Bess’s green riding skirt was torn, her white linen shirt in tatters, and her stays undone, exposing her full, rounded breasts almost to her nipples. Try as he might, Kincaid could detect no rise and fall of her waxen bosom.
In agony, he rocked her tenderly against his chest. “Bess,” he whispered hoarsely. “Bess, can ye hear me?”
Her head fell back as though she were asleep, her lovely long hair falling like a curtain of dark red velvet. Her rose lips parted, but she made no sound. One arm slipped downward, to dangle lifelessly.
“Damn ye, woman,” he murmured. “Speak to me.”
He blinked away the moisture that obscured his vision as he carried her up onto the beach and knelt with her still cradled in his arms. “Bess,” he whispered. And without knowing why, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his own.
She sighed and he flinched. “Bess?” Nothing.
- “Dinna leave me, lass,” he said. His shoulders trembled with emotion. “Dinna . . .”
This time, there was no mistaking the long-drawn-out sigh. Her lashes flickered, and startling blue eyes stared into his. For an instant, he read bewilderment there, and then recognition.
She smiled weakly. “Kincaid?” she whispered faintly. “Where were you?”
He kissed her again, crushing her against him, searing her lips with the incandescent heat of all the hope and pent-up longing he’d denied for so long. And found to his surprise that Bess had put her arms around his neck and was kissing him back with more fervor than he would have thought a dead woman possessed.
Chapter 11
Bess’s ashen cheeks suffused with color, and she gazed up at Kincaid with half-closed eyes and sighed. Her mouth opened slightly, and she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re beautiful?” she whispered.
Kincaid swallowed hard. Bess’s normally husky voice was deepened by salt and water, and the provocative timbre sent, a sweet rippling sensation spiraling through him. “Bess . . .” For a long moment, he held her, not moving a muscle, acutely aware of the sun, and sand, and wind, and of the feel of her mouth against his. “Bess,” he murmured again.
He wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming. Had he really pulled her from the sea, or was she floating lifeless somewhere in the swirling grass-green tide? “Are ye . . . are ye a ghost?” he rasped. Then his stomach knotted as she closed her eyes, and he felt her muscles slacken. “Bess?” His arms tightened around her.
“Sleepy . . .”
He couldn’t keep his eyes from the gentle rise and fall of her full breasts . . . perfectly shaped nipples barely hidden by the wet, straining cloth . . . or the soft contours of her creamy throat that fairly begged a man to nibble and taste.
“Ye can’t sleep now,” he said urgently, reminding himself of who he was and who she was. He had kissed her—yes—and she had certainly kissed him back, but they’d both been caught up in the emotion of finding the other alive. He’d done much to be ashamed of in his life, but he’d never taken advantage of a half-drowned woman. He had nothing but contempt for a man who was ruled by his cock instead of his mind.
She drew in a long, shuddering breath. “Kincaid.” With a slight, contented whimper, she tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder.
Tremors of pleasure shook him, and he clenched his teeth together, fighting for control. He’d had whores aplenty, a wife, and several mistresses, but no woman had ever said his name that way before. His mouth went dry, and he felt as though his knees were turning to water. He raised his head and looked out to sea, trying to ignore the growing tightness in his groin and the heat of her sweet, round bottom permeating his callused palm.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as his cock swelled against his damp breeches until the throbbing ache became real discomfort. Rot his greedy bowels! He wanted her—here, now. He wanted to strip away the remains of her bodice and take one of those rosy nipples in his mouth and suck it until it became a hard red bud. He wanted to splay his fingers over her flat belly and bury them in the soft curls below. He wanted to part her silken thighs and taste her sweet, wild honey. He wanted to flick his tongue over her velvet folds until she was wet and eager for his hard, thrusting rod.
Hot excitement fired his imagination and set his blood to boiling. Damn, but he wanted her. He’d never felt so driven to possess a woman. To make her his . . . utterly and completely . . . not just for a single act of passion, but for all time.
