“What do I want, angel? This. And . . . this . . .”
His mouth found hers, hot and searching, almost rough with urgency. Curling her arms behind his neck, Angela held on, buoyed by the water, her body sliding sinuously against his in the warm, silky waves. There was an exotic pleasure in the way she rubbed against him, in the pressure of his mouth and the feel of the water around them, binding them, somehow, into a single being. It was sensuous, voluptuous bliss, paradise lost and found and encircling.
“Here,” he said against her mouth, his voice a low rasp that barely penetrated her sumptuous haze, “we don’t need this anymore, do we?” Somehow, her gown was open and sliding over her shoulders, then floating away on the current. Her unrestrained breasts made contact with his chest, the nipples hardening at the abrasive brushing of his body against hers. The slightest movement sent a shock of sensation shuddering through her.
Kit must have felt her involuntary reaction, for his mouth left her lips and explored the damp region beneath her hair, his hand lifting the heavy mass of taffy-colored curls to facilitate his heated exploration. Murmuring a reassurance when she clung to him in quivering response, he returned to her mouth for a moment, then abandoned that luscious spot for the inviting curve of her throat.
Angela’s head tilted back, supported by the weight of his arm behind her neck. Liquids washed around them, salt tang and seaweed, a steady pulsing rhythm of sea that seemed to beckon through the heated haze that Kit was creating with his hands and mouth. She was barely aware of moonlight or wind, her senses so finely tuned to Kit that the rest of the world faded away. Vaguely, she saw the glitter of moonlight on water and felt the cool press of wind against her bare skin, but she was much more aware of the delicious slide of his hand over her body.
“Put your arms back around my neck,” he whispered, his breath stirring the wet hair over her ear, and she shivered as she complied.
“This . . . this is crazy,” she said, gasping a little when his thumb and finger closed over her nipple. “Are you sure . . . we should . . . be doing . . . this . . .”
Kit laughed softly at her reaction. His mouth nuzzled the curve of her cheek and throat before he lifted his head, and she saw the glitter of his eyes as he studied her for a long moment.
“Don’t you like it, angel? Um. You taste like the sea.”
“Kit . . .” She stopped, helpless to respond, not knowing what to say.
He seemed to understand. “Never mind. Don’t talk. Just be still and let me fill you with love . . .”
His words reached that empty space inside her, filling her with a surge of hope and joy, but when she drew back a little to tell him so, he was lifting her up, one strong hand beneath her thigh to place her leg around his waist. That brought her into abrupt contact with his body, and she felt the urgent prodding of him against her stomach. The evidence of his desire made the world around her tilt crazily for a moment.
With a sigh, she moved against him. It felt so right, so wonderful to have him with her like this. The intimacy they had already shared washed away any uneasiness she might have felt. This was familiar, and affirmed her hope that he truly cared for her.
As he slid between her thighs, rubbing against her cleft in a slow, unhurried motion that made her catch her breath, Angela leaned back against the arm at her waist and lifted her other leg. Kit groaned, sliding his hands down to her buttocks to support her weight. Then, gripping her, he slid inside in a smooth motion that made her cry out softly.
Never had she dreamed anything could feel like this, the strange sensation of being weightless combined with the invasive thrust of his body inside hers. Resting her hands on his shoulders as she leaned back, Angela could feel the waves of her hair washing over her breasts and against his chest. Kit moved inside her, heavy and full and powerful, his hands holding her hips for his strong plunges.
Twice, he brought her to the brink of explosion, until her quivering fingers dug into his shoulders in a frantic plea. Her breath came in short little gasps for air, and she whimpered brokenly for the release she knew he could give her.
His forearm braced her back while his other hand reached for her head, his fingers splaying against her to hold her still for his kiss, a hot, fierce possession of her mouth that left her aching. Arching, she rotated her hips against him in an undulating move that made him groan against her lips.
“Sea witch,” he muttered hoarsely. “God. You’re right. This is . . . crazy. I must be . . . to . . . come to . . . you like this . . .”
