by Shana Galen
To his disappointment, when she stood, she tugged her shift up over her breasts. She was supposed to be taking clothes off, not putting them back on. He should not have paused, allowed her to remember modesty. It was a good thing he had not asked Stalwart for a lamp. She would only feel more self-conscious in the light.
But, oh, how he ached to see her—truly see her.
She turned now so her back was to him, and he realized her hair had come undone. The dark tresses fell over the back of her gown like a river of chocolate. He reached out, took the hair in his hand and ran it through his fingers. He pushed it over one shoulder, then leaned forward and kissed her neck, inhaling her scent. He did not know what it was, something light and delicious. She was apples and cinnamon.
Intoxicating.
His hands made quick work of her laces, and the gown slid over her hips and puddled on the floor. He reached around and gently finished unlacing her stays so they too fell in a heap on the floor.
It was only then he realized she was shaking.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
"No," she answered, not looking at him.
He turned her to face him and winced at the fear he saw in her face. She was terrified of him. Or perhaps not him, but of the act itself. Disappointment shot through him. He could not make love to her this way, not when she was in this state.
He supposed it was understandable. Most brides had months to contemplate and prepare for the wedding night. She had mere hours.
"Come here," he said, taking her into his arms. She obeyed, but he felt her trembling grow worse. "Shh." He smoothed her hair and tried not to notice how soft her body was or how well it fit with his. "I'm just going to hold you."
"I-I'm sorry," she stuttered through chattering teeth. "I just need a moment."
"Take all the time you want." In fact, that was an idea with merit. Why not have her come to him? Why not tease and tantalize until she ached for him as much as he did her? He smiled and said, "I'm tired. Why don't we just go to sleep?"
She glanced up at him sharply. Was that disappointment in her face? "But I thought you wanted to—"
He waited, wondering what phrase she would use, but she only gestured helplessly at the berth.
"I do." He cupped her cheeks. "Sarah, I really do. But we're moving too fast for you." It was an effort not to smile. His little wife wanted him more than she was ready to admit.
"I'll be alright—"
"Bien sûr, but not tonight. We have the rest of our lives. I want you to want me as much as I want you."
"I do want you. I-I just don't know what that means."
He grinned. "I'll be happy to give you a lesson, little governess, but only when you're ready."
"I'm ready." She sounded eager, which he liked. He liked it so much that he almost abandoned his plan all together.
But he had willpower—at least he hoped he did. He could wait. Especially if waiting would enhance the pleasure. "Are you?" He brushed his fingers through her hair. "French lovemaking is very different from English lovemaking, chérie. In France, we move very"—he traced her cheek, her lips— "very"—he parted her lips and inserted his thumb gently—"slowly."
Her eyes were huge with desire, and he knew he could have had her now, if that was what he wanted. But he rather liked this game, rather wanted her to pursue him. "Comprenez-vous?"
"Oui, but—"
"Bonne nuit, chérie. Until tomorrow." He brushed a delicate kiss on her forehead, over the wrinkles formed when she frowned, then gestured to the berth.
With slumped shoulders and a reluctant sigh, she climbed into the berth, scooted up against the wall, and then he climbed in, once again raising his arm and offering his shoulder. This time she moved to lie against him eagerly. He smiled—already he had made progress.
Of course, now that she wore only her chemise, he could feel all the soft curves of her body distinctly. He could imagine the weight of her breasts in his hands, the taste of her creamy skin in his mouth.
He bit back a groan and focused his gaze on the ceiling. He was tired and knew sleep would come.
Eventually.
Sleep, he welcomed. It was the dreams—dreams of her moans of pleasure and her body's response to him—he dreaded.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to count ugly sheep.
Twenty-one
Sarah endured the torment for two days and two nights. At first she had liked the idea of waiting to consummate the marriage. She was nervous and told herself she needed time to prepare. But after sleeping beside Julien all night, feeling his body hot and solid against hers, she was ready to proceed.
But Julien was intent on moving slowly, and the man had the patience of a hunting lion. He would bring her just to the point of exquisite pleasure and then back away. By the third day, her body was in a constant state of yearning, and she was determined to satisfy that yearning—one way or another. It did not matter that it was broad daylight or the crew members might hear them. She wanted Julien.
By that time, their days had begun to take on a routine. Sarah, who had never slept past dawn in all her life, dozed until late morning and actually enjoyed the rest. Julien woke up early and went on deck. He would return, take her for a stroll about the ship, and then they would have a light lunch, usually with Captain Stalwart and his first mate.
In the afternoons, if Julien went on deck again, Sarah read something from Stalwart's library—he had a good collection—or joined Julien. If the weather was poor, they would stay in their cabin and play cards or tell stories.
