Blackwell 2 - Timeswept Rogue

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Holding his gaze. Penny nodded obediently.

  "Guess that clarifies exactly who the customer is, doesn't it?" Margaret whispered on a smile, leaving without their notice.

  The door closed softly, the guest room suddenly too small and intimate for all they'd been through together. Ramsey's gaze sketched her upturned face, waiting for her wall of ice to rise atween them. When it didn't, he stole the opportunity of privacy.

  "Will you accept my apology for my harshness in the street?" He was mortally ashamed that he'd spoken to her so rudely. She'd already done much on his behalf.

  "Only if you accept mine," came in a strained whisper.

  His smile was faint and soft, not one of those blinding grins that sent her insides dancing, but a tender, incredibly masculine curve of his lips. It left her utterly breathless, melting her knees, and she didn't step back when he grasped her shoulders with a gentle hold. Before she could wish otherwise, he pressed his lips to her forehead.

  Penny closed her eyes, swaying toward him, yet even the simple, almost brotherly kiss made her senses shift and twist. His lips touched her cheek, the corner of her mouth and she felt a shiver pass up from her toes. He was dangerous just being Ramsey, for there was nothing sibling-like about what he made her feel.

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  He met her gaze, rubbing her arms. "Will you be calling me Ramsey, now that we've shared a kiss?"

  But that wasn't enough, she wanted to say and the reckless thought jerked her from his grasp. Ramsey sighed, his broad shoulders drooping. He sensed the chill and cursed it. She erected that shield too handily for his liking and as she turned toward the door, Ramsey dropped onto the bed and pulled off a boot, tossing it to the floor. Penny reached for the knob, glancing back over her shoulder for a last look.

  He tugged at the second boot, sluggishly letting it fall to the dark green carpet, and she noticed blood staining his bandaged leg wound. Running a hand over his face and through his hair, he rotated his head on his neck, then let it drop forward. A bolt of sympathy shot through her, blending with admiration for the mysteriously uncommon Ramsey O'Keefe. After all he'd suffered, this throwback from the dark ages had selfishly saved a child, rescued her from crazed fans, gained a friend in Tony and Hank, and disarmed the usually stern Margaret Brig-ette O'Hallaran into letting him call her Meggie. Lord, the man had been legally dead two days ago! Ever since she was a kid on the streets, she didn't think there were any really courageous men left in this world. Til now. And whether Penny wanted it or not, Robinson Crusoe was here, and she admitted, finally, that he was the most intriguing distraction for her grief.

  "Mister O'Ke—ah, Ramsey?" He looked up sharply, star­tled to see her still standing in the doorway. "No, don't get up," she said when he struggled to rise. "I just, ah, wanted, ah ..." Penny glanced to the side. What did she want? That his stay must be temporary? That just to look into his soothing dark eyes made her forget why she chose to isolate herself? Or to ask him for another more intimate kiss because the first left her burning as if she'd ignite her lingerie?

  Penny blinked.

  Oh, God. Where did that come from?

  She met his gaze. "Welcome to my home, Ramsey." She left, closing the door and Ramsey smiled tiredly.

  Ahh, yer softenin' to me, lass, he thought, pleased as he gathered the strength to pull himself off the bed. He found the

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  privy, staring in amazement at the huge room. He'd ceased asking questions about modern inventions, no longer wishing to appear the dolt and needing to discover such on his own. He tested the wood and brass handles over the stationary basin, smiling as hot water—hot water spewed from the spicket. He played, filling and emptying the basin, pleased. Ram turned, staring down at the dark green bowl anchored to the floor. A chamber pot, he*deduced, lifting the circular lid, then depressing the brass handle, pleased it could be emptied without the need to—well, 'twas a task no one cared for and as far as advance­ment was concerned, Ramsey considered this one monumental.

  In the corner on a dais, tucked in an alcove, lay a tub set flush with the floor, beyond it, potted foliage rested afore a three-sided window, offering a magnificent view of the sea, waves crashing gently on the pearl-white shore. 'Twas tranquil, he thought, moving to the small green tiled room with a clear glass door. Inside, high on two walls were cones punctured with hundreds of tiny holes and below them, huge crystal knobs. He studied the track and frame, much like the aft windows of his ship, then slid the door back, turned a knob and was immediately drenched with ice cold water.

