by Shana Galen
Later, he joined Felicity in the captain’s cabin, where they had been given quarters. She wore only her chemise. She had taught him both the English and French names for that garment, but he preferred the French term. He could see the outline of her body in the candlelight. He realized, as he came through the cabin door and the sight of her fired his blood, that he had not touched her since the last time they had been together in London. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of it. But she had been tired, and when he’d seen the bruises the guard had given her on her arm, he had been too enraged to do anything but prowl the ship’s deck, even if the swells threatened to pitch him into the icy waters.
But now the color had returned to her cheeks, and the bruises were fading. He felt his hands go slightly damp at the sight of her yellow hair—she had told him the term was blonde—falling over her shoulders and down her back.
As he closed the door, she turned to look at him. “I thought you’d never be back. Were you with the captain this entire time?”
“Yes.”
She raised her brows. “For someone who doesn’t like to speak, that’s a great deal of talking.”
“I let him talk.”
She smiled. “Of course. What were you talking of?”
He wasn’t prepared to discuss it with her. He wanted to speak with Julien first, and so he shrugged and crossed to her, putting his hands on her almost-bare shoulders. “You look cold.”
She raised her brows. “That wasn’t what you were discussing, and I am a little cold.”
“I’ll warm you.”
He pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her waist, and lowered his mouth to hers. She was eager to kiss him back. He had not expected that. He had grown used to her initial reluctance, to having to persuade her, but now her fingers were in his hair, and she was urging him to deepen the kiss. “I need you, Armand,” she whispered against his mouth.
The words puzzled him. She had never seemed to need anyone, most especially not him. Even when he had emerged from Le Grenier to find her on her knees with the guard towering over her, she had looked a moment away from turning the whole situation to her advantage. And it had been she who had dispatched the guard, not he. She had not asked, and he would never tell her where her knife had landed. But when he’d extracted it, he’d known the guard would never see again.
He kissed her more deeply, wondering if this satisfied the need in her.
“Do you need me?” she asked, pulling away.
It was a strange question, but perhaps it was something typical of lovers that he was unaware of. “Of course,” he said, bending to kiss her neck. “I needed you from the first moment I saw you.”
She stepped back, away. “That’s not what I mean. I don’t mean do you want me. I mean, do you need me? Do you love me?”
Armand frowned. Those seemed to be two different things to him. He understood need. He needed food and water. He needed to hold her, to feel her touch. But he did not understand love. What was that? He took her face in his hands, marveling once again at how soft her skin was. “I need you. You are the only one who can touch me.”
She blinked, and he saw the question in her eyes. “Armand, why can I touch you? I’ve watched you. I’ve seen how you react when others touch you. It looks like you’re in pain.”
He nodded then shrugged. “Too many years without touch. Like too many years without talking. You lose the taste for it.”
“But I can touch you.” As if to illustrate, she ran her hands down his arms then up again, and over his chest.
His skin grew warm where her fingers trailed, and he had the urge to kiss her and end the discussion right there. Why did she have to talk so much? “You’re different.” He bent, but she put a hand between them.
“Why? Why me?”
“I don’t know.” And that was true. He didn’t know why her touch was like a drug to him, whereas others’ were painful, though truth be told, he was beginning to get used to touch. It was no longer excruciating.
“Do you think it’s destiny? We’re destiny?”
He knew the word, had read it as a child, but he didn’t know anything practical about it. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I need you.” He bent to kiss her, and this time when she tried to ask him something about fate, he brushed a hand over her breast, felt her nipple pebble, and made sure she forgot all about words.
He eased her back on the berth, careful of her arm as he undressed her. But he wasn’t looking at her body, as much as it fascinated him. He was looking in her eyes, because there was something new there, something he didn’t remember seeing there before.
And he had a feeling that he finally understood what it was.
Twenty-two
Armand pulled down the straps of her shift, kissing her shoulders as he did so. It amazed her how at times he could be so gentle and other times he could be so fierce. He was gentle now, kissing the skin at the base of her neck, teasing the hollow of her throat with his tongue, tracing a fiery path from her throat to the swells of her breasts. And then his mouth was there, as well. She could feel the material of the shift bunched at her hips, feel his hands on her, his mouth on her, exploring, teasing, tantalizing.
She opened her eyes and looked down at his soft, dark hair. She wanted to cradle him to her, to hold him, but then he took a nipple in his mouth, and she felt passion stirring. Tenderness was pushed aside for the moment as she arched up to meet his eager hands and lips.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she murmured. She didn’t expect a vocal response, but he obediently stood and began to pull off his tattered shirt. She knelt on the berth and grasped his roughened hands. “Let me do it.”
He raised a brow but lowered his hands compliantly. She liked this side of him, this obedient, compliant side. She knew it would not last, but she liked that, for the moment, she had control.
