Her Captive

by Connie Brockway

  “But until then ...” She raised her hand and traced her index finger down his sternum, over his pounding heart, across the compact muscles that leapt to life in his abdomen, lower over the soft swirl of hair low on his belly, to the narrow band of his trousers. Wickedly, she hooked her finger beneath the band and touched something blunt and silky smooth. He jerked back.

  “No,” he said desperately. “We must wait until we’re wed.”

  “Why?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, raised his face in a manner beseeching the heavens. “Only you would ask such a question, Pip.”

  She took advantage of his closed eyes, leaning in and nibbling on his collarbone. His skin was hot. He tasted salty. Ah, yes, he’d endured his own trials this night— He grabbed her and rolled her under him, his free hand cradling her head as he kissed her. It was a rough, uncontrolled kiss, the pressure driving her down into the mattress. She met it open-mouthed.

  He was thoroughly aroused, a big hard mound between her thighs. He tore his lips from her. “There’s reasons to wait,” he said desperately. “I’m not a scoundrel, Pip. I love you. I want you to realize that, to know it in your very soul. I’ll prove it to you by any means, satisfy every convention with my dutiful respect.”

  Her heart bounded with joy. He loved her. He wanted her to know he loved her, to prove his love. But, she didn’t need proof. She already knew.

  “I’m strong enough to handle a little self-denial,” he said with a crooked smile.

  “Then I must be the scoundrel,” she replied. She fumbled with his trousers’ remaining buttons, fighting them free of their holes. “And I most definitely cannot handle self-denial right now. And as for satisfaction, there are only two people you need worry about satisfying. Don’t make me ask, Ned. Please.”

  With a strangled sound, he reached down and jerked away the fabric between them, both her gown and his trousers. “Touch me.

  She complied, reaching down and wrapping her fingers around him. The intimate knowledge of his heat and size lanced through her. He bit off a sharp cry, swelling in her hand. Later she would explore more thoroughly this satiny smooth, rock hard enigma. Right now, they needed to finish what they had begun so many hours before, so many months before.

  He clasped her knee and pulled her leg up over his hip, spreading her legs. “Take me inside of you. Guide me.”

  He needed to know that she wanted him. It was there in his tense commands. Should she show any sign of pain, any alarm, exhibit the slightest second thoughts, she realized he would stop—even if it killed him. It made her want him even more. Without hesitation, she set him at her threshold. He took hold her hands, both manacled and free, and laced his fingers with hers, holding their hands against the mattress on either side of her head. Deliberately, she tilted her hips up in age-old welcome.

  He’d long since readied her. She felt herself stretch­ing to accommodate the slow, nerve-rasping slide of his entry. He filled her slowly, thoroughly. The sensation was amazing. Wonderful. All the while he watched her, his face set as in stone, his eyes glittering and alive to every nuance of her expression, every check in her breathing, every contraction of every muscle. He watched her eyes as he took her.

  “Move. Please,” he implored thickly and she began to move, a slight, deliberate dance, her thighs locked around his trim hips.

  A grimace crossed his aquiline features. He was holding back, letting her feel him, accustom herself to his presence with her. She didn’t want him to hold back, part of this was about power, the give and take of uncontrollable forces.

  “Move,” she whispered and rocked her hips hard against him. He trembled.

  “Move in me.” She bucked, seating him deeper. His teeth clenched and he growled, sliding their two sets of hands up to her hips. He clasped her tightly and lifted, thrusting hard and deep into her. Sensual pleasure snaked through her body, pooling in her groin.

  Again and again, over and over, he drove into her and she reveled in the sensation, basked in the ferocity of his possession, hurling toward some summit, unforeseeable pinnacle of pleasure locked between her legs, plunging into her body, lifting and holding her, his body marble hard, hot, and immutable. She moved with him, feeling her interior muscles clench. And still the pleasure kept building, the need for surcease as sharp as an addict’s craving.

