by Shawnee Moon
He desired her. She saw it in his face; she heard it in his husky voice. She read it in his dark, piercing gaze that seemed to sear her skin more than the relentless sun overhead.
He wanted her, but he had not forced himself on her sexually. He was her lawful husband, but he’d not used his right to her body as a weapon against her. If he had, she could have summoned all her will to fight him. As it was, she thought about him day and night.
He haunted her dreams.
She found herself unconsciously spinning fantasies that made her blush crimson in the light of day. They were lewd, blatantly sexual flights of fancy that no decent woman could ever admit to conceiving, even with her husband.
And they had become worse since the day the ship had anchored in Kingston, Jamaica, to take on fresh food and water. Most of the passangers and crew had gone ashore, and she’d accepted Sterling’s invitation to spend the afternoon on dry land. It had begun innocently enough.
But she’d allowed herself to be caught up in the excitement of seeing the island town, and she’d behaved foolishly. Even now, bird wings fluttered in the pit of her stomach when she thought of the delicious meal and the bottle of wine she and Sterling had shared at a tiny inn overlooking the harbor.
Vivid colors and exotic smells swirled in her head as she remembered the hot sun, the swaying palms, and the throb of African drums and Spanish guitars. She’d devoured the fresh fruit, crusty bread, and hot roasted pork that a dusky-skinned serving wench had brought them, then watched scandalized as the same girl had shed her blouse and skirt and danced barefoot in a scarlet-flowered petticoat and bodice that barely covered her from nipple to mid-thigh.
The woman—hardly more than a child—had tossed her long dark hair and moved her body in ways that Cailin would not have believed were physically possible. Huge gold rings dangled from the dancer’s ears; her brown feet were long and narrow, her toenails painted a garish red. Her eyes were languid slits, as black as sin, and when her gaze met Sterling’s, the trollop’s lips shaped an unspoken promise of wicked delights.
Cailin’s appetite had suddenly vanished. The heated rhythm of strings and drums sounded harsh in her ears. Green peppers and onion that had seemed so spicy and delicious turned to clay in her mouth. Sterling didn’t shout or tuck coins between the dancer’s high, upthrust breasts as some of the other customers did, but Cailin noted the quickening of his breath and the predatory gleam that had filled his eyes as he watched.
“Take me back to the ship,” Cailin demanded.
“So soon? We don’t sail until the evening tide,” he replied.
“No doubt ye will find something or someone to fill the time,” she spat back at him. “I’m sure ye can have her for the price of a new dress—or perhaps ye’d nay have to pay her at all. The two of ye seemed to—”
He laughed at her. “You’re jealous.”
“Of what, may I ask?” Her voice was louder than she’d intended. The couple at the next table were staring. Embarrassed, she rose and fled the inn by way of open French doors that led to a garden.
Sterling followed her, moving more swiftly than she’d anticipated. He caught her when she’d gone only a few steps down the twisting red-tiled walk. Caught her and spun her around, then yanked her against him and covered her mouth with his own and kissed her with all the unleashed passion aroused by the Jamaican woman’s dance.
Cailin was too stunned to struggle. With one hand, Sterling fumbled with her cap and set free her heavy hair. With the other, he pressed the center of her spine, holding her tightly as his kiss scorched her with the burning intensity of the island sun.
He tasted of wine and hot peppers, and he smelled of tobacco and leather and clean, virile man. And there was a scent of something more ... something that she could only vaguely define as the scent of carnal heat. “Cailin,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s you I want.”
Desire lanced through her.
She knew she should rebuff his rude assault. Cry out for help ... strike him ... But the heady scent of the orchids was overpowering ... the cadence of the drums too compelling ... and his embrace too sweet.
The wine, she thought, the unwatered wine was Spanish and stronger than she was used to. But the palpitation of her heart was not caused by the wine. And neither was the trembling in her limbs.
He broke off the kiss and stared full into her eyes. And when he leaned toward her again, she parted her lips to receive the heated thrust of his seeking tongue.
