“No!” Instantly Bristol’s mind sharpened and her eyes narrowed. “No.” She looked up at him, tightening her grip on the hilt and catching her breath at the expression on his face.
The smoky eyes turned to slate. “Give me that sword,” he repeated, soft danger in his voice.
Bristol stepped backward, the sword heavy in her shaking hands. “No,” she whispered, and her voice cracked. As long as she commanded the cutlass, she believed she had a chance.
La Crosse advanced a step, forcing her back. He extinguished the desk lamp, plunging his face into shadow while Bristol’s features shone in the light of the wall-lamp. Nervously, eyes wide, Bristol retreated around the desk, waving the cutlass in sweeping arcs before her torn skirt. Now it was she who stepped into shadow and La Crosse’s strong hard face that leaped forward under the illumination. Bristol chewed the inside of her cheek. La Crosse was staring at the rapid rise and fall of her breast, his eyes flat and hungry.
“Never!” she spit, her throat dry. “I’ll kill you first. I mean it, La Crosse!” She grasped the sword with both hands, stepping backward. “I mean it,” she repeated in a strangled whisper.
La Crosse followed steadily, step for step, forcing her back. Without removing his eyes from the swell of her breast, he lifted an arm and snuffed the wall lamp, throwing the room into sudden darkness. Bristol blinked frantically, willing her eyes to rapidly adjust to the wash of pale moonlight flooding into the cabin.
She screamed as powerful hands shot forward in the darkness and caught her wrists, whirling her hard against the wall. The cutlass clattered to the planks, and Bristol’s hope shattered with the sound. Fear and dread shocked her mind as he pinned her arms above her fiery head, his lower body crushing her into the wall.
“No!” Bristol gasped. She fought to jerk her hands free and could not. Bucking her hips forward, she desperately tried to throw his body away from hers. Instead she met a solid, unmoving scald of heat. A hard bulge strained his breeches, growing against her. “No... oh, no.” Bristol sagged in despair. Then, frantic to escape, she increased her efforts against him, fighting, trying to arch away from his touch. Helplessly she kicked out, but his body held her fast, and she felt his erection, stiff and demanding, press into her body. Against her cheek, his breath beat in short bursts, warm and smelling of wine. Then searching lips covered hers, bruising her mouth with savage force.
Gasping, panting for breath, Bristol wrenched her head violently to the side. She screamed, “No! Please!”
La Crosse was past hearing. Sweeping her into powerful arms, he crossed to the bed and dropped her into a patch of silver moonlight. He stepped back, his hands tearing at his breeches string.
Desperate and terrified, her heart a thundering drum in her head, Bristol scrambled toward the edge of the bed, her knees sliding in a tangle of skirts. La Crosse’s hand bruised into her shoulder, and he tossed her back onto the bed, his fingers catching the throat of her soiled gown and ripping down, tearing away her gown and apron as if they were sewn of paper. Shamed and frightened by her sudden nakedness, she fluttered her hands in a vain effort to cover herself; a dry sob broke from her throat, and she trembled like the last leaf of summer, terrified by his strength and purpose.
La Crosse halted, standing over the bed, his naked body catching fingers of moonlight. He sucked in his breath and stared. “Mon Dieu!” His voice emerged in a hoarse whisper. His hungry eyes devoured Bristol’s lush body bathed in moonlit tints of ivory shadow. “Mon Dieu! Even bloody and soiled you are a beautiful woman!”
Bristol’s pleading eyes closed, shutting out his face, and her fingers curled into helpless fists. Nothing she did or said could prevent what he was about to do. A desperate mind raced through a wild jumble of thought. She could not match his strength and lust-driven power. Terrified with shame and fear, Bristol squeezed her eyes. How could she endure this? How?
Suddenly she recalled the settler’s cabin. In less than a minute, La Crosse would finish with her—so it had been with Caleb, so it must be with all men. Thinking of this steadied Bristol’s churning mind. Anything could be borne for one minute. Even this. Even this terrible horrifying violation of everything decent and private... even this could be endured for one small minute.
La Crosse knelt on the bed and bent over her, capturing her wrists and pinning them above her head. Bristol’s eyes flared and her heart pounded wildly in her breast. Remember, she screamed within her mind, lie quietly, and it will all be over in a minute. One tiny minute!
