Abby opened her mouth to protest, to tell him the truth of why she could not marry him. All her could-haves and the not-haves a reality, she resented. Oh, those sweet words, to protect and cherish…and the brush of his warm mouth against her swollen breast, spiraled a longing she could never stop even if she wanted too. His kiss was fierce, wild, almost violent, making her heart rip. Hadn’t she lain awake at night, consumed with thoughts of him, wanting the gnawing hunger he had created to be appeased? If only she could tell him who she really was. No-no-no. Raw potent fear drove her, fear she would not experience his arms around her, fear he’d believe her actions wanton and shameful, fear he’d send her away or worse.
“Jacob, I must tell you...”
“Hush, dear Abby. Everything will be fine.”
Abby spiraled from sensual onslaught, whirling with desire and helplessly, she wound her arms around his neck. Thorne increased his ardor, his nose nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear, arms like bands of iron twisted around her, rippling arm, shoulder and thigh muscles gleamed in the candlelight, his manhood magnificent, probed her side. His hand moved from her breast, down her waist, his fingers lightly circled her thighs and to the spot in between, caressing the hairs of her mons.
“I will pleasure you, Abby.” The deep timbre of his voice and his eyes so dark now took on the hue of indigo. He sank his fingers into her depths, circling inside her then drawing out. Abby gasped and tilted her pelvis upward, unsure and unable to get more from him. She closed her eyes, waited, as he slid his hand then withdrew in rhythmic timing. Wherever he touched her, his hands were magical, awakening her body to his power. She could scarcely breathe, swamped with the growing slickness between her legs and the stroking that raised her to a pinnacle she could not reach.
He lifted his head, the sight of his dark, disheveled hair, eyes glinting with longing in the lamp light, the gorgeous spread of his shoulders, tapering down to his narrow hips, made her womb ache. When he rose-up on his arms and straddled her, cool air touched her skin except where his manhood laid hot, heavy, throbbing across her abdomen. Gazing into his scorching eyes now, she surely thought she would melt from the tenderness she saw there and all the wonderful things he said to her. “Only once in your life, I truly believe, you find someone who can completely turn your world around.” She lifted her fingers and traced his cheek and his lips, while inside her, an emotion sweetly unfurled, so appealing, so overpowering that it made her tremble.
“Kiss me, Abby.”
“Someone you can tell things that you’ve never shared with another soul and they absorb everything you say and actually want to hear more.”
With unshed tears, his words evoked heartbreaking tenderness like a warm soft blanket of down, softly covering and gently capturing her soul, and to know that this strong, vital man treasured her. And Abby did. She offered him her parting lips, moving them against his, kissing him as deeply as he was kissing her. Abby’s fingers slid up the bunched muscles of his chest and shoulders, then glided her hands round his hips, pulling him toward her, anything, anything to abate the growing need. And when she ran her fingers down his arousal, he reared back, separated her slick folds, withdrew his hand and eased into her.
“Abby,” he whispered, kissing her forehead, cheeks, lips and neck. “Abby…” he whispered again and again.
A shudder shook him. He withdrew by inches, and shifted forward again, and then withdrew and plunged again and again. She wrapped her arms around him, protectively and her hips rose to receive him. Her hands ran, through his hair, down his back, and her nails raked his hips.
“Please,” she begged him in a whisper.
Abby reached the top of wave after wave, yet that elusive pinnacle she could not reach. Her skin grew damp but what was happening inside her, the emptiness filled with him, an ache that grew stronger with each stroke, a need so desperate, like clawing air. She wrapped her legs around his hips. “Now Jacob!” she screamed. With her last breath, she found herself hovering on some sharp and shimmering precipice. She bit her lip, held her breath, arching her hips to his rapid thrusts, forcing her closer to the brink. The fire inside her blazed white-hot. The delight stunned her; frightened her and she could not help to cry out. “Jacob…”
In answer, he grabbed her hips and gave one last thrust deep into her womb and shuddered. Ecstasy seared through her, molten and exquisite, almost terrifying in its intensity, bombarded by sensation after sensation.