He ran his fingers through her hair, and each touch sent a new river of emotion racing though her veins. And when he cupped her breast in his strong fingers, she felt herself grow hot with wanting.
“Cailin ... Cailin,” he murmured.
She reached up and stroked his tanned jaw. Strange, she thought, how smooth it was for a man long past his third decade. But Sterling’s lack of beard did not detract from his appeal; instead, she found his difference oddly compelling.
Somehow, they had covered the few steps to a brick-walled fountain. Sterling sank down on the wide ledge, pulling her with him. Ivy grew over the mossy bricks, and the drops of water spraying from a marble dolphin’s mouth splashed over Cailin’s gown. He was kissing her again. She leaned against him with her head thrown back wantonly and her arms around his neck.
He’s so beautiful, she thought. Black English devil that he is, he has the face and form of a fallen angel.
“You are my wife,” he was saying. “My wife.”
He’d slipped a hand under her skirts. His hot, lean fingers caressed her bare leg. “How long must I wait?” he asked her. “How long, Cailin?”
She felt his fingers brush her inner thigh. She groaned and tried to pull away, but her body betrayed her. Instead, she shifted her weight so that his seeking fingers could touch her most intimately.
He kissed her again, and she closed her eyes, caught in a languid web of erotic pleasure as he thrust two fingers into her and gently stroked her. She sighed, and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
“You want me as much as I want you,” he whispered. “Cailin, I can’t—”
And then she heard a woman’s throaty laughter. Stiffening, she looked back at the inn and saw the dancer coming down the walk arm in arm with a sailor.
“Oh,” Cailin cried. Mortified, she twisted away from Sterling and turned her back on the couple while she tried to bind up her hair and make herself presentable. Sterling put an arm around her, but she threw it off.
“Don’t,” she pleaded with him. “Don’t make it worse than it is.”
The black girl’s laughter turned to shrill giggles, then faded as the sailor’s footsteps grew fainter.
“Cailin, you are my wife. There’s no sin in kissing your husband,” Sterling argued.
She whirled around and blamed him for her own confusion and wanton behavior. “Think ye that I’m a common lightskirt—to dally with a man in broad daylight in the courtyard of a public house?”
He chuckled. “Not common. Never common. But you cannot claim you were forced.”
“The wine went to my head,” she lied, snatching up her linen cap and tying it over her hair. “It won’t happen again, I assure ye.”
“Oh, but it will, my little Scottish hellcat. You’ve too much loving inside you to keep it—”
“Never!” she’d insisted. “’Twas a mistake. I’ll nay lie with ye. Not now and not ever! Not with you, Sassenach. And the sooner ye realize that, the better for us both.”
She’d run from the garden back to the safety of the ship, and for weeks afterward she’d kept her distance from him. But she’d not forgotten. Nay ... The memory of that heated encounter with Sterling remained as hot as butter in a flame-licked skillet.
She had dreamed of that courtyard a dozen times. Dreamed of the sun-warmed tiles and the scent of tropical blossoms ... Dreamed of Sterling’s embrace and the feel of his hard body locked with hers ... And she’d imagined herself dancing half-naked as that native girl had danced, n
ot for a room full of people but for Sterling alone ... dancing in the steamy tropical sun to the beat of a primitive drum, and then allowing him to bend her back against the stone fountain and fill her with his hard, thrusting love. As long as they were aboard the Galway Maid, she had been able to hide from him, but now that they had reached Maryland the rules would all change. She would be alone with him for months to come. And she didn’t know how she would avoid his demand that she come to his bed, or even if she still wanted to ...
Taking a deep breath of the cold air, she pushed back her hood and looked around her. Annapolis Harbor was a busy spot, despite the fact that it was the day before Christmas. Men, women, and children bustled along, shouting, swearing, and laughing. Dogs and boys scampered along the wooden dock, defying gravity and straining the patience of their elders. A team of oxen strained under the weight of a high-wheeled cart while two black men struggled to load a barrel into a dinghy that was already riding low in the water. A pot-bellied donkey wandered loose, nibbling at whatever took its fancy and adding its loud braying to the din of creaking wheels and groaning timbers.
