Dark Prince

by Eve Silver

  “You are not him,” he said simply, without the slightest hesitation. “You are... you. Bright light to my darkness. The promise of dawn in my endless night.”

  Jane stared up at him, the pain in her heart so great, she wondered how she might survive it. He opened his mouth and she thought he would say more. Instead, with a soft oath, he bent and pulled her to her feet, quickly divesting her of her damp dress, tearing it in his haste.

  Her protest drew a snarl. “I will buy you a dozen to replace it. A score.”

  Shivering, clothed in only her shift, she watched him warily as he tossed her shredded garment aside.

  “The bath grows cold,” he muttered. Scooping her unceremoniously into his arms, he deposited her in the tub, shift and all. The water cocooned her in steaming warmth, a luxury that made her moan softly.

  As he made to draw away, she closed her fingers around the sinew and strength of his forearm. Their gazes met and held, his cool and distant, hers, she knew, relaying every emotion that surged in her breast, giving clear view of her confusion and pain. Her empathy. Perhaps even her love.

  Oh, God, no. Not that.

  Could she have fallen in love with Aidan Warrick, the pirate, the smuggler, the man whose every breath was taken solely so that he could achieve the vengeance he craved? Aidan Warrick, the man who doffed his coat and wrapped her in its warm folds on a cold night... who dove into the gray morass of the sucking tide to drag a child from the embrace of death itself?

  He had killed to keep her safe.

  He looked at her with heated desire, never seeing her as a woman defined by her twisted limb.

  No friend could be as true as this man, her enemy.

  No, not her enemy. Her father’s.

  The candlelight licked the hard planes of his chest, the ridged terrain of his firm belly. She knew now the physical scars he bore, and suspected what marks he carried on his soul, yet, to her, he was unutterably magnificent. Not flawed in her eyes. Perfect. She saw only his splendor, and the affection and esteem he had shown her. And for the first time since that long ago evening when she had tarried too long and walked home too late, when a stranger had stolen her youth, her naiveté, left her lame and motherless, she saw herself as whole and strong and brave.

  For that was how Aidan saw her, and through his eyes, she had glimpsed the truth. She had been shaped by her past, but she was not defined by it. Now, if she could only help him to understand that same thing.

  “Ah, Jane, ’tis best I go,” he rasped, taking a step back.

  “No. ’Tis best you stay. Here. With me.” The words were out before she could think to stop them, and once they were free, she could find no will to call them back.

  His gaze locked on hers, he nodded slowly. “Be certain, sweet. There is no going back.” Bracing his hands on either side of the tub, he leaned close, studying her, his expression taut, and then he let his gaze roam lower, to her body so barely covered by the clinging wet cloth of her shift.

  His slow regard left molten heat each place it rested.

  “No going back,” she whispered, reaching up to cup his cheeks. “Only forward, Aidan.” My love. “We go forward.”

  Arching up, she pressed her mouth to his.

  Chapter 13

  Jane pressed her lips to Aidan’s and kissed him with all the emotion in her heart, all the passion that had built through so many days of heated looks and fleeting touches. Aidan’s response was immediate, his arms like living metal, banding her, half lifting her from the tub as his mouth opened over hers and his tongue stroked and tasted, a low, masculine sound of pleasure coming from deep in his throat.

  “This tub will hold two,” she whispered, unsure where the thought came from, but certain that she wanted him there in the warm, scented water, skin to wet skin, rubbing against her. The image made a tight coil of heat twist deep inside her.

  Where had her exhaustion gone? She felt alive and awake, her body strummed to heightened awareness.

  He laughed, the sound rich with promise, curling around her and through her.

  She looked away as his hands went to the waistband of his breeches then, seduced by curiosity, she looked back to find him naked, tall and lean, muscled and beautiful. Her gaze lingered on the jutting fullness of him, thick, long, and she wet her lips, half fascinated, half cautious.

  “Scoot forward,” he instructed, his voice mellow and sure.