Lifting her body forward, she tangled her hands in his wet hair and kissed him just as fiercely as he’d kissed her, tightening her thighs around him. She could feel tremors in his chest, the deep vibrations of pleasure that made her senses soar. She clung to him, breathing faster, her tongue outlining his lips in tiny flicks like fire. He pressed his face into her wet shoulder, his mouth opening against her skin in a heated wash of his tongue.
Flexing into the solid thrusts of his body into hers, Angela felt the first wild tremors of release. “Kit . . . oh Kit . . .”
At her cries, he rocked against her with the rhythm of the waves, plunging again and again. Her back arched, breasts pressing into his chest as she exploded into ecstasy. As if her release signaled his, Kit shuddered and went still, his breath hot against her damp skin.
For several long moments they remained that way, clinging to one another in the water as waves washed over them. Then Kit moved slowly toward shore, still supporting her weight as he moved through the water. Once in the shallows, he sank to his knees, Angela cradled in his lap. She buried her face in the curve of his throat and shoulder, suddenly shy.
The roar of the waves crashing against the shore sounded much louder than it had earlier, and she closed her eyes, shivering at the chill of the wind against her wet skin. Overhead, gulls gave lilting cries that sounded mournful in the dark.
“I thought,” she murmured against his shoulder, “that you were going to teach me to swim.”
His soft laughter mixed with the sound of the wind and surf. “One never swims after eating, my sweet. It causes cramps. Didn’t you know that?”
“You’re a devil,” she said, and discovered to her surprise that she half meant it.
Nodding, Kit nuzzled her neck and said, “So I’ve been told a time or two.”
After several moments, Kit rose to his feet and carried her ashore. As if she were a child, he took one of the cloths and dried her body and hair, brushing away the sand before wrapping her in a blanket. He found her dress washed ashore, and spread it over a bush to dry after shaking away the sand and grit. Then he spread another blanket upon the canvas mat and moved beside her, pulling her close to him as candlelight flickered in the night and the ocean moved ceaselessly.
Before her eyes drifted shut, Angela had the hazy thought that she had never been quite so happy. Then she fell asleep in his embrace. She didn’t know how long she had slept before something woke her, an alien sound or movement that jarred her.”
“Listen,” Kit said suddenly, as he sat up straight, pushing her slightly away. “Did you hear that?”
Still dazed, she shook her head, clawing at the wet hair in her eyes as she looked up at him. The candles had guttered and gone out, and there was a strange stillness in the air, devoid of living sounds. Not even a bird warbled. Only the waves could be heard crashing against the sandy shore. She shook her head again. “Hear what?”
Before he could answer, she heard it—a deep, loud boom that seemed to fill the air with sound and make the ground shake. In the distance, against the dark sky, a bright flash lit the horizon, then another.
“Bloody hell,” said Kit softly, “sweet, bloody hell . . .”
“What?” Angela almost screamed, still sleepy and dazed. “What is it?”
Kit was grabbing at his clothes, snapping at her to get dressed, and she obeyed numbly, terror-stricken when she heard him say, “Militia.”
Sixteen
His
mind racing, Kit put all his weight behind the oars, sending the small craft bucking through the swelling tide. Damn. Though the Sea Tiger was still hidden from sight behind a wall of thick trees, spiky vegetation, and limestone boulders, he knew from the brittle clang of cutlasses and pistol fire what was happening. Battle was an all too-familiar sound. Above the din of cannon, sword, and pistol, he could hear cries of pain and rage. The acrid smell of sulphur rose above the bend of trees and sand, and his sense of urgency grew.
He had to safeguard Angela before it was too late, and he scanned the dark line of trees for a possible spot to put ashore without being seen. The heavy boom of a cannon thundered, and he flinched.
He could only hope that Turk, Dylan, and Mr. Buttons had rallied swiftly and not been caught totally by surprise. If they had been . . .
Unable to finish that thought, he flashed Angela a quick glance. She sat white-faced and stiff in the stern, her hands gripping the sides so tightly that her knuckles gleamed as pale as ivory dice in the pearly light of dawn. There was nothing he could say to comfort her that wouldn’t sound forced, so he didn’t attempt it. Using one oar to steer, he swung the dinghy around and nosed into shore behind a jumble of rocks and stunted shrubs.
