“The hour grows late. We sail at dawn,” he said abruptly. “Tell me, condesa, what is it you want from me?”
She blinked, and that fleeting moment of vulnerability vanished like a mirage. He quashed a queer pang of regret like a discarded cigarro.
“I came because I owed you an apology,” she said crisply in Spanish, striding away from the Angel of Death without a second glance. “I realized I’d done you an injustice, capitán, fleeing your presence like a frightened virgin. You could have any woman on this ship tonight, is that not so? As blackened as your reputation with the señoras appears to be, no one has suggested you resort to rape for your pleasures.”
Never looking at him as she delivered this remarkable confession, she swept past his globe and gave it a brisk spin.
“In my own defense, I can say only that betraying one’s country—even when motivated as I am by the most profound devotion to God and His Church—demands a certain toll. I am confident you can understand.”
Without waiting for his reply, she crossed to the door. “I wish you good fortune on your voyage, though by all accounts you seem to have plenty. Hasta luego.”
Belatedly he realized the extraordinary woman intended to walk straight out his door. Having said what she’d come to say, she seemed to consider his response irrelevant.
As she reached for the handle, a flicker of irritation flared to life. He fired into motion, crossing the cluttered cabin in three swift strides.
She’d barely opened the door when his palm thudded against the wood and slammed it closed. Beneath his braced arm, she froze like a hunted fish when a shark glides past. In the sudden silence, her quickened breath was the only sound.
Calyx gazed down at the piled masses of her sable hair, held in place by a glittering comb whose blood-dark rubies were excellent fakes. A few silky curls unraveled against the pale column of her neck. The subtle fragrance of moonflowers enveloped him.
Like the scrape of flint against pyrite, a flash of desire sparked through him. He’d wanted her since the moment he’d seen her scrambling gracefully aboard in a froth of petticoats and crimson ribbon, with a cool disdain for scandal. He was fascinated by her paradoxical behavior—maddeningly complacent in the admiral’s arms, chilly as Arctic ice in his own. He was captivated by her diamond-bright wit and that poignant hint of vulnerability, her unlikely blend of sophistication and innocence.
Her unpredictability intrigued and challenged him. Yet her precipitous retreat roused him to tingling alert.
He wanted to unravel the mystery of Lady Jayne Boleyn, the scandal who bore a French countess’s title and an English traitor’s name. He wanted to peel back her disguise like the layers of gold-slashed damask that encased her voluptuous figure, ease her out of her protective armor one deception at a time, until he’d laid bare her elusive magick.
He wanted to know all her secrets.
Inches away, still facing the door, Jayne cleared her throat. Her throaty voice betrayed a hint of strain.
“Was there—something more you wanted?”
Raw passion tightened like a fist around his cock. It swelled beneath his codpiece—a beast that knew its own mind, as always.
“You.” Lust roughened his voice as he spoke into the fragrant midnight of her hair. “I’ve wanted you since the moment you boarded my ship.”
Wrapped in shadows, she trembled slightly. In the charged silence that hummed between them, he heard her swallow.
“That is unfortunate, capitán,” she said quietly. “For unlike the flotilla of Portuguese prostitutes whose services you have procured to entertain your guests, I am not for sale.”
“Who said anything about buying you?” Deftly he slid the glittering fire of counterfeit rubies from her coiffure. A lush curtain of midnight hair tumbled down around her shoulders. “What I have in mind for you, Lady Jayne, is pure seduction.”
Chapter Five
As her hair spilled around her shoulders, Jayne clung to the door like a lifeline. She’d felt so certain of making her escape. She’d intended her apology to steal the wind from his sails while she made a graceful exit.
She had what she’d come for—that precious intelligence, the landing sites of the Spanish fleet. Her goal now was to escape this floating nightmare before it cast off on its mission of destruction, then send a swift courier to Walsingham.
Indeed, with information this valuable, she was toying with the notion of sailing herself. If this feat didn’t buy her way back to her royal cousin’s good graces, her cause was truly hopeless.