  "Neptune's balls," he hissed softly, twisting to find a towel and catching his reflection in the wide silver glass above the basin. Bracing his hands on the smooth counter, Ram stared at his image. Great saints, but he looked awful, bleedin' night­marish, and to know Penelope had seen him so unkempt, embar­rassed him. His clothing was salt stained, his sleeve torn at the shoulder. Well, 'twas not his finest garments he wore aboard ship, he reminded, yet with little compensation. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the dark shadow of whiskers making him look sinister. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and he'd lost a bit of flesh it appeared. He caught a whiff of odor and sniffed at his garments. Oh good God! 'Twas a wonder the lady didn't swoon from the foul vapors.

  Ramsey quickly investigated the drawers and cabinets, find­ing them well-stocked with the thickest of towels, cakes of scented soaps, and what he assumed was a shaving razor, though the tiny flimsy t-shaped contraption could hardly stand his

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  beard. His cabin boy took a strop to his own blade frequently to scrape but a day's worth from Ram's chin. He discovered containers marked toothpaste, shampoo, shave cream, and God love inventors, deodorant and after reading the instructions, understood their use. He glanced at his reflection and vanity took hold. Stripping quickly, he checked his leg wound, dis­carding the soiled wrappings afore stepping into the rain cham­ber. He indulged in the abundance of free flowing hot water til his fingers wrinkled, then with a towel wrapped around his hips, he attempted to shave. Unpracticed at handling the small razor left him with a jaw nicked like a pubescent schoolboy's and other than soap, the only familiar item in the cabinet was a toothbrush. His own was fashioned of teakwood, a gift from a captain who'd sailed the Orient, and no doubt still rested on the commode in his cabin. About to apply paste to the brush, Ram suddenly wondered if Mister Cameron had sunk his frig­ate. The young pup had not gained the air of authority it took to caplain Triton's Will yet. Nay—to have been captain— was—is—God save me from such thoughts, he cursed, squeez­ing the tube and squirting paste on the mirror.

  Several moments later he left the bathing room, a rolling cloud of mist following in his wake and Ramsey enjoyed the shock of cool air hitting his warm bare skin. He paused, glancing around the room when he noticed the drawn drapes, dimmed lights, and the tray resting on the foot of the bed. Meggie, you sweet wench, he thought, toweling his hair dry with one hand and sampling the fare with the other; generous roasted beef sandwiches, tart dilled pickles, fried slivers of potatoes that crunched and tasted so light Ramsey consumed the pile afore he realized it. He held up a tall fluted glass, examining the liquid in the dim light; the unmistakable aroma of ale made him groan with anticipation. He sipped. Rather weak, he thought, swiftly downing the iced pint, surprised he enjoyed the cooled spirits. Plunking the glass down on the tray, Ramsey patted his stomach. Meggie will be pleased he'd left naught but crumbs, he thought, setting the tray aside and falling back onto the bed. Ahh, God, 'twas the sweetest heaven. Used to a damp straw bedding, Ramsey buried his face in the fragrant

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  spread. I be likin' your century, Penelope, he thought, then, like a tired child crawling into bed, he dragged the covers down and slid beneath the cool green sheets.

  Nearly a dozen hours later, the door opened, at first a crack, then further. Penny poked her head around the wood, smiling when she spied the ba
rren tray in the soft bedroom light. Good boy, she thought, making a beeline for it, her blue satin pajamas shimmering. She didn't even get close, suddenly freezing in her steps. He lay cross ways on the bed, facedown, one arm dangling over the edge, the dark sheet wrapped snugly around his lean hips and legs. A bare calf peeked out from beneath the downy pile. What did he do to keep in such spectacular condition, she wondered, her eyes traveling upward. Her gaze halted sharply on the area where his nut-brown skin faded, low on his spine. Shiny crisscross slashes marred the muscled perfection. Dear Lord. She'd forgotten. Slowly Penny stepped closer, hesitantly extending her arm. Her fingers shook.

