To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  In the end it was Chelsea’s own meager wardrobe that rested inside Honoria’s trunks.

  Unable to explain her feelings even to herself, Chelsea remained in the cabin over the next two days, taking her meals alone. Despite the logic that had prompted her to keep Honoria’s belongings, a deep wave of grief seemed to have settled over her. Several times there’d been a quiet knocking on the door and Quaid’s voice had sounded through the panel. Yes, she was all right; yes, she wanted to be alone. In the end it was Mrs. Crain who insisted Chelsea open the door and speak to her.

  “We’re all extremely worried about you, my dear. You mustn’t carry on this way or you’ll make yourself ill. However fond of her you were, it’s all behind you now. Get yourself dressed and come to dinner. I’ve already told a steward to bring you hot water for your wash. If you don’t think you’re able to use it by yourself, I’d be happy to assist.” This last held a threat.

  “I’m not really hungry, Mrs. Crain ….”

  “Nonsense! Everyone is hungry! I never took you for a shrinking violet, my girl, and if you don’t get some spirit about you, Australia will eat you up. I’ve already told you it’s a country particularly hard on women. Now move! I’ll expect you in the dining room in half an hour.” And as quickly as she had arrived, Mrs. Crain left, bustling through the narrow door.

  When Chelsea entered the dining room later that evening, Mrs. Crain immediately waved to her from across the room. Turning her head neither to the left or right, effectively restraining herself from looking for Quaid, Chelsea tilted up her chin and crossed the room to Mrs. Crain.

  “Now, that’s the way I want to see you,” the woman said approvingly. “You’re much too young to shut yourself up in your cabin. Porter”—she turned to the pink-cheeked gentleman beside her—“you remember Mrs. Harris, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Porter stood, as did the other gentlemen at the table. “I’m so glad to see you’re feeling better, Mrs. Harris,” he said as he moved to help her with her chair.

  Introductions were remade and condolences issued, but Chelsea was aware only of a distinct feeling that she was being watched. She could feel Quaid’s eyes upon her as though in intimate caress. Smoothing the white linen napkin over her lap, she directed her attention to Mrs. Crain, who was regaling their dinner companions with a story of a shopping spree in London. But it was Quaid’s voice she listened for, straining to hear the deep timbre of it as it reached her from where he was dining on the other side of the room.

  “You look perfectly charming this evening,” Mrs. Crain commented. “Doesn’t she look charming, Porter? That shade of lime green is most becoming on you, isn’t it, Porter?”

  All through dinner Chelsea was aware of Quaid, even though she never turned her head to look at him. Not even when she heard his laughter immediately followed by a feminine titter. Another notch in his belt, no doubt, she found herself thinking nastily. Despite his services on the day Honoria had died, Chelsea still harbored a grudge against him. What he’d done to her wasn’t fair, tricking her and making her believe he was a gentleman of substance. Instead, he’d turned out to be a farmer—and worse still, she’d realized over the past two days that he had never denied having a wife and children. And if all that wasn’t bad enough, there were the feelings he had aroused in her, emotions she was wise enough not to put a name to.

  “Will you stay for a game of cards?” Porter asked Chelsea as the last of the dinner dishes were being cleared away. “Merriam would be so delighted to have you join us.”

  “Merriam?”

  “Yes, my wife.”

  “I’d like to, sincerely, but I seem to be getting a headache. Will you excuse me if I return to my cabin?” With that, Chelsea bade them all good night, promising to appear for lunch the following day. She couldn’t get out of the dining room fast enough, away from the sound of Quaid’s laughter.

  The hour was late, the moon riding high in the heavens, when a white slip of paper slid under Chelsea’s door accompanied by a gentle tapping. She was lying propped up in bed when the sound caught her attention. Even without looking, she knew who had put the note under the door and wouldn’t have been surprised to see the handle turn. Quaid Tanner was not a man to take no for an answer, just as she knew she would never be able to sleep without getting up to see what his note said.

