Paradise Island

by Charmaine Ross

  She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “And you know nothing about the old woman herself and what she told us.”

  “No.”

  “What about this prophecy she spoke about? The power of love. Our love.”

  She flicked an autumn brow upwards and snorted indelicately. “That will never happen.”

  “You live by the pirate’s code. In the face of the law and authority, you stick together. You could have asked for the help of a fellow pirate.”

  She raised her sword and aimed the tip at his throat. “I don’t need the help of Jack Cutlass to rein you in,” Estelle said. “I can, and have, done that all by myself. For all I know, you could have enlisted his help. Murderers tend to stick together.”

  He raised his sword. The tips exchanged a soft metallic clink as they touched. “I did not murder your father. You have to believe me.”

  She pushed the tip of his sword to the side, leaving hers on top, in the position of advantage. “I don’t.”

  Gregory slipped the edge of his sword above hers. The tips exchanged and tapped. He drew the edge upwards so that it scrapped over hers, glinting in the sunshine, steel rasping against steel. “Then how do I make you?”

  She pushed his sword tip downwards and away, keeping his blade lowered. “No one can make me. Stand down or suffer the edge of my sword.”

  “The Navy doesn’t stand down.”

  Her chin notched higher, her lips set into a firm line and she bored him with a glare that could bite. “And neither do I.”

  “Have it your way.” He parried forward, swiping her sword to one side. He came up tight against her, chest to chest, felt the pounding of her heart through the thin veil of her shirt, the heat of her breath as it hissed from between clenched teeth. He went to cover her hand that held her sword but she glanced away, spinning around in a tight circle of the balls of her feet and halting a step away from him.

  She swung her sword in a quick parry, swiping his sword and wrenching his arm away. He quickly swung back, locking the edge of his sword against hers. She was good, quick. Experienced. He sized her up, noted the stance of her body, legs bent, feet apart, gaze locking with his, never leaving his face, following his every move. He saw her calculations, move playing against his possible move in her head. Working with her mind, knowing what could possibly happen. She dodged, moved to the side. He swung to follow her, blocking her parry, swinging her wide and open.

  A brief flicker of surprise flickered over her face then it was gone, set behind sparking eyes. One end of her mouth turned upwards. She jumped backwards, sword drawn lightning fast aiming back at his throat. “So the Navy teaches more than drinking whiskey.”

  “Sword fighting was always a hobby of mine. One I practiced in every available personal moment I had. I have to tell you, I have been told I am quite good at it.” He stepped forwards, blocking the tip of her sword, swinging it around so that she had to take a step back. The clang of metal rang loud in his ears.

  “I like a little competition,” she said. She bent and twisted, leapt from her back leg and buffeted her shoulder into his stomach. He staggered one step, two steps back. She thrust her sword, edge to edge against his, locking at both hilts, stepping hard up against him, keeping her pace so that he had to step back again or fall onto his backside. “I practice every day too. Only I know all the tricks you probably never thought of.”

  She slipped her ankle behind his and pushed hard against his chest. He went to step back, caught his ankle on hers and landed heavily on his backside. He noted the upturn of one of her brows and she looked down her nose at him. She moved to bring the tip of her sword beneath his chin when he rolled sideways onto his knees and jumped to his feet, sword already aimed towards her.

  “Don’t underestimate the dirty tricks of the Navy.” He brought his foot behind her ankle, at the same time following the force of direction of her arm pushing against his, trying the same trick she had just used on him. He moved aside, allowing her momentum to follow through. She clearly hadn’t been expecting him to do that. With a squeal she unbalanced. He pushed the sword from her hand using the hilt of his. Her sword dropped to the ground and she fell into his chest. He wound his free arm around her waist and crushed her against his chest, using his body to trap her against himself. It was the law of bigger against slender, brute muscle strength against those with less. “Years fighting against much larger men taught me this particular move. It’s dirty, but very effective. And, I’m a very quick learner.”

  She squirmed and only ended in crushing herself tighter against him. Her eyes widened as she realized that her struggles only locked her further into his grip. Her shirt was open, revealing the top swell of her breasts. His eyes dropped to the feminine swell, he couldn’t help but look. She stopped moving, aware of where his eyes had dropped. Her body became rigid and immobile, hard against his chest. “Get your hands off me,” she hissed between clenched teeth.

  A jagged silvery scar above her left breast marred the silky smoothness of her skin. It looked like it had been a deep gash, one that had been hard to heal. Given with the intent to kill. His brows locked together.

  It was her life, as a pirate. He knew that she would have been in battles, but to see the evidence of it, to know she was hurt at one stage, probably more times than the once was an uncomfortable mantle. To see the evidence of how hard she had been handled made him want to seek out the one who had done her damage. Traced the jagged silvery line with the pad of his fingertip, feeling the uneven healed skin, wanting that he could just wipe it away with his touch. Felt her heart beating so rapidly. Felt her tremble. He brought his gaze back to her frosty one. “Just how many battles have you been in?” he asked.

  Her expression faltered. Clearly his question hadn’t been what she was expecting. “Many,” she said finally.