  Only the end remained, a sun blazing just beyond her reach and she struggled. Her body strained for release. She squeezed her eyes shut, lights exploding against the swirling darkness, her body straining... There! There. There.

  Waves of pleasure flooded her body, inundated her; skin, pores, senses. She stretched, transfixed by gratification, her throat arching back, sobbing, her nails digging into his sides as the tremors rippled through her.

  Her climax nearly killed him. He’d matched her thrust for thrust, ground his teeth against it, watching the waves build in her, feeling the moment she abandoned herself to the “little death” and felt his own body rise to partake of the feast. But he fought it, fought his climax, unwilling to let it go until he was sure, until every muscle in her body gripped him and the contractions had started to ebb. Only then did he allow himself release.

  He came abruptly, scorchingly, the power of it leaving him gasping, his arms bruising her, his throat raw with the sound torn from him. And when it was over and he collapsed above her and his face was buried in the velvet lee of her throat, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips to the base of his throat and gave him heaven again by whispering, “I love you.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was a miracle he even heard the faint knock on the door. The night had turned into day before all the months of anger and heartbreak had been burned away by the intensity with which they loved. But then, perhaps it wasn’t surprising that the smallest sound woke him. He had something to protect.

  He stood up beside the bed, shielding her with his body. “Who is it?”

  “It’s John Jones, Captain.”

  “John?”

  He swung around to find Philippa looking up at him from a nest of linens and blankets, tousled and infinitely desirable, her dark eyes wide and questioning.

  He touched her lips. “Quietly, my love,” he said in a low voice. “You may have no use for others’ opinions, but I’d not care to have your name bandied about. I’m a bit rusty with a sword.”

  Twin lines appeared between her brows, but she demurred without a sound.

  “I came to see if all was right with you,” John spoke through the door.

  “Aye, I’m fine, John. What happened with the raid?”

  “Caught Minton, sir.” There was undeniable pride in John’s voice. “He’s in chains on his way to Glastonbury as we speak.”

  “My brother works for you?” Philippa whispered, wide-eyed.

  “Aye. And will try to make you a widow before you’re even wed if you speak louder,” he cautioned.

  “What’s that, Captain?” John asked.

  “Good work, lad.”

  “Thank you, sir. But why is it you weren’t there at the end after all you’ve been through chasing the devil to ground? Or rather I should say after all my ill-tempered sister has put you through?”

  “The wretch!” Pip mouthed, her expression hot with affront. She started to sit up but Ned pushed her back.

  “I’ll not have you speak of her that way, John,” he said.

  John snorted. “Aye, you poor bastard—beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n. I don’t know why you don’t just toss her on her—”

  “That’ll be enough, Jones,” Ned broke in, his voice deadly serious. “I’ll speak with you later.”

  They heard John sigh loudly. “Aye, Cap’n. But you missed out on a rare good time. I hope whatever it was that kept you back was worth it.”

  Ned looked down at Pip. “Oh, it was.”

  “Then, as it appears I’m not going to be invited in, I’ll report to you later, only ...”

  Philippa’s eyes had grown dark as she loo
ked up at Ned and a pink blush bloomed in her cheeks. She’d lifted her arms to him.

  “Only what, John?” Ned grated out in exasperation.

  “Only, please, Cap’n. I beg you to let me be there when you tell my sister who you are and what you’ve been doing and, more important, who I am and what I’ve been doing. I’ve had to listen to her sermons for near half a year. I think I deserve to be there.”

  “Maybe,” Ned allowed, watching Pip’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Now, go away, John.”

  “As you will, Cap’n.”

  With a sigh of relief, Ned turned to Pip. She was sitting up, the covers pooling around her hips, like Venus arising from the sea. “You are the most exquisite woman—”

  “Oh.” Jones’s voice again. “One more thing I forgot.”

  Astonished, Ned swung toward the door. “What?” he thundered.