And all he’d done was lift her out of the water and kiss her . . .
Bess snuggled against Kincaid, and her fingers intertwined at the back of his neck. She was tired . . . so tired, all she wanted to do was sleep. But after the terror of the shipwreck and the battle to keep her head above water, she was unwilling to relinquish the first security she’d found in a long time.
Had he kissed her, or had that been a dream? Had she kissed him?
Unconsciously, she licked her lips again. She tasted the bite of salt . . . and something else-some essence that instinct told her must be Kincaid.
She stirred languidly, trying to get closer to him. She could feel the sun’s heat on her bare skin and the faint stirring of an ocean breeze through her hair, but it was Kincaid’s naked chest pressed against her face that proved to her that she was alive.
He had kissed her. She knew it. A warm glow of happiness bubbled up within her. They both had survived the storm and the sea, and now they hung suspended in an enchanted crystal of white beach and blue sky. A mystical island untouched by human laws and past mistakes. A twinkling of suspended time where there was no yesterday and no tomorrow—only this precious moment.
She was safe in his arms. She was alive. Nothing else mattered. . . .
Somewhere in the corners of her mind, Bess remembered struggling in the water, remembered her knees striking the ocean bottom and crawling toward the beach. Exhausted, without even the strength to go another twenty feet, she had lain in the shallows as night gave way to the first violet rays of morning.
Once, she’d thought she heard someone calling her name, but she didn’t know if it was Kincaid or Kutii. She couldn’t tell if she was hearing a real man’s voice or a voice in her head. So she had lain there, letting the gentle waves wash over her and feeling the grains of sand under her fingertips.
Had Kincaid kissed her? Or was she dead and all this a dream? There was only one way to find out. She lifted her head and looked up at him. “Kincaid?”
“Aye, lass, ‘tis me,” he answered. She could feel the rumble of his deep voice begin in his chest as he spoke.
“I thought so.” He had nice eyes for a pirate, she thought, not dark brown, but cinnamon, penetrating and intelligent. So startling with his yellow hair . . . She released her locked hands and traced the hard line of his jaw. The skin on her fingertips was exquisitely sensitive, and she smiled as a stubble of golden whiskers tickled her.
“Woman,” he groaned. “Ye dinna ken what you’re about.” He let go of her and she slid down into the warm sand, then rose to face him on her knees. “You’ll start what ye’d nay care to finish.”
She was unwilling to break free from the enchantment. All around her, she could feel the soft green light, pulsating, whirling. She lifted both hands and cupped his face between them. “You kissed me,” she said.
“Aye.” His features might have been carved of weathered cedar; his mouth was hard and still, his eyes unblinking.
“I want you to kiss me again.”
“Do ye, now?” Challenge flamed in his rust-brown gaze. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his right hand to his mouth and licked the pad of his thumb, then gently brushed her lower lip with it.
A smile turned up the corners of her mouth as a curious tingling spread outward from the spot he had rubbed. Her teeth closed over his thumb and she bit down on his flesh, not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to make him groan with pleasure.
“Ye want to play that way, do ye?” he asked. His fingers tangled i
n the back of her hair and he tilted her face up to meet his kiss.
Kincaid’s mouth closed over hers hungrily, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to part her lips and touch tongue to tongue. Her world tilted as shudders of intense longing swept over her.
He was strong—so strong. His chest and shoulders were an iron fortress sheltering her from harm. His arms, his hands, his mouth were music to her soul. She wanted the kiss to go on and on. She wanted him to keep touching her the way he was, and when his big hand cupped her breast, the flame of her desire leaped from her breast to the moist heat between her thighs.
“Ah, hinney,” he said, trailing kisses away from her mouth to her ear. “Ye be the most loving woman I’ve ever known.” He pushed her back onto the warm sand and stretched over her.
