The first real swell began so gradually as she crossed the room to fetch a novel she’d borrowed from the captain that she almost mistook it for her own breathing. She settled on the bed, and within moments realized the bed—the ship—was rising and rising and rising and still rising. Vertigo set in.
Suddenly the heavy bed slid forward, nearly bucking her off.
She leaped from it and stared at it as if it had suddenly become mammalian. Staggered backward warily.
And that’s when thunder exploded the ship.
That’s how it felt. The sound was apocalyptic. She gasped and flung her arms up over her head, crouching in terror while The Fortuna heaved and shuddered like a whipped dog. The sound echoed and echoed intolerably, dwindling to a growl.
Lightning seared the flat slate sky white. It left her cabin night black by contrast. Burnt shadows of her furnishings floated before her eyes. Wind howled in the corridor now, and her door rattled, as though some great creature fleeing the storm longed to join her inside. The ship lurched sickeningly again, and she wrapped arms around her stomach, before it rose and rose and rose at the mercy of a monstrous swell.
Before she could grasp onto something, anything, for balance, she was sent wheeling like a drunk backward against the bed. When the ship dropped hard into the trough of the wave she toppled backward on the mattress.
Lightning scorched the room white again.
And then, like fistful after fistful of nails hurled at the window, came the rain. Relentless.
How could the window withstand it?
How could anyone stay upright on deck?
A very pure almost cleansing fear took her out of her body for an instant:
The earl had talked about clinging to a shred of exploded ship in the aftermath of a storm. She squeezed her eyes closed.
She clung to the counterpane with clammy hands. The air was dense, but fear chilled her; her teeth chattered. Her trunk shifted and slid at an angle to her, tipped, as an angry wave lifted them; she watched it warily.
And to think she had always found the unknown and the uncertain exhilarating.
Beneath her the belly of the sea heaved and then lifted the ship higher and higher…and then dropped it. For a bizarre moment she was a little airborne. Her stomach seemed to land hard before she did. She tried not to retch. The chamber pot had slid clean across the room. Clanking to a halt against the far wall.
She thought of Flint tumbling and tumbling across the deck of a ship—
Later she couldn’t remember going out of the door. She could recall fighting through the passage, hands against the wall for balance in the bucking ship, wind howling in gusts, finding every available cranny. She seized the ladder up the foc’sle, but even that was woozily snatched from of her grip as the ship tossed at the mercy of a wave.
She got herself up with some effort. On deck, she kept a ferocious grip upon the ladders as a violent wind lashed her. Waves were monstrous black walls all around them. Sideways rain soaked her to the bone in gasping seconds, stinging her skin.
Sweet Jesus.
Where was he? Dear God, where?
“Violet! What the bloody hell are you doing?”
She could just see him through the wall of rain and the tangle of hair suddenly in her eyes. Alive. Roaring.
Furious.
The ship dipped sickeningly. She scrabbled for balance, her feet skidding uselessly. Through the slanting bars of rain she saw him, soaked to the skin, hair plastered against his skull, as they struggled to keep the sails up, the yardarms from snapping.
“Go BELOW!” he bellowed. “I told you to stay—”
She screamed her reply, and yet she could scarcely hear her own voice over the elements. The wind caught her voice, turned it into a shredded, faint thing. “I was afrai—”
The wave came from everywhere and nowhere. A dark monster arcing over the deck, she was helpless to do anything but watch it come inexorably down. With an effortless brute power it slammed her legs out from beneath her and tore her grip loose from the ladder rail.
Her scream was lost to the wind and roar of the sea, as she tumbled over and over and over again and again.
She landed hard. Breath was knocked from her. Her head spun; she wasn’t certain she was upright and flat against the deck or even alive. It was everywhere dark. She pushed her hair away from her eyes, which solved the darkness a little. She was on a firm surface; she struggled to stand. Was she still on deck? Her lungs still wouldn’t fill with air; and her wet gown trapped her legs.