Cailin counted eleven other vessels of all sizes and types in the harbor, some riding at anchor, others sailing to and from the small port. As she watched, a crude boat cut from a single hollowed log and boasting one patched sail drifted into the path of the Galway Maid. Cailin was certain that wind and tide would sweep the merchant ship over the log boat, crushing the farmer’s cargo of children, squealing hogs, and chickens. The Galway Maid’s first officer bellowed an order; sailors heaved at the ropes, and the officer spun the great wheel to starboard.
To Cailin’s great relief, the Galway Maid missed the smaller craft by an oar’s length. The farmer shook his fist and cursed, the sailors cursed back, and the small boat slid into open water.
“That was close,” Sterling said.
Startled, Cailin saw that he’d come up on her left side without her noticing. “Ye sneak up on a body like a cattle reiver,” she said, trying to hide her inner trembling.
He pulled her hood up over her hair. “You’re getting wet,” he replied.
His deep voice sent ripples of excitement down her spine, and she found it hard to breathe. “I’m fine,” she protested.
He smiled. “I’d not want you sick for your first Christmas in Maryland.”
“I don’t take ill from a few flakes of snow.” She pushed her hood down again. “What I am sick of is this boat and those infernal women in my cabin. Even your wilderness will look good to me.”
He nodded. “And to me. Smell this air. It’s so clean.”
She sniffed. “I smell salt and wet canvas.”
“Close your eyes. What else do you smell?”
She did as he bade her. “Tar. No, there’s something else. Pine. I smell pine trees.”
“Yes! Pine and oak, beech and—”
She laughed. “You can’t tell the scent of beech trees from oak, not this far away.”
“Maybe not,” he agreed, “but they’re there. Chestnut and cedar, willows and poplar. More trees than there are fish in the sea. I’m home, Cailin. God help me, I never thought I’d feel like this. I can’t wait to set foot on land.” He swallowed and she saw the raw emotion flickering in his eyes. “Because of you, I’m home.”
And I’m not, she thought. A wave of sadness swept over her, bringing bittersweet memories of the familiar scents and sounds of Glen Garth.
“We’ve reached Maryland, but we can’t set out for my land in midwinter,” he continued. “There’s nothing there. No shelter for us or our animals. We’ll start in the spring. For now, I’ll seek lodging for us with Lord and Lady Kentington. The old earl is a distant cousin to my father. I’m sure we’ll be welcome in their home. They were kind to me after my mother died. The captain tells me that they were both alive and in good health when last he anchored in Annapolis.”
“Would this great English lord be so generous if he knew that your father had disowned ye?” Cailin asked. Her brief stay at Sterling’s father’s estate still rankled, and she had no wish to go somewhere else where she was clearly not wanted. “He may not be pleased to learn that your wife is a Scots rebel.”
Sterling grinned. “I doubt that will bother Lord Kentington or his lady. I have been away for many years, but one thing I can tell you. Maryland is not England. Things are done differently here. Ties of blood, even distant ones, are taken seriously.”
“As they should be anywhere,” she agreed.
“Lord Kentington is nearly my father’s age,” he continued, “but he’s nothing like him in disposition or behavior. And his wife, Leah, the Lady Kentington, is half-Scottish. I’m certain you will like her. Everyone does.”
A red-haired sailor caught Cailin’s attention, and for a few seconds, she stared at him, completely losing track of what Sterling was saying. The seaman looked so much like Alasdair from the back that her heartbeat quickened. Then reality caught her up short. It could not be her big, brawny cousin, the man who had single-handedly thrown the three MacDonald brothers into the loch; he was long since dead.
“... Kentington ships some of the finest tobacco in the Colony. I know I can benefit from his advice.” Sterling touched her arm. “Are you listening to me?”
“Do as ye please then,” she murmured. “You will anyway.” Tears gathered in her eyes as the image of Alasdair’s freckled face formed in her mind’s eye. What would I give for an hour with him again? she thought. Alasdair had never failed to make her laugh or to raise her spirits.