I should be afraid of him, she thought in a brief heartbeat of rationality. But she wasn’t afraid. He could never hurt her; she knew that as she knew the earth beneath her was solid. How could he hurt her when he was part of her . . . when it was so right that they be together like this?
As we have been before . . .
The statement rose unbidden from the secret places of her memory, and she did not question it. Instinct told her that such truth was absolute. She smiled as familiar shadows of what once had been glided across the stage of her conscious thought.
I know the touch of his hands, she admitted to herself. I know the feel of his mouth against mine . . . I cannot remember where or when or what faces we wore then, but I know this man as I know my own hands, or breasts, or eyes. He is part of me and he always will be.
Kincaid kissed her again, and his hot fingertips caressed the hollow of her throat and the rise of her breasts. He leaned closer, kissing her where his touch had blazed a trail. She let her eyes drift shut and concentrated on the fluttering sensations that threatened to overwhelm her.
One of his hands was on her bare leg. She could feel the roughness of his scarred palm sliding higher and higher up her trembling thigh. Then his lips grazed her breast and his long fingers began to tease the damp curls above her woman’s folds and she arched against him and moaned with delight.
“Sweeting,” he murmured hoarsely. His wet tongue skimmed her bare nipple and she shivered. She tightened her arms around him and pulled him closer. He encircled her swollen areola gently, suckling her nipple into his mouth.
Bess’s eyes flew open. “Oh,” she said.
He laughed, raised his head, and met her startled gaze. “Do ye like that?” he asked.
“Yes, oh, yes.” She felt giddy, almost intoxicated by the rush of sensations that tumbled one over another through her head and body. Even her toes tingled with excitement.
A lock of his wheat-gold hair fell over his forehead, and she touched it, savoring the silken texture as it slid through her fingers. She lifted a few strands to her lips and nibbled at them. They tasted of salt.
“Are ye so hungry that ye need to eat my hair?” he teased.
She licked her top lip. “I think I’d like you to kiss me again,” she said softly.
“Here?” he asked, kissing her nose. “Or here?” He planted a quick peck on her left eyebrow. “Or maybe here?” He kissed the right one and then moved to capture her breast again. “Or did ye like this best?” He laved her nipple with his hot tongue until she squirmed with pleasure.
To her surprise, she found herself lifting her other breast free of her garments for his attention. “This one too,” she murmured boldly. Kincaid chuckled and closed his teeth over that nipple, tugging with tantalizing playfulness until she dug her nails into his bare back and moaned deep in her throat.
But the wonderful feelings weren’t coming just from her breasts. His long fingers had found the source of her femininity. Gently, he probed the soft, wet folds, rubbing and caressing until her sensual exultation took on an urgency beyond anything she had ever experienced.
A sheen of perspiration broke out on her skin, and her breath came in jagged gasps. Kincaid was kissing her again; his hard tongue filled her mouth as his scent filled her brain. She could hear the pounding of her blood through her veins and the hammer of her heart.
He leaned close to her ear. “Will ye?” he asked.
She tried to answer him, but her voice caught in her throat. He pulled away from her and she reached out to him, unwilling to part from him . . . unwilling to stop this marvelous blending.
“I’ve never taken a woman against her will,” he said, standing up and stripping away his skintight breeches. “ ‘Tis for ye to say if ye will, or if ye will not.”
Bess stared at his arousal in wonder. He had seemed huge when she’d seen him in the barn. Now . . . She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Bess . . .” He took a step toward her. “ ‘Tis your last chance to turn me away. I know ye are no virgin, but still—”
In that instant, Bess heard a voice in her head. “Go to him. He is the one. He is your mate, the man of strength your grandmother said would come.” And suddenly, her trance was shattered. She looked first at Kincaid, standing naked and proud, his tumescent male member throbbing and thrust out before him, and then at her own disheveled clothing.
What have I done? she cried inwardly. “No!” She rolled away and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Tears welled up and she dashed them away. “This is wrong,” she said.