“You stay here,” he said when it looked as if she intended to get up. “Remain in the boat until someone comes for you.”
“Wonderful. And if no one comes?”
Her tart rejoinder was at least ample evidence that she wasn’t near hysteria.
“If no one comes for you, do your best to steer for town. Ask for a man by the name of Maurice Lavateer. Tell him who you are, and he’ll help you.” He stepped over the side and into the knee-deep water, facing her. Curling waves of pale hair framed her frightened face, and he put a hand beneath her chin and said softly, “You’ll be fine, angel. I fully intend to come back for you.”
“Kit . . .” Her voice quavered and ended in a choking sob, and he reached up to pull her close. The boat rocked, and after a moment, he released her and stepped back.
“Stay here, no matter what you hear. Do you understand me? I can’t fight and worry about you at the same time.”
“But Kit—”
“No.” He reached into the bottom of the small boat and took out his sword, damning his carelessness in leaving behind his pistols. He should have taken them with him last night, but he’d been so full of high-minded romance and wine, that he’d thought of only the barest necessities. Turk was right. Whatever portion of his body he’d been using to think with lately, it certainly wasn’t his brain.
Not looking at her again, Kit anchored the boat, then splashed onto shore and into the dense line of brush and trees. Darkness immediately surrounded him, foliage blocking out what little light there was to the early morning. He followed the ever-growing noise of battle, at times hacking a path through the brush with his sword.
He emerged from the woods onto a small spit of sand a few yards down from the battle. The scene on the beach was just as he’d expected, and he paused to assess the damages. The government sloop, Justice, was broadside at the mouth to the bay, guns blasting toward the beach. Somehow, the Sea Tiger had been maneuvered into the water, but sat as helpless as a lame duck in the bay. Kit could see crew members working feverishly to position her guns. The big cannons mounted on each side of the bay were all that kept his ship from being blasted out of the water, and he recognized Turk’s broad frame shouting orders beside a thirty-two pounder. The huge cannon belched a deadly load of chain shot toward the enemy’s rigging, shaking the ground with the force of the explosion. Canister and grape shot spewed back from the Justice, and Kit saw several of his crew go down.
Sprinting toward Turk, Kit dodged splinters as a shattered tree spat deadly missiles of trunk and limb in the air. Leaves and grit showered down on his head, peppering him with debris as he bent low and ran.
Turk looked up, his ebony face wreathed in smoke and wrath when Kit reached the limestone and dirt rampart. “Delighted you could join us, Captain.”
“What are the damages so far?”
“As you can see, we had enough warning to put the ship to water, though it seems likely to be sunk at any moment.” Turk gave a signal, and an iron ball blasted from the cannon with another mighty roar.
Momentarily deaf from the percussion, Kit waited for his hearing to return, scanning the beach with a critical eye. Though the tents were destroyed, along with most of their provisions, he saw that there were not as many casualties as he’d first thought. Only a few bodies lay scattered on the sand. Apparently, there had been enough time to form some sort of defense.
Turk confirmed this a few moments later, when both of them moved away from the huge cannon to converse briefly. “Actually, if not for Monroe’s warning, we would have been caught completely unaware.”
“Monroe? From Bloody Bob’s Tavern?”
Nodding, Turk said, “It seems that on his return voyage to town, he happened upon some individuals with extremely valuable information. He scurried back to warn us, giving us enough time to get the Sea Tiger into the water, though alas, without some of her guns. Beyond his warning, our crew was completely taken by surprise.”
“Where were the guards I stationed?” Kit snapped. “They should have been able to sound an alarm.”
“I agree.” Turk’s gaze was steady. “This may not be the most propitious moment to mention it, but a member of our crew found it expedient to supply the others with rum from our cache meant for the return voyage.”
Kit’s jaw clenched with fury. “After I gave the order none were to have more than the daily allotment?”
There was no need for a reply. Kit saw the answer in Turk’s face. “Who was it?” he demanded, and wasn’t surprised to hear Turk say, “Reed was in charge of the rum barrels.”
“If he lives through the battle,” Kit said, turning toward the beach, “he’ll hang.”
