by Cat Lindler
He drove even faster. The spasms grew stronger. Her body tightened, sparks moving outward through her blood, spreading like wildfire. A burst of intense release seized her muscles. She pressed her hips against him, taking him as deeply as she could. Receding into darkness, she was barely aware when Christian reached his own orgasm, releasing an explosive breath with the strength of it and flooding her with his searing essence. His cry came as though from a distance, or was it her own?
Christian picked up a sleeping Samantha and carried her to bed. He settled on his back with her nestled against his side under his right arm, her head resting on his shoulder, hand splayed across his chest and entangled in his hair. She mumbled, snuggled closer to him, and threw one thigh across his leg. Strands of butterscotch hair drifted over his chest.
Christian folded his left arm under his head and stared up at the ceiling. Sleep was far from his mind. He already ached for her again, but considerate of her recently deflowered state, he allowed her to sleep. They had years to explore the limits of his past months’ erotic dreams. He wanted her not only mentally willing but physically capable to fulfill those fantasies. Eventually he joined her in sleep.
Liquid tranquility poured through her veins. She settled into the meadow, crushing the grass beneath her. The clean scent of hot sunshine and bursting life rose to inundate her senses. His green eyes caught her gaze, holding her in thrall, and the world fell still, all sound and motion ceasing beyond this one spot in this golden meadow. Beyond the sphere of sunlight, the sky turned as black as the ocean depths, drawing a curtain of life around them, as if nothing existed outside its enveloping folds. They were the only living creatures left on Earth.
The Smilodon moved up beside her, lay down, and stretched out his front legs. His thick mane, a fusion of dark and light strands, arched upward from the nape of his neck. His canines, long and curving, gleamed in the sun. His wide mouth lifted into a knowing grin. A grin he gave to no one but her. His paws flexed and pushed against a tuft of grass. Rumbling came from deep in his throat, and he washed his legs. His pink tongue and sharp teeth moved closer with every movement.
She eased back in the grass with a sigh, and the cat became Christian. He rose and lay between her legs. His strong hands kneaded the flesh at the juncture of her thighs. His tongue, soft and wet, licked her legs, moved higher and higher, closer to her core, wet with need and pulsing for his touch. Her eyes drifted shut, and she moaned, lost in the pressure of his touch and the wet heat of his tongue. She soared, and as Christian had merged with the cat, she merged with him, absorbed his strength, his fire…
Hands ran over her skin, pulling her closer to the warmth beside her. Her breasts swelled, nipples tightening, callused palms caressing them. She sighed, turned onto her side, and burrowed backward. Her buttocks met a hard body, and she slowly awakened to pale light sifting through the curtains. He took hold of her hips and drew her into the cradle of his groin. His leg parted her knees; his velvet-covered penis slipped between her legs and into her sex. With a firm grip on her hips, he thrust strongly. She angled her bottom to take him deeper, producing a heavy ache. When she picked up the pace he set, his arm came around her waist. He slid a finger into her from the front, bending it to place pressure on her responsive nub.
Her heartbeat escalated into a mad cadence, and she catapulted into orgasm, crying out, the walls of her passage rippling, gripping, and pulling him even farther inside. She trembled, and he withdrew and flipped her onto her back, propping her legs over his shoulders. While on his knees, he lifted her bottom and plunged into her, deep enough to touch her womb. She climaxed again, calling out his name. He drove into her with fast, hard strokes that made him shatter into pieces, spilling his release deep inside her.
Christian slipped out and fell back onto the bed, panting and slick with sweat. He turned to her and grinned. “I promised myself I wouldn’t touch you again until daylight. Good morning, tigrina.”
“Um,” she murmured, her voice husky, her body still throbbing in the afterglow of his loving. “A very good morning.”
He rose on an elbow and stared at her with a puzzled expression.
“What?” she asked.
“I was just thinking about what you said when you came.”
“I said ‘Chris,’ did I not?”
He shook his head.
“Then what did I say?”
“I believe you said ‘Smilodon.’”