“Violet!”
Flint was screaming. She heard terror in it, and even in the midst of her own suffering his ripped at her. And yet his voice was scarce more than a ringing in her ear.
Maybe she was dead already.
She pushed her hair away from her eyes and the deck came into view. A mast. How had she wound up near the wheel? She coughed.
“Flint!”
She couldn’t get the word out; her lungs were still struggling to refill with air.
The ship tipped and heaved like a toy, and she slid again, her hands futilely scrabbling for purchase, for anything, anything near to hold fast to.
Her stomach heaved; she wretched and wretched and water poured from her. She moaned softly.
She looked up just as another great curl of water reared toward her.
“Flint!” This time sound emerged. But it was too late. She sobbed out her terror as her arm went up to cover her face; the other flailed out for a hold and found nothing.
And then something firm, something pliant and human seized her just as something crashed hard, rattling the deck. She screamed, or thought she did, but it was a poor shred of sound. Flint seized her by the waist, jerked her hard upright, swept her legs out from under her and took her in his arms.
Rain battered them. He was rooted as a tree.
“Hold on,” he roared in her ear.
Weakly she was able to latch her arms around his neck and she did indeed hold on for dear life, burying her head into his hard chest. Shivers of terror and cold wracked her. The ship was tossed hard forward again, a sickening tip she felt in her gut, and Flint slid before balancing himself, nearly taking both of them down. He righted himself, cursing. It was then she realized he’d tied a rope to his waist, and he was tied to a mast.
Dear God.
“Is she all right?” It was Lavay. Four screamed words, measured out heavily, though the wind would have batted them right back into her mouth.
“If she’s still alive,” Flint shouted, “I’ll kill her.”
This sobered Violet rather quickly. He must have known damn well she was alive.
“I have the wheel, sir!” Lavay shouted. “See to her.”
Somehow Flint freed himself from the rope. She closed her eyes. He’ll do everything else, she thought drowsily. Surrendering.
She was carried below in Flint’s wet arms, and he held her as carefully, as tightly, as though he held his own life in his hands.
She felt his breathing like bellows as he held her, as he took his seven-league strides through the corridors to his cabin. She wasn’t a feather to begin with and now she was soaked to twice her weight, and she was beginning to feel alert and alive enough to pity Flint his burden. Why had she done it?
And where her hands gripped him she thought she could feel his heart pounding like the waves themselves. She pressed her cheek against his chest to feel the hard labor of his lungs swaying his chest, to feel the thump of life beneath his skin. She heard her own heart sending blood ringing through her ears.
He pushed open his cabin door and deposited her on the floor as though she were as breakable as an egg.
She unlocked stiff fingers from his neck.
And they parted slowly, as if each were afraid she would topple.
She didn’t.
“Are you injured? Can you stand on your own?” His voice was low, terse, commanding, even as it was almost breathless. He roughly shoved his hair away from his
face.
Violet’s body heaved with great wracking coughs, and she struggled for clear breaths and took handfuls of her hair and shoved them away from her face.
She managed to nod: I can stand on my own.
His usually golden complexion was ashen with fear and chill, the skin stretched taut; in it his eyes glittered like obsidian. His hair and clothes streamed water onto the floor, onto that beautiful red and cream carpet. He was a fountain.
“Truly?” he demanded.
“Truly,” she tried to say. Surprised when her voice emerged a mere croak.
There was a streak of blood on his cheek. He was injured! She made a sound, and began to reach for him.
Suddenly he was in front of her, his hands were running quickly, efficiently, over her limbs, her ribs, her face, her throat. His hands were cold, too.
“I’m sound enough.” She was still breathing in gasps, but now the words were recognizable as words. “The wind was knocked from me. I’ve bruised knees. I think I’m otherwise quite fine. Just a tumble. Just a shock.”
He whirled and lunged rummaging under his bed, fishing for something.
