His gaze warmed. “Aye, Miss Evans. I am.”
She fought to find her breath. “Then in that case, perhaps we should be proper about this. . . .”
“Proper?”
“That is, I, uh . . . think you should take me back.”
He tossed the shirt to the sand, crossed his strong, hard arms over his chest and regarded her with a little smile, the moonlight glinting off his teeth, his tousled hair, the tops of his wide and powerful shoulders.
“I can if you wish,” he said, regarding her with that long, warm gaze that she had come to think of as the look. The one that made her heart bounce around in her chest and her breathing to become unsteady and her palms to go damp. “But is that what you really want?”
“What I really want, and what I really ought to do, are two different things.”
He leaned close, humor and challenge lighting his eyes. “Live a little, Miss Evans.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Words to live by. Besides, I promise to keep you safe.”
Of course he would. Her resolve restored, Rhiannon gathered the hem of her skirts in one hand and, placing the other in the crook of his elbow once more, allowed him to lead her toward the water. The waves swirled around her ankles, as warm and delicious as a bath.
From far away in the night, she heard revelry coming from somewhere in Bridgetown, and from several ships anchored out in the harbor, the clang of bells as the watch ended.
And suddenly Rhiannon realized that to learn how to swim she would have to get wet, and if she got wet, her thin muslin gown and shift beneath would be plastered to her body and Captain Merrick would see everything she owned.
The idea was strangely titillating.
Wicked.
But it is dark outside, a little voice inside her head countered. What, really, can he see?
What, indeed.
She took a step further into the surf until she was up to her knees. If they went any deeper, her modesty would be compromised.
She hesitated.
This is my adventure. One that I could only have dreamed about. It is happening to me right here, right now. And I’m going to enjoy it.
Boldly, she let go of her skirts as he led her in even deeper, until the surf moved with gentle stealth around her knees. Her thighs.
There, Captain Merrick stopped, turned her gently around to face him, and took both her hands in his own.
“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice deep and gentle, the stars so far above his head suddenly very, very bright in their vast expanse of night.
“I trust you.”
He let a moment go by, and then, still holding her hands, he lowered them until both his hands and hers were under the water. There they both stood, face to face, her face tilted up to regard his, he looking down at her with an expression in his eyes that was deeper than the vastness of the night beyond his head. And then he raised a hand from the water and placed it, dripping and wet, alongside the line of her jaw, his thumb gently stroking the hollow beneath her cheek.
“I don’t make it a habit of ravishing beautiful young ladies,” he said softly.
“Of course you don’t. . . .”
“So if you change your mind, I would advise that you give me a hard and decisive slap across the cheek, and perhaps it will knock some sense into my poor befuddled head.”
“I don’t want to . . . to discourage you, Captain. Let alone harm you.”
He lifted his other hand from the water and laid it alongside her other cheek, raising her head so that her eyes looked steadily into his own. “Then never let it be said, Miss Evans, that a Yankee privateer is anything but a gentleman,” he murmured, and bending his head, claimed her lips with a gentle firmness that rocked her to her core.
Rhiannon melted. Every single cell in her body, every bit of bone and blood and muscle and nerve, suddenly felt as though the strength had been stripped from them as she tilted her head back and allowed him to deepen the kiss, to increase the pressure, to claim her willing, eager lips with his own. Of their own accord her hands came out of the water, roved up his strong, hard arms, and up through the tousled curls that just touched his nape. She stood on tiptoe, inhaling the scent of him—bay rum, sea salt, and trade winds—obediently opening her mouth when she felt his tongue pressing against her lips. Her nipples fired, and the strange ache between her legs became pressing, persistent, and stronger by the second. Her knees began to buckle, and as though sensing it, he slowly drew back, gazing down at her with a look of hunger, admiration, and longing.
“Well,” he said, as she reluctantly let her own hand slip from the back of his head. “I suppose . . . we should get started.”
Her heart was pounding. “Yes, you did promise to t-teach me to swim.”
“Though if I were smart, I would take you back to the house.”
“But you know that you will not.”
“I desire you, Miss Evans. That should be obvious. But that doesn’t mean I can’t behave myself.”
She couldn’t prevent a little grin. “Poor you,” she said. “There’s that phrase again. First you must ‘behave yourself’ for Sir Graham, now you must behave yourself for me. No wonder you’re eager to put Barbados far behind you.”
“Perhaps,” he countered, “I’m not so eager, after all.”
He gazed down at her, his eyes very dark and intense in the faint light. Rhiannon shivered with desire. How she wanted this man, wanted the feel of his hands against her skin, his strong arms lifting her, his handsome, wry, mouth against her own once more. But she sensed that he was indeed a gentleman no matter how roguish his words, no matter how passionate his kiss, and that he was indeed going to take her back to the house, make his way back to Kestrel—
And sail out of her life forever.
He was already turning, heading back toward the shore.
“Teach me to swim,” she said, impetuously.