A flush roared over her skin, and she hid her face in the pillow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Four days of bliss followed the wedding night. A red-faced maid delivered meals to the suite, carting back empty trays, and countless tubs of water were filled and emptied. The newlyweds spun a cocoon of erotic pleasure around them. Samantha soon learned lovemaking involved positions and activities she’d not believed possible, and she basked in a glow of satiation.
Even as the most ideal times come to an end, theirs came in the form of Garrett, who haunted the inn’s public room for two days, debating whether to disturb the newlyweds. Finally, he had to intrude. The information he uncovered could wait no longer.
As a maid with a breakfast tray proceeded to the stairway, Garrett stopped her. “Is that for Professor Badia’s room?”
She bobbed her head, tossing her curls and smiling. “I swear, I don’t know what they could be doin’ up there! With all the food goin’ their way an’ the baths, ye’d think they was feedin’ an’ washin’ a regiment. Me legs are that sore from trampin’ up an’ down. An’ the sounds comin’ from their chamber, ‘tis enough ta make me blush.”
Garrett doubted that but gave her a sympathetic look. He flashed his most bewitching smile, which had melted many a Boston lass. The maid trembled and looked as if she would swoon, though she recovered her aplomb quickly enough.
“May I trouble you for a favor, Miss?”
“Sarah,” she said. “O’ course. I’d be thrilled ta ‘elp any way I can.” She batted her lashes and smiled.
“Sarah.” Garrett sighed. “A lovely name for a lovely lass.” He handed her a folded paper. “It’s imperative Professor Badia receive this message as soon as possible. You must give it only to him, not to Mistress Badia. May I count on you to carry out that task?”
“Certainly, sir.” She tucked the note into her bosom and bobbed a curtsy, giving him an unrestricted view of her cleavage. “An’ should ye like another favor later, say t’night, I’d be much obliged.” She trailed her fingers across his chest.
Garrett grinned. “I’m not certain I’ll be free tonight, Sarah, but the first night I find myself desirous of company, I can assure you I’ll come knocking on your door.”
She blushed a rosy red, turned, and started up the stairs. Stopping halfway up, she twisted toward him, saying over her shoulder with a coquettish glance, “Just be sure ye knock on number eight.”
Garrett watched her sway up the treads, her gait exaggerated a bit for his benefit, and expelled a sigh. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t have a free night for quite some time.
Sarah knocked and cracked open the door to the Badias’ suite. Laughter issued from the bedchamber, and a woman’s voice became clearly audible. “Chris, surely that is impossible. It cannot work.” A male voice, the words too low to decipher, rumbled in the background. The woman spoke again. “Very well, if you are certain—” She erupted into giggles.
Sarah shook her head. Worse than rabbits in a wee hutch. Knocking louder, she called out, “Would ye like ta break yer fast?”
Fumbling sounds issued from the bedchamber, and Professor Badia emerged, dressed in a silk dressing gown, his feet bare, hair tousled. Though the time was close to noon, a sleepy expression covered his face. ‘Twas obvious he had tumbled the missus not long ago. Sarah tsked to herself and set the tray on a table in front of the fireplace. Rabbits!
“Morning, Sarah,” he said and yawned, stretching his arms over his head.
Professor Badia was a striking man with his tall, braw
ny frame, and Sarah flushed at what must lie beneath his robe. “Mornin’, sir.” She beckoned with a furtive gesture. “I’ve a message fer ye,” she whispered. “T’gen’leman told me to give it only ta ye, not ta t’missus.” Reaching into her bodice, she withdrew the note, handing it to him.
When Mistress Badia, wearing a night rail covered by a lacy peignoir, strolled into the room, the professor slipped the note into his robe pocket and nodded at Sarah. “I thank you,” he said, smiling. “Breakfast looks sumptuous as usual. We shall have a bath in an hour.”
Sarah curtsied out after retrieving the empty tray and dishes from the previous night’s supper.
Samantha jumped into a chair at the table and tore into the food. “I’m starving,” she said through a mouthful of biscuit topped with melting butter. She waved one at Christian. “Want some? They are heavenly.” She washed down the food with a cup of chocolate.
