by Sarah Abbot
“Death to pirates!” roared the crowd.
Abby winced at the volume, was almost overturned by the surging crowd. The mood was growing decidedly menacing. She had to get to safety…to Ryan.
“Take care when you curse a pirate and his blood,” warned Dermot. “For who among us can be sure that the blood of pirates does not course through our veins?”
An uproar that had Abby clapping her hands to her ears rose from the crowd.
“For this, my friends, for the blood that sings in our veins at the very sight of the sea, we give the pirates this one night of freedom; we relinquish our grasp on the civil, the lawful, the passionless. Tonight, we are pirates!”
Chapter Twenty-four
Does she honestly think she can hide from me?
The Lover raked his fingers through his hair, feeling the strands catch on the partially scabbed A that blazed in his palm. It was red; a deep, angry red that spoke to him of her deception.
When he awoke in the dead of night with his hand throbbing and a fine, red thread weaving upward beneath the skin, he knew in the heart of him that things were going awry, that his love, his darling, had made a terrible choice.
It was poison. Of the blood. But he’d been careful. He had cleansed the flesh before he sliced, had sterilized the razor blade, and had only removed the bandage when he absolutely had to see the evidence of his love, the evidence of her, come back to him at last.
So, what was this poison?
It could mean only one thing.
The Lover opened the buttons of his shirt, let his fingers trail over the first letter he had carved into his flesh—over thirty years ago.
It was a C, for his lovely Celeste.
He had carved it the moment love took hold of his heart, had rubbed it raw on nights that he lay, yearning for her, seething that she slept in the arms of the artist, biding his time until the time was right.
Ah, yes, good things come to those who wait.
He remembered the day he felt the very chemistry of the C change; he’d felt as if the graceful curve of her blessed letter had been carved by brimstone.
Foreboding had sickened him until he retched with it, groaned with it, railed against the heavens that had brought her to him and then tortured him so mercilessly.
He had thought, for a moment, that he had offended the heavens in some way; that this was why they toyed with him. But then logic, sweet logic, had filled him with the calm certainty that he had done nothing wrong— reminded him that he had done only what he was born to do: love Celeste.
If someone had sinned, it certainly wasn’t him. And there was only one other person it could have been. His lovely Celeste.
Wasn’t history filled with stories demonstrating the treachery of women? Even deeply beloved women?
The Lover had stolen into the night, crept through the darkness, and had peeked into the window of her cottage.
His heart almost tore from his chest when he saw her, standing naked in front of a mirror she had carelessly propped against the wall. She was looking at herself, a small smile on her lips.
He watched her hand, graceful and deliberate, grasp a bottle of perfume, smile sleepily. She unstopped it, dabbed the crystal stopper behind her ears, on her throat, between her breasts.
This was why his wound blazed. She was readying herself for the artist.
The Lover had turned and retched in the bushes outside the window.
Then it had come to him.
It was up to him to sanctify her, to turn her heart to what was good and right, what was meant to be. No, he would not let her degrade herself as had his mother!
The smile crept onto his face, lighting his heart as if the sun shone directly into it.
He had waited long enough. The time was now.
As always when he thought of that night, The Lover simmered with the most delicious warmth.
It seemed like yesterday—and yet a million years ago— that he’d crept into the cottage and stood, watching her as she lay in her bed waiting for the artist.
Well, he had changed her plans, yes he had. He had entered the room and smiled at her, ignoring her crises of dismay and thinking how lovely and modest it was that she clutched the sheet over her bosom, as if he had never seen her naked body before.
He went to her and bade her to be still—which she did, clever girl. She knew better than to anger him, patient man that he’d been.
Lovingly, he had drawn her from the bed and just looked at her—so beautiful and silvery in the moonlight. She trembled with desire for him, just as he did for her, but he wouldn’t have her there, in the artist’s bed. He had better plans for his lovely Celeste.
He had wrapped her in the bedsheet and driven her along the winding cliffs, then grasped her hand, taking her to the pirate’s cave.
Celeste had cried out beneath him, but the thundering of the cave drowned out all sound. He had held her fast, as she was so terribly shy—his sweet, gentle one—and he’d made love to her until the sun rose.
The stupid artist, who’d drunk himself into a stupor at the bar and apparently never even bothered to come home that night, was never any the wiser.
But the burning in his hand brought him back to himself; brought him back to his duty. He rubbed his thumb over his palm until it throbbed.
The poison could mean only one thing: that Abrielle was set on betraying him.