Clenching her teeth, she forced her body to go limp. The longer she resisted, fought the inevitable, the longer this nightmare would continue. Resolutely she stared at the ceiling, her naked body shivering in revulsion and fright.
For an instant La Crosse paused, his gray eyes hungering over her quiet curves; then he lowered himself beside her. At the shock of his heated body stretching along the length of her own, Bristol drew in a sharp breath. She felt his erection throbbing against her bare thigh, and she bit hard on her lower lip, but she ceased her attempts to wrench away from him.
Still holding her helpless, La Crosse peered into her resigned face, and he murmured into the darkness. “Ah, so that’s how it is,” he whispered softly. “But Jean Pierre La Crosse does not take an unwilling woman.”
Instantly Bristol’s heart leaped with hope, and she looked into his eyes, the beginnings of gratitude shining from beneath her lashes. But she’d misunderstood his intent. His hand lifted, and then she felt the searing touch of his fingers cupping the soft mound of her breast, stroking her skin with a light warm caress. Bristol gasped and writhed on the bed.
Caleb Wainwright had done nothing like this! Her green eyes widened and her breath seemed to stick in her throat. “Don’t!” she breathed harshly, trying to wrest from his hand. Instantly his gentle touch disappeared, and La Crosse caught her roughly, pulling her hard against his naked chest.
The shock of their naked skin meeting swept her body like wildfire. The warm strength of his broad chest sent Bristol’s heart thudding wildly, her pulse hammering in her ears. She fought desperately for control. Quietly! her mind shrieked. Lie quietly and let this abomination finish! Shaking, her mind off balance, Bristol forced herself to lie in rigid stiffness.
He laughed softly, his face hidden in shadow. His hand returned to her quivering breast, warm and light. Then, holding her wrists securely over her tangled hair, La Crosse lowered his head, and Bristol gasped as his warm lips found her nipple. Her mouth fell open in shock, and her green eyes squeezed tightly. A bolt of tingling sensation shot through her body as his wet tongue circled her breast, teasing, coaxing.
A choked sob tore from Bristol’s throat, and her breath came in shallow, rapid gulps. “Don’t. Don’t,” she pleaded. But his dark head brushed her chin, moving. A skilled tongue caressed her breasts, tantalizing, coaxing, calling forth a responding heat from her trembling limbs. To Bristol’s horror, she felt her nipples harden, rising pink and ripe to his lips.
A frightening weakness flowed through every muscle in her suddenly flaming body. His naked chest brushed her stomach, moist and strong and burning where he touched. Beneath his stroking fingers, her breasts tingled, and a bewildering sense of urgency began in her thighs and swelled, sweeping her breath away.
“No,” she moaned. “No.” His lips and tongue whispered to her skin, and she wasn’t certain if she resisted La Crosse or her own rebelling flesh. Something overwhelming and scalding and mind-sweeping fired her body, intense and demanding release. Her breasts rose to his expert lips and hands, lifting as if of their own accord.
She whimpered into the damp pillow as La Crosse rolled onto her, his knee guiding her legs wide apart. And her breath caught in strangling noises when his hand discovered the silky forest between her legs, moving in a slow, teasing search. Her body dampened in a sheen of fire as his fingers probed and stroked, and her mind darkened to blind thrashing need. Vaguely Bristol realized her hips moved in a primitive rhythm
of instinct, an inborn awakening to ancient mystery.
His face rose above her, and for an instant she met his smoldering gray eyes; then his mouth burned against her lips and his naked chest crushed against her breasts. When his bruising mouth released her, Bristol’s breath was as ragged and gasping as his own.
Suddenly her arms were free, and they dropped to circle his neck. Her lips opened to his with the urgency he’d created; her frantic body strained against hard flesh with the plunging need he’d drawn from every trembling nerve. Blind yearning filled the very fiber of her aching body. Bristol’s sensual nature exploded into life, wakened by his skilled touch with all the intensity of a long-dormant instinct craving expression.
He stroked her shuddering body and kissed her hard nipples until Bristol’s body writhed in mindless abandon. All the tensions and frustrations of that empty moment in the settler’s cabin burst from her mind and body. She moaned helplessly, her moist body flaming beneath his fingers, a damp fire rising on satiny skin. His warm hand curved over her stomach and dropped between her legs, exploring, teasing, searching, until Bristol fought for each gasping breath and believed her heart would race from her breast.
