by Lara Archer
“Both, I suppose,” she admitted.
“Well, there’s no cause to be lonely. I’m right here.”
His gaze fixed on hers, a searching glance, his usual guardedness gone. In anyone else, she’d have called the expression kind. It was kind, maybe—sympathetic, even.
And all at once, she realized: Sebastian had suffered losses, too.
He’d lost Sarah, of course, just as she had. But that cynical exterior of his spoke of older pain than that. Much older. He never spoke of family.
Ah, why did it take me so long to see? He’s lonely, too.
A sudden, strange impulse filled her—she didn’t want to lie in this bed alone. “Will you wait here with me?”
“Of course. I’m not leaving. Not until dawn comes.”
“No, I mean here.” She patted the bed. “Beside me. Lie down with me.”
Several emotions seemed to cross his face, and he let out a sigh. “I’m not sure that’s wise, sweetheart.”
“Wisdom’s cold comfort at a time like this.” Her eyes beseeched him. “Please. I don’t think I can bear it otherwise, just lying here waiting for that battle to come.”
At that, he heaved another breath, and then he nodded.
She raised the blankets and shifted backwards to make room for him, and lay down. Given how furious she’d been with him just a few hours past, it should have seemed odd to be welcoming him in beside her, but then again, the constantly shifting nature of her relationship with him had never ceased to surprise her. No doubt if they lived to see another day, he’d find some way to outrage her again, but for the moment, it seemed better to call a truce.
The dip of the mattress as he slid beneath the blankets, the whisper of his hair against her pillow, the warm scent of him filling the small space of the bed, all that was a comfort. And when he put his arm around her, pressing his palm to her back, and when his legs settled gently against hers, all the rest of it—the ship out in the darkness, the French enemies who wanted to kill them, the loneliness—began to ease away.
And only the two of them remained. Safe where they were.
His other arm draped along the top of the pillow, the inner curve of his elbow nestling the top of her head, and his fingertips began to stroke along her cheek, gathering loose strands of her hair and brushing them back behind her ear. Gathering and brushing, in soothing repetition.
The rock of the sea felt lulling now.
Her breathing fell into rhythm with his. She let the sensations spread through her, calming her heartbeat, loosening the tension in her limbs.
He was looking into her eyes again, with some depth of feeling she wasn’t sure how to name. “How did you come to be the way you are?” he said softly, his fingers still brushing her face softly, even after all her curls had been tucked away. “I don’t know that I’ll ever make sense of you.”
“I’m not much of a puzzle. You’re the mysterious one.”
He shook his head, and his lips curved in a teasing smile. “Not me. I’m really a very simple man.”
His pupils looked almost violet in the lantern light, his hair burnished gold. And all she could think was, there’s nothing simple about any of this, or about you.
But what she said was, “Kiss me.”
She hadn’t planned to say it, but there it was.
He studied her long and hard, his breathing unsteady. “Is that really what you want?”
She let her eyes rove over him. When they’d been together in his coach, he was dressed so formally in his tight velvet jacket and his waistcoat, with his neckcloth covering his throat. He looked so much more human now, in just the loose linen of his shirt, his neck and the top of his chest bared, his hair tousled. And, just at the moment, she needed rather desperately to feel human, too.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s really what I want.”
He sighed, and for a moment she felt sure he was going to deny her. But then, the hand that had been cradling her back came up to cup her face. And he rolled his body towards her, closing the small space between them, and pressed his mouth to hers.
His kiss this time betrayed a strange yearning, different from the fiery need she’d felt in it before, but as demanding in its own way. His fingers speared into her hair, tilting her head to give him deeper access to her mouth.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and drew him tight against her. If this was all the time they had, if everything was going to end in a fiery blaze tomorrow, she wanted this, needed this.