  “Forgot to say, ‘Morning, Pip.’ ” And with that he was gone, leaving Ned and Pip staring at each other.

  “I believe,” Pip finally said,, “that my brother has just given his blessing to our union.”

  Her lips started to twitch and then she broke into a smile and finally she began laughing and she was irresistible when she laughed. Too irresistible. He reached down and swept her up into his arms, nuzzling the velvety skin at the nape of her neck, the chain that had bound them all night swinging loose against her shoulders. He released her. Her lips were parted in invitation, her eyes darkening with anticipation.

  “You know, adept as I am with one hand chained, you would be amazed at what I am capable of doing with both hands free,” he said, bending down and sweeping a long, lingering kiss against her mouth.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Why don’t I demonstrate? Where’s the key?”

  “The key?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Aye.” He lifted their imprisoned hands and jangled the chain.

  “The key!’’ The drowsiness flushed from her expression. “I was afraid you’d find it, so ... so I threw it out the window last night.”

  She looked up at him, falsely repentant.

  “Oh? Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Sooner or later a maid will arrive and we’ll send her for your fool brother who we will then send for a bolt cutter.”

  “But, what will we do until then?”

  “I can practice more of my one-handed technique, I suppose,” he suggested, smiling rakishly. He looped one strong arm around her slight waist, hauling her close and nipping her throat, beginning the ancient dance again. “That is, if you’re willing, my dark and wild Cornish beauty.”

  She was.

  THE END

  If you enjoyed HER CAPTIVE, please consider writing a short review for it here and THANK YOU.

  An excerpt from LAST NIGHT, by Christina Dodd.

  The final installment in

  ONCE UPON A PILLOW

  “The Masterson bed is our last stop on the tour, so if you’ll come this way…’’ With practiced ease, Laurel led the tourists downstairs to the neat little gift shop. “Because this is our last tour, everything except the books are half price.” She smiled too brightly. “Buy lots.”

  “Even the weapons?” the teenager asked.

  She started to answer, but Max got there before her. “Especially the weapons.”

  The tourists chuckled while she glared at him. She wanted to ask why he had followed them, but she thought she knew the answer. He wanted to annoy her for as long as was humanly possible. And he was doing a good job of it.

  “Do you have different sizes on the T-shirts?” Meghan held up an extra large.

  “Everything we have is on the shelves,” Laurel answered.

  Mrs. Stradling was scooping up the bumper stickers and the pencils. The kid went right to the glass-topped display of swords and battle-axes, and when his mother joined him, embroiled her in a heated discussion of why he needed one.

  Laurel turned to watch the tourists, her heart in her throat. The last tour. For over a year she’d been living at Masterson Manor, cataloguing the contents, discovering the most marvelous diaries from years past, and visiting the archaeological sites on the estate. Once a day, she led a tour group through the manor, showing them the rooms and the furniture and trying, so hard, to give them an appreciation of the history of this little corner of England.

  Now it was all over. Mr. and Mrs. Barry had sold Masterson Manor, and the new owner not only wanted to live here, but to discontinue the tours. When Laurel had asked if she would be allowed to carry on her research, Mrs. Barry had shaken her head. The new owner had been most insistent that he would use Masterson Manor as his country home.

  It wasn’t easy to support such an old house, with its constant repairs and the need for improvements. Laurel didn’t know how anyone could do it without the income from the tours, but it sounded as if the new owner was wealthy. So she had to face the facts. Her job was almost over. She had no choice but to secure another position close to a viable research site.

  “Is this a replica of the Masterson estate?” Miss Ferguson peered through the glass at the three-dimensional scale model.

  “It is.” Laurel joined her to point out the sights. “There’s the manor. We’re standing inside right here.” She indicated the northeastern corner.

  “Any ghosts in the manor?”