He rolled to the side and gathered her in his arms, his body still intimately joined with hers. In sweat-soaked sheets, a musky scent rose−their scent. He kissed her, wiped her damp curls from her eyes and held her close. Cherished. She traced her fingers along the damp sheen of his nipple and nuzzled him there, then rested her head upon his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady in her ear.
He stroked her back and Abby lay there saturated in joyous contentment, a languorous peace, unlike anything she had ever known.
He tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “Are you happy, Abby?”
She smiled at him. “There are no words that describe the beauty humming in my heart.” She stretched, her leg over Thorne’s, reveling in the moment, refusing to acknowledge the past or the future, allowing her eyes to close.
“I imagine come morn, the crew will know of our night together.”
She cuddled up to him to get his warmth, and he pulled a sheet over them. “Um-hm. No doubt Enos will be collecting wagers, creating enormous wealth to retire on Nantucket.”
“No doubt,” Thorne whispered. She could feel him grinning in the dark.
“Like children, they will be told of our impending nuptials and Abby, I’ll do my best to find what happened to your family. I have powerful contacts in England.”
That brought her wide awake. This could never ever happen again. Thorne wanted to marry her. Now he was going to find out what happened to her family. And she repaid him with her deception. She was going to have to lie to him, a lot. She’d have to tell him that what had happened was a mistake. A second mistake? She’d break out every excuse she could think of not to commit to Jacob. Abby swallowed. By the time they arrived in Boston, she’d disappear. He would forget her completely. Why did she feel like crying?
He nuzzled her hair. “You’ll be the most beautiful bride Boston has ever seen.”
Tears filled her eyes. He was so happy. Dear God, what had she done, giving herself to this perfect, extraordinary man she couldn’t have? Abby’s breath hitched. He wanted to marry a woman who didn’t exist. Jacob could never find out who she really was.
He was worthy of the best of women, one who had integrity and honesty. Her life lay along a different path, one of title, rank and what was browbeaten into her head from birth, duty. How she loathed that responsibility.
If there were some way she could stay in Boston, to live with Jacob as his wife, to be treasured and protected. To have all the possibilities of a life she desired without the burdens of her class.
You’ve gone crazy, Abby. He deserves better than you.
Here amongst the privateers, she was at home. They were her family. She was plain Abigail Marie Hansford, an orphan…and they had adopted her with all their heart.
Then why do you wish to go home, Abby?
Was it a demon’s voice inside her head? No. Clearly, it was her revelation. Sweet temptation crept from the corners of her mind where it had been lurking and reared its alluring, enticing head−to see a lifetime that lay within her grasp−a wonderful husband with long nights of lovemaking and a baby to hold. Yes. A handsome son like Thorne with bright blue eyes so like his father.
Abby smiled and closed her eyes, holding that vision in her mind, and felt something break inside her heart, pain so earth-shattering it forced the breath from her lungs. She could no more betray her family than she could betray Jacob. She opened her eyes, the vision slowly fading, leaving emptiness inside her.
For just this once, she capitulated to her needs. She held Jacob closer.
Just promise me, you’ll always have understanding for me. While Jacob slept, she pressed a kiss to his heart. Just a few weeks she promised. Just a few more. She caressed his hair, face and arms, loving everything about him.
Loving him.
Chapter 20
Abby picked up her skirts and walked backward. “The clouds are exceptionally beautiful today,” she said breathlessly.
Thorne stalked her. I’m not looking at the clouds.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m looking at you.”
Jacob’s hand settled against her jaw, the warmth of his palm and the slight abrasion of his calloused fingers felt dearer than anything she’d ever known. All her willpower was not enough to keep her from pressing into his touch.
“I could drag you down to the cabin−” he threatened.
She looked him up and down. Memories stirred of long lusty insatiable nights of lovemaking. Warmth flooded her cheeks. “And then what would you do?”
Thorne laughed, then whispered huskily into her ear. “Images of you draped naked across me, your hair tousled, arouses many wicked thoughts on what I’d like to do to you. Now.”