Slowly, she drew his shirt up, allowing her fingers to trail over the smooth, bronzed skin underneath. She wondered how his skin had become so bronzed. Was he outside without his shirt? She could imagine that scenario quite easily. Armand would never be a man who cared about fashion or its rules. She tugged the shirt over his head and allowed it to fall in a snowy heap on the cabin floor. Now, in the dim candlelight, she saw the ravages the night in the prison had cost him. She traced the outline of dark bruises on his ribs and chest.
“You’re hurt,” she whispered, looking into his cobalt eyes.
He shook his head as though to say it was nothing, then captured her hands and kissed her knuckles. He began to draw her into another kiss, but she resisted. She was supposed to be the one in charge. “You’re still wearing too many clothes,” she chided.
“And you are talking too much.”
She gave him a sly grin as she slid her hands out of his grasp and down his chest. She could feel the skin pebble under her fingertips. “In a hurry, are you?”
She did not think he would answer, and she knew he would not once she dipped a finger into the waistband of his breeches. She could feel the tip of him, just an inch below that waistband, knew he was hard and ready. And still she took her time. She extracted her hand and ran her palm over his hard length. He groaned with pleasure, something she could not remember him doing before, and she worked her way around to caress his behind.
Now she could see the impatience in his eyes, his face. He reached down and began to flick the trousers open. “No, no,” she chastised. “Allow me.”
He gave her a look that said his passion would override his patience any moment, and so she went to work on the fastenings to his trousers. They fell open, and she eased them down his legs. Hastily, he kicked out of them and reached for her, but she moved more quickly, wrapping her hand around his hard length.
Armand went utterly still at her touch, and she was so surprised by his shock that she wanted to see how else he might react. Her hand sli
d down that hard, velvet length and then back up again. When she met his gaze, his eyes were fastened on hers, so dark and so intense. “Again,” he rasped.
She smiled. “Now who’s talking?” But she complied, rewarding him and herself with his reaction. He reached for her, but she shook her head. “Felicity.” His voice was husky and sent shivers up her spine.
“Wait.” She ran a hand down the length of him, felt him jump in her hand. She was learning so very much! And she wondered…
She met his dark gaze, leaned forward, and touched her tongue to the tip of him. His hands were instantly on her shoulders, his body rigid with shock and… yes, that was pleasure in his eyes. “Again?” she teased.
He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes was enough. She repeated the action, this time closing her mouth on him. He groaned, loudly, and she hoped there were no sailors passing by the cabin. The groan was unmistakably one of pleasure.
She liked that she could give him that pleasure. That she could cause this reaction. She bent again, laved him with her tongue, learning the taste of him and the feel of him. He was smooth and hard and seemed to grow more so the more of him that she took inside.
Finally, his hands gripped her shoulders tightly, and he pushed her gently back. “My turn.”
“But—”
But his compliance was at an end. She could see in his face that he was taking over. She had a moment’s disappointment, and then he was pulling her shift over her head and his hands were on her. They were rough hands, not the pampered hands of an aristocrat, and their roughness excited her. She liked the way his calluses felt on her skin, tripping over her nipples, running along her belly, skirting up her thighs, and… oh—
He eased her back on the berth—or perhaps she fell back, and his finger teased that nub at her center. She was alternately hot and cold, impatient and then unwilling for the sensation to ever come to an end. He spread her legs and knelt between them. She wondered if she should feel self-conscious before him this way, but she did not. She knew he was the only one for her, as she was for him. She saw admiration in his eyes and wonder, and it made her want to open for him, want to take him in.
She could see his erection between them and knew he was ready, but he did not move over her. Instead, he smiled.
Felicity frowned. That was not like him. “What are you thinking?”
He bent and put his mouth to her belly. His breath was warm and ticklish, and she squirmed from pleasure and excitement. She wanted him inside her, wanted his heat and his hardness.
Instead, he licked a warm trail from her belly button to her center. She knew what he was doing now. He was showing her what she had done to him. As much as she wanted him inside her, she wondered how his mouth would feel.
And then he touched his tongue to her, and she all but convulsed. Instead of withdrawing, his hands grasped her thighs, held her steady, parted her for him. He licked her again, and she arched against his mouth, fisting her hands in the bedclothes and crying out with the intense pleasure of the sensation. He never spoke, but she could feel his pleasure at her reaction, could feel his eagerness to see how she would react when he touched her this way or that. And she could not help but indulge him. She was panting, almost screaming when release finally came. She could feel his eyes on her, see she pleased him, feel his eagerness as he entered her and brought her pleasure to greater heights.
She bucked hard, wanting him deeper, wanting him to fill her, and he obliged. He was rough and fast, and when he exploded inside her, he called her name.
No word had ever been sweeter to her, and she caught him as he collapsed against her, his hair falling on her pillow, his chest crushing her breasts with a pleasant, sated heaviness.
“I love you, Armand,” she whispered, and he nuzzled her neck tenderly.