But this afternoon would be different, she vowed, and after lunch, she took Julien's hand and pulled him to their cabin. She had not been able to eat a bite of the fare Captain Stalwart provided. Her stomach was twisted in knots of anticipation, and she could hardly believe she was being so bold. But this seemed the only way. And, she suspected this was what Julien wanted.
He raised a brow at her brazenness but did not argue. Once she closed their cabin door behind him, he said, "What's this?"
"I'm tired of walking about on the deck." She stepped forward, took his coat in both hands and tugged it off his shoulders. He watched her lazily, his eyes turning that dark shade of blue she loved.
"I suppose we could play a game of cards," he drawled.
"Oh, no." She flicked his cravat loose then undid the fastenings at his throat. "I have a different game in mind."
"What's that?" His voice was husky now, heavy with need. She liked that, and she knew she could provoke him further. She skimmed her hands beneath his waistband and tugged his shirt free, pulling it over his head in one motion.
She almost lost her breath then. Seeing Julien without his shirt was enough to leave her mouth dry and her hands shaky. She ran a hand over his chest then turned her back to him. She wanted to touch him with more than just the skin of her hands. She wanted to feel his heat over every inch of her.
"Unfasten me," she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. "I want to touch you. Skin on skin."
She caught his sudden intake of breath and felt the tremor in his hands as he slowly unfastened her gown. When it was loose, she shrugged it off and stepped out of it. Now she stood in only her shift and her stays, and she took pleasure in raising a hand to her breasts then deftly flicking the stays open.
Julien's eyes followed her every movement, growing darker blue as the stays fell away and revealed the shape of her breasts under the thin shift. She was shaking now, nervous from this last gesture. She reached for the material, raised it slowly, intending to pull it over her head so she was naked before him, but he grasped her hands and pulled her into a warm embrace.
"Remember what I told you, chérie." He kissed her neck, ran his hands leisurely down her back, cupped her buttocks. "Take it slowly. Lentement."
"I can't take it any slower," she moaned, kissing his neck and allowing her own hands to roam over his back and shoulders. "I need you."
He groaned, and his lips met hers in a barely contro
lled kiss. The contact between them now was primal, almost savage, and she could hear her breath growing ragged and the small mewing sounds escaping. She pushed against him, knowing she wanted more, needing to feel more.
His lips claimed hers, and then the world around them exploded.
She was on the cabin floor before she even knew what had happened. The ship had been rocked hard, and she slammed into the wood planks. She tried to rise, but Julien was above her, shielding her with his body.
"What—"
"Stay down," Julien demanded. He was warm and solid above her, and she had little choice but to obey. Above, she could hear the crew yelling and scrambling into position.
"What is it?" she asked after a long moment punctuated by the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.
"It sounded like a shot from a cannon." He rose slowly, gave her a quick assessing glance, and helped her to sit. "Stay there." He strode to the porthole and peered out. "Damn it."
She jumped up to join him, and he frowned then moved aside so she could see. At first she saw nothing but black smoke dissipating, and then she saw the ship. It was larger than they, and its sails were tight with the wind. It was coming for them, coming at them fast and hard.
"They're flying French colors," Julien told her. "That was a warning shot. If Stalwart tries to run, they'll blow us out of the water."
Sarah gaped at him. "But I thought he was a smuggler. I thought he was supposed to be able to evade the authorities."
Julien gave a bitter laugh, his eyes still on the approaching ship. "Who said these are the authorities? It looks like the Navy, but that might be a ruse."
"What do they want? Are they going to attack us?" Worse yet, would they board? And if they did, what would become of Julien and herself? She could not imagine the French Navy would welcome them.
"I don't know," Julien said. "But whatever happens, I want you to stay close—"
Footsteps clumped rapidly in the passage outside the cabin before the door rattled and swung open. "Valère!" The first mate stuck his head inside, his voice calm but his manner brusque and hurried. Sarah jumped behind Julien to hide her state of undress, but the man did not even glance at her. "Valère, come with me."
"What the hell is going on?" Julien demanded. He seemed unconcerned about his bare chest or the pile of clothing on the floor at the door.
"We're about to be boarded by the French Navy. The captain can probably bribe his way out of this, but not if a French aristocrat is found on board. Captain's orders are that you hide in the cargo hold." The first mate pulled out a pistol and leveled it at them. "I'm to escort you."
Sarah clutched Julien's arm and stared at the pistol. But if Julien had any fear, he didn't show it. "Won't they search the cargo holds?" he asked.
"Not this one," the man said with a grin. "Now let's go." He motioned with the pistol.
Far too slowly for her tastes, Julien took her hand and moved forward. Once in the passageway, he pushed her before him so the pistol was aimed directly at him. For the first few minutes, Sarah forgot to pay attention to where she was going. The first mate called out "right" or "left," and she did as she was bade. At one point, a dozen crewman ran past them, their faces stoic and stony. She hugged the wall, trying to stay out of their way.