In her ear, La Crosse’s rich husky voice whispered in French, his lips moving against damp tendrils. His warm, panting breath on her cheek turned Bristol dizzy with need. Her lips sought his, and her arms tightened around his neck. She strained against his lean hard body, pushing her breasts against the mat of crisp dark hair.
“Now?” he whispered, moving against her, holding her to his body.
“Aye,” Bristol gasped, “Oh, aye, aye! Please!” The whispered groans tumbled from her aching lips. Every rational thought melted, and she understood nothing but her own demanding emptiness, the urgency to fill herself with this man, to take what her body craved.
Only when her need had risen nearly to a scream did La Crosse lift himself over her and thrust into the throbbing honeyed space.
“Aye,” Bristol screamed, her mindless hips rising to match his rhythm. “Oh, aye,” she groaned. Her tangled hair fell back and her eyes closed, and tortured breath rushed past her parted lips.
Her fingers tightened on La Crosses rippling shoulders, and some buried part of her mind recognized that he paced himself, moving in deep rhythmic strokes, adjusting to her own instinctive cadence. And then faster and faster and harder and more urgent. Until an expanding universe spun behind Bristol’s lids, pouring color and sensation, rocking and glowing. And then her universe narrowed and cracked into a mind-sweeping explosion. Her body shuddered and contracted and erupted into ecstasy.
Panting for breath, her breast heaving, Bristol fell limp, and La Crosse’s dark head dropped to her shoulder. Together they lay tangled in the damp bed, bathed in a shimmer of cooling perspiration. Waiting for racing hearts to quiet.
Bristol held his head to her breast. She drifted in a warm sea, her mind empty, her body heavy and sated. This was the true mystery of men and women, she mused drowsily. A blissful draining of tensions and need... an explosive rapture.
Gently La Crosse shifted. He blotted his seeping wound, then stretched wordlessly beside Bristol, gathering her soft yielding body into his arms and cradling her head on his shoulder. In a moment she felt the deep regular rise and fall of his chest and knew he slept.
Gradually, as if awakening from a warm clinging dream, Bristol’s senses cleared. Her eyes widened in the darkness, her nostrils aware of the man and a musky scent of love. Dear God! What had she done! Her body stiffened in his arms, rigid with shock.
In the shadowy moonlight, her cheeks burned in hot shame. She bit the back of her hand to keep from crying out. She’d paced this very room for hours fearing La Crosse and his lust. But La Crosse had not raped, her... Bristol had begged him to take her, to use her quivering body.
She moaned softly, shaking her head in denial. But years of truthful upbringing refused to allow her comfort. The truth accused. How could she ever again live with herself, knowing she’d called out to him, knowing she’d wanted him like nothing else in her life? Bristol groaned and rocked on the bed.
Then slowly, careful not to disturb La Crosse’s even sleep, she inched from his arms and out of the bed, unable to bear his closeness another minute.
Shivering and offended by a blaming nakedness, she bent and held the shreds of her gown to the dim window. Heart sinking, Bristol dropped the gown to the planks. She searched in the darkness, finding La Crosse’s wardrobe and pulling at the wooden doors. Taking the first shirt her fingers touched, she hastily covered her nakedness. The shirt hung to her knees, and cuffs dangled below her hands.
She pushed at the sleeves, a thousand shamed accusations burning through her mind. How did this happen? She bowed her head. How?
A sliver of moonlight glinted on the blade of the discarded cutlass, and Bristol bent, lifting the sword with trembling hands: She touched the cold metal, pressing the edge against her finger until a bright drop welled in the pale light. Moving in numbed jerking movements, Bristol touched the point of the sword between her breasts. The carved hilt rested solidly against the planking, and the tip pressed sharp to prick her tender flesh. She stared down. All she need do was fall forward.
Bristol stood very still, staring at the cold gleam of metal, listening to the rising noise of her heartbeat. Her mind refused to function; she couldn’t unravel the full meaning of what had passed between La Crosse and herself, but she knew this day—the fighting, the killing, and Jean Pierre La Crosse—had altered everything she had believed herself to be.
