishment that stiffened

  his shaft and brought fiery, unfulfilled heat to his balls. His body reacted with

  unremitting hardness, the pain so acute he found it difficult to bear.

  Waking still again with the jumbled images of his lady being ravished, of her crying

  pitifully after the ordeal, Alsandair took to the beach—as he did every night of his

  lonely, heartbreaking existence. He walked for miles from one end of Clare Island to the

  other but the pictures in his mind took every step he did, the punishment so exacting he

  had even contemplated suicide to end the hateful scenes he envisioned.

  “Rylee,” he whispered to the crashing surf that foamed around his bare feet. “I am

  sorry I could not protect you.”

  He had never felt so helpless in his entire life, so devoid of hope, so lost. Not even

  the horror of being impressed by Diabolusian captors years ago could compare to the

  desolation he now knew. He had let his lady down, failed to keep her safe. He was not

  the man he thought himself to be and that made his soul ache.

  The sea called to him in a sultry, beckoning voice and it would be so easy to plunge

  into the salty depths and swim out past his ability and endurance to swim back, to

  exhaust his body in the pounding waves. He could imagine the waters closing over

  him, dragging him down to blessed oblivion, or a shark making a meal of him out there

  in the dark waters. He would know a peace that had escaped him for nearly a week

  now and he knew with every passing day, his pain would only grow worse. If he hurt

  this badly in such a small amount of time, how would he feel when two weeks had

  passed? A month or two or even longer?

  “Rylee,” he called out to her then buried his face in his hands and wept.

  * * * * *

  He slipped off her heaving body and was out of the bed before she knew what he

  was about. She sat up, watching him dragging on his pants.

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  “Andre?” she asked, but he didn’t answer her as he headed barefoot to the door.

  She called his name again.

  The pirate captain turned and gave her a look that she would see in her mind’s eye

  for as long as she lived.

  “Thanks for the pity fuck, Rylee,” he told her. “It was great.”

  Rylee opened her mouth to protest but he was already out the door and the sound

  of his heels hitting the stair treads as he thundered down them punctuated the aches

  that had suddenly struck her heart for she realized the terrible mistake she had made at

  the moment her climax had come.

  “Oh, Andre,” she groaned.

  She scrambled off the bed and
snatched up her gown, pulling it carelessly over her

  head, wincing as she ripped a seam but not caring. She had to go after him. She couldn’t

  leave it like it was. The pain she had seen on his face had been cutting, brutal, and she

  had caused it.

  As had he, she disdained taking time to put on her shoes. She ran out of the room

  and took the stairs as fast as she could. By the time she reached the front door, he was

  long gone—out into the boisterous night where drunken men were staggering past the

  veranda. Coming up short at the screen door as she viewed the revelers stumbling past

  with bawdy, half-dressed women tucked under their arms, she thought better of

  venturing out. She did not recognize any of the sailors in the courtyard so there was no

  one to whom she could call out. Her shoulders slumped, she turned back and went into

  the gathering room, taking a seat in an overstuffed chair and drawing her knees up. If it

  took all night, she would stay there until he came home.

  * * * * *

  Louis glanced up from his card game as Andre came striding bare-chested and

  barefoot through the tavern door. The older man’s eyes narrowed as the younger man

  stepped up to the bar and ordered rum. Louis sighed, no doubt realizing that was not a

  good sign. He shook his head and turned his attention back to the cards in his hands.

  An hour passed as Andre continued to stand at the bar, guzzling down rum as

  though there were no tomorrow. When a nearby table cleared of its inhabitants, he

  swiped up the bottle of rum and his glass and walked purposefully to the table,

  growling at a man who had been about to take a seat there.

  “Fuck off,” Andre snarled, and swung a leg over the chair then plopped down

  heavily, grunting with the force.

  “Did she kick him out of his own bed?” Satordi, one of Andre’s men, asked of

  Louis.

  The men at Louis’ table knew Andre for all of them had sailed with him at one time

  or another. They also knew he had been Joined to the luscious redhead he had taken

  captive on his last trip out.

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  “If he let her, he deserves what he’s got,” Louis commented. He eyed Andre across

  the room and his jaw clenched.

  “Cap’n ain’t never had a head for much boozing,” Satordi remarked. “Won’t be