  The crisp white paper fluttered in her hand. “Chelsea, I want to talk with you. Anytime, anywhere. Q.”

  Chelsea gave an unladylike snort. Anytime, anywhere. Right now in his cabin was closer to the truth. Obviously he hadn’t been able to persuade the owner of that female titter to help wile away the long night hours.

  She grabbed up Honoria’s heavy woolen robe—no, it was her robe now—and pulled it on, roping the belt tightly around her waist. She’d be damned if she went to him now. The future lay before her, and falling in love with a farmer who most likely had a wife and children was not in her best interests. She hadn’t pulled herself away from her homeland and gone sailing halfway around the world just to end up used and discarded. If Quaid Tanner was looking for diversion on this journey, he’d have to find it elsewhere.

  Not wanting to make herself available to further notes and tappings on her door, she stole quietly out of her cabin to go up on deck. It was late, everyone would be settled down for the night; she could be alone except for the seaman keeping watch. Besides, the fresh, cold sea air might clear her head and bring some much needed order to her thoughts.

  She slipped down the companionway and up the stairs, and had barely set her foot on deck when a hand reached out and seized her arm. “Let me go!” she cried, alarmed.

  “Shhh. Do you want to waken the entire ship?”

  She stopped struggling long enough to peer at the shadowed figure holding her. “Quaid Tanner, what are you doing here? Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  “I saw you pull the note out from under the door and knew you would try to avoid me by coming on deck. I waited for you.”

  “More likely you were spying on me. If I’m correct, you’ve already confessed to sneaking around and watching me, even back in London.” She felt close to tears and heard the telltale tremor in her voice. Everything was becoming intolerable … but she knew there was no one to blame but herself.

  Quaid grinned, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight, and led her across the deck to the rail. White crests foamed beneath the ship’s hull as the Southern Cross sailed the black Atlantic waters. “I suppose I was spying, but I wanted to see you. You’ve been hiding out for the past two days, and I was worried about you.”

  “You didn’t seem particularly worried at dinner. And I have not been hiding out, I simply wanted to be alone.”

  “And that’s exactly what I want, sweet,” he murmured, pulling her into his embrace. “I want to be alone, with you.”

  He bent his head, his lips nearly touching hers, and she was mesmerized by the overwhelming hunger she saw in his eyes. She almost succumbed, almost fell into that strong, warm embrace, but then she struggled and wrested herself free. No, she couldn’t allow this, couldn’t torture herself this way. He didn’t care about her; he’d only used her and wanted to continue until he was through with her.

  “Don’t turn away from me, Chelsea.” He was angry, and his eyes glinted dangerously—or was it the moonlight? “You’ve been through a bad time, and I only meant to comfort you. I know you find this hard to believe, but I care about what happens to you.”

  “You care!” she replied with a sneer. “That’s why you used me, tricked me! I should hate you for that.”

  “But you don’t, do you?” He reached for her again, moving closer.

  Quickly she stepped backward, avoiding his touch. “Don’t count on it, Quaid.” There was danger in her voice, which sounded harsh and brittle even to her own ears.

  “Feisty tonight, aren’t we?” he asked lightly.

  His attitude infuriated her. She wanted to claw that grin from his handsome face. Why did
he always seem to find her amusing; why was he always laughing at her? “You’re despicable.”

  “I find you rather endearing, too.” His grin widened. “Come here, let’s make love and put this fighting aside.”

  “If that’s an invitation to your bed, you can forget it.” She turned away from him. “I’m going back to my cabin, and if I’ve any luck at all, you’ll fall over the rail, and I’ll never have to see that silly grin again.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” He reached out and seized her by the shoulder, his fingers biting into soft flesh. “You’re going below, but it’s to my cabin, and if you utter one sound, I’ll wring that pretty neck. The time for playacting is over, Chelsea. This is real life we’re living.” He lifted her easily, holding her against him. Although she struggled, she thought better of screaming for help. Being caught in this particular compromising situation would do nothing for her reputation.

  “Put me down!” she hissed. “I don’t want to go with you; I don’t want to be with you!”