A month from now, I could be seeing my son, telling him his mother always loved him, that I fought to keep him—
Then Lord Calyx dropped his bomb, and the impact shredded every rational plan in her head.
Behind her, he stood so close the heat of his powerful body glowed like banked coals against her skin. If only he were not such a large man, surely his nearness would not turn her knees to jelly in this alarming manner. The muted thunder of his voice in her ear wouldn’t speed her pulse and send spurts of tingling energy shooting through her veins—that fight or flight impulse every hunter inspired in his prey.
She stared at his big hand—calloused by wind and weapon, big-knuckled and blunt with brute strength—spread across the door. Did he suspect her? How could he not, after finding her crouched in the darkness riffling through his private papers? How could she disarm him?
“I am flattered, of course.” She played for time while her thoughts seethed. “You are the man of the hour, the Armada’s best hope to elude El Draque and the English fleet. But you launch at dawn. Surely a hundred duties demand your attention.”
It was a weak opening play, and he parried it easily.
“That’s why I have a primero. Diego’s the best lieutenant in the fleet.”
As he spoke, his fingers twined around her loosened hair and eased it aside. A cool breeze teased the nape of her neck.
Desperately her hand tightened on the door. “As a loyal servant of the Enterprise, capitán, I could not live with my conscience if I distracted you from duty at this critical juncture.”
“Distract me.” His warm breath whispered against her neck. A delicate shiver swept across her skin. “You’ll be sending a man to face death with beautiful memories. You’re the perfect partisan for Spain.”
This is madness. If I’m not careful, I’ll miss the last boat.
She need only finish what she’d started—pull the door open, she meant. Surely he would not hold her here by brute force. She was still struggling to stitch together her shredded composure when his lips grazed her neck.
Every coherent thought went spinning out of her head.
When duty compelled her to tolerate masculine attention, she normally felt naught but dismay and determination to rid herself of the feckless creature as swiftly as possible. This very night, with the Admiral of the Ocean Sea panting in her ear, she’d struggled to conceal her revulsion.
But the fleeting brush of Lord Calyx’s lips raised the fine hairs along her neck and sent tendrils of sensation coursing down her spine. A restless energy flared between them and danced like lightning along her skin. A gasp tore from her lips.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he whispered against her skin.
“Feel—what?”
God in Heaven, could that throaty voice be hers?
She was the last woman on earth to be swept off her feet by a man’s passion. She’d been infatuated with Robert Dudley once, and that fleeting indiscretion had destroyed her life. Yield now to this man—the infamous Lord Calyx, Scourge of the Spanish Main—and she risked more than her reputation.
“You know very well what.” His teeth closed gently over the taut sinew of her shoulder.
A small cry slipped out before she could contain it. His low chuckle vibrated against her skin. He was the supreme predator, and she’d just swum into hunting range.
The gentle abrasion of his teeth stung her skin. Then his tongue swept across the
spot, a flicker of liquid heat. All her strength seemed to seep away until she floated, limp and lethargic, in his seductive current.
“Tell me I’m not the only one,” he whispered, “who feels this strange magick.”
Aye, it is magick. She too had sensed it the moment she’d seen him, tall and compelling, a single beam of moonlight lighting his white-gold hair like a halo.
She might be part Fae, but he too commanded some arcane power. Every nerve in her body tingled with recognition.
But this was dangerous terrain. She’d already slipped once and betrayed her own magick. The Spaniards burned witches and called it God’s justice.
Her tongue swept across her lips. “Capitán, the hour is exceeding late.”
“This ship won’t sail until I give the command.” His breath danced along the shell of her ear, tongue tasting the sensitive hollow beneath her earlobe. Tiny darts of pleasure rippled through her. “If you’re looking for dalliance, I’m the safest man aboard.”