“In a few minutes. I would rather shave first. Then I’ll join you.” He winked and gave her a wolfish grin. “Keep my place warm for me.”
She grinned back. “I shall do that, but should you dally, I give fair warning, you will get only crumbs. You’ve kept me so shockingly busy, I’ve not had nearly enough to eat. If it weren’t for the bed play, I could believe myself back in the brig.”
When he returned to the bedchamber, leaving Samantha cooing and aahing over the food, he removed and opened the note from Garrett. It began with an apology: Much as I hesitate to interrupt your honeymoon, I’ve come across some information we must act on immediately. Meet me in the private parlor at one, if you can tear yourself away from your lovely bride. Don’t mention this to Sam. Garrett.
Christian frowned. Garrett must have discovered news of Richard Colchester. From the note’s tone, unfavorable news. He whipped up lather and shaved, then dressed and joined Samantha.
She sent him an arched-brow look, gaze running over him. “Suddenly I feel underdressed. Either that or you are overdressed.” She made an airy gesture with a hand holding a biscuit. “Take off some significant item of clothing this very instant,” she ordered.
He leaned over to kiss her, long and lingering, and swiped the biscuit from her fingers, taking a bite. “I have to go out for a short while,” he said while pouring a cup of coffee.
“Out?”
He offered a lopsided grin and sat down to pile his plate high with sausages, biscuits, and sirloin. “I have a need to stretch my legs, and business in town calls.”
Disbelief crept over her features. “Have you not obtained sufficient exercise for ten men the past few days?”
“Spot-on, my love, but I truly must go out.” His mouth curved to a rakish angle. “I daresay I’ll return before you finish your bath. I may come back even sooner and join you. I have a suspicion that tub is large enough for two.”
He could still make her blush, and she did so charmingly. When she looked at him again, a glint appeared in her eyes. “I suspect you’re endeavoring to flee from me, Chris. Is the honeymoon over so soon?”
“Never,” he avowed, catching her hand and trailing his lips up her arm in small kisses and bites. He stood abruptly and pushed the partially empty dishes off the table.
“Sweet merciful heavens,” she said, her jaw dropping. “You’re making a fair muddle!”
“I quite agree.” Grasping her by the waist, he plucked her out of her chair and sat her bottom on the table’s edge. After sliding her skirts out from under her, he pushed her back to the tabletop.
She raised herself on her elbows. “Whatever is in your head?” she asked with a saucy grin.
“Finishing breakfast.” He shoved up her skirts, pushed apart her legs, which dangled off the table edge, and moved between them. While she watched him through lowered lashes, he dipped his head to lick the folds of her inner flesh. “Delicious,” he murmured when she moaned and threw back her head. He unbuttoned his breeches, releasing his swollen shaft. Holding it in his fist, he slid his hand up and down its length. Beneath her gaze and his ministrations, it grew longer and thicker. Positioning the tip at the entrance to her sex, he teased her with the blunt head. She inhaled sharply, falling back against the table. Clasping her buttocks, he slid into her, inch by slow inch. She was already slippery and wet. The storm overtook her, and she dropped all mention of what they were discussing.
When Sarah knocked on the door, Samantha found herself still sprawled spread-legged on the table, too enervated to move, and Christian had departed. She struggled up, collected the plates and spilled food from the floor, and piled them back on the table. After bathing, she curled upon the bed to catch up on some much-deserved sleep. She’d not dreamt marriage could be so exhausting.
When Christian entered the private parlor, Garrett eyed him. “Are you ready to come up for air?” Garrett asked, his words blatantly teasing with a tinge of envy.
“Not hardly,” Christian replied. “Not for at least another month.”
“I fear I cannot grant you a month, old man. Though no doubt you need more than a month’s rest at your age, merely for recovery. I would imagine Sam has given you a run for your money.”
Christian grinned and headed for the coffeepot, pouring a mug of the brew. “What was important enough for you to pull me from my nuptial bed?”