He came up with a flask, uncorked it, and pushed it into her hand.
“Take a long, fast drink.”
She did as commanded. It was like swallowing fire. It coursed instantly through her veins, and she coughed.
He took it from her and took two gulps. Wiped the back of his mouth. Then corked it and almost slammed it down on the little table holding the chessboard, which had slid across the room.
The ship heaved sickeningly, rising the crest of a wave, and sent the bed sliding a few inches toward them. Like a shy pet. Unsure of its welcome.
“Thank you,” she gasped. She wiped her mouth. “You saved my life.”
“Yes,” he said tersely.
She couldn’t read his mood.
They regarded each other silently.
“Asher…” His first name had just slipped from her. “You’ve blood…” She reached a hand out.
He jerked his face away from her touch as though it might scald him.
She was abashed. Her hand dropped.
And this was her first clue that something was terribly amiss with him.
Chapter 20
“I’m sound. I swear to you,” she soothed, stammering. “I’ve never known anything like it.” She reached out two placating hands to touch his chest. “I was tumbling and tumb—”
He seized both her wrists in one hand before she could touch him and raised them roughly high over her head, walking her backward, pinning her to the wall. He studied her ferociously, as if picturing her manacled to a dungeon wall and liking the image.
“How could you be so bloody stupid? If you were a man, I would have you flogged for disobeying orders. Tied to the rigging. Thrown in a dungeon. I still might order it.”
She’d never seen such scorching fury. Every word seemed to have been plucked with tongs fresh off a blacksmith’s forge. He held her fast for a second longer. He released her hands abruptly.
She brought them slowly back down to her waist, lest a sudden move inspire him to snap them off. She rubbed at her wrists, and blue glare met blue glare, and their angry breathing mocked the storm outside. He pushed his hair out of his eyes. Breathing roughly.
She stared at him in silence, shivering.
“Take off your dress,” he said flatly.
She froze.
“I beg your pardon?” Her teeth chattered out the words.
“Take off your dress.”
“I—”
Like lightning striking, his hand darted behind her and snatched loose the laces that bound it up.
She was stunned breathless. She tried to speak; her voice seemed to have congealed.
“Finish,” he ordered calmly. “Otherwise I will finish the job for you.”
His tone left her no doubt that she didn’t want to choose the latter option.
He stood back from her, giving her enough room to follow his orders. And then waited, the bloody arrogant man, as though he had all the faith in the world that she would. But the furious heat of his body cloaked her, began to warm her, and his knee shifted slightly to press against the join of her legs, a wicked, dangerous pressure she would shy from if she could. That she should shy from.
But now it was all she could think about: that knee, his body heat, her fear, his command.
I can take you whenever I please.
“I don’t wa—”
“Do. It. Now,” he said far too calmly. Making it abundantly clear his patience was frayed to breaking.
Her hands flew behind her neck. Her heartbeat sped, nearly choking her. Clumsily she managed to finish what he’d begun, loosening the laces enough to spread them, so that the bodice of her dress began to sag. He watched like a sentry. She reached up and dragged down one sleeve, exposing a bare shoulder, the top of one breast.
She stopped, realizing what she was doing.
“The other sleeve.”
She hesitated. “If you would just turn ar—”
“The other—” And then he swore a quiet oath and yanked the other sleeve down.
And the dress, loose to begin with, sagged as if suddenly shot and slid down the length of her, catching at her hips. It was wet; it needed an extra push, so she gave it a push until it crumpled and pooled at her ankles. She stepped out of it, and her groin moved against his knee, and again, that delicious catch of danger-laced pleasure. He watched her, his eyes black, inscrutable.
Cruelly, he kicked the dress out of the way, no doubt knowing he might as well as be kicking her, given how she felt about her clothes.
She stood now in front-lacing stays and stockings and a chemise.
“The stays.”
“My lord…”
“The stays,” he repeated. Sounding incredulous she’d deign to speak after he’d issued an order.