She was completely lost now. Despite the ship's small size, she had not seen much of it, and when they came to a dark passage that dead-ended, she turned to the first mate, certain he had taken a wrong turn. But he held up a lantern and gestured them forward.
"The captain has a hold for special cargo." When she reached the end of the passageway, the first mate stepped in front of her and pushed at a section of wall. Silently, a door slid open. Sarah stared at it, amazed at how perfectly it had blended in with the wood surrounding it.
"In there." The first mate pointed. "Climb down the ladder." He lifted his lantern, shining light into the void. Sarah peered down and down. She could barely make out the ghostly shadows of barrels and crates below. But the space was filled and would be cramped.
"I'll go first with the lantern," Julien told her.
"Hurry up," the first mate ordered. "They'll be coming alongside us in a few moments."
Julien nodded, took the lantern, and began the descent. Sarah watched, frightened he would lose his one-handed grip on the rope ladder, but he held on. Before he had even reached the bottom, the first mate was waving for her to follow. Hands shaking and knees wobbling, she did so. She knew Julien would catch her if she faltered. As she climbed, she shuddered, thinking of all the spiders and rats and who knew what else waiting below. But Julien was there as well. She did not want to be anywhere he was not.
When she reached the last rung, Julien caught her and pulled her into his arms. Together they looked up at the door and the first mate. Without a word, he shut the door. She heard it slide back into place, and then all went silent.
Julien held up the lantern, shedding scant light upon the barrels and crates. They were unmarked and stacked high. Finally, he gestured to a spot on the floor between two crates where they could sit and would be hidden from view should the door open. "This is probably Stalwart's most valuable cargo," he told her. "He'll make certain this isn't confiscated. We should be safe."
Sarah was not so certain, but the rapid pounding of her heart slowed as Julien pulled her into his arms. "You're going to be all right." He stroked her hair, and gradually she began to relax. After a few moments, he sat down on the wooden planks, and she sat beside him, wrapped in his arms. He held her tightly and covered her mouth when she felt the two ships scrape together and the sound of boots as the Navy officers boarded the smaller vessel.
"Don't make a sound," he whispered in her ear.
She could hear the men moving around, hear the faraway lilt of their French. But she could not understand them. Then all grew quiet, and Sarah held her breath. They were searching the ship, and she knew they would find her.
Julien pulled the lantern close to hide the light. Sarah wanted to tell him to blow it out, but she was too afraid to be trapped there in the dark. Finally, except for the occasional voice or jostle of the two vessels, all was still. She sat encased in Julien's arms and prayed. When she opened her eyes, she stared at Julien's face, memorizing it. His look was grim but confident.
The hours wore on. At some point she must have fallen asleep, because he was gently shaking her. She sat bolt upright, a scream trapped in her throat.
"Shh." He pulled her close to him again. "The Navy is leaving," he whispered.
Her heart lifted. "How do you know?"
"I heard the boots. Wait… do you feel our ship moving away?"
She nodded. "Yes!" Oh, thank God. They had not been discovered. She sat anxiously waiting for the door above to open. Julien's eyes were on the ceiling as well, but an hour passed, and no one came to free them.
"Do you think they forgot about us?" she asked.
He did not answer, and she knew he feared the captain would leave them there. After all, they could be valuable cargo. He might fetch a good price for them. Oh, why had she not thought of this before?
"Not exactly what you had in mind for this afternoon, was it?" Julien said finally. Lord, how could he sound so nonchalant? But then, what good was worrying going to do them? And if this was the last of their time together, she did not want to spend it fretting.
She took his hand, held it to her cheek. "I'm beginning to wonder if we'll ever be together."
He chuckled, and the sound rumbled through her. "Feeling impatient?"
"Very impatient."
He pulled her closer, put his lips by her ear. "Just
wait until I get you back to the cabin, chérie. I don't think either of us wants to wait any longer." She kissed him gently, letting him know she agreed. Fervently, she prayed they would once again reach the cabin. After a long silence, Julien began to speak. He spoke slowly at first and of things of no consequence, but gradually he began to speak of his family, and his voice warme
d. Sarah was glad for the comfort of his voice, glad for the steadiness she heard there.
She learned all about the Valère family. Julien's stories revealed how much he revered his father, who had been nothing short of a hero to his son. He told of how brave his mother had been during their flight from France and how she had tried to be both mother and father to him in those first years. He regaled her with dozens of stories about Armand and Bastien. She felt she almost knew them.
After he had spoken for some time, he asked her for stories as well, and she told him about life at the Academy and the friends she had made there. But she had nothing to rival his tales of mischief and camaraderie with his brothers.
Hearing so much about Julien's family, Sarah longed for a family of her own even more fervently. The phantom memories that had plagued her all her life—memories of a laughing mother and the warm, safe arms of a father—came back to her stronger than ever. She told Julien about the memories and her belief that they stemmed from a deep longing for her own family.