As their bodies pressed together, the absence of his jacket and waistcoat meant she felt far more of him, too—the heat of his body through the thin layers of linen they wore, and the hard contours of his torso. The powerful muscles of his back shifted and bunched under her hands. The hard plane of his belly tightened as hers fit against it.
And the heat of desire flared through her again.
They both had more freedom of movement now than in the coach, and a thousand possibilities seem to suggest themselves to her at once, of the ways she could touch him, the ways he could touch her.
This time she was the one to probe with her tongue between his lips, she was the one to let her hands explore, moving down the tantalizing groove of his spine, finding the hem of his shirt and lifting it to feel the hot and silken skin beneath. She missed the tension of his thigh against hers, the way she’d felt it when she’d straddled him, and so she slid her leg atop his, her calf hooking behind his knee to bring him closer.
And he was losing no time working her thin nightgown up her thighs, sliding his hands beneath it to skim up her belly, up over her breasts. His fingers found the hardened peaks of her nipples and laid claim to them, stroking and squeezing and kneading, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through her. All the while, his tongue did battle with hers, his mouth almost bruising her lips.
The need was raw between them—the loneliness, the anger and the fear, all the emotions that had been careening through them all day, fed the flames, and she knew he was losing control as rapidly as she was.
He shifted his body, rolling her onto her back, and the leg that had been atop his was now pushed aside as his hips settled between her thighs. He was aroused again, hard as he began to grind himself against her, but at such a different angle from before, with his weight adding to the pressure, adding to the pleasure.
She wanted to feel what she’d felt before, that impossible, wild tension, that ecstatic release, but with him this time, both of them careening over the edge.
Was it that same for men as it had been for her? It must be, if they sought out the company of women as shamelessly as she knew they did. And, oh, she wanted to see Sebastian in that state. She wanted to make him fly apart. She wanted the two of them to feel it together.
She pushed her hand between them, working it between her hipbone and his, trying to reach the fall of his trousers. He shifted slightly to give her room, and with trembling fingers, she undid a few of his buttons, enough to slip her hand inside. His flesh was hot, and with his fall partially undone, jutting out against her touch.
He gasped as her fingers wrapped around his thickness, and as she slid her hand up along his remarkable length, he soon began to groan, his mouth moving from her lips to the curve of her throat so he could draw more air. He rose off her slightly, bracing his weight on his knees and elbows to give her more freedom to explore him.
It was a pleasure to do it. He was so hard, yet so wonderfully smooth, as silky as the inside of her plum silk gown—a striking contrast, like a fist clenched beneath a satin glove. Stroking him was nearly as satisfying as being stroked herself, especially since it had him moaning and arching his back, giving her an extraordinary sense of power.
But Sebastian was Sebastian—he wouldn’t let her have all the control for long. He shifted his weight again, and one of his hands went between her legs. His fingers skimmed between her folds, and at the moment when he felt how wet and hot and slick she was there already, his hardened flesh pulsed agains
t her hand.
He knew her now, knew what she liked, knew just how to touch her, and within moments he had her shaking and moaning herself, her hips bucking upwards.
Sweet heaven, she wanted him. She wanted him atop her. She wanted him to push his trousers down off of his hips, and press that extraordinary hardness against her, into her. How little it would take for them to come together, how easy it would be.
With her free hand, she gripped his waist, urging him against her. “Sebastian, please.”
He let out a groan. He removed his hand from her and braced himself on both his elbows so he could pull back and look at her face. “We shouldn’t,” he said.
“Why shouldn’t we? If this is to be my last night on earth, this is what I want. To be with you.”
“Damn it, Rachel.” His voice was rough with frustration.
Why was he hesitating? “Don’t you want it, too?”
“Christ, of course I want it.” His features twisted as if he were in pain. “But, no. No. I won’t do this to you. It’s not . . . I’m not . . . ” He rolled back away from her, breathing hard. “Listen to me, Rachel. This is not going to be the last night of your life. I brought you here, and I am responsible for you. And I am not going to let you die.”