  Jane did as he bid, closing her eyes as she felt him step into the tub behind her. The hairs of his legs brushed the skin of her shoulders, and she shivered at the touch. Water sloshed up and over the sides of the tub, crested over the peaks of her breasts, lapping at her skin and leaving her acutely aware of her body and of the aching need deep inside. As he settled behind her, she moved in the warm water, leaning back, wiggling against the solid wall of his chest.

  “This shift must go,” he said, and ran his finger along the edge of her wet chemise. “I would have you naked in my arms.” The low words were a bare warning. He twined his strong fingers through the cloth and tore it sharply, his movements sending the water sloshing once more.

  She made a murmured sound of protest, but he wrapped one arm around her and splayed his fingers over her collarbone. He trailed his fingers to the pulse that beat a hard rhythm in her neck, and finally up to her lips. The pleasure of his touch rippled through her.

  “I’ll buy you a dozen shifts,” he whispered, his breath warm against her shoulder. “Nay, two dozen. Three. Gowns. Jewels. Anything and everything your heart desires.”

  “I do not need that.” I need only you. You are my what my heart desires.

  She moved her head back and forth, rubbing her mouth on his finger, opening her lips to run her tongue along the length of it, nipping, sucking, driven by instinct and pure undiluted wanting, driven to suck and bite, and to rock back against the hard prod of him that pushed insistently against her buttocks. He was goading her to madness with each slow swipe of his fingertip across her lower lip, and with the feel of him, hard and thick and full against the small of her back.

  She shivered as he took up the soap and began to wash her, his hands strong and sure, his breath warm on the back of her neck. For a moment she felt terribly uncertain, inexperience leaving her lost in the pulsing tide of her escalating desire. He nipped her shoulder and lost the soap when she jumped, leaving them both laughing as he searched for his slippery prey, and then leaving her gasping while his soapy hands caressed her breasts, lightly, then a little harder, her nipples between his fingers as he coaxed and pinched. Her head rolled from side to side, and small, gasping moans escaped her lips.

  A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He skimmed her waist, the column of her neck. She curved into his touch, nearly crying out in frustration as his hands moved to her shoulders, her arms in soap­slick caress. And then he slid his fingers lower to tease her beneath the water with a lush stroke to parts of her that felt hot and full with need, building her desire to a sharp-edged pleasure that bordered on pain.

  He moved his hand away and she moaned and rolled her hips, a sinuous undulation.

  “Touch me there. Again.” She arched her back, wanting his hands between her legs and on her breasts once more.

  Perverse man, gliding his fingers along her waist when all she wanted was for him to touch her swollen nipples, to stroke them and pinch them, and to caress her between her thighs as he had a moment ago. He washed her hair, her skin, all parts of her except for those that throbbed with a frantic ache. His every action was a sweet torment as he teased her, drawing the circle of her pleasure ever tighter, ever stronger with his slow seduction.

  She was left shaking with the power of her yearning.

  Squirming, she managed to turn within the tub, only to gasp as a pang wrenched her twisted limb.

  “Wait,” Aidan ordered, grasping her hips and settling her more comfortably, until she faced him with her thighs spread across his, her crippled leg cushioned on his own.

  He bared his
teeth, a smile that was not a smile, hard, rapacious. Yanking her closer, he opened his mouth on hers. Oh, God, the taste of him, the feel of his tongue twining and taking, his teeth grazing her, biting the full flesh of her lower lip, spiraling her to madness. She followed his tutelage and did the same to him, rewarded with the rough sound of his pleasure. The pounding of his heart and the harshness of each breath gave him away. His control was hard won, his body taut with feral need. She did that to him. Dragged him to the brink.

  Taking up the soap, she did for him as he had done for her, lathering the hard planes of his chest, his belly, the columns of his thighs, teasing, tormenting. She moved to his erection, her fingers closing around the thick, smooth length of his arousal as she followed instinct and imagination, stroking and touching, changing her speed and pressure, guided by the sounds he made that told her when she pleased him.

  With a growl, he closed his arms around her and rose from the tub, water rolling from them both in a thick curtain.