Kincaid swore a foul oath.
Bess opened her eyes and got to her feet. She was trembling so hard that her teeth were chattering. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The fault is mine. I never should have—”
He turned away from her without another word, waded into the sea until the green water washed over his hard, naked buttocks, then dove under the waves and swam out beyond the breakers.
Bess felt as though she was going to be sick. A vise gripped her head, the pain so intense that it was almost blinding. “What have I done?” she repeated. She sank to the sand and covered her face with her hands.
She had gone to him as willingly as any mare in heat. She had let him touch her in places so intimate that she’d never touched them herself. She’d offered her breasts to be kissed and sucked, and she had fair climbed down his throat. Why? Why? What had come over her?
She glanced out at the ocean and saw his yellow head bobbing in the waves. What must he think of her? She had escaped near drowning and come up out of the sea as lustful as . . . She searched her brain for any comparison. “A Babylon whore,” she muttered.
Angrily, she pounded the sand with her fist. She had asked to be swived. The only reason she wasn’t lying under him now was that he had more sense of honor than she had morals.
It was the same as the first time.
“No!” Bess leaped to her feet and began running down the beach. No, it wasn’t the same. The first time with Richard had been rape—she hadn’t asked for it. She had willingly gone with a trusted friend. She had kissed him and taken pleasure in his embrace. She’d never given her consent to be used sexually.
Bess’s head was thrown back, her disheveled hair flying behind her. Her bare feet pounded against the sand. She sucked in lungfuls of cool, clean ocean air until her chest ached, but she kept running faster and faster. Salt tears blinded her, but still she ran, wondering if she had finally, irrevocably, lost her mind.
At last, her legs cramped and the stitch in her side became too much to ignore, and she slowed to a lurching trot, then sank to her knees at the edge of the water. She was far down the beach from where she’d left Kincaid, out of reach of his accusations. Here, the only sounds were those of sea and wind and birds.
And a ghost . . .
As she watched, the Indian’s bronzed figure flickered in the sunlight, his specter image fading in and out before becoming solid. First his face appeared, eyes as black as onyx and hair the blue-black gleam of a crow’s wing. Despite the heat, she shivered. No matter how many times she saw him materialize from thin air, it made gooseflesh rise on the back of her neck.
He was not a big man, but his chest was deep above a slender, almost girlish waist and sleek, sinewy thighs. His arms were steel cords covered with amber satin. For all the waist-length mane of shining hair, the rest of his scarred body was hairless.
Today he was garbed in pagan grandeur. Bess sniffed. As a child, she had not realized that Kutii was as vain as any London jack-o’-dandy and that he had a flair for the dramatic, taking care to adorn himself according to the occasion.
Woven sandals decorated with precious stones covered his feet, and around his waist was wrapped what could only be called a short skirt of multicolored feathers, secured with a golden pin. A mantle of blue and green and red plumes hung around his shoulders, falling to his waist. A torque of gold, inlaid with a design of silver llamas, graced his powerful neck, and below that, most of his chest was covered with a breastplate of silver-and-gold disks that flashed in the sun like mirrors.
Miniature golden jaguars dangled from his ears, and around each upper arm, Kutii wore a silver band set with deep green emeralds. In one hand he carried a silver jaguar-headed battle-ax on a haft of beaten gold, his staff of office, and on his other wrist perched a green-and-yellow parrot.
“I’m not in the mood for this now,” she shouted at him. When he took the trouble to deck himself out like a prize turkey, she knew that he was about to try to talk her into something she didn’t want to do.
He waited, not speaking, a half smile playing over his thin lips. Kutii had the patience of an Indian, she thought, wanting to smile back at him but still so upset that she refused to be comforted by the sight of her old friend.
“It won’t work. Whatever you want, I’m not going to do it. You’re not even there. You’re a product of my overactive imagination. I’m as mad as Parson Ebright’s daughter, and . . .”
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