Already, she had moved from the cottage. Where, he had not yet discovered. But he would find her, oh yes, he would, his coy little flower; his treacherous love.
But he had made good use of the time she had been away. He had purchased surveillance equipment online; had spent a leisurely morning affixing tiny cameras in strategic places.
Soon, he would know all her secrets, as every good lover should.
His heart was restless. He had gone too long without sight of her.
Perhaps he would see her at The Marauder’s Return, which was already fully under way, from the sound of it. He decided that he would attend, just in case.
It was the night of the Marauder’s Return, after all, that he had finally felt moved to consummate his love for Celeste those many years ago. His chest warmed at the memory. The night of the Marauder’s Return was special. Very special.
Ah, yes, the time was near. The fates were about to smile upon him again. He could just feel it.
Chapter Twenty-five
An unimaginable commotion filled the night, broke out on every front.
She was surrounded by pirates, by madness. She had to get to Ryan! Abby turned north—or toward what she thought was north—and found herself nose to nose with the dais.
“Abby, you idiot,” she hissed under her breath. If she could just get off the beach and find Water Street, she could get to Brigantine Way. But where on earth was Water Street? Where the devil was any street? All she could see in any direction was people.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Surely she knew the way back…like a salmon, she reasoned. There will be hell to pay if I’m not at least as intelligent as a salmon!
She opened her eyes, dove headlong into the crowd, and started forging ahead again.
Men and women danced as if plunged into another epoch; the pulse of drums seemed to draw them into a primal dance of seduction.
Faces she recognized—and some she didn’t—leered at her. A man leaned in far too close, his face bathing hers with sour-smelling moisture. “Well, if it isn’t our own little TV star. Come to see how the real men play, have you?”
She shoved the drunk aside, thankful he was intoxicated to a near stupor.
Abby felt swallowed, consumed in one bite by the menacing crowd. She was ogled by men wearing eye patches, deafened by the squeals of women…all she could think about was reaching the safety of Ryan’s arms.
Then, she felt it.
Utterly distinct from the unconscious press of the surging crowd…someone had touched her, had run a finger down the length of her spine.
Her breath came more quickly. The ghost of that touch wailed along her backbone like an internal siren.
She looked left and then right, confused by the flirting light that bathed the edges of faces with firelight’s gold.
Another touch—unmistakably deliberate—as someone yanked her arm.
Abby shrieked. Frantically, she scanned the surging crowd. No one looked her way.
Was this ominous night going to repeat its vile history upon her?
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she said through her teeth.
Elbows out, she began to fight her way through the crowd.
“No!” Another touch. This one squeezing behind her knee tightly enough to send pain shooting up her leg. Tears sprang to her eyes, just as a hand grasped her hair and tugged.
Her head snapped backward. Both hands reached for the stinging area on her scalp, holding her hair to keep it from being ripped from her head.
She could be snatched, right here, and no one would even notice, no one would even care.
She had to escape…her safety depended on it.
Abby swallowed her fear and plunged headlong into the throng, shoving, elbowing, even punching when necessary. She ignored indignant howls as her foot came down hard on those of others.
“Abby!” a hand grasped her elbow tightly.
She swung around, ready to do battle. “Ryan!” she cried, collapsing against him. “Help me find my way out of here!”
“Come with me.” He took her hand, leading her through the thickness of the crowd and cutting a swath before her.
At last, he turned and pulled her into the shadow of a building. “You weren’t at Brigantine Way,” he said, his face etched with worry. “What happened?”
“I couldn’t get through,” she said, all but sobbing.
Ryan grabbed her to his chest and held her tight. He lifted his hand, stroked her hair from her face. “You’re safe now.”
Am I? She held him tighter. “You didn’t call,” she said into the bulk of his sweater. “I told you my secrets, and you didn’t call. I trusted you—and I don’t trust many people.”
He cupped her face. “Trust me, Abby. I heard your voice tonight. I thought of you out here alone, and everything came into focus.”
Abby’s breath caught in her throat when she looked up at him and saw him searching her face, her eyes, letting his gaze linger upon her lips. His thumb stroked them, followed the sinuous curve of them as he watched her mouth. His other hand found her waist and drew her closer. “Trust me.”
The thrumming pulse of the night drummed in her veins, drew her heartbeat into a frenzy of desire. “Ryan,” she whispered, slaking her thirst for air with a deep, intoxicating draught of his breath. Her concern vanished, replaced by something infinitely more potent.
He pressed against her in answer; a leg between hers, an arm behind her back, another cupping her neck. He drew her closer, then pressed his mouth to hers with the thirst of a man who had been wandering in a desert, drinking her in, consuming her breath, devouring her groans, claiming her every nuance of movement with his body.
