To Tempt an Heiress
Page 13
He could have drawn back, would have drawn back—he had sufficient strength for that. But only just.
Then she clawed at his arms, pressing herself closer when he tried to pull away. “Please,” she whispered again, sapping his resistance. Trailing his hand over her hip, he sought and found that little nub of nerve endings and circled it with his thumb, relentlessly building her pleasure until she was shuddering beneath him. When he at last slid in fully, a gasp burst from each of them—his of relief, hers of... shock, he hoped, more than pain.
“Kiss me,” he murmured, holding himself as still as he could until she began to relax around him. His thrusts, slow and shallow, soon ratcheted up her need, and in a few strokes she was meeting them, straining against him, panting. So he quickened the pace, the swirl of his thumb keeping time with the plunge of his cock, until she shattered with a cry and reached for his buttocks, pulling him deeper yet, spurring his release. He could no more have pulled out of the slick heat of her body than he could have stopped the tides.
He came, and for one bright moment, all was peace.
“That, my dear, was unwise,” he said after a time. He rolled off her, onto his side, and pulled her close to him, her back against his chest. When his own breathing had returned to something like normal, and her pulse had begun to slow, he traced her collarbone with an idle finger and ventured a quiet question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was afraid you would stop.”
“I should have stopped.”
For a moment, she did not answer. “I wanted it,” she said at last. “And I was already ruined anyway.”
As explanations went, its logic was rather faulty, but he thought he knew what she meant. He had once said something similar to Cary. If she would as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, he supposed he could not blame her. “Still . . .” he began.
“Oh, do not say you must marry me now,” she cut across him, twisting slightly against his hold. “I have already told you, I mean never to wed.”
“What if there are . . . consequences?”
She swallowed hard and shook her head, her silky, bright curls tickling his shoulder. “There won’t be.”
Hoisting himself onto one elbow, he turned her toward him so that he could meet her eyes. “There might, and for that, I blame myself. But if you are carrying my child, Tempest, we will marry.” He might be an irresponsible scoundrel, but even he had his limits. “That is that.”
She struggled into a sitting position, clutching the sheet around her chest in a sudden show of modesty. “We will do no such thing.”
He understood the reasons for her resistance to marriage in general. He even respected her reluctance in this particular case. After all, except perhaps for in bed, they did not seem particularly well-suited. The reformer and the rogue. It sounded rather like the title of one of those tawdry novels Beals picked up in every port. The book always made its rounds through the crew until it somehow wound up—worn and tattered, much like its misguided heroine—in his own hands. Tempest could be forgiven for wishing to avoid such a fate.
Nevertheless, he wanted to argue with her about the matter. Wanted to watch her temper flare, see her cheeks warm, feel her pulse rise. Wanted to steal her breath, her words with kisses, until defiance was the last thing on her mind.
And precisely because it was not what he wanted to do, he got up and began to dress. She watched him in openmouthed shock, her brows driven down into a sharp V. When he went into the other room, she followed, the bedsheet-turned-gown trailing behind her. “You cannot simply walk away. Our conversation is not finished.”
“Oh yes, it is,” he countered, shrugging into his coat. “Because if I stay, I’ll be tempted to do far more than talk.”
A flush rose high on her cheekbones. “You needn’t worry about that,” she insisted. “It won’t happen again. I would not take such a risk.”
“Liar,” he whispered, moving one step closer.
As if to prove his point, she shifted slightly, putting the corner of the table between them. “Let me ask one question. Where are we bound now?”
“London,” he said simply. “What do you imagine has changed?”
“Well, the Justice has sunk and Lord Nathaniel is dead,” she pointed out. “The danger you claimed to be avoiding is gone. So you have no excuse not to return to Antigua.”
“No excuse?” He scoffed. “Ought I to risk sailing into the back side of that storm, then?”
Her eyes sparked—mostly anger, perhaps a glimmer of fear. “I will see you a wealthy man if you take me back.”
“I’ll be a wealthy man if I don’t, my dear,” he said, only half-thinking of Cary’s promise to double what he had already paid once Tempest had been delivered to her grandfather. “Besides, the Colleen needs repairs, and London is the best place to make them. Thanks to those winds, we’re better than halfway there.”
He didn’t add that it would be best—or at least necessary—to stay close together until they knew whether she was with child.
And perhaps he didn’t need to make that point. Although she tipped her chin and gave a rebellious scowl, for once she didn’t argue with him. Perhaps she was beginning to grasp the ramifications of what they’d so rashly done.
Fishing in his pocket, he withdrew a brass key and tossed it onto the table with a clatter. It slid across the polished surface and struck the empty whiskey glass with a ping. “For the door,” he said.
Something flickered across her eyes too quickly for him to identify. Selfishly, he hoped it was regret at discovering he did not mean to return to her bed.
With a nod, he stepped into the night air and closed the door behind him.
But he waited until he heard the key grate in the lock before he walked away.
Chapter 11
Snatching up the key from the table, she was to the door almost before it had latched behind him, fitting the key to the lock and twisting until she heard a reassuring snick.