Sterling took hold of her shoulders and gave her a long, searching look. “Have I treated you so badly, Cailin?”
“Nay,” she admitted.
“You’ve a shell as tough as a hickory,” he said. “But crack that shell, and the meat underneath is sweet and tender. I mean to be the one to find that tender center.”
“Unless ye smash your fingers in the trying,” she warned. “For I’ve not a mind to be swallowed up by a Sassenach, whole or piecemeal.”
But later, as she followed Sterling down the gangplank and onto solid ground, a strange thing happened. The sailor she had taken for Alasdair passed close to them, and he was laughing, a full-blown roar of mirth so like her cousin’s that she stopped and looked at the man in astonishment.
And then, inside her head, she heard Alasdair’s booming voice repeating the words he’d said to her at her mother’s funeral. Dead’s dead, Cally. Love her, remember her, but dinna crawl into that grave wi’ her. For if ye dinna savor every bite of life that’s left to ye, ye mock your Maker. Heaven or hell waits fer each o’ us. Today, our duty lies in livin’.
Sterling took her arm and hustled her out of the way of a team of horses. “Cailin? Are you all right?”
She nodded, hurrying to keep up with him. Alasdair was right. When she’d stepped off that ship, she’d cut the cord to her past. There would come a time to cross the sea again and return to all who waited for her. But for now, she must live as best she could. If she didn’t, she’d face Alasdair’s scorn and tempt God’s wrath.
Hell might wait for her, she mused, but for today, she must savor every bite of life.
As Sterling had predicted, they were offered hospitality at Lord Kentington’s grand plantation on the Chesapeake. Neither the earl nor his lady wife was in residence, but their youngest son, the Honorable Forrest Wescott, and his bride, Lady Kathryn Wescott, received them like long-lost kin.
“You just missed Father,” Forrest said, clasping Sterling’s hand with genuine warmth. “He sailed for England not a fortnight ago. It is my brother’s last term at Oxford, and Father wanted to tend to some legal matters before he saw Brandon get his sheepskin.”
Forrest was tall and well-favored, with curling brown hair and brilliant blue eyes, a gentleman that Cailin supposed would be as comfortable in the saddle of a blooded horse as here in the hall of this richly furnished mansion.
Somehow, in less time than it would have taken to tell, Cailin found herself s
itting before a fire in the great hall of the manor, her feet on a stool and a cup of Christmas punch in her hand. Her hostess, the young Kathryn Wescott, was a red-cheeked colonial lass whose obvious pleasure at having unexpected guests for the holiday could hardly be contained.
Cailin didn’t have to talk; Kathryn chattered on as brightly as a sprite, asking questions about the ocean voyage, ordering servants to prepare a chamber for Sterling and Cailin, patting her two spaniels, and laughing at her husband’s jokes.
“Did your mother go to England as well?” Sterling asked when he could get a word in.
Both Forrest and Kathryn—Kate, as she asked to be called—seemed intelligent, friendly, and greatly suited to each other. Often, one would begin a sentence and the other finish it, whereupon the first would seize the storyline and run with it. Cailin liked them at once, but decided she had never before met anyone who could talk as much as this pair of newlyweds.
“Mother? To England?” Forrest laughed and winked at his wife. “Not—”
“Likely.” Kate giggled. “She’s off to visit her family. We were married—”
“—In October,” Forrest said. “Then they both said we should be alone here. But—”
“—Christmas isn’t Christmas without guests,” Kate put in. “We have my sisters and their families, and Papa and Mama, and the neighbors coming tomorrow for—”
“—For dinner,” Forrest added. “But it isn’t the same as having houseguests. You must consider this your home until the weather breaks and you can leave for the frontier.”
“Cailin is welcome to stay until you get your house up, or whenever it suits,” Kate said breathlessly. “She must stay. The frontier is no place for—”
Cailin held up a hand. “We couldn’t impose on ye,” she said. “Not for so long. We just—”