He picked her up and swung her around.
“Put me down, Captain. The crew. What will they think?”
With Thorne colors seemed brighter and more brilliant. The sea glittered blindingly over endless hues of blue and turquoise, sunrises ascended with scorching yellows, oranges and pinks, ablaze with the brilliance that aroused passion and the dawning hope of a new day.
She slanted a sideways glance below. “Enos is stuffing his pockets with bets again. The man is incorrigible.”
“Enos!” Thorne called over his shoulder. “What is the wager now?”
“That you’ll be marrying our cabin boy and soon,” he winked.
“You old seadog, you’ll have enough profit to buy all of Nantucket and at my expense. Make sure, men, when we arrive in Boston, keep room for our wedding day,” Thorne shouted.
Deafening cheers from the crew reached to where the earth and sea met the sky. Jacob kissed Abby. She blushed from her toes to the roots of her hair. To stop him from kissing her in front of the crew was impossible. Not that she wanted him to stop. Of course, the accompanying smiles with the knowledge that their captain slept with her made the heat rise to her cheeks even more.
They had been inseparable the last two days, living in bliss…living a lie.
Yet to yearn to dream of the ‘what ifs’ despite the terrible sham she played, deluding herself that their fairy tale relationship was real, and to warn him that she was about to repay his compassion, trust and affection with deceit.
How would the crew react to her deception? How would Jacob react? Of course, the crew would despise her. And Jacob…she shuddered. No longer could she allow the charade to go on. She opened her mouth to tell him the truth. Words clogged in her throat.
“Good day to you, Miss Hansford. It’s a beaut, isn’t it?” Abner Bosworth yelled from up in the nest.
“Good day to you, Abner.” Abby waved to him, envying his position on top of the world.
How wonderful Abner had been to her, surprising her with his skill, the little carved toys he had made for his two small children and sharing besotted stories of his wife. Abner was fortunate, his wife lucky. She swallowed down a bitter agony that welled up inside. To have the power of marrying the one you loved, the one of your own choosing, to be cherished and adored, not imprisoned by duty and rank.
“Captain, due South, a ship!” Abner pointed.
Abby followed Thorne to the stern and watched as he swung his scope across the horizon. “Ship?” That sounded serious. “Is it a worry?”
“We’re taking precautions is all.” His baritone was tender.
“Who is it?” In these waters, the King’s ships could be anywhere. He took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. It felt awkward, standing like this, the merriment sobered into crushing reality. Now this.
“It’s a British Man O’ War. He’s been trailing us for some time. I don’t relish a fight, but a fight we will give them.”
“We’ve sailed close to shore as possible, believing the British warship unlikely to follow in charted shallow water flats. My intention is for them to run aground.” When he saw the worried expression on her face, he collapsed his scope. “Put your mind at ease. The Vengeance is built sleek and swift. I’m confident we will outrun them.”
What if Jacob was caught and thrown into a prison or worse hanged for his crimes? She could not bear it No. Never could she endure Jacob to suffer such a fate.
Abby, I’ll do my best to keep you safe.”
And she knew he would. But who will keep you safe, Jacob?
And in that vein, the fear Jacob felt wasn’t for him. All his fear was for Abby.
He jumped up on an arms chest to see unencumbered. There she was, all right. She was no mirage, a British thirty-two gun warship bearing down on them fast. Three great masts upward, courses, tops, royals unfurled, barreling down on them, making a picture against the blue skies. His muscles tightened. The Vengeance was deeply laden with captured military stores and dense sea growth. Damn Bingham for expecting him to carry so much from Martinique. Turning the scope in his hands over and over, he couldn’t say why he felt so strongly, but the premonition of danger, of impending threat, was impossible to deny. He smelled Captain Rowland Davenport. Thorne had humiliated him, raiding the coasts of England then disappearing like a ghost. Especially when Jacob had the arrogance to post a proclamation in Lloyds Coffee House in London, proclaiming he would sink, burn, destroy and capture British merchantmen in their own territorial waters, and striking terror in the hearts of British citizenry. And he had done it repeatedly, sneaking across the Channel and hiding in obliging French harbors to sell his prizes, always to return to pluck another fat trophy. Jacob liked a challenge. A challenge he would give Davenport.