Abby’s memories of the last terrifying moments melted away. His presence was like a river, mighty and deep. She felt herself disappear beneath the surface, where the swift current tossed her, caressed her, made her its own. She grasped his clothing, kneading it in her hands as she moved against him, the taste of him filling her, the feet of him his body a hardness she welcomed.
“Ryan,” she gasped into the sweet darkness of his mouth, wanting him so suddenly and so completely that every fear fluttered into oblivion. Ryan was hers. She felt it in her soul. She felt it in his rising passion, felt it as the walls around his heart gave way, felt it in his growing need, and she exulted with the joy of it.
Her breath caught on it, coming in little moans and filling his mouth as he devoured the sweetness of her surrender and gave the same gift back to her.
“Abby,” he whispered, groaning with the sound of her name, trailing his mouth over the flesh of her neck. “I need you. Tonight.”
His words landed with a soft thud in her heart. “This is too much, Ryan,” she said, pulling away from him. “Too soon.”
He dragged in a slow breath, his forehead against hers, his eyes closed tightly. Abby’s own heart thudded in her chest as she breathed in his exhaled need, felt it slowly withdraw from her as if in regretful retreat. “You’re right. It is,” he admitted.
His hands fell from her waist as he pulled himself away from her.
“I’ll take you home,” he said roughly.
“But how can you? The road is impassable.”
“Not my mother’s home. Mine. We won’t make it back to Mom’s on foot, and we’ll never get through with a vehicle.”
“Oh. Of course,” she said.
Ryan took her hand. He turned to her, still flushed. “Stay close to me, understand?”
They stepped into the madness, ducking through alleys, slipping between houses. After what seemed like an eternity of walking, they escaped from the crowds, the groping hands, the overpowering scent of mingled bodies and alcohol.
The moon was high; the wind on the brink of chilly. “I can’t imagine what would have happened if you hadn’t found me, Ryan,” she said, shuddering at the thought of where she’d be or what she’d be enduring if he hadn’t come. “Someone pulled my hair. It definitely wasn’t random.”
He stopped dead in his tracks. “You’re sure about that?”
“I’d bet my life on it.” She watched his face intently. She needed someone to believe her as much as her own mother must have needed someone to believe in her so long ago.
A flicker of something moved behind his eyes. “Did you see who did it?”
“No.”
His grasp on her hand tightened. Abby couldn’t help feeling that something about tonight would change things drastically—had already changed things drastically—for both of them.
“I need to tell you what happened at the O’Donnells’ tonight.” As they walked in the darkness, Mavis’s revelations poured from her heart.
“Ryan, a woman alone on a night like this is a prime target. Something happened to Mom the night of the Marauder’s Return, and I don’t know if it happened on the streets, or back at the cottage. I think she might have been hurt.”
“Attacked?”
Abby nodded, tight-lipped.
Ryan’s expression was inscrutable. “I hope you’re wrong,” he said at last, pulling her hand gently. “Let’s get you inside. It’s not much farther, now.”
They approached a long, low Cape Cod. Weathered shingles reflected the moonlight, and substantial white trim glowed softly. The entire house looked framed against the shifting, sparkling sea that glinted beneath the stars.
“This is yours?” she asked, surprised. “Ryan, it’s beautiful. I’ve admired this house ever since I first saw it.”
“Thanks.” Ryan let her in with a twist of his key. “I’ll start a fire,” he said, extending a hand to lead her into the living room. “It’s a little chilly.”
Abby stepped into the room and saw a magnificent stone fireplace, a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the moonlit sea that made her heart skip a beat.
Ryan crouched in front of the fireplace, crumpling paper and stacking it with kindling. He struck a match and held it to the edge of the paper, letting it dance along the edge and grow in amber brilliance.
The fire crackled warmly, and Ryan sat down beside her. “I was way out of line tonight. Kissing you, I mean. I never would have done it if I’d known you were already upset.”
She looked him squarely in the face. “Don’t apologize. Besides, if I’d wanted you to stop, I would have said so.”
“Are you sorry I did stop?”
“Yes,” she said, barely recognizing the breathless voice as her own, barely able to keep from shivering as goose bumps rose on her flesh. She reached across the miniscule, unending distance between them, touched his f
ace. “I want to forget that touch. I only want to think of yours.”
He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed the palm. His tongue touched the mound of flesh beneath her thumb, his mouth closed over it, sucking gently.
Ryan closed, then opened, his eyