Immortal (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Book 2)

by Meredith, Anne

  Between the lanterns and candles in his cabin, there was just enough light to marvel as she gazed at him. The palest brown eyes—was it hazel?—he’d ever seen. A color that reminded him of an exotic flower he’d seen in the black hair of a girl while visiting Siam. And he’d seen it in the sunset, and on the ocean at a typhoon’s approach. But whether the color had a name, he did not know.

  Then she did smile at him, a small smile as if of gratitude, and a single dimple in one cheek creased. A moment later, she returned to her slumber. Hawk stared, smiling back stupidly.

  Good heavens, man. Go below, grab a woman, and end your suffering.

  Whether to put her to work dressing this woman or undressing him, at this point he cared not.

  The captain had traveled the seven seas since infancy, captained his own ship for a dozen years, and he’d known beautiful women from every continent. He’d had his fill of those enamored of their own feminine charms, and had developed a taste for those who weren’t.

  Perhaps becoming a man in its true sense meant learning that the excitement of a woman existed in her spirit. And one could never learn the extent of a woman’s spirit until he saw her laugh.

  This woman had barely cast a shy glance at him and he couldn’t compose a thought. Except one: he wanted to make her laugh.

  Brushing away his puerile brainlessness, he removed the duck sailcloth from her and tossed it in a far corner. As he turned back, he realized he’d closed his eyes.

  What is wrong with you? Get it over with. Now.

  He opened his eyes.

  Raven was right. Pretending she was a boy wasn’t an option.

  Earlier, he’d been so preoccupied with getting her out of the ocean that he’d scarcely been aware of her nakedness. Now, as he gazed, unable to move, he realized that despite the number of women he’d bedded, he’d never had the occasion to investigate one so clearly, to admire her so completely.

  He grabbed the shirt and touched her shoulders. At the first touch of her skin, cold under his fingertips, he grew ashamed of his base instincts. And the captain in him took over, wrapped her in his shirt, lifted her into his arms, and placed her in his bed.

  He shoved more wood in his stove, disentangled and removed his necklace, and placed it in his top drawer. Climbing in bed beside her, he curved his body around hers, throwing a thigh around her shivering lower body and warming her. Relieved he’d donned the breeches, he rubbed her skin briskly through the thin layer of his shirt. His own bare chest was hot against her cool back, and he leaned over her head, placing his face against her cold cheek.

  He stroked the length of her cold thighs, his other arm tucked around her from underneath, stiffly stroking her arm to conduct his warmth. He exhaled warm breath along the length of her throat, and she gave a soft cry of delight, turning toward his mouth.

  He went still, drawing her closer even as he ignored the response of his own unruly body. As she began to grow warm, he had no choice but to notice the softness inviting his own hardness. She was a woman full grown, and beautiful.

  She wriggled against him, unconsciously inviting his touch, and he held his breath until she stilled. He rearranged himself around her so the fit wasn’t quite so tempting—a challenge in itself—and lay his face against hers, then rested his palm over her throat, where her racing pulse went calm and even.

  He removed from his own neck the necklace that he’d caught when it had nearly floated away from her underwater, and he slipped it over her head, settling it between her breasts.

  And despite anything he would’ve believed, as he lay there with her body growing content and warm under his, with her heartbeat steady and calm as if regulating his own, with his ship’s sails singing a seaman’s lullaby, Hawk dropped into a deep sleep and rested through the night.

  Chapter Seven

  Marley awakened into what could only be a dream—of that she was certain.

  The rolling rhythm of the bed, the occasional creak of wood, told her she was once again on the ship—then she stopped short. She couldn’t be. They’d shut her out during the storm—and she’d soon been lost in the depths of the ocean.

  Now the storm had passed, leaving only the motion and sound of the ship moving through the ocean.

  She opened her eyes to an unfamiliar room. This place was alive with richness of detail and old-world charm that the modern day Island Girl had lacked.

  The thin gray of approaching dawn lit a bank of tall windows opposite the bed, slanting outward. Each window, perhaps four feet wide by eight feet, held a dozen panes. The mullions holding each pane, as well as the carved casement were all natural wood—perhaps teak. The walls were lined with the same gleaming woods, the windows trimmed in gilt wood carvings and draped with heavy, crimson and gold curtains.

  On a wall adjacent to the windows stood the bed in which she lay. On the other stood an alcove with a recessed daybed with inviting pillows, also gold and crimson, edged with gold cords. Above the alcove daybed hung a gold-carved mirror.

  That was Marley’s first clue she was dreaming, that she imagined a window seat like those she loved at Stonefield.

  She drank in the details of the room, impressed with the imagination of her own unconscious. As much as she loved and knew history, she hadn’t thought herself capable of conjuring up an eighteenth-century pirate ship. Well, maybe not a pirate ship—most of the big-ticket spoils had been plundered before that time period—but your average fisherman or merchant couldn’t afford this kind of opulence.

  Mounted on either side of the daybed alcove was an array of polished swords, daggers, and pistols. Above these displays, on each side of the daybed, was a brass candle sconce.

  This pageantry, bringing to mind the weaponry arrays in the Governor’s Palace where she often lectured, was her second clue that she was dreaming. At either end of the row of windows, in the upper corner, was a carved bird in mid-flight, each painted in lifelike detail. A hawk and raven.

  Facing the bank of windows was a large, ornate wooden table, legs curving down into four lion’s paws. On it lay a ledger of some sort—perhaps a ship’s log. The matching chairs had been arranged around the cabin—except for the captain’s chair, which stood between the table and the windows, facing the cabin. Above the table hung half a dozen lanterns.

  The cabin’s aromas were strong, not at all unpleasant—and quite male. The faint sweetness of beeswax, the fecund tang of saltwater and sea air, the faint odor of fish she’d associated with the ocean her entire life, and a surprisingly agreeable scent of cigars. Infusing it all, an earthy aroma quite like cedar. Teak, likely, on a ship.

  She couldn’t recall a single time she’d ever dreamed of smells, and she turned over to snuggle deeper into her pillow.

  There she found irrefutable evidence that she was dreaming: a man, the breadth of his chest a supple and welcoming pillow. Startled, she drew back.

  Life lives in this moment.

  She embraced Nan’s admonition. She stretched out her fingers, inhaling the scent of him and moving her cheek against his chest. His breath, deep and even, told her that he, too, shared her dream.

  Marley had never touched a man’s bare chest before, but this was exactly as she would’ve imagined it in her best daydream. So she opened her eyes and raised her head just slightly to see what she’d been missing.

  The skin beneath her cheek was sun-browned, muscled, and held a tempting pattern of light brown hair.

  She let her fingernails play there lightly and dropped a chaste kiss, her lips lingering and parting. His skin tasted of sea spray, as a pirate’s would.

  She laughed aloud at the thought. The sound intruded in the quiet room, but not enough to awaken her from her dream.

  “I amuse you.”

  A shiver went along her skin at the sound of his voice—low, gruff with sleep, and amused, as well.

  “Enlighten me.”

  She only smiled. “You must be Lilu, come to seduce me in my dreams.”

  Now h
e laughed, and she felt the delighted rumble of his chest tingle throughout her body. “You think me an incubus?”

  So, he had a brain to go along with the impressive chest.

  “Ordinary mortal males cannot be as beautiful as you.”

  His hand captured hers, and he kissed her fingers lightly. She drew it away, and it came to rest over his taut abdomen. Again she explored there, certain that few men could have a chest this hard yet pliant, as sculpted as Michelangelo’s David.

  Her fingers wandered lower, then stopped shyly as she encountered the sheet.

  She heard the sudden race of his heart, and excitement coursed through her at the thought of her power over him. The very idea of her having power over any man.

  She plucked the sheet away. Disappointed, she observed he was wearing pants—but they dipped tantalizingly low on his slim hips. Between the solidly muscled rise of his pelvic bones, swelling the front of his breeches, was the hard rise of an erection.