God’s Eyes, he was hardly that! She could barely think with him nuzzling the soft skin beneath her jaw, where her pulse fluttered and leaped like a trapped moth. Determined to end this devastating assault on her senses, she folded her arm over the corded strength of his, now wrapped around her waist, and laced her fingers with the callused strength of his. Beneath her palm, his big hand was strong and steady.
“Stop,” she whispered. “I cannot think.”
“Good.” His arm tightened, spilling her back against his powerful frame. “I don’t want you thinking.”
The solid heat of his chest and thighs seared her spine. The hard bulge of his codpiece nudged her lower back. Heat spiraled through her, all the way down to her secret place. Beneath the protective shell of skirts and farthingale, dampness slicked her inner thighs.
“But we must think,” she managed. English now, because she had no time for the intricacies of foreign verbs and conjugation. “If we indulge in this, you’ll regret it. Believe me.”
“Because of Don Alonso?” His voice hardened.
She recognized masculine possession, surely the last reaction she sought to inspire. A perverse thrill arced through her.
“Why the Devil should I give a damn about him?” he growled. “You said it yourself. Neither he nor any other grandee will ever welcome me among them.”
His tone thickened. “That means I do as I please. Which is fortunate for both of us.”
Abruptly he straightened, pulling her back against him. His hands closed over her breasts.
Shocked to her core, she gripped his hands—to tear them away, of course. But her breasts were swelling beneath his touch. A tide of tingling warmth rolled through her. Her nipples tightened and rose against the tight-laced damask.
When his thumbs slid over them, she voiced a wordless sound. Her hands fell away.
As she arched into his touch, a low groan tore through him.
“My—my lord—”
“Calyx. I want to hear you say my name.” Through the stiff fabric he cradled her breasts, thumbs rubbing against the sensitized peaks until her bones turned to liquid. The hidden place between her legs pulsed like a second heart. “I’m Calyx, and you’re Jayne, and nothing else matters a damn. There’s no England, no Spain, no bloody damn war between us tonight.”
Can he dismiss it all so easily? Perhaps it was easy for him, a pirate who fought for the highest bidder...
Why shouldn’t that bidder be England?
The novel thought jolted through her. If he fought for whoever paid him the most, could she not persuade Walsingham to pay his bounty?
Even as these thoughts teemed through her brain, her nipples jutted against his fingers. A current of desire she could no longer deny pulsed through her. It might have been years since she’d desired a man, but clearly her body had not forgotten.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he breathed in her ear, the brush of his lips setting her afire. “Tell me you don’t want me.”
“In point of fact—”
“Tell me that, and I’ll call you a liar,” he said roughly. “I can abide many things in a woman—jealousy, vanity, selfishness, greed. But the one thing I won’t abide is deception. Never lie to me, Jayne. I’m warning you.”
Through the swirling maelstrom of yearning, a shaft of fear drove inward. Did he sense she was lying about more than this swift rise of passion? She’d lied about everything from the moment they’d met.
Whatever happened between them, she must lay those suspicions to rest. Half the officers in Spain were aboard his ship tonight. One word from him and she’d be detained, interrogated, tossed into a cell to rot. She must do whatever it took to throw him off the scent, to preserve her freedom until her vital intelligence reached Walsingham’s ears.
Nothing else mattered now. It was not as though she were a virgin, after all, with a maid’s virtue to protect. She would do what she must—for England’s sake. A reckless euphoria swirled through her.
“Very well.” Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, husky and thick with passion. “I will not lie to you.”
Tipping her head against his broad shoulder, she arched into his touch in wordless invitation. A low growl rumbled through him.
“Jayne.”
A sudden memory of childhood surfaced. On her father’s country estate, she’d recklessly mounted a half-broken stallion, convinced she could tame the beast. The wild creature had reared and launched into a terrifying gallop. Then and now, Jayne could do naught but fling her arms around his neck and cling for dear life.
With a few deft tugs, Calyx unknotted the gold cord that bound the front of her tight-laced bodice. The cage of whalebone and satin released. As she drew breath into her lungs, a delicious sense of relief rushed through her. Her breasts rose, plumped high by the corset that still clasped her waist, the full globes sheathed only in the gossamer silk of her embroidered smock. His strong hands cradled them, the friction chafing her erect nipples, pleasure sparking through her at every touch.