She obeyed. Her hands reached up to between her breasts, to the laces of her stays. He watched her like a gaoler as her fingers unthreaded them. Spread them loose. Peeled them from her arms. Her breasts, lately caged and lifted up, were loosed now behind the fine, near-transparency of her chemise.
He stared unabashedly as she was slowly revealed to him, dark erect nipples pushing against the dampened fabric.
“The chemise.”
“I can’t…” she whispered.
“Lest you want it torn from you, you’ll remove the chemise,” he explained, each word measured with terrifying precision.
She clutched at the fine, wet fabric of her chemise, heart slamming. Searching for a way in past that white-hot fury, for a sign that he was bluffing, for anything, anything that would give her a foothold on his mood, a way to regain control.
He gave her back nothing but searing, black, carnal intent. His anger had a momentum, an objective.
And she understood now what a child she’d been, and what a formidable enemy he could be.
He drew in a sharp impatient breath and shifted warningly toward her.
She yanked the chemise up and away from her body, released it from her fingers; it floated to the floor like a ghost.
He gave it a kick.
She stood in stocking and garters, and covered her nudity, arms crossed like bandoliers across her breasts.
“Hands down, Miss Redmond.”
Swallowing in anticipation, she slowly lowered her hands, so her breasts were entirely bare to his view.
And then suddenly he reached behind him, seized the blanket from his bed and dropped it over her head like a shroud, pushed it back from her face, and then proceeded to gently, briskly rub dry her chilled flesh, dragging it testingly down her arms, beneath her sodden hair, over her torso, her breasts, gently along her ribs, her hands and fingers, dropping to his knees, rubbing each of her legs, along the way his skillful hands pressing muscles, tendons, ascertaining for himself that she was indeed unharmed. He would have elicited squeaks if she’d been injured.
Hardly a sed
uction. She’d seen her brother dry off a wet dog in just that way.
“Does anything hurt?” he said kneeling from the floor, where he had a view of her pale thighs and two very wet satin garters. The blanket in hand, he peeled each stocking down from her cold thighs, then from her clammy feet, and tossed them aside.
“No,” she said, subdued and now thoroughly embarrassed.
Finally he was satisfied the roses were back in her skin and her lips weren’t blue and that nothing was broken. She tingled everywhere from the ministrations, shy, shocked, ashamed, and woefully, woefully aroused.
And then he stood back from her, stripped off his own shirt, and scrubbed his own beautiful torso hard with the blanket, rubbed it through his hair. And watching this was warming, too. And then losing patience, he flung both blanket and shirt aside with an oath.
They stood inches from each other, each breathing hard from a tangle of emotions. The storm, losing its fury, gently seesawed the ship now. She heard the poor chess pieces rattling around on the floor, taking cover beneath the bed.
Violet pushed a lank strand of damp hair from her face, tucked it behind her ear. She wrapped one arm across her chest to cover her nudity.
“You’re bleeding,” she insisted softly. She tried again, touching her cheek to show him where.
This time he allowed it.
But his voice was slow and hard and cold. “It’s your blood, you bloody…little…fool.”
To prove it to her, his thumb swiftly, lightly touched her cheek; it stung. He held his hand up to show her: blood.
She stared, astounded. Touched her fingers to her cheek. Her fingers came away with blood, too. Odd that it hadn’t been washed away.
“It’s a scrape. You won’t need to be stitched up by the surgeon like a sail or a net. You won’t be at all marred.” Still curt. And ironic. “You could have been killed, but at least you won’t have any scars.”
She brought her hand down.
And for long silent seconds they stood, one entirely nude, one semi nude, inches but a universe apart, his knee all but wedged between hers. The force of his desire and his fury and whatever other enigmatic emotion had him in its grip unnerved her. But she’d never wanted anything more in her life than to melt into him. To soothe him, to take and give comfort.
I Kissed an Earl Page 25