He leaped down and patted Abby’s hand, his dear sweet Abigail, white as a ghost. This time he had her welfare to consider. To put her in the midst of a sea battle? He and his men would fight to the death. His jaw clenched, Abigail his Achilles heel. If only he could outrun the bastard. “I’m not a man to be frightened off by a few cannons. I’ve crossed many such battles and survived to tell the day.” He crossed to the bulwarks. “Benjamin, Enos, run out the guns! Man the tops’l sheets and halyards! Sheet home! Hoist away the topsails.”
Months ago, at the Duke of Rutland’s party in England, disguised as a vicar…Thorne shook his head…the arrogant British commander didn’t even know he was sipping champagne with his archenemy. Thorne grinned. To give Davenport the pleasure of his company again?
Memories lingered of that crisp and clear night in the garden of the Rutland’s estate, a stolen kiss from Lady Rutland, a harmless flirtation. He looked down at his Abby so like the highborn lady, but so much more passionate. Lady Rutland, the spoiled wealthy progeny of aristocratic breeding, part of a class system, so familiar and despised. His blood boiled. He tamped down that part of his past, but the less forgiving part of his nature remained focused on the pampered, shallow offspring of the Duke of Rutland−Lady Rutland whose ascendency had been predetermined at birth. He compared her to his Abby, the endearing beauty that curved her slim legs around him and kept giving and giving as if each night were her last.
With incredible speed, the gaskets were off and sails fluttered from the yards. When the sails hoisted and trimmed, the Vengeance trembled with the eagerness of a stabled stallion released to run.
With Abby, laughter was a part of daily life, where before it was infrequent or didn’t exist at all. In her presence, there was no need for continuous conversation. He was just content in her being nearby. Things that never interested him before became fascinating because he knew they were special to her. He thought of her in everything he did. Simple things brought her to mind, the afterglow of twilight, the song of the wind, or even a storm cloud on the horizon. Determined not to
give away his fears, he met her worried eyes. “When the cannons fire, you go below.”
The sun reached its zenith and he labored with his men to ready for battle. Jacob climbed the ratlines and peered through his glass. Damn! Solebay fast approached. As predicted, Davenport. “Ben, fire an occasional shot from the stern to keep them at a respectable distance.”
Jacob jumped down, to address his grim Lieutenant. “If we tack farther to the east, we’d find open seas. Solebay will also tack on the same southern breeze.” He turned to the bow and shook his head. “We will have to risk threading a needle.”
“Impossible! We will wreck upon the shoals. The scheme is madness,” said Lawton.
“I will not play by Davenport’s rules and go out to sea and engage. The venture is suicide. Solebay will be breathing on our gunnels in a blink of an eye. Be good enough to command the deck.” Jacob swung up into the shrouds, climbing to the cross-trees where he commanded an excellent−if discouraging view of the situation. To starboard lay a string of islets like a pearl necklace, yawning with sharp teeth. To port was the island of Abaco, a hundred-mile spit of land, shores wreathed with shallows and treacherous reefs. In between lay a narrow stretch of water for Jacob to negotiate the Vengeance.
Like Theseus wandering the labyrinth with the Minotaur stalking him.
Almost twice the size of the Vengeance, the Solebay approached rapidly astern. Her men ran out her larboard guns and tacked starboard to give them a broadside. Jacob grinned. Blinded by the Vengeance to their front, the arrogant Davenport missed the narrow channel Jacob had invited him to trail. “Lawton, run in close to that islet.”
His Lieutenant’s crisp commands echoed up to him. “Ready about! Ease down the helm and rise tacks and sheets. Haul taut.”
Drowned in a squeal of blocks the Vengeance danced on a new tack. With the wind on her beam, she tore straight for the monstrous islet as if to ram it, then veered up to clear the hawse. The maneuver put them in narrower waters. Jacob stared aft.
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