She lifted her eyes to the slumbering form in the bed, seeing a glow of moonlight on La Crosse’s shoulder. Because of him, she now recognized that moment with Caleb in the settler’s cabin had been a mockery. There was more—so much more—than Caleb could give. But she’d lain with Caleb in love. At least for a while she’d thought it was love.
The man in the rumpled moon-washed bed represented no tender feelings—only blind desire. And yet it was he who had awakened a deep sensuality, he who had shown her the woman she could be. Bristol’s face paled, and she battled a misting of tears.
How long she stood frozen in the silent darkness with the sword at her heart, she didn’t know. What Bristol finally understood was that she would not kill herself; the will to live beat too strongly. She would endure a lifetime of guilt and regret. Knowing that once her rebellious body had lifted to La Crosse’s thrusts, had longed for his lips, had cried “Please”—this knowledge would burden her soul all her days, would signal a break with her Puritan background that might never heal. In the hours since morning, she had changed, had begun to grow up, and the process was painful.
Blinking rapidly at the cold sword, Bristol quietly lowered the cutlass and stumbled aimlessly toward the bank of windows. I will not cry, she reminded herself. Her fists balled and her jaw knotted. Tears solve nothing! Change nothing! She rubbed her aching eyes until the unshed tears receded, leaving a tight pain in their place.
Sinking into the desk chair, Bristol curled her legs under her, blanketing her body beneath the long ends of La Crosse’s shirt. It smelled like him, clean and mannish and faintly salty.
Bristol closed her eyes. “What I cannot change, I will accept,” she repeated under her breath. Opening her eyes, she stared dully at the black water outside the windows. She couldn’t change this new sensual image of herself—could she accept that? Bristol dropped a pounding head into her hands.
Dear heaven, had she ever endured a more destructive day? She couldn’t recall one. Drawing a deep shivering breath, Bristol pushed at her hair, feeling clumps of dried blood matted between the long strands. On her cheek streaked a crusty line of her own blood, in her hair clung a pirate’s dying blood, and across her breasts the blood from La Crosse’s wound. So much blood!
Brooding, her emerald gaze stared moodily at the moon-silvered waves beyond the window. Her mind spiraled back in time, drawn by thoughts of blood, and she saw the bright smear staining Ca
leb Wainwright’s cloak in the settler’s cabin. A lifetime ago, it seemed.
She tried to sort out her feelings for Caleb, but already he seemed a shadowy memory-figure, dim and pallid next to the man sleeping across from her. What did that mean? She had genuinely thought she loved Caleb; had it been only a girlish infatuation? The thought of him had the power to pain, but was it love or guilt?
There were no answers. “I want to go home,” Bristol whispered. Caleb had said he would come for her—would he still, considering the way she’d left him? “I want to go home, to the world I understand,” she whispered to the rolling waves trailing the ship. “Please, Caleb, come for me and take me home.” She watched the black water until her eyes drooped; then she shifted in the desk chair, her head dropping into her arms. “Come soon,” she murmured, her eyes closing.
Wild dark dreams of fighting figures spun in her tired mind, sleeping visions of swords, and thundering guns and terrifying danger. Once again Bristol bent above Jane Able, gagging at the bloodied throat. Once again a pirate’s arm circled her waist and dragged her backward through a mob of ringing swords. Bristol opened her mouth and screamed, but no sound emerged. No one saw the pirate’s hand roughly fondle her breasts as he dragged her inexorably toward the bowsprit. Not a face turned when the pirate threw her to the deck and ripped away her clothing. Bristol moaned. Not one person glanced toward her silent screams or remarked the dirty hand reaching toward her body.
Groaning, Bristol fluttered and opened her eyes. Immediately an evil-smelling hand clamped hard across her lips. She jolted awake, her eyes flaring in terror. The fingers bruising into her breasts were not a dream! Fetid breath blasted her face. The leering, drunken man tearing at La Crosse’s shirt was very real.
9
The drunken man swayed and stumbled in front of the desk chair. His rum-rancid breath grunted into Bristol’s face.
One hand muffled her screams, the other crawled along her inner thigh, digging into soft flesh. Bristol clawed and scratched and clung fiercely to the chair. If he succeeded in dragging her to the floor, she would be lost—he’d be on her in an instant.
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