  Oh Ramsey.

  Her vision blurred as she imagined the excruciating pain he must have suffered to have so many scars. Leaning over him, she allowed her fingertips to graze the smooth, healed wounds.

  Penny suddenly found herself thrown flat on her back, on the bed, his solid weight crushing the breath from her lungs. Something cold and hard ground beneath her chin, forcing her head back, and in the darkness—she heard the distinct click of a pistol hammer.

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  Chapter 14

  "Care to die?" Deadly cold and full of positive intent.

  "R—Ramsey," she whispered. "It's me, Penelope."

  He immediately pointed the barrel to the ceiling, his sleepy eyes focusing on her face. Cautiously, he eased the hammer down, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he slowly set the pistol on the night stand beyond her head.

  The air hummed with rushing adrenalin and Penny swal­lowed.

  Abruptly Ramsey buried his face in the rumpled pillow beside her head.

  Penny didn't dare move. "Was that thing really loaded?"

  "Silence, woman!" Muffled, but clear—and extremely angry. Suddenly he reared back, grabbing her by the shoulders. "You little half-wit!" He gave her a quick, hard shake. "I might have killed you!"

  Before Penny could retort, he rolled off her and sat up, hunter-green fabric pooling around his bare hips.

  "Sweet mother of God!" he rasped, pushing trembling fin­gers through his hair. Slowly Penny shifted upright, acutely aware of the fury working through him, crawling up his spine and flexing his muscles. He didn't move, his stillness poised on

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  some undefinable threshold. And she flinched when he suddenly snapped a look back over his shoulder, dark eyes like chips of blackened amber.

  Ramsey's gaze rapidly sketched her features, easily reading her fear, her uncertainty. He ached to quell it, for it mirrored his own. I could have so easily killed her, he thought again. The woman had no notion of how handily the unstable weapon could have exploded in her lovely face.

  "I better go," she said uneasily and made to leave the bed, but Ramsey reached for her, grasping her arms and dragging her across the bed and onto his lap.

  He stared into wide green eyes. "By God, I would rather die than harm you."

  "I—I'm sorry," she whispered on a trembling breath, her hand coming up to touch his jaw. "I honestly didn't mean to scare you like that."

  His fingers flexed on her arms, his lung working.

  "Ramsey?"

  Temptation rode him, and his name on her lips, the tenderness in her eyes, spirited through him as seductively as if she'd come to him baring herself for his favor. 'Twas unwise to voice his thoughts, for the lass was vulnerable and harbored a chilling independence as if 'twere her birth right, yet he wanted to taste her, needed to, just once, if only to assure himself 'twas not his imagination brewing this tension atween them.

  He drew her suddenly closer, his mouth hovering a breath above hers, and Penny inhaled, her eyes flaring at the jolt of imaginary sparks crackling between mem. That he wouldn't speak drove her wild with an unfamiliar stirring, a quickening heal consuming her blood. She could feel her pulse race, her skin flush. He'd never looked at her quite like that before.

  And a tingling raced up the back of her thighs.

  The charged air thickened, and when her tongue nervously moistened her lips, he groaned and crushed her mouth beneath his, swallowing her startled gasp. She was totally unprepared for the onslaught, of wicked heat and man, as his mouth rolled savagely across hers, licking, tasting, his head twisting mad­deningly back and forth, and a dark sound rumbled in his chest

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  when she answered the power, matching and mating with his mouth.

  It scared her, this feverishness racing along her bloodstream, a greedy throbbing for his touch, yet her small hands gripped his biceps, groping up to clasp his head, her movements leaving her open to his attention. Recklessly, she wanted it. And it was an excruciating instant before he touched her, shaping her breasts til she trembled, thumbs circling her nipples, and Ram-sey felt her hungry whimper against his mouth, felt her thrust into his palms. He flipped the satin covered buttons free, spread­ing the fabric, his hands smoothing over her lush naked swells afore sweeping around to pull her tightly to his bare chest.

  The contact was galvanizing, her mouth and tongue sliding ravenously across his in seethingly erotic strokes. He wanted to taste and touch and know all of her, yet could feel the urgency in her, uncapped, impatient. He shifted, stretching her across the support of his arm afore he bent to her plump nipple. He took tender flesh into his mouth and Penny cried out softly, plowing her ringers into his hair as Ramsey laved and sucked, his free hand sliding luxuriously over the satin covered flesh of her hip, her thigh, seeking her tender center. She opened for him, muscles tense with anticipation, hovering on the pulse of need.

  He rubbed and Penny clung to his neck, squirming against his touch, breathless for more, now, and he sensed it, shoving the silken fabric down over her hips, her buttocks, frantic to give her what her body begged for as he drew the satin free of her limbs. His hand scrubbed back up the muscled slope of her thigh, her skin jumping at his touch as he lowered her to the bed, his fingers curling around her knee and drawing it over his thigh.

  "Share this with me," he murmured into her mouth, kissing her, holding her snugly, his hand sliding atween her thighs. He heard her breath catch as he cupped her, the heel of his hand rubbing gently afore he parted and probed, sinking a finger inside.

  She arched like a bow. "Oh God," she moaned and he withdrew and pushed, again and again, yanking the strings of

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  her desire with delicate strokes. She wrapped her arms around his neck, a tight sound escaping her throat, and he spoke softly.

  "I want to taste you." His thumb circled lightly around the bead of her sex. "Here."

  She whimpered, fighting her pleasure. He could feel it in the stiffness of her body, the way she clawed him, nearly climbing up his chest.

  "Release yourself, Penelope. Ride the wave," he said into her ear, then kissed her damp mouth, lusciously deep and long. Her hips rocked and he introduced a second finger, plunging, retreating, gaining tempo. Slick feminine muscles grabbed and pulsed.

  "Look at me," he said and she tilted her head back. His gaze searched hers, his entire body quaking. "Let me feel it sweep you." He held her tightly against his chest, gazing into her smoky-green eyes as he stroked the sensitive core of her, her slim body like liquid rhythm, undulating to the quick tempo of her passion. Her hopeful eyes held him prisoner, a trap far stronger than her body. "Aye, lass," he coaxed, feeling her climb as if he were sheathed inside her.

  Suddenly she went taut, feminine muscles convulsing around his touch, hips grinding, fingertips digging into his skin. A fractured rasp sanded in her throat. She trembled, her soft shudders coating him like steaming velvet, afore she closed her eyes and dissolved against him.

  Ramsey held her, without motion, the image of her exquisite climax repeating in his mind. 'Twould be an eternity afore he tired of the sight, he thought, and just as her breathing returned to some semblance of normality, she abruptly leaned back.

  Quick little gasps puffed the hair covering her face and mouth, and she brushed at the tangled mass, searching his f
eatures.

  He smiled, crooked and pleased and as if she were made of glass, he rained painfully sweet kisses over her cheek, her eyes, lightly brushing her mouth.

  "Ahh, lass," he said after a moment, caressing her bare legs. "Has no one warned you 'tis dangerous to sneak into a gentleman's bed chambers?" God, she was exquisite, he

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  thought, all rosy and freshly ravished. He leaned in for a kiss, the strength of his arousal pressing warmly against her thigh. She jerked back, the fear in her eyes making him uneasy. ' 'What think you, lass?" He tried to keep his features impassive, but something was very wrong.

  "Oh God, Ramsey." Her eyes beseeched him."I can't do this, I'm sorry." She pushed him back with little effort and left the bed.

  He reached, catching her hand. She tugged, refusing to look at him.

  "I would not take from you what you are not willing to give, Penelope." She lifted her gaze to his. "Never."

  His sincerity stuck her like a mortal blow. "I know," she moaned miserably. "I don't mean to be selfish, but . . ." her lip quivered, the sight tearing through his heart. "I'm sorry." She pulled free, rushing from the room.

  Ramsey sighed, frowning. Was her fear that he was left unsatisfied and might demand she fulfill him or was she ashamed that she'd allowed him the intimate liberty and knew she enjoyed it? The former did not speak well of her opinion, yet even as he glanced around at the sensual debris of tumbled bedcovers and satin trousers, Ram knew her lush response would haunt him more this night than the fierce throbbing in his groin.