He paused, the water lapping against his hips and sparkling in the moonlight. For several moments he just stood there, a tall, dark presence against the starlit sky that spread out into forever over his head.
And then he turned and looked at her.
Just looked at her.
Rhiannon’s throat went dry. She lifted her hand and held it wordlessly out to him, desperate to keep him here, desperate to make this magical night last, to keep this compelling, reckless, fascinating man with her just a little longer even if it did mean doing something terribly scandalous, and altogether forbidden.
He came back to her, fitted his strong hands around her waist and lifted her straight off the sea floor, holding her there and letting her get the feel of what it was like to not have her feet on the bottom.
Rhiannon flung her arms out to the sides to keep her balance.
“Relax,” he said quietly.
Relax? When his hands were spanning her waist, holding her suspended in the sea while his mouth, that beautiful, sinful, sensuous mouth, was only a few inches from her own?
“I am going to put my hand on your belly,” he said. “I want you to tip forward, and lie against my hand. I’ll hold you up.”
He set her back down, letting her feet anchor themselves once more in the sand and yes, his hand was against her once more, intimate, broad and flat and warm against her abdomen through the layers of wet muslin, the tips of his fingers perilously close to her most private regions.
The feeling was wickedly sensual, and the ache between Rhiannon’s legs became a slow burn.
“Lean forward,” he instructed, his voice sounding a little hoarse.
“I am afraid.”
“I’ve got you.” Oh, how warm and wonderful that hand. . . . “Trust me.”
She trusted him. With her life. But she didn’t know how to do as he asked, and when she hesitated further, he put his other hand against the small of her back, lifted her once more off the sea floor and tilted her, slowly, until she was all but lying on her belly in the water.
Fear rose
in her throat and she began to breathe hard, her arms shooting out, trying to find purchase in a medium that offered none.
“Relax,” he said again, holding her. “Take a deep breath, let it out, and relax. I’ve got you, Miss Evans.”
“I’m afraid.”
“I know.”
“I mean, really, really afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Drowning.”
He smiled then, supporting her easily with one hand under her belly, his other gently rubbing the small of her back, encouraging her to relax. To trust him. “I did not let your sister drown in the cold waters of Portsmouth, and I’m not about to let you drown here in Carlisle Bay.”
Rhiannon began to shake as the reality of this situation began to overwhelm her.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I’m ready.”
He began to walk, slowly, and Rhiannon, still lying on her stomach with his hands supporting her, felt water moving against her collarbone, streaming along her body.
“Lower your head. Let your chin rest in the water.”
She froze, afraid all over again.
“I have you, Miss Evans.”
She stiffened but did as he instructed, and felt the water come alarmingly up to the level of her ears, swirling around her jaw, her chin and the back of her head as though wanting to swallow her.
Trust him.
“Put your arms out,” he instructed. “Pretend you’re flying. I won’t let you go.”
She did so, and suddenly felt the sea dragging against her arms as he pivoted her around him in a small circle, allowing her to get the feel of the water.
But Rhiannon wasn’t thinking about the water.
She was thinking of those two kisses, and the way his hands against her skin were making her feel, and the fact that he’d said he was courting her. Every cell in her body was aware of one thing only, and that was Connor Merrick.
“I am going to take my hand off your back,” he said.
“No!”
“And leave my other hand under your belly and ribs.”
“Don’t let me go!”
‘Pon my life, ma’m, I will not. Do you still trust me?”
“I still trust you.”
He took his hand away from her back, balancing her, now, on the one hand he still had beneath her belly. His thumb was close to the underside of her breasts.
And his little finger, to her navel.
She wondered what it would feel like if he spread his fingers and touched her in those most intimate of places.
“Now, I want you to make reaching motions with your arms . . . put your hands together as if you were praying, reach forward, then stroke back, as though you’re trying to push the water behind you. And while you’re doing that, I’m still going to hold you.”
“All right.”
She did as he asked, her mind torn between fear and desire and the dizzy, heady exhilaration of being freed from gravity, of the ocean bottom, of. . . .
Flying.
“Now, as I walk with you, and you stroke with your arms, I want you to gently kick your legs. Again, I will not let you go.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She tried, but she was too tense, too scared, too aware of this man beside her, and she grew confused, unable to stroke with her arms and kick with her legs in any sort of meaningful rhythm.
He paused, allowing her to collect her courage.
“Still afraid?” he asked.
“Terrified.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I bet you say that to every girl you teach to swim.”
“On the contrary, Miss Evans. You are the first.” He paused. “Now, I want you to stand up and find the bottom. I’ll keep my hand here, on your belly, and then I will take your hand, as we’re a little deeper than we were and I don’t wish you to be startled. Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
He gently helped her to find her feet and she stood up, trembling with excitement and desire and triumph. Her hand was still caught securely within his own and he looked down at her, smiled, and gently released her, walking a few steps backward away from her while the water made a swirling wake around his hips.