  He glanced down at her scar. “And who did this to you?”

  She studied him. He was aware of the scrutiny in her eyes, the weighing up of should she or shouldn’t she tell him. He waited, keeping her locked against him. “Why would you care?”

  The breath expelled from his mouth in a rush. Indeed, why would he care? Logically, he shouldn’t, but he knew that he did. It was a feeling that couldn’t be ignored, couldn’t be misunderstood. As brash, as thorny and independent as she was, something had been released within him as never before. He did care for her. He cared for the girl she was, lost with the death of her father, and for the woman she had been forced to become. She was a thrill, she excited him, met him word for word, sword for sword.

  She challenged him, wanted nothing from him except misled retribution she fought tooth and nail for. He knew there was a soft interior within the tough mask she cloaked herself in and he expected it was second nature to her now. Still, she was not worthy of a crime that would see her killed. For all her tough exterior, her driving force was only that to save other women of her fate. Who would want to kill her for that?

  He leaned close to her, felt her breath, soft against his cheek, felt every inch of her resisting him, wanting to pull free, but he wouldn’t allow that, needed to feel her locked in his arms, wanted to feel her melt against him, and against all logic hated that she didn’t. “I need to know who would have done something as vile as that to you. Who would want to kill you?”

  She struggled, waging an inner battle. He held her steady, didn’t flinch when she tried again to pull away, fought not to release her. Her breathing was coming in large gasps, and her skin had paled. He softened his grip around her waist, let her breath, gave her a chance to move away. But she didn’t. “Estelle, please, tell me.”

  Her tongue darted out and across her lower lip. She hooked him into her gaze. Opened her mouth to tell him, voice low, hardly audible above the blood rushing in his own ears. “It was … Cutlass.”

  Chapter Eleven

 
He touched his lips to hers. Slowly. Gently. Deliberately. The way she should be touched, with unhurried tenderness. He let his lips rest against hers for a moment, felt her rigid in his arms, knew she would be that way then he gently pulled at her lips, massaging them with his own, keeping his movements measured, patient.

  It was no wonder she harbored such a distrust of men. There wasn’t a lot in her life that had taught her differently. From the moment her father had left, she had been at the mercy of men and where those men should have looked after her, cared for her, child as she was, they had turned their heads.

  She’d found her own path. Lived as she could. Done what she could to survive and in that had developed her hard outer casing. She’d suffered. Survived. And now championed other women to follow in her footsteps. To live a life carved from whatever means she had at her disposal. She called herself a pirate, but all that he had seen was that she sailed to seas in search to protect, not to kill, maim or steal.

  And she had done well for herself. The backbone, that grim determination to wake and battle every day in a world that had no place for her had molded the woman in his arms. The woman that kept invading his thoughts and physical response since she had crept onboard his ship on her misguided self-appointed mission.

  To know, to have seen the evidence that she had been mistreated by a man like Cutlass made the blood sear his veins. She could not have deserved such a fate, but Cutlass was not a man who cared who and what he destroyed to get what he wanted. It only furthered his resolve to show her how a woman should be handled.

  How a woman — she — should be treated.

  Her nerves bucked. Instinctively she tried to step back and came against the barrier of his arms, pushed against them, but they remained a solid coil around her. Temper sparking, she opened her mouth to tell him to stop.

  His tongue flicked inside her mouth. A heated, slick streak that stroked the inside of her lips and scorched the tip of her tongue. It shocked her and for a moment all she could do was remain rigid and ride out the flurry of sparking sensation. She wanted to ignore the way her body responded, quickly, without hesitation. He delved further into her mouth and shattered her hastily erected defenses.

  He deepened the kiss. Moved with total command, total authority. There was no mistaking that fact that he moved deliberately, that he meant to kiss her in such a way.

  She remained rigid until the sensation of his mouth gently playing with hers rode out her determination. And she responded. Had to. She moved her lips against his, matching the deliberate movements. It was a touch that echoed all the way to her center, surprising herself that she wanted it at all. A delicate shiver stole along her spine and tension start dissolved.

  She knew she was being kissed, knew the name of it, but she had never been kissed — like this. So intently, so softly. Usually it was just a part of the act, something that was done as a part of the whole. She’d never thought more of it. Had never known it could start like this, never knew it could make her … feel … like this. This delicate myriad of sensations that prickled within that made her limbs lethargic, that made her want to feel more, to respond, to keep kissing him. He held himself back. Waited for her answer.

  In a corner of her mind she knew she shouldn’t allow herself to be engaged by him like this. It wouldn’t do, she was his captor, he her prisoner, it would only make things more difficult along the way.

  But still …

  She shouldn’t go further. Should end it now.

  Knew with all certainty that she shouldn’t let Gregory awake her in this magnificent way.

  And yet …

  Couldn’t stop.

  She opened her mouth, let him in further. He dipped in his tongue, stroked hers. Her head tilted back, welcoming him to her. She felt the tension flow from her limbs, felt her body drift towards him. The hard brace of his arms was no longer a cage, but an embrace. It was protective and in them she was … safe.