  He brought her tight against his chest and dropped them both to the bed, his body coming hard atop her. Whispered words of heat and need, she knew she spoke, but for the life of her she knew not what she said. Set aflame, set free, she turned her face into his neck, licking and biting and sucking until he hissed and pulled back and claimed her with wet, open-mouthed caresses, working his way down her neck, her collarbone, her breast, to close his mouth around her nipple and draw deep.

  She gave a breathy cry that was no release, for the tug of his mouth on the sensitive peak—more than pleasure, not quite pain—drew her deeper into the dizzying spiral. She moved her hips, wriggling, pumping, straining without conscious thought to bring him closer still. He laughed, a dark sound of sensual abandon.

  Positioning himself between her thighs, he rubbed the head of his shaft against her, wide and hot, sliding into her and pulling back, shallow pulses, stretching her. With each thrust she felt a burning, slick glide that was light and dark, sore and not. The careful rhythm and depth were not enough. With instinct born of femininity she angled her hips toward him, wanting more, wanting all of him deep inside her.

  “An instant of pain,” he whispered. One thrust, strong and sure, and he took what she offered, breaching the last barriers of her body and her heart. She cried out in surprise, but not true pain, for it was a momentary twist, a pinch, nothing more. He held still, letting her adjust to the feel of him inside her.

  Full, so full. She was nothing but keen sensation and blazing agitation, wanting, needing.

  He reared back, watched her, moved just a little, and she clenched her fingers in the muscles of his buttocks as pleasure scored her.

  No wonder he had wanted this, had watched her with heated gaze and sharp-edged lust.

  Reaching between them, he stroked her, drawing a gasp of surprise, a moan of delight. He began to move, a little rough, until she thought she would die of it, this tense ecstasy that made her gasp and cry out. Faster, deeper he went, and Jane surged to meet each thrust, reveling in the feel of sinew and strength as he flexed above her.

  The harsh rasp of his breath inflamed her.

  Teeth bared, he came into her, again, again. He lowered his head, took her nipple in his mouth, sucking on her with terse, strong tugs and he pushed himself deeper than she had thought possible.

  The tension inside her coiled tighter on itself, and she writhed and gasped, breathless, if she could just—

  He nipped her and she splintered apart, bright light and swirling heat, her delight a thousand colors and emotions.

  He withdrew, thrust deep once, twice, and she felt him throbbing inside her, with her, his body motionless now above her, his head thrown back. The surge of sensation stole her breath, her mind, her sanity, and every part of her pulsed in perfect synchrony with him for a frozen moment when all and everything was only jagged hot delight, her release and his melding to one.

  Finally, finally, she tumbled down a long and sloping hill to reach the ground once more. She curled her fingers into the muscled expanse of his back, felt the ridged scars beneath her fingers.

  He was what life had made him, forged in fires of pain and grief and secret tragedy, dragged through by the pure strength of his will.

  And he is mine, she thought fiercely.

  * * *

  Jane came awake to the feel of warm, hard man draped around her body. Sunlight streamed through the window, painting the walls and floor with a bright glow. She thought it must be well past noon. She smiled, feeling at peace with herself, wondering how that could be so. She had breached all bounds of propriety, all bounds of good sense. But there was no pang of shame or guilt.

  She had found joy. Love. She froze, that realization sending her heart tripping at an erratic pace and denial coursing through her. What value love, if it was felt by only one? What danger love, if unrequited? She should know better than to love him.

  But she wasn’t certain that love was a choice.

  “A frown, sweet?” Aidan nuzzled her neck, the rough scrape of his stubbled jaw making her laugh. “Better,” he said. “Better your laughter than your frown. I would hear your laughter always.”

  She rolled to her side, staring deep into his eyes.

  “Only a fool laughs all the time.”

  Catching a wisp of her dark hair, he smoothed it back from her face. “You are no fool, Jane.”

  Such a strange undercurrent to his words, perhaps concern, or a guarded caution.

  “Am I not?” she whispered. “Am I not the greatest fool for thinking—” She pressed her lips together, holding fast to the words before they tumbled free.

  He waited for her to continue, his changeable eyes narrowed in thought, and when she said nothing more he frowned. “Regrets already, love?”