He continued to move backward until he was six or seven feet away from her. There he stopped and, extending his hands toward her, smiled.
“Now, I want you to swim to me, Rhiannon.”
Rhiannon.
“I did not give you permission to use my given name, Captain.”
“No, you did not. So come here and do something about it.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do!”
“Push off from the bottom, bring your arms up and let yourself fall, and at the same time that you do this, slice the water with your arms to break your fall,” he said, motioning with his own arms to illustrate. “As you feel yourself starting to sink just a little bit, pull the water back as you were doing just a moment ago, and kick with your feet. You only have to reach me. Throw yourself toward me, and then use your arms to keep yourself afloat.”
“And if I do that, Captain? Will you end this lesson, bring me back to the house, and leave on the morrow, never to return?”
“If I knew what was good for me, that is precisely what I would do.”
“Given your actions in the short time since I’ve met you, I’m not convinced you know what is good for you.”
“And you would be right. Now try it, Miss Evans. If you can traverse the several feet that separates us, you’ll be able to call yourself a swimmer.”
She nodded and took a deep, steadying breath, suddenly afraid all over again.
He stood there, silhouetted and unmoving against the night sky, his arms stretched encouragingly toward her . . . .
So close.
With a little gasp, Rhiannon half-fell, half-threw herself forward, felt the sea close around her, trying to come up over her head—and panicked. Water sloshed into her eyes and up her nose, burning her sinuses, and suddenly his hands were there beneath her, holding her once more, supporting her, as she splashed and panted in fear and tried to get her pounding heart back under control.
“I sank,” she cried, in despair. “I am not made to swim!”
“You sank because you panicked,” he said with quiet firmness. “You must try it again, Miss Evans, otherwise you’ll never find the courage to make another attempt, and that would be a pity.”
“Oh,” she said, trying to quell her rising hysteria. “Oh, I don’t think that I can.”
“Really? I think that you can. And I think that you will.”
She would have protested further but he had set her back down again, retreated a little ways closer into shore, and once again had his hands outstretched, beckoning, encouraging her forward.
To trust him.
Once again, Rhiannon took a deep breath, let herself fall, and this time her hands came up to automatically break her fall—
“Stroke!” he urged, with a grin splitting his handsome face, and suddenly it all came together and Rhiannon, propelled by the momentum of her frightened plunge toward him, held afloat by her desperate arms, was swimming.
Swimming.
It was only a couple of feet but she did it on her own, and suddenly he had caught her arms and pulled her joyously out of the water, laughing in delight at her triumph.
“You did it!”
“I did it!”
“I’m proud of you, Miss Evans!”
“I’m proud of me, too! Thank you, Captain! Oh, God help me, I swam! I swam!”
He laughed, still holding her by both arms, and then the sudden, frenzied triumph stilled in her blood and she was aware of only his eyes, the sudden fading of his smile, the height and strength and feel of his big, wet body in the moonlight.
Time stilled for both of them.
“You’re going to kiss me again,” she breathed.
He merely smiled.
“Aren’t you?”
He didn’t answer, but just drew her forward by her arms, pulled her up and off the sea floor, and raising his leg, set her down atop his bare, wet thigh so that she straddled it, the hard muscle pushing against that burning area between her legs. Oh, dear God! Her suddenly desperate arms groped blindly for something to hold onto, and found only his wet torso as his mouth came down on hers once more.
Chapter 10
Ned Falconer was unable to sleep.
It wasn’t often that Uncle Connor came to visit and the boy, lying awake in his bed while the mosquito netting moved gently in the breeze around him, couldn’t get the memory of him leaping from the main gaff out of his mind. Again and again he saw his uncle plunging down, down, down with fearless abandon, only to execute a perfect dive into the sea.
Nobody else on Uncle Con’s schooner had dared to jump from such a height. Even Captain Lord had not dared to do such a thing and he was Papa’s flag captain.
Oh, what must it feel like to soar through the air like a bird, to plunge like a knife into the turquoise waters of Carlisle Bay while everyone cheered and threw money into a pot celebrating your bravery?
Ned wanted to do the same thing.
He tossed and turned, and tossed and turned some more, and as he lay there staring up at the darkened ceiling, he heard voices coming from down near the beach.
He sat up in bed, listening.
One of those voices sounded like Miss Evans’s.
Ned parted the mosquito netting, swung out of bed, and went to the window.
The figures were small with distance, and the gently waving palm fronds obscured any clear view of whomever was down there on the beach.
Suddenly, the voice that sounded like Miss Evans’s let out a short, terrified scream, and worried now, the little boy jumped out of bed and ran to get his parents.
* * *
Through the haze of sensation that was enveloping her body, centering in her nipples and in that suddenly raw and aching spot between her legs against which Captain Merrick’s hard, wet thigh was pressed, Rhiannon was aware of his voice, lowered to a whisper as he quietly broke the kiss, lowered the leg on which she was perched and, framing her hips with his hands, gently set her away from him.
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