Garrett settled with his own coffee into an armchair in front of the fire. Christian dropped into a chair across from him.
“I ran into an interesting character a few nights ago at the Cock and Crow,” Garrett said. “He told me he once sailed on the Manta Ray, a pirate ship masquerading as a merchant vessel and captained by a piece of filth named Miggs. The particular fellow whom I met has a problem holding his grog, a disability you know I’ve never suffered from. He talks, a great deal, when he’s in his cups. Last year, the Manta Ray engaged in a sea battle with another pirate ship, Jack Fallon’s Rapier. According to my informant, the Manta Ray emerged the victor and sank the Rapier but not before sustaining considerable damage to the hull. During the fight, they lost valuable cargo. Miggs was fit to commit murder. Insisted the cargo was worth a king’s ransom.”
“Richard Colchester and James Truett?”
Garrett inclined his head. “The same.”
“Are they dead, then?”
Garrett shrugged. “No one seems to know. They vanished during the fight. Miggs believes they washed out through a hole in the hull. According to my drinking companion, who gets his jollies applying the cat, they were in less than sterling condition. In fact, he swears Truett had already succumbed to the cat’s persuasion. It’s assumed that if either were alive at the time, they soon drowned, but no bodies were recovered.”
Christian came up from the chair and paced in front of the fireplace. “If Miggs was expecting payment, it would not have been ransom. Neither man was particularly wealthy or well-known, except in the scientific community. The two scientists possessed only one treasure worth their lives, the Smilodon, which would be of no interest to an unlearned man such as Miggs. So, the question then becomes: who hired Miggs?”
Garrett’s gaze tracked Christian’s movements. “My companion didn’t know. He knew only that the employer was a local gentleman. However, I would suspect, in his estimation, anyone with a clean cravat is a gentleman. Apparently only Miggs knows the man’s name.”
Christian halted and stretched an arm across the mantel. “What else did he tell you?”
“The Manta Ray is currently docked in Macquarie Harbor up the western coast. The spot is a known enclave for pirates. Word in town is that the military garrison pays them no heed. It’s a sure bet the swinish Sergeant Dobbins holds some responsibility for turning a blind eye and has lined his pockets for extending that favor to the pirates. Escaped prisoners established the village years ago. It quickly became a center for their activity. It’s easily defensible and has a protected, deepwater harbor. To all accounts, Miggs visited Hobart lately, though I’ve had no success in locating him.”
Garrett returned to the coffeepot a
nd came back around to Christian, who was staring into the flames in the fireplace. “I did manage to pry from him the coordinates of the Manta Ray‘s battle with the Rapier, the spot where Colchester and Truett disappeared,” Garrett said. “I fear it’s far from any landfall. The chance they survived is less than slim, assuming they escaped at all and were alive at the time.”
Christian turned around, his mouth set in a firm line. “Don’t mention this to Sam if you should happen to see her, and ready the Maiden Anne. We leave tomorrow morning.”
Garrett lifted a brow. “What do you plan to tell her?”
“I have no idea.” Christian scowled. “But she’ll not go with us. I’m leaving her here with her family.”
Garrett released an audible sigh. “You’re not telling her at all, are you?”
Christian gave Garrett a look that answered the question without words. He would tell her naught until it was too late for her to follow him. He refused to allow their connubial bliss to disintegrate into a battle of wills, was unwilling to spoil what might be their last night together for a long time.
That night Christian made long, tender love to Samantha, clasping her to him as she shook with orgasms, crying out his name repeatedly. He couldn’t bear to let her go and finally drained her with his attentions. As dawn seeped through the window, she fell into an exhausted sleep. He edged away and dressed in silence. Before departing, he bent over and touched his lips one more time to her velvety mouth, still swollen from his kisses. She smelled of lavender soap and sex. A heady combination.
“I love you, Sam,” he whispered into her butterscotch curls, then departed, locking the door behind him. On his way out of the inn, he left instructions with the innkeeper along with two missives, one for Lady Delia and one for Samantha. Delia’s letter also contained his will, witnessed by Garrett and the innkeeper.