  Love. He called her love. A carelessly tossed word with no true meaning.

  “No regrets.” That much was true. She would never regret the hours of pure and true beauty she had found in his arms, the delight he had given her, the gift she had bestowed on him, her innocence, such that it was. “No, Aidan, I have no regrets.”

  He smiled then, and when he did, she realized how taut his lips had been, recognized the easing of the tension that had etched fine lines to bracket eyes and mouth. Her answer had mattered greatly. The insight startled her, and warmed her, and filled her heart with hope.

  “You were wonderful last night,” she whispered. Surprise flashed in his eyes.

  “Why, thank you, sweet.” His grin was wide and arrogant.

  “Oh, dear.” She gasped, suddenly aware of how he had construed her remark. “No. Not that! I meant on the beach. When you saved that child. All those people. I never meant your lovemaking—”

  “My lovemaking was not wonderful?” His brows rose. “I am desolate that you feel that way... Here, let me try again....” He buried his face in the crook of her neck and kissed her.

  Lighthearted. She had not thought it possible for him to be so.

  With a shift of his weight, he rolled her beneath him, his hand skimming lightly along the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip.

  He was laughing now. She could feel his body shaking against hers.

  “Insufferable,” she whispered, but she knew her tone lacked conviction. She was so very glad to see him smile, to hear him laugh. “Aidan, you are a true hero. You saved so many lives.”

  With a sigh, he shook his head and gently stroked her cheek. “Do not color me with a wash of light and glory, Jane. If I could truly wear the badge of honor you would give me, I would be a far better man than the one I am.”

  “You risked your life for others,” she pointed out.

  “But nothing can erase the sins of my past, sweet, or make up for the lives I have taken.” Dark words, spoken in toneless litany. Terrible words. “Nor can it erase the fact that I lack any remorse.”

  A sudden chill crawled across her skin. She knew he had killed, knew he had shot Gaby on the Bodmin Road. But that had been in defense of her life. She h
ad not wanted to think about his reasons for killing others. How many others? She wanted to believe that however many he had killed, he had had no choice, had harmed no innocents.

  “I know you dream, Jane. No sweet slumber, restful and kind, but a dark and tormented pit that yawns wide beneath you.” A statement, not a question. She made no reply, and certainly no denial. Yes, he knew of the demons that chased her in the night. He had held her close as she faced them down.

  “I, too, have dreams, love,” he continued in his smoke and brandy voice. “I wake with sweat pouring down my back, and I remember. Not just the bite of the lash, or his terrible laughter as he wielded it. I remember the feel of my hands around his throat, the crack of breaking bone, and the dreadful surge of satisfaction when he finally stopped thrashing.

  “Nay, I do not merely remember. I live it again and again and, Jane, I cannot force myself to feel regret or remorse. I do not want even to try. There is pleasure in knowing I killed him.”

  “Aidan.” Her every emotion laced that one whispered word. What she would not give to erase his pain.

  Something flickered in his gaze, perhaps recognition of the feelings she could barely bring herself to acknowledge. When he spoke at last, his voice was low and dull, little more than a whisper. “But the others... They are there, waiting for me, their eyes dark, endless caverns, their souls, if ever they had such, long departed.” He looked at his hands. “Did you think Gaby was the first?”

  She made an inarticulate sound of sympathy. With a snarl, Aidan rolled away from her and surged to his feet, naked, feral. Crossing to the far side of the room, he pressed one palm against the wall, back bowed, head hanging forward. His shoulders fell, then lifted as he blew out a rapid breath and then dragged air into his heaving lungs. Tears pricked her eyes for she longed to go to him, to soothe his pain.

  But she knew not how.

  “And your father... I want to see him suffer the worst agony, but if I bring it about, you—” He glanced at her, a quick, desperate look. “What torture is this that I should want the daughter of my enemy? That I am called to choose between my vengeance, that which kept me alive through years and trials that few would even wish to survive, and you, Jane. You soothe my heart.” He paused then, and the silence stretched. Finally, he said in a voice so soft she barely heard him, “You offer me the first peace I can recall.”