  Harder still his heartbeat as lower still went her hand, finding the depression of his navel. She stroked her middle fingertip down over the pattern of dark hair below it. His abdomen rose and fell as she explored, and she grasped the sheet to fling it away.

  He caught her hand again and in one smooth, sure motion he thrust her onto her back, his fingertips laced in hers, pinning her down. The nightshirt she wore, unbuttoned, fell away from her in the movement, baring her body to his gaze.

  The rising sun flashed through the windows and in his eyes—the pale blue of high noon she’d seen in the Sargasso Sea, with the faintest tinge of pale green. He scorched her with the gaze that roved over her, lingering on her breasts, then rising to her own.

  “Who are you?”

  She laughed, and the sight captured him, held him immobile.

  “It’s my dream, I don’t have to explain a thing.”

  A reluctant smile lifted a corner of his mouth. “So you hold to the theory you’re dreaming of an incubus?”

  Marley, my girl, this is one humdinger of a phantasm. He was splendid.

  She could feel an almost painful pleasure growing deep within her as she ached for his touch.

  She lifted her face toward his for a kiss. He settled his weight on his elbows, still holding her fast to the bed as it rocked under them. But rather than kissing her, he lowered his mouth to her throat, to her ear.

  “Who are you?”

  The question was a demand. A husky purr tickling her ear.

  She found herself unable to answer at the pleasure of his breath in her ear, his tongue tracing her earlobe, his teeth lightly nipping.

  She turned her face toward him, hungry for his mouth on hers. With matter-of-fact denial, he lifted his head away.

  The mouth he denied her was open slightly, the lips full and inviting, the tongue touching his lower lip in steady calculation. Again she lifted her mouth toward his, like a baby bird hungry for the first taste of life.

  He moved his head away even as he smiled, his teeth a white flash in his suntanned face. And without warning he lowered that mouth to her breast, his dark blond, sun streaked hair falling over her, one hand releasing her as he cupped and molded her other breast. He stroked her hardened nipple with a callused thumb, then moved his mouth there.

  She cried out—loudly—at a pleasure she’d never imagined. Without even slowing his pleasured assault on her, he covered her mouth with his hand.

  Released from his grip, her hand slid through his silken hair, encouraging him.

  Then, as abruptly as he’d begun, he raised his head. “You’re a virgin.”

  Ah. Eventually, all dreams turned dark.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know the sound of a woman who’s never known pleasure.” His gaze raked her breasts again. “A sin against humanity, in this case.”

  She blushed, ashamed at the fact that no one had ever found her desirable enough even to court, let alone bed.

  His gaze raked her body, stopping at the dark purple bruise high on her hip—from when Jimmy had kicked her that last night at Stonefield. “Who did this to you?”

  Her mouth opened and closed, then: “I fell.”

  He examined it, then gave her a dubious look.

  “And I am not. A virgin, that is.”

  One eyebrow shot up. “Oh? Shall I prove it?”

  Answering his challenge, aroused at the prospect of what that might entail, she raised her chin. “Yes.”

  His hand slipped down between their bodies, his palm easily parting her thighs. Her excitement grew. His hand lowered, his fingertips explored, and he gave a surprised sigh at what he felt there.

  Marley had no idea what surprised him so, but his fingers lingered, roaming delicately in that center of her pleasure.

  “That is—so nice,” she whispered. “What are you doing, and how in the world does it feel so exquisite?”

  He gave a soft, low laugh. “I’m a sea captain. I’ve been tying knots for twenty years. Requires a manual dexterity that means I’m quite good at untying them as well.”

  Distracted with her reaction to him, he continued to play there—then seemed to remember his original purpose. When he started to insert a single finger, then two, he moved it within her, and the feeling changed.

  “There. Feel that? Not fun anymore, is it?”

  She wanted more. Of his touch, of … of what, she was unsure. As he made to withdraw, she arched her hips, instinctively capturing him within her.

  At this he hesitated, then continued touching her and shifted aside to watch her response. His jaw hardened as his gaze roved over her thighs, her belly, watching her tremble in innocence at his touch. The pleasure he drew from her began a swift, steady climb.

  “I beg of you,” she whispered, lifting her mouth to his ear, delighted to see him catch his breath as she mimicked the way he’d breathed in her ear. “Don’t stop.”

  He drew away from her kiss, withholding his own pleasure with an iron will even as he allowed hers. Almost gallantly, as if to help end her suffering.

  He watched her face instead, as his fingers continued to play on her. He knowingly stroked, his face grim, troubled, even as a sensation she’d never known washed over her.

  As she collapsed within his bed, he slowly withdrew his fingers, covering her with the sheet. “Happy dreams, Morgana,” he whispered.

  And with that, her knots unspooled and her pleasure spent, she fell into the deepest sleep she’d ever known.

  Chapter Eight

  When Marley awakened again, her fear went deep. She was convinced she was trapped in a nightmare without end. The only other options she could imagine were that she had been rescued from the ocean and was in a hospital, comatose.

  Or that, perhaps, she had not been rescued.

  That this was reality, she could not consider.

  Same captain’s cabin, same bed, same nightshirt. No man, this time. For this, she was equally relieved and crestfallen.

  She threw her legs over the side of the bed and rose—and nearly collapsed within it again. Her head throbbed with a pain she’d never known—and yet, it encouraged her. How could she feel pain if she were comatose—or dead?

  Equal to the pain of her headache was the heaviness in her head, as if she’d been drugged. She shook her head, trying to dispel it. She sat on the edge of the bed—a huge bed, she saw now, her feet not touching the floor—for a full minute, until the worst of it passed.

  The sun had risen, and the brilliance in the windows caught her attention. This was far too brilliant, far too painful, far too beautiful to be a dream. She stood up more slowly, glancing around the cabin. Were her clothes stored somewhere? She looked through the closets and armoire but found only men’s clothing, neatly hung.

  And where was Nan? It would help to know where she was, but she was just as concerned about her grandmother. After all, she might be somewhere worrying over Marley.

  She quickly made the bed then padded to the windows, looking for any clues
about where she might be. The rolling of the ship disoriented her, and she grabbed the large table strewn with maps. They were the sort of thing she’d never seen outside protective glass: hand-drawn maps of ancient lands. But they looked as new as a road map bought at a truck stop.

  She ignored the treasure trove of documents, turning to the windows. And there she saw an endless expanse of ocean and a long beam—a spar—protruding from the ship. The back point of a taut sail extended out perhaps a dozen feet above the windows. The cabin was at the back of the ship—the stern, she reminded herself—where captain’s cabins were always situated.

  Two windows stood on each adjoining wall, and she peered out each window: no land anywhere.

  A wooden edge jutted into her hip, and she moved away far enough to see shelves of books running under the length of all the windows. Not a huge library by anyone’s standard, but certainly larger than most at sea. She bent down to get a closer look.

  Iliad, Oedipus, Republic, Aeneid. On the adjoining shelf, as if withdrawn and hastily set aside, lay Argonautica. The story of Jason and the Argonauts.

  Other books included philosophy, art, architecture, science. Fiction from Daniel Defoe, Henry Fielding, Jonathan Swift, Horace Walpole. All of these were eighteenth century. None of these books had been published past perhaps the 1770s. They were cloth and leather, all of these specific books published using eighteenth century technique.

  And all of them were nearly new.

  Surely she was hallucinating, for these books closely mirrored selections from the library Thomas Jefferson had donated to recreate the destroyed Library of Congress. And no one except she would have such an arcane fact committed to memory.

  As she reached one end of the books, she noted that the window on that side was in fact set into a door. She peeked out and saw an old-style toilet there, merely a hole in a wooden seat. It was a reminder that she’d like to use it. She opened the door and walked out.