It seemed more than slightly ridiculous to take comfort in the action. Shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted, and all that. Was she locking him out? Or locking herself in?
She rather feared it might take more than a few stout oak planks to keep her from committing further folly.
As she passed the table, she picked up a morsel of the captain’s untouched supper and put it to her lips. But the food was cold and her appetite had flown.
Wandering back into the bedchamber instead, she almost stumbled over the sheet tangled around her ankles. The candle had guttered, but the room was still lit by a bright swath of moonlight spilling across the bed. When she let the sheet drop to the floor, her pale skin glowed under those luminous beams.
Did she look different somehow? If she closed her eyes, she could still feel his lips on her breasts, the rough scrape of his jaw, the brush of his calloused fingertips. And the unfamiliar ache between her legs, the lingering slickness of his possession. She clung to every scrap of memory, storing away every sensation. One night of pleasure to carry her through the lonely years ahead.
She had gotten what she wanted, had she not? And perhaps a bit more besides.
When she opened her eyes, her gaze was drawn to a spattering of dark spots on the center of the bed. By morning light they would be crimson, but under the moon’s deceiving rays, they looked black. It was not much blood, really. She had not known what to expect. With the cool water remaining in the washbasin, she carefully sponged between her legs and then picked up her shift from the floor and drew it on over her head.
Consequences, he had said.
It seemed to her as if the shedding of blood once should be consequence enough. She ought not to have to wait in a state of panic until she bled again. She scrambled to recall every word Omeah had ever spoken on such matters, but those conversations had been few and far between, and Tempest had never been prone to listening. She had last bled a few days before this grand adventure began. It was mid-November now, or later, meaning alm
ost a month had already gone by. At least she shouldn’t be kept in suspense for long . . .
When she climbed onto the mattress, she folded the stained sheet over itself so it would not mark her garments. Oh, how could she have allowed a momentary fantasy to eclipse her good sense? She might have harsh reality for her bedfellow for all eternity now.
Andrew’s insistence on doing the honorable thing surprised her. After all, he had proudly proclaimed more than once that he was no gentleman. And having been as good as kidnapped by him, she had had little cause to doubt it.
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—marry him, of course, but she found it even more difficult to believe that he would be willing to marry her. What was it he had said about marriage? That he was a man “ill-suited to such responsibilities.”
He had also said that a marriage ought to offer affection, even love.
She suffered no illusions about what had just passed between them. It had nothing to do with love. And as foundation for a lifelong match, heedless passion seemed to fall rather wide of the mark.
Then, of course, there was the matter of “economic security,” as he had phrased it. What if . . . ? Oh God. Despite the warm night, a chill chased down her limbs. What was it he had said about getting more money if he didn’t let her go? What if he only really wanted from her what everyone had always wanted—Harper’s Hill and her father’s fortune?
No, no, no, she reassured herself, clutching her ribs as if she were trying to hold herself together. She had fallen into his arms because she wanted him, and she had returned kisses that had made her believe he wanted her, too. Had he known she was still a virgin, he would not have made love to her, of that she felt certain. And when he discovered it, he would have stopped—if she would have let him. That was not the behavior of a man who intended to force a marriage. She could say that with some authority, familiar as she was with the type.
Besides, he was the captain of a merchant ship in a very wealthy part of the world. If he were out solely for gain, he had numerous avenues by which to acquire it. And he must have enjoyed some success, for his clothes, his books, his personal effects all bespoke a man of some means. She scoured her memory, trying to piece together what she knew of his life before he went to sea. His father had been a ship builder—not a mere carpenter, but a man of such skill and sufficient status that he had been allowed to name his creation and invited to sail with it to London, where the man who would later become Andrew’s stepfather, presumably a successful merchant, had commissioned the ship. Andrew came from respectable, well-to-do people, and that must count for something.
Of course, he had also told her he had “claimed” the Fair Colleen—what if that had merely been a polite euphemism for taking something that had not been his to take? And what had he been doing with it all these years? In all her investigations, had she ever heard talk of lawful cargo, of regular routes, of reasonable profits? No. Only kidnapping, an outlaw crew, and revenge.
Money was, presumably, the reason he had accepted Edward’s bribe. Revenge no doubt paid very poorly. After ten years, he might be in desperate straits indeed. Perhaps, in the wake of Stratton’s demise, Andrew had hit upon the perfect scheme to make up for lost fortune and lost time.
What would Miss Wollstonecraft do?
Ludicrous as it seemed to imagine the serious-minded writer in the clutches of a pirate, Tempest nonetheless applied herself to a question that had always brought her some comfort before. Miss Wollstonecraft would not despair, that was certain. She would think quite rationally about the future: In a fortnight or so, they would be in London, one of the largest ports in the world, filled with ships sailing to every part of the globe. Tempest had found her way across that terrifying sea once; surely she could find her way home.
Miss Wollstonecraft did not strike her as the sort of person who wasted her energy on regret. What was done, was done. Tempest had enjoyed the experience of making love with Andrew, and if there was a price to be paid for her actions, she would pay it—any price short of marriage, that was.