She thought they slept for a time, entangled and in one another’s arms. When she woke, the sky through the porthole was hazy and gray. It might have been dusk or dawn, but she could feel the ship’s gentle rocking and knew the storm from the last few days had passed.
Armand’s eyes were closed, and he looked so peaceful in sleep. She could feel her heart constrict with love. He opened his eyes then, and though they were tender and filled with what she thought might be love, she was not certain. She wanted the words. She wanted to know he felt what she felt. That there was more to this than just attraction and pleasure. She wanted his heart, not just his body. And, as always, she wanted his words.
She smiled, “How long have you been awake?”
In answer, he kissed her, and they made love slowly, leisurely once again. It was not everything she wanted, but for the moment, it was enough. A few hours later, after washing and eating a very satisfying meal of bread and cheese, they lay on the berth together and dozed. She could not ever remember having been so lazy, but she was tired, and she did not know what awaited them in London.
The Valère family would be there, probably frantic with worry and demanding explanations for their sudden, unexplained disappearance. And what could she tell them? She had been betrayed by Charles. And if he was still in London, the danger he posed was very real. He could still accuse her of murder. She could, in turn, accuse him of kidnapping. Either way, the Valère family and Armand would be exposed to scandal.
“What’s wrong?” Armand breathed into her hair. She turned her head and met his gaze. “You’re stiff.”
“I’m thinking about when we get back. Your family will be upset.”
“But we’re alive.”
She had to agree with that logic. “Of course they will be happy we’re well, but they will still want to know where we’ve been, what has happened. They must be worried sick with no word from us.”
“A lot of words.”
She nodded. “They deserve an explanation.”
“We’ll give them the words, and then I will take you away.”
She rose on one elbow to face him. “What do you mean?”
“I want out of London. We’ll go to The Gardens.”
“Your home in the country?”
He nodded. “There is a pianoforte there. You can play any time you wish.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you’d enjoy that, but we can’t exactly run off to the country together. We’re not even married.”
He shrugged. “So we marry.”
“It’s not quite that easy.” And for so many more reasons than she wanted to explain.
Now he rose on an elbow, a look of annoyance in his features. “Why not?”
She could have told him a dozen reasons—from objections his family might have to the logistics of the special license. Instead, she blurted out, “I’m not good for you.”
He frowned at her, uncomprehending. “You are very good for me.” He traced her breast with a long, aristocratic finger. “You are mine.”
Not yet, she wasn’t. She wanted to be his, she truly did, but how could she marry him knowing she would expose him to charges of murder. Knowing if she accused Charles of kidnapping, it would bring to light Armand’s past—a past she knew he wanted kept very private. It was better for him and for his family if she disappeared. Perhaps they could give her some money, help her find somewhere to hide. Maybe one day she would return…
He must have seen something of her dilemma on her face, because he sat and scowled at her. “So you will not marry me?”
She sat as well. “I don’t know. There are other problems, other reasons.”
He spread his hands. “Such as?”
“I’m already betrothed.”
“St. John.”
She nodded. “After what he’s done, no one could expect me to honor that agreement, but he can make things difficult for us. He can cause a scandal.”
Armand waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care about scandal.”
“But your family will. They’ll be humil
iated to be at the center of such scandal. And Charles—”
“Is dead. I’ll kill him for what he did.”
She sat, grasped his elbow. “Armand, you can’t. You’ll go to prison.” His back was to her, but she felt him tense.
Slowly, he turned to look at her. “Only if they catch me.”
Oh, dear. She stood hastily before him, putting a hand on his chest. “I don’t want you to kill him.” His eyes flashed a warning at her, but she continued. “It’s not because I have any feelings for him. I love you, only you, but he has power over me, Armand. Do you know what that means?”
“He sold you to Marius. I got you back. He’ll never get close to you again.”
“He doesn’t need to. He can hurt me without ever coming near me.”
“Tell me.”
She hesitated only a moment before the words and the story seemed to pour out of her. “My father was ill, very ill. I didn’t realize how ill he was, and he sent me to stay with my aunt for a fortnight. At least it was supposed to be only a fortnight, but my aunt needed so much help—she has six children—and she asked me to stay longer, and I agreed. I didn’t know that my father…” She broke off, her chest hitching as she tried to hold back the sobs.
“He died?” Armand’s voice was matter-of-fact and yet full of compassion. He knew what it was to lose a parent. To be unable to offer comfort at the end.
She nodded. “While I was away. I might not even have known if Charles hadn’t sent a letter. He lied and told everyone in Selborne he had gone off to fight in the wars, joined the military, but while I was away, he came back. He nursed my sick father and was with him at the end. He wrote me of his death, asked me to come home. And when I did, he showed me the betrothal contract. My father had agreed I should marry Charles. He wrote he wanted me to be taken care of.”
Armand’s hands had fisted when she spoke of marriage, and now he stood and paced away from her. “You will not marry him. You’re mine.” She could feel the anger and heat radiate off him, and she went to him, laid her head on his broad back.