  That was also a new feeling. A new experience. She had never been held like this, never felt so — valued. Cherished.

  She slipped her arms upwards and locked her fingers behind his nape, melted further into him, let her breasts push against the hard planes of his chest, turned her head just so, so that they could deepen the kiss.

  And he took the moment, didn’t hesitate, claimed control, suckled her lips, her tongue, lips dancing.

  He moaned into her mouth.

  Excitement grew. Her nipples puckered, grew sensitive as though the material of her shirt was too thick, too harsh. She allowed herself to be swept along the tide of her growing passion. She wasn’t so naive to know that she should feel something when it came to sex, but it had never been this intense, this driven.

  She’d never felt passion grow so much, so soon.

  So completely.

  His hand slid from her back and traced upwards along the length of her side until his thumb, oh so softly traced the underside of her breast. She couldn’t help the breathy gasp that escaped, couldn’t help the shimmering flash that electrified her nerves from that most delicate of touches.

  His hand came up alongside her breast then his large hand covered it completely. The warmth seared through her shirt. His thumb circled her nipple, played with it and she let him, basked in the sparks that it sent riding through her, enjoyed it, delighted in it. His fingers massaged her breast, kneading her flesh, knowingly manipulating. Her fingers splayed over his nape, riveting her to him. Her fingers threaded through the silken waves of his raven hair, delighted in the touch.

  She let one hand drop to his shoulder. Let it drift down his arm, felt the corded muscle bunched like iron beneath her fingers, felt them ripple as he moved. He broke the kiss, pulled fractionally back. She swayed against him, lost in the sudden cooling on her lips. She looked questioningly into his blazing midnight eyes, but she needn’t have asked. His gaze was purposeful, the depths black pits of raw-edged desire. The need she read there only served to spark hers higher. Her fingers clutched his arm, asking for more, needing more, demanding more.

  In a moment his head dipped, his hand parting the material of her shirt. Her breast wasn’t exposed for long. His breath seared her sensitized skin a moment before his tongue lapped her nipple.

  She arched back, declaring her breast his to devour. He swirled his tongue around her nipple, circling it with the slick tip. He suckled her nipple into her mouth. Searing wet heat engulfed her. Her belly bucked, craved, yearned. His greedy mouth and tongue devoured. His hand moved to her other breast and she clung to his arms, fingers biting into his flesh so that she wouldn’t fall into a boneless heap to the ground as attended to her.

  He moved his mouth to her other breast and she let him feast. Her body craved this, was awakening to his touch, the touch of a man that cared how she felt, how she would react, would give so that she could enjoy.

  And she was.

  Brazenly. Shamelessly.

  A woman that was quickly losing control.

  Something in her mind snapped. She shouldn’t lose control.

  Couldn’t.

  So much was riding on her ability to think rationally. Logically. Her body was becoming stimulated beyond reason, her mind heading on a slippery slope beyond logical comprehension. He took what she blatantly offered, what she couldn’t help but give him. Taking what she unabashedly offered. And while she wanted more, yearned to know the final end, to learn how he could make her body sing, she had to cling to these last strands of sanity.

  Knew with everything in her being that there was no hope of ever finding out how much he would give her.

  Mustn’t even entertain the thought. Mustn’t yearn for what she could never have. Needed to stop him.

  Now. The only way she knew.

  She began her song.

  Choked out the words on a sigh, strained to begin her melody, th
e one that would make him stop doing the things that were driving her wild, beyond control.

  He sagged against her, brushing his face between her exposed breasts, his stubble roughened cheek to her skin. Where her fingers had clung to his arms to keep her steady, they now held him stable. She continued, stroking his hair, amazed at how soft the strands were as they slipped between her fingers.

  He shook his head, placed his own hands on her arms, stepped back, gazed at her, eyelids heavy, trying to stop them from falling. “Estelle. Stop.” His voice was groggy, slurred.

  She shook her head, still singing, her hypnotizing song falling from her mouth. Gregory sagged to the ground on unsteady legs. She moved with him, helping him down so that he sat balancing his elbows on his knees, trying to keep his head up with his hands. He leaned over to her, hands fumbling, entwining in the lose material of her shirt.

  She felt the first stirring of their connection in her mind, felt his fiery passion, stroked far beyond mere glowing embers, felt his confusion, felt the fog start to numb his mind and render his body into the realms of deep sleep.

  “No,” he whispered. He followed her as she moved away from him, down on one elbow on his side, fighting to remain off the ground. A frown marred her brow as he pushed back with his mind, strained against her invasion.

  “You don’t … understand … need to stay … awake.” His hand slipped to her satchel, tore open the buckle, spilling the contents over the ground. The map and the ring she had taken from him at the pier gleamed in the sunshine.

  She concentrated, pushing harder than she had had to before, delved into his mind, probing deeper than she was used to. Instead of pushing against her, invited her further into his mind. Let her feel his intentions, feel the full stirrings of passion that she ignited. She gasped, recoiled back, surprise dousing her ability to surrender him.