Unable to contain it, she voiced a small mewling sound.
“Like that, do you, belleza?” Through the fragile silk he stroked and kneaded her, rolling the taut crests between his fingers, until the liquid heat building between her thighs had her undulating like the tide beneath his touch.
“Please,” she whispered, hardly knowing what she begged for. “Oh, please...”
But he seemed to know. Boldly he tugged down her smock to bare her. Beneath heavy lids, Jayne caught a glimpse of herself, frankly erotic, breasts thrusting for his attention above the cage of her corset, pink nipples jutting as though they begged for his touch. When his callused fingers grazed them, tweaking and pulling as though he knew just what to do, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“Is this what you want?” His lips seared a path of moist heat across her shoulder.
“Yes, oh yes,” she moaned, never wanting these pulsing waves of pleasure to stop. Beneath the heavy layers of skirts and petticoats, her inner thighs were slippery with desire.
While one hand played across her eager breasts, he loosened her corset. She felt a moment of profound gratitude that he seemed to know his way around the intricacies of a woman’s garments. Sluggishly she reached to help him, sliding the heavy sleeves from her shoulders.
Properly they should be unlaced from her bodice, but she had no patience for that now. She cared only that he’d finally opened the satin-lined vise of her corset, that it no longer pinched her waist. When he dealt with the flimsy smock by tearing it open, a thrill of sensual delight arrowed through her.
“Turn around, querida.” His voice was thick with passion. “Let me look at you.”
Belated embarrassment fluttered through her. She must look like a ruined woman, gown open to the waist and sliding from her shoulders, hair tumbling around her face, flushed and panting with passion.
Well, let him see her, for that was what she was. Her reputation was built upon it.
Defiant, she lifted
her chin and turned, making no attempt to cover herself.
The candlelight behind him cast his strong features into shadow. He towered over her like the avenging angels that surrounded them, the padded shoulders of the doublet that encased his broad shoulders hulking like black wings against the light.
Somehow fitting, this view of him as a faceless silhouette. He was an utter stranger to her. Yet her body seemed already to recognize him.
For a long moment, he looked his fill, the slow sweep of his gaze like a physical touch. The mere thought of being so exposed to him set her afire. When he stepped forward, she closed her eyes and lifted her face, knowing by instinct what he wanted. The warm spice of cypress and ambergris mingled with the musky scent of aroused male.
“Do it,” she whispered.
His strong hand closed beneath her chin as his mouth settled over hers. Warm, commanding, compelling, his kiss plundered her. The liquid heat of his tongue plunged into her mouth, the dry sweet tang of Madeira singing on her lips.
Blindly she rose on tiptoe and arched against him, arms winding around his neck. The rich fabric of his doublet brushed her nipples. She moaned softly into his mouth.
Never had she dreamed a man could kiss like this! Her late husband’s kisses had certainly been naught to encourage. As for Dudley, he’d been stinking drunk when he raped her. But this Spanish pirate knew what he was about. He coaxed her tongue to duel with his, a heady game of advance and retreat she wanted him to win.
While she clung to him shamelessly, he unclasped her girdle. When he released her farthingale, the heavy weight of her gown slithered to the floor. Her taffeta petticoat and torn smock were the last to go. She worried fleetingly how she would ever manage to get back into the ensemble without a maid to lace her.
But the thought went spinning away. She stood before Lord Calyx, the Scourge of the Spanish Main, clad only in Moroccan slippers and silk stockings, embroidered with cherries and gartered with crimson ribbons at her thighs.
A tremor rippled through her as his sea-roughened hands met her heated skin, sliding down her spine over the swell of her bare bottom, lodging her hard against the bulge of his codpiece. He was still fully dressed, down to his boots and doublet. Would she let him use her, brazen as any harlot, and glory in his possession?
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