As she settled into the bed and tried to make herself comfortable, the scent of him—the scent of them—surrounded her, and the memory of his touch washed over her with all the force of a storm-tossed wave. Suddenly, her shift felt rough against her peaked nipples, and the throbbing between her thighs had nothing to do with discomfort.
She had known the mechanics of the act, of course. Innocence—or at least ignorance—was difficult to maintain in her world. But the knowing and the doing were such different things.
When Lord Nathaniel had first begun to cast lascivious glances in Tempest’s direction, Omeah had warned her about the things a man might do to a woman. But she had never said—perhaps had not known, given her plight before coming to Harper’s Hill—that a woman might long to do such things with an intensity that was almost painful, or that a gentle, generous man might give as much pleasure as he got.
With a strange sort of hesitation, she reached out for the key Andrew had given her. Moonlight gleamed along it on the small bedside table. As she curled her fingers around it and drew it across the tabletop toward her, she thought about why he had given it to her now, of all times. When she had first come aboard, he had not trusted her. Now, it seemed, he did not entirely trust himself.
If she returned the key to him, might he return to her?
Oh, but that was a dangerous thing to wonder. Beneath the pillow, she gripped the cool metal until the bit dug into her flesh, hoping the prickle of discomfort would bring her to her senses. She had allowed herself one night, and that one night might end up costing her dearly. She was going to have to content herself with nothing more than the memories of passion.
Some might counsel her not to indulge in even those.
But on that point at least, Tempest declined to consult Miss Wollstonecraft’s otherwise sage advice.
* * *
It seemed that every member of the Colleen’s crew, even those who were on duty and ought to be tending to other tasks, was pressed against the railing as the ship slipped into the wide mouth of the Thames and sailed past Gravesend on its way to the Pool of London.
The only face missing from the eager crowd was Tempest’s.
Andrew had hardly seen her since that ill-advised interlude after the storm. He had continued to make himself scarce on deck during the daylight hours, but she had made herself scarce altogether. For the final portion of their voyage, she had stayed within his cabin with the door securely locked from the inside—as at least a part of him had intended she should.
No doubt she supposed the locked door had given her privacy, but in his capacity as captain he had access to far more information about her habits than she would have liked. He knew what she ate—or more accurately, what she didn’t. He knew she must be sleeping poorly, for she had gone through a larger than usual number of candles.
And he knew he might yet have to make good on his promise—or had it been a threat?—to marry her.
With a nod to Bewick to take up the helm, he drew in a sharp breath and strode toward his cabin. As their destination neared, it was time for rapprochement. She was going to have to come out, and he would rather avoid having to go in after her.
“Miss Holderin,” he called as he rapped on the door. “I thought you should know we will be in London in a few hours’ time. Make yourself ready to go ashore.”
To his surprise, the door swung open and she faced him across the threshold, clad once more in Timmy’s waistcoat and breeches, with the addition of a wool cap over her ragged curls. It might draw fewer eyes than a dress, he supposed, but no one who truly looked would mistake her for a boy. “I am ready,” she declared quietly as she picked up a small bundle—her own clothes, he supposed—from the floor.
“Come up,” he suggested. “See the sights.”
With a hesitant nod, she agreed and stepped out of the cabin. A gust of raw early December air swirled past him, taking her breath. “Oh,” she gasped. Before he could
offer his coat, she retreated inside once again and emerged with a rough wool blanket pulled tightly around her shoulders. At his feet, Caliban snuffled the air and cocked his head suspiciously, and at once Andrew recognized her makeshift shawl as the dog’s bed.
He opened his mouth, not to laugh, but to offer . . . well, what? If she had wanted something of his to wear instead, she could have taken it. And if she was stubborn enough to wear an old blanket covered in dog hair rather than don one of his coats, any words of his weren’t likely to change her mind.
“You’ll grow accustomed to the cold,” he said instead, although after so much time in warmer climes, it cut through him, too, with the keenness of a freshly whetted blade.
“I don’t intend to stay here long enough for that,” she replied as she brushed past him.
Resisting the temptation to argue, he lifted the bundle from her hand and tossed it back into his cabin before closing the door. “I’ll have someone fetch your things once we’re docked.”
She looked as if she wanted to protest, but in the end she allowed herself to be led to the railing and ensconced in a place where she could watch the great city as it grew on the horizon. With a surreptitious word to one of the crew to keep an eye on her, Andrew returned to his post at the wheel.
Would it be his last time guiding the Colleen into port? He had little excuse to return to the sea now. Stratton and the Justice were gone. He’d reached his goal, after a fashion, but had he really gotten what he wanted? Truth be told, he felt more adrift now than he’d ever felt while sailing the Atlantic.
It was not that he had imagined Stratton’s death would somehow restore his father’s life. Oh, perhaps once upon a time, such a notion had formed a part of the childish fantasy that had first sent him to sea. But he had seen too much in the intervening years to cling to the kind of magical thinking his gran’s stories had encouraged.