  Smiling at Mrs. Stradling’s enthusiasm, Laurel said, “None, I’m afraid. The inhabitants, at least all the ones I’ve researched, lived happy and healthy lives.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Stradling drooped with disappointment. “There’s the original Masterson castle built on the cliff overlooking the ocean. Cromwell’s men used cannonballs to knock the walls down, and the Cornish elements have done the rest.” Before Miss Ferguson could speak, Laurel added, “The motor coach will take you by on your way out.”

  “I would hope so,” Miss Ferguson said crisply. “I like castles.”

  “There’s really not much to see.” A recalcitrant wisp of hair fell out of the clip that held the slippery mass atop Laurel’s head, and she tucked it back in. Indicating the cluster of houses close to the manor, she said, “That’s the village of Trecombe.”

  Mrs. Stradling peered at crooked streets. “Very picturesque.”

  Brian had joined them and now pressed his finger on the glass over the square mound not far from the manor. “What’s this?”

  “It’s the site of the medieval abbey. It was razed by Henry VIII and the monks scattered. The chapel became Anglican, of course, and it still stands as a fine example of Gothic construction.”

  “Is it still in use?”

  “Absolutely. Father Ellis performs services every Sunday. You saw some of the church art which is scattered throughout the manor. St. Albion’s cross is in the room with the Masterson bed, the reliquary in the great hall and the alabaster vases in the library.” She frowned. She couldn’t remember seeing the alabaster vases when they’d passed through the library.

  Oh, no. Not again.

  John wrapped his arm around his bride’s neck and kissed her forehead for no apparent reason other than he could. Meghan closed her eyes and offered him her mouth.

  Laurel just wanted them to stop. Not because she envied them. Not at all. Because such behavior was inappropriate in ... in a souvenir shop. As if answering her silent reprimand, they slipped out the outer door.

  “The reliquary is remarkable,” Miss Ferguson said. “But I wonder who had the nerve to steal the jewels off of the lid.”

  In his most ironic voice, Max said, “Sold off to support the Masterson family in its dissipations, I’m sure.”

  “The Mastersons were a noble and honorable family,” Laurel retorted.

  “All of them?” His eyes gleamed. “They hatched no scoundrels at all?”

  The hair on the back of Laurel’s neck rose.

  Abruptly, she was sick of putting up with him. His big feet, clomping around on the wooden floors. His big hands, deftly using hand tools to fix the plumbing and run modem cable and any of
a hundred more jobs around the manor. His broad shoulders, at just the right height for a woman her size to rest her cheek on. His tight ass, the kind that gave blue jeans a good name. His tawny mane of hair, his crooked blade of a nose, his lips, too grim for a genuine smile. His green eyes, the kind that young women fell in love with.

  It wasn’t bad luck that had brought Max to Masterson Manor. Oh, no. Max had told her he made his own luck.

  Well, so did she, and she didn’t have to put up with this rat and his provocative remarks.

  She smiled at the tourists in apparent benevolence, then turned to Max and in the tone of a lady of the manor dismissing a serf, said, “I don’t require your help. You can go back to your odd jobs now.”

  That should put him very firmly in his place.

  But Max looked at her, and something in his slight smile made her retreat.

  He followed, draped his arm across her shoulders, and in a voice loud enough to stop every conversation, said, “But, darling, it’s the last tour. We can tell them the truth.” He looked over her head at the avid group. “Laurel and I are engaged to be married.”

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  ONCE UPON A PILLOW novellas today!

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  Coming September 10, 2013, from Montlake Romance, a new full-length historical romance novel by New York Times best-selling author, Connie Brockway.

  NO PLACE FOR A DAME

  Beautiful, bold and brilliant Avery dreams of becoming a member of the Royal Astronomical Society—and the only way she can join the all-male society is to disguise herself as a boy. After helping Giles, Lord Strand, escape a disastrous engagement she is certain he will assist in her daring masquerade. No lady would ever come up with such a preposterous scheme, and no gentleman would accept . . . but fortunately for Avery, Giles is no gentleman.