Before Turk could reply, another explosion shook the ground, sending showers of sand raining down on them. Shaking grit from his hair and eyes, Kit moved back to the breastwork to survey the battle. An enemy boat filled with militia launched from the Justice attempted to work its way toward the beach.
“They intend to capture our guns,” Kit said, and gave an order for one of the twenty-four pounders to be trained on the small craft. Despite a volley of canister and grape shot, the boat made the beach. More boats were sent out from the Justice and hand-to-hand fighting raged across the sand.
Leaving a band of men to keep the cannons secure, Turk and Kit joined those on the beach, fighting their way toward the guns mounted on the other side of the bay. Thick smoke swirled around them, choking and blinding Kit at times. Still he moved, his sword slashing, meeting resistance and slashing again. It was all too familiar, the sounds and smells of battle, a nightmare come to life.
Glimpsing the lethal downswing of a glittering blade, he ducked and twisted, swinging his cutlass up in a murderous stroke at the same time. There was an instant of resistance, then an easy slice of blade as he freed it. He had a moment’s glimpse of a contorted face before his forward momentum carried him along several yards. Stumbling over an object on the beach, he barely managed to keep his balance, but still went to one knee. Then he recoiled.
It wasn’t just debris he’d stumbled over, but one of his crew lying in a tangle of canvas tent and splintered wood. Hauling himself upright, he glanced at the man. Dane. It was the big blond man who had distracted the tavern whore for him—and lying close beside him, half-nude and with her frowsy brown hair covering her face, laid Kate. She was dead, her body a twisted, bloody mess, but Dane was still breathing. There was only a shredded stump where his right arm had been, and his intestines oozed onto the sand in a pink, glistening coil.
Sweat beaded his forehead as Kit took a step back, swearing softly. Dane’s eyelids fluttered. He looked up at him, his eyes unfocused. “Cap’n,” he muttered in a wheezy breath, “help me . . .”
There was nothing he coul
d do, and Kit knew it. Still, he took a moment to kneel beside his fallen crewman. Smoke swirled around them in heavy shrouds, smelling of sulphur and death and making his lungs ache.
A sword was clutched in Dane’s left hand, and his fingers curled around it tightly. “Never . . . saw ’em comin’,” he wheezed. “Too . . . much . . . rum, I guess.”
Kit put a hand on Dane’s shoulder, holding him quiet with no effort. “Rest, Dane. I’ll send a man back to help you.”
The blond crewman’s mouth twisted. “No . . . need. Wish I hadn’t . . . drank so . . . much. But Reed said . . .”
“Never mind.” Kit looked up and saw Mr. Buttons nearby, his face as red as his hair. He beckoned to him. “Charley, get a man here to pull Dane to safety and tend his wounds.”
Mr. Buttons lifted a brow, glancing at the fatally wounded crewman, but nodded without hesitation. He had to know as well as Kit that Dane would not survive.
“Certainly, Captain. You’re needed on the south rampart. We think the Justice is hit below her water line, and the men want to know what we should do next.”
Kit turned, surveying the government sloop. It listed badly on the port side, and he could hear the shouts and confusion aboard her top deck. He smiled grimly.
“Good. If I know Turk, he’ll be pouring on the chain shot and cannonballs. If we can’t send her to Glory now, we don’t have a prayer of escape.”
Surging to his feet, Kit left the dying Dane with Mr. Buttons and raced toward the rampart several yards away. There was still a chance they might get away . . .
Angela trembled so badly she could hardly stand. She knelt in the bushes at the water’s edge, anxiously gazing up at the small bluff. Just beyond lay the beach. It had taken her a great deal of effort to fight her way through the trees and find the camp, but now that she was here, she wondered if she should have remained with the boat.
It was just that she’d been so terrified, listening to the heavy thunder of cannon and pistol fire and hearing the clang of swords, and screams and shouts . . . dear God, she had covered her ears with both hands and still been able to hear it. Not knowing what was happening, who was winning and whether Kit and Emily were still alive, had finally prompted her to action. She could no longer just sit and wait to be found. She had to see for herself.
Capture The Wind Page 25