“Oh, Lord, I’m not a child. You don’t have to weave fairy stories for me.”
But he silenced her with a thumb across her lips. “Do you hear me?” he said. “Do you understand me? I will find a way to protect you.” His voice was in utter earnest, as though he were swearing a sacred vow. “I will find a way to get you to Spain. And I will keep you alive, so help me God, until you are safely home in England again.”
She pushed his hand away from her mouth. “I told you, Sebastian, you’re not responsible for—”
“Damn it, listen.” His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, as though he were trying to compose himself. He swallowed hard. “I’ll get you home. And then—and then you will have a life. Not the halfway sort of life you had before. A real one, a full one. With love, and—and family if you want it. Happiness. And that means it’s not going to be with someone like me. ”
“Sebastian.”
“I’m not taking that chance from you, Rachel. I’m just not. Sorry, sweetheart. I have enough regrets. And you don’t need to start acquiring them. So I’m going to stop touching you, and we’re going to go to sleep now, and I’m going to get the rest I need to fight like hell tomorrow, and make damned sure that French ship is the first to sink. Do you understand me?”
She didn’t understand him, not really. But his tone of decision was implacable. She knew how stubborn he was, and nothing she could do was going to make him change his mind.
Her body ached with unmet need, and somehow, her heart ached more fiercely than any of the rest. Tears stung at her eyes, and she had to bite her lip to fight them off.
“Turn over,” he told her now, in a tone of gentle command.
There seemed to be no point in arguing. So she rolled and faced the wall again. He drew the blankets up over both of them, and then wrapped his arm protectively over her as well. Neither of them spoke, and he made no move to touch her in any other way.
She sighed. Had anyone told her this morning that she’d end the day like this, with his body curled behind hers, the two of them sharing one pillow, she’d never have believed it. She certainly wouldn’t have believed she’d be lying here desperately wishing he’d make love to her.
Well, he wasn’t going to do that. And so his presence, his warmth and weight and strength at her back, would have to be enough.
She laid a hand over the one of his that held her, and interlaced their fingers.
And despite the danger looming out there in the darkness, and the turmoil still roiling inside her, she relaxed into his embrace, and before she was aware it was happening, she was sleeping deeply as a child.
Chapter Eight
Rachel woke to find the cabin light was the pearl gray of the half-hour before dawn, and Sebastian had already left. In the eerie calm, she pulled on her simplest dress and hurried up on deck.
A freshening breeze was rising from the east. Unfortunately, it proved a spur to their pursuer, which bore down upon them ever more quickly, so that soon the voices of her commanders, French voices, carried in snatches over on the wind.
By the time the sky was light, both ships were alive with movement—men running, stringing up the final nets and barricades along the decks, rolling cannons into position, piling up more of the heavy metal balls they’d no doubt be hurling at one another momentarily. The air filled with the sharp, sulfurous smell of the fireboxes that, she realized, would soon set the cannons blazing.
And abruptly, Sebastian was beside her, a grim look on his face. “Go below, now,” he commanded. “And stay below. You can’t be up here any longer.”
She drew herself up sharply. “The fighting doesn’t seem to have commenced.”
“It will soon. You don’t want to be up here when it starts.”
“I don’t want to be down there, either—it’s dark and awful. I’ll hear everyone pounding about on deck, and have no idea what’s going on.”
“So much the better.”
“No! I want to know what’s happening. I want to help, if I can.”
“Help? Did you not hear me last night? I will be fighting for your life up here, and I can’t do that if I have to worry about you trying to get yourself killed!” He seized her wrist and virtually dragged her across the deck and down a narrow set of stairs, into the cramped space below, and pushed her into a dark little closet of a room. A little prison cell.
Icy panic flooded her; the tang of copper spiked through her mouth, and she couldn’t catch her breath.
“You’ll stay here!” Sebastian barked. “Stay low! Do not move from this spot!”