  “Yes, you do, you just won’t admit it. And quit struggling, for God’s sake; you’d think I was trying to kill you instead of make love to you.”

  “You take too much upon yourself. Why would I want you to make love to me? I can’t even stand to have you touch me!”

  “We’ll see about that, won’t we?” He squeezed through the narrow doorway leading below. In the companionway, when she nearly grappled out of his arms, he took the more drastic measure of throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her into his cabin.

  “Let me out of here!” she cried, beating at him with her fists. “I don’t want to be here!”

  “Shut that mouth, you’re enough to wake the dead. And I wouldn’t be so quick to be discovered nearly naked in my cabin, Chelsea love. Mrs. Crain can be quite inventive when it comes to repeating a story. And then, to protect my own reputation, I’d be forced to reveal exactly who you are. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

  “I’ve told you before you’re a bounder, but I was wrong. You’re a full-blooded bastard, Quaid Tanner, and I hate you!”

  He dumped her unceremoniously onto the bed, falling on top of her, pressing her into the hard mattress. “You don’t hate me, Chelsea. But you do feel something for me, you’ve already admitted that. And you like to have me touch you,” he told her, leaning forward to nibble at the base of her throat, his hands working beneath the opening of her robe. “You like it when I touch you here.” His fingers skimmed lightly over the smooth skin of her inner thigh. “And here.” His lips blazed a trail to the satin-smooth valley between her breasts.

  Chelsea writhed beneath him, wriggling away to escape his insolent touches, afraid to feel the fire that threatened to engulf her in the passion she had come to know in his arms.

  He nuzzled the pulse spot at the base of her white throat, feeling it race beneath his lips. He wanted her, wanted to feel her skin warm beneath his hands. He could already feel the fight leaving her, could anticipate the return of passion she would show him. Against the dark wool of her robe, her skin was pink and fresh. Each curve and hollow of her body beckoned to his lips and hands. Her long sable-dark hair twined through his fingers as he turned her face to his. When his mouth claimed hers she fought him still, twisting and turning to escape. He deepened his kiss, searching for an answering response. It came when he whispered her name, when his fingers gentled on her flesh, when he breathed his need for her. Then, with a little moan, like the sound of a stricken child, she turned into his embrace, offering her mouth to his, yielding beneath his touch.

  Discarding her robe and finally removing her nightdress, the last obstacle between his hands and her body, he took her hands in his and placed them on his belt, invoking her without words. His garments fell away beneath her ministering fingers; she left his newly exposed flesh warm from her kisses, continuing until he was naked beside her. Their passions rose like the wildness of a winter storm, hungry mouths searching, feverish hands touching.

  They tore at each other, each seeking what only the other could give. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow, only the here and now. And when their passion had abated, lips swollen from loving and bodies glistening with the sheen of desire, they lay in one another’s arms glorying in the journey they had shared. Kiss-softened mouths, tender exploring caresses, bodies still warm from passion’s fever, they basked in the afterglow of a moment only two could share.

  Chelsea lay with her head in the crook of his shoulder and found herself thinking it was her favorite place in the whole world. Once he had overcome her resistance he had been gentle, so gentle, and even now a golden warmth spread throughout her body, touching her in places that had become familiar to his hands and open to his lips.

  Quaid cradled Chelsea in his arms, his lips grazing her smooth, fair brow. Once he had thought of her as a jungle cat, a sleek, black panther, but now she purred in his embrace like a kitten, soft and yielding, tempting to the touch. A strange expression crept into his eyes. How was it that only this woman could bring him such fulfillment? It was as though they were a matched pair, the two of them, dark-haired and dark-souled, finding in each other a release and response that had to have been preordained. From the first he had known she was inexperienced in the ways of love, despite the fact that she had offered herself to him so casually in order to buy his silence. He was sorry for that. In truth he had only been seeking a kiss, but when it had become clear that she thought he expected much more than that, he had allowed the deceit to continue. Again, it was something he regretted.

