by Shana Galen
By now the lantern had almost burned down, and they were both weary. Julien was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. She was flush against him, her head on his shoulder. He had one arm about her and the other under his head.
With no time to dress again, he wore his breeches and nothing else. She was still in her shift. She would have been cold had he not kept her close beside him. Her eyes were almost closed as she told him she yearned for a family of her own. She stroked his bare chest, letting her fingers swirl in and out of the smattering of hair there. When he sat and looked directly at her, she sat as well, unconcerned that the sleeve of her shift fell down, exposing her bare shoulder.
His eyes flicked in the direction of that naked flesh, and the feel of his gaze on her aroused her. Oh, why had the Navy had to interrupt everything?
"What is it?" she asked when he did not speak.
"It's just that I never realized how alike we are."
She raised her brows. "Alike? We're nothing alike. You're a duc. I'm a governess. You're rich. I'm poor. You're French, and I'm English."
"Yes, on the surface we seem to have little in common, but in here"—he put his hand just above her breast, over her heart—"in here we have the same wants, the same desires."
As always, the feel of his hands on her made her breathless. "How so?" she whispered.
"We both want a family. I've been searching for mine since I was thirteen. You—I suppose you've always been searching for yours."
She swallowed. "But I'll never find mine. I'll never know who my mother or father were."
"No, but I'd say you found a family anyway. Mine."
She felt tears prick her eyes, but she could not look away.
"We'll have our own family, Sarah. And we'll create our own memories."
She looked down, the doubts that had plagued her since they began this voyage creeping to the surface once again. This time she could not seem to contain them. This time she needed the words he spoke to be real and true.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"What if, when we return to London, we realize this marriage isn't valid?"
"I told you. I'll get a special license, and we'll marry again."
"But"—she gathered the hem of her shift and twisted it—"what if when your mother learns who I really am, she doesn't want me for a daughter-in-law? What if all of Society laughs at you for choosing to marry a governess?"
He chuckled, and she glanced up at him sharply. "Mon coeur," he murmured and pulled her against him again. "Do you think I care what Society says? If I never have to attend another ball, I'll be ecstatic."
"Oh, me too. I hate dancing."
"See, I told you we had much in common."
She smiled, listening to the soft thump of his heart under her ear. "But, Julien, what about your mother?"
"My mother wants me to be happy, Sarah. If you're what makes me happy, then she'll welcome you with open arms."
Sarah sat up and stared at him. "Do I make you
happy?"
"Excessively—though I couldn't tell you why, since you also cause me enormous trouble."
"Maybe you needed some trouble in your life."
He grinned and pulled her into his arms. "Maybe I did." Even as the lantern began to flicker and die, she could see his blue eyes darken.
She looked at his mouth, touched it with one finger, and then met his gaze. It was already on her, filled with passion and longing—all the things she felt. "Embrasse-moi." His voice was husky, and it sent a shiver through her. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him with all the desire she felt, wanting him to feel it as well.
He kissed her back, meeting her passion with his own. She welcomed his desire, matched it. She knew the pleasure his hands and lips could bring, and she offered herself to him completely. When his hands caressed her breasts, she arched to give him better access. When his lips brushed over the sensitive spot in the hollow of her throat, she moaned and pulled him against her.
With the hard floor beneath him, he pulled her on top of him, and she enjoyed kissing his chest and neck, running her hands over his abdomen, down to his waistband, where she paused, excited and uncertain.
Her fingers trembled as they grazed the edge of his breeches, and she looked up to find him watching her. "Perhaps we should stop," he said, his voice ragged.
She shook her head. "I don't want to stop. I want to be your wife in truth." It was as bold a statement as she had ever made. Bolder, because they might be interrupted at any moment. But she did not care. She
glanced at Julien to gauge his response.
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and met her gaze. "Are you sure?"
"More than I've ever been. I want this. I want you."
He groaned, pulling her into his arms and holding her tightly. "I want you so much I'm afraid at some point I won't be able to stop."
"I don't want you to stop," she said into his chest. When he did not answer, she whispered, "Julien, please."
That was all it took. The next thing she knew, she was on her back, his arm beneath her to cushion her. He was over her, covering her with his body, kissing her with his mouth, stroking her with his hands. Sensation overwhelmed her. She savored the hardness of his body and the heat of his flesh.
When he rose up in the flickering lantern light, she marveled at how beautiful he was—until he stood and stripped off his breeches. Then she was afraid to do any more than focus on his eyes.
"Nervous, chérie?" he asked, tone light. "We can still stop."
She sucked in a breath. "No. I don't want to stop."
"You can look at me."
She nodded. How could the man stand there so comfortable in his own nakedness? She still wore her shift from neck to knee, and she felt utterly exposed.
"Aren't you even curious?"
She was. She had seen paintings of nude men, but even then she had tried not to focus on that part of the artist's work. Now she had a real man before her. And this was her husband. She had every right to look. Slowly, she slid her eyes down past his neck, his chest,
his waist, his hips…
Oh my.
She tried to breathe and found it difficult. He was like the paintings and yet so very different.
He was watching her. "We can still stop."
She shook her head. "I don't want to stop."
"In that case, you'd better follow my example."
She felt her face flush, but part of her was also excited, aroused. She wanted his eyes on her, wanted to see the approbation she knew was waiting. He took her hand, pulled her to her feet. And when she was standing before him, she reached for the hem of her shift, prepared to lift it, to strip it off. But he caught her hand and placed it on his chest. "Allow me."
She did not know what she expected. Perhaps that he would grasp the material and rip it from her body. Perhaps that he would slowly draw it up and over her. But he did neither. Instead, he kissed her.
He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms, twining his tongue with hers, grasping her hair in his hands. When she was breathless and wanting more, he gently drew the straps of the shift off her shoulders, kissing her there. His lips moved inexorably lower until she practically pushed the linen away from her breasts herself so he might take them in his mouth and tease them with his tongue.
She was vaguely conscious of the material falling away from her body. In the back of her mind, she realized she could feel the cool air on her buttocks and legs—where she had not felt it before. But he was kissing her belly and stroking her thighs, and she could not spare a thought to feel embarrassed at
her nudity.
And then, to her surprise and shock, he lifted her into his arms and deposited her gently on the floor.
***
Julien looked down at his wife and felt his mouth go dry. She was so beautiful. The way the last flickers of the lantern light limned her creamy skin, the shape of her body, the way she looked at him with absolute trust in her
eyes. "Tu es si belle," he whispered. God, she was beautiful.
He wanted to give her pleasure. He wanted her to remember this night forever.
He knelt then lay down beside her, relishing the friction of her skin against his. He had been desperate to feel that for days now. Desperate to touch her everywhere, desperate to sink himself into her.
But that would have to wait. He had to go slowly, be gentle.
He kissed her again, loving the way her mouth opened for him. He kissed her until she moaned and pressed her hips against him. The gesture was probably unintentional, but her body knew what she wanted, even if her mind did not. His hands roved over her soft skin, exploring, teasing, allowing her to become comfortable with his touch in one spot before he moved to another.
What seemed like hours later, she was breathing heavily and clutching him tightly. "Julien, please," she begged, looking up at him. This was what he had wanted, what he had waited for. He was leaning over her now, and it took only a slight movement before
he was inside of her.
She moaned and arched, but he refused to drive into her as his body demanded. Instead, he continued to kiss and stroke her, bringing her with him, allowing her pleasure to mount as his own did.
They moved together, all semblance of time and space draining away. It was only the two of them. Together. Reaching.
He moved, stroked, kissed, and finally she cried out and clutched at him. Only then did he allow himself to shatter.
Some time later, he lay with eyes closed. He was vaguely aware he was on a ship and he held Sarah in his arms. But he couldn't think of anything else—did not want to.
He especially did not want to think about the experience he had just shared with his new wife. It had moved him profoundly. He felt as though someone had taken a knife and sliced open his chest, leaving his heart exposed.
He did not like vulnerability. He had learned early that those he loved could be taken away from him. It was better not to get attached. Sarah had not been far off when she had called his first marriage proposal a business arrangement. He had intended his marriage to be like a business partnership. He was most successful in business when he acted unemotionally. He had not seen why marriage should be any different.
Now he realized that, without intending it, he had feelings for his wife. Love? No, he was not prepared to admit to loving her, to allow that vulnerability. But how long before he could no longer deny it?
She stirred beside him, leaned on her elbow, and looked up at him. He imagined her hair tousled and her cheeks flushed. He could picture her lush mouth, which he had dreamed of so often, and which had not disappointed, smiling at him shyly. "I'm cold."
"Sorry." He was lying on her shift, and now he handed it to her, helped her to pull it over her head. Then he donned his own breeches and sat beside her, taking her into his arms.
He had almost dozed off when he heard the thump of boots above. The lantern was cold now, and they both sat forward, their blind eyes looking up. The door slid open, and a beam of light shot into the darkness.
"Are you still down there?" Stalwart called.
"Bloody hell, Stalwart," Julien swore. "What took you so long?"
He chuckled. "Would you rather talk down there or up here?"
Julien made Sarah go before him, and a few moments later, he was before Stalwart. The man was smiling, but his eyes were shadowed.
"What did the Navy want?"
Stalwart shrugged. "To search the ship for contraband. They didn't look too hard. Your blunt gave them some incentive to leave."
"Why are you letting us out?" he asked. "You could sell us for a pretty profit, I'm sure."
Stalwart grinned. "I thought of that, but I don't think I'd get seven thousand. So instead, I'll take you to France. But Valère, when we return to England, I
had better get my money."
"Oh, you'll get it." Without another word, he took Sarah's hand and led her past Stalwart. He didn't speak a word, just pulled her back to their cabin, opened the door, yanked her inside, and slammed it shut. "That bastard. I know he's just toying with us, but I'd like to knock him senseless."
He paced back and forth, running his hands through his hair. The cabin had not been touched, and it was dark now. Through the porthole, the moon was visible, a low sliver over the dark churning waters.
He turned to Sarah and tried to tamp down his fear. What if Stalwart had sold them out? What if another ship attacked? What if he lost her in France? He might have no more than this night with her, and he was not going to spend it angry or anxious.
"Come here." He pulled her into his arms, stripped the chemise off of her, and tugged her toward the berth. He might not be able to make love to her again tonight, but he could hold her warm body against his. She moved self-consciously, aware he was watching her.
But how could he keep from watching her? He knew her body now, knew where she liked to be touched, the slopes and valleys where his lips could bring her the most pleasure. But he wanted to know more. He had not kissed the back of her knee. How would she react? He didn't know if she was ticklish. If he stroked her feet, would she laugh?
He wanted her again. He could not understand it. He had been well pleased by her, and yet he felt as though he had barely touched her. His need for her
was as great as it had ever been.
But, no. He would have to wait. She had been a virgin, and there was no possibility she would be ready for him again tonight.
She climbed back into the berth, and he followed.
He would have to wait until tomorrow night, when they could be alone again.
She snuggled against him, and his arm went about her, drawing her close.
It was going to be a long, agonizing twenty-four hours.
Twenty-two
Sarah woke the next morning, naked and wrapped in Julien's arms. She had never felt so secure, so warm, so… aroused. Images from their lovemaking the day before flooded her memory, but instead of feeling embarrassed at her boldness, she found she wanted more. She wanted Julien again, wanted to see his eyes darken with desire, hear his breath hitch in pleasure, feel his hands on her.
His eyes were closed, his eyelashes making a dark sweep across his cheek, and she reached up and stroked the strong plane of that cheek. She touched his aristocratic nose, the sensuous lips, and allowed her fingers to trail down to his bare chest.
"You'd better stop now." His voice was low and husky. His eyes were closed, but he had a playful smile on his lips.
"Or what will happen?" she murmured, sliding her fingers lower so they grazed his hard, muscled abdomen.
"I might not be able to control myself."
She smiled. "I like the sound of that." The sheet was anchored at his slim hips, and she toyed with the edges for a moment, trying to decide if she should delve underneath. She glanced up at his face and saw he was watching her now. "Touche-moi, mon amour." His voice was hoarse with need, and yet she paused. Was she really his love, or was that something he said in the heat of passion?
His fingers reached out and cupped her breast, sending a flood of heat between her legs. One hand fingered her nipple, making it rise to a sensitive peak.
"Touch me," he whispered again.
Slowly, she drew the sheet down and saw he was already hard, already ready for her. She wrapped her hand around him, liking how the velvet texture contrasted with the steel of his hardness. He jumped in her hand, and she glanced up at him again. His eyes were so blue they were almost black.
"Do you like that?" she whispered.
"N'arrête pas." Don't stop.
She smiled and ran her hand up and down the length of him. He groaned, and she felt the dampness between her own legs. His hand had found her other breast now and was kneading the stiff peak of the nipple. She ached to feel his hands on her belly, between her legs.
"Julien—" She could hear the need in her voice.
"Climb on top of me," he whispered.
She frowned a
t him but made to comply, and when he settled her over that hardness, she understood.
"Slide down, chérie."
She did so, feeling him penetrate her, moving slowly, so slowly she could see his reaction.
"Yes. Lentement." She began to move over him, and he groaned. At first she was absorbed in his response—the way his hands gripped her hips, the way he rose to meet her. They moved in unison, their bodies seeming to sense what each other's needed. Their rhythms were slow-paced, exquisite agony. But then she felt her own pleasure building, and she raced to meet it. The white-hot heat building inside her urged her to a frenzy. She arched back, heard Julien whisper, "Tu es si belle." For that moment, she believed she was beautiful.