“I’m not staying here!”
“Then I’ll lock you in!”
Blind terror seized her. She clawed at his coat, writhing in his grip like a maddened animal. “Don’t! Don’t dare lock me in! I can’t! My aunts . . . ” Even the effort to say the words had her shaking. “They used to . . . lock me . . . in our cellar. When I didn’t behave.”
“Oh, holy hell.”
“Please! I can’t be locked down in the dark! I swear I’ll go mad if I can’t get free!”
“Holy bloody hell! Then . . . swear you’ll stay put without a lock!” He’d grabbed her arms and shook her. His ferocity was terrifying. “You cannot get yourself killed, do you hear me? You cannot get yourself killed!”
The muscles of her throat clamped as if someone were choking her.
“Listen to me, Rachel,” he gritted out. His face was mere inches away, his eyes boring into hers. “I will keep you safe, I swear it. I’ll leave the door unlocked, and come for you as soon as I can. But you’re not to move without me.” He did release her arms then, but his hands went to her face, gripping her cheeks. “You have to stay alive! Do you understand that? You have to stay alive!”
Before she could answer, a deafening roar burst overhead—the first cannon had been fired. “Stay here!” he demanded again, his whole will thrown into the words, and he sprang for the stairs, and battle.
She lowered herself to the floor of the little cell, hugging her knees to her chest, wishing she had at least a lantern to keep her company. The room was pitch-dark, and she felt painfully alone.
She reminded herself she wasn’t a child anymore, that this wasn’t her aunts’ cellar, but still she found herself imagining Sarah’s hands clutched tight in hers, the two of them whispering the opening lines of Caesar’s De Bello Gallico—the bits about the courage of barbarians, whom Caesar honored because they hadn’t been softened by the luxuries of Rome.
It had always reminded them they would not break.
The outburst of noise from above seemed to pound directly on her nerves, explosions and concussions and the cries of wounded men. The timbers of the ship shook with every blast. Choking wreaths of smoke blew in
between the cracks in the wood, and beneath the door. With one particular explosion, a great shudder shook the side of the ship, with a terrible shrieking sound of rending wood.
Another huge blast, then a vast, hollow thud, and the shudder came from below. What if the hull were struck below the water line? The ship seemed frail enough already, a few wet boards between her and all that implacable ocean. If those boards should split . . .
Running feet pounded along the gangway outside her little chamber, and a cry of “Man the pumps!” She strained her ears, listening for the sound of water rushing in, but the general noise made it impossible to tell. Soon, a strange grinding rumbled up from somewhere below-decks—vast gears and chains moving.
The darkness seemed to press in around her. The air seemed scarcely breathable.
Where was Sebastian? Up on deck in all that thundering chaos?
She locked her arms around her knees, willing herself to stay put. Had Sarah ever done this, hunched herself over and merely waited while men fought battles around her?
The smell of sulfur burnt at her nostrils—surely Hell itself smelt exactly like this. And sounded like this.
Another horrible series of booms shook the air, enemy guns firing in quick sequence, and a fierce shock hit the boards just above her head, sending splinters and sawdust raining down on her hair and shoulders, stinging her eyes. She wiped frantically at her face. A faint trace of light filtered in now, but in the deep, smoky gloom, she couldn’t make out the extent of the damage to the walls around her. But, good Lord, no safety was to be found down here.
Sebastian couldn’t ask her to stay if it meant being drowned or suffocated or entombed by falling timber.
She’d rather die in the open air.
She scrambled to her feet, fighting the lurch of the ship and the shudder of yet another impact. Lord, she hoped the crew of the Calliope were at least giving as good as they got.
She held out her arms, reaching blindly ahead of her for the doorframe. She found the latch, lifted it, and yanked the door wide, stumbling through into darkness only slightly less dense than where she’d been—the smoke was thick in the stairway, with a reddish haze to it. Where had happened to the sunlight?