  Chelsea sighed deeply, snuggling into Quaid’s embrace. If only time could stop here. She never wanted to leave this bed and Quaid’s arms. His sleek, manly body molded perfectly against hers; it was so comforting here, so safe. Was it possible she loved him? Could she throw away her dream and ambitions to stay with this man forever?

  “There’s something I must ask you,” Quaid said softly, his voice a deep rumble in his chest.

  “Hmmm?” came the sleepy murmur as a languorous contentment stole over her. “Don’t ask me anything that will break this spell you’ve woven over me.” She closed her eyes and snuggled deep into his embrace, fingers playing aimless little games through the fine furring on his chest. In a moment her eyes opened, lit with curiosity. “Well, aren’t you going to ask me?”

  “No, I’ll break the spell.” His lips touched the top of her head, and he breathed in the fragrance of her hair. There was still the freshness of the salt air in it and something else, something vaguely reminiscent of the bougainvillea vine that grew outside his house on Clonmerra.

  From his serious tone she knew whatever he had to ask was probably not pleasant. Now her curiosity was fully aroused. Rising from his arms and perching beside him on her knees, she stared down into his face. There were shadows and questions in his eyes that triggered an alarm.

  “All right, then,” he said at last, “I want you to tell me what you plan to do once you land in Australia.”

  “Oh, is that all?” She was relieved. She’d thought he might ask her something about her past and Uncle Cosmo, something that might make her ashamed. “I really haven’t formulated any plans, not exactly. But I do know that I’ve left the theater behind in London. I want something more for myself, money, position, a place of importance.”

  “And how do you plan to achieve this?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Something will come along, something always does.”

  He found himself laughing in spite of himself. “Live by the seat of your pants, do you?”

  “More by the slip of a petticoat.” She assumed a dramatic pose, one hand behind her head, sheet dropping to reveal her lovely breasts. “My face is my fortune, sir, and I intend to trade on it before the years rob me of opportunity.”

  “Be serious.” He slapped her lightly on the rump. “I want to know what you’ve planned for yourself once you get to Australia.”

  “I’m telling you I really don’t know. But I do know I won’t go into
service to some grand lady or raise her brats for her as a governess. No, I want to be the grand lady, and if there are any servants about, they’ll owe me for their employ.”

  “So you’ve grand ideas, have you?”

  “And why not? Do you think I left everything I ever knew or everyone who ever knew me behind in England just to take up the same sort of life? Cheap clothing, poor lodgings, living off ill-gotten goods, that’s all part of the past, and I don’t want to think about it. There’s something better for me in Australia, I can feel it. I seemed to have known it the instant Honoria told me that’s where she was going. Perhaps that’s what’s waiting for me, a husband. Honoria was going to get married, you know, and from what she told me he was quite well-to-do. Although he did have children somewhere, and as I said, I don’t relish the idea of raising some other woman’s brats.”

  “Do you ever plan to have brats of your own someday?”

  “Children,” she corrected. “Other women have brats.” And laughed, letting him know she wasn’t completely serious.

  “You still haven’t told me what you’ll do,” he persisted, ear turned for every nuance of her answer.

  “But I have told you.” She tickled him under the ribs, making him squawk in laughter and protest. “I plan to be a grand lady, and once I set my mind to something, I always get it in the end. Somewhere out there is a man who has everything I want: money, title or position, more money.”

  “You don’t want much, do you?” Quaid laughed.

  Chelsea bristled. “No, not much at all. And why shouldn’t I have it? Other women do, some of them at least, and not all of them got it by working their fingers to the bone and slaving, I can tell you that. If a woman wants to make her way in this world, it doesn’t hurt to have a man lay the path for her. Better still, is a man who already has everything and wants to share it. I ask you, did the queen herself come by her throne through her own labors and good conscience? Indeed not.” She laughed. “It was handed to her because she happened to be born into it. For those of us not fortunate enough to be born into a life of luxury, it’s a simple matter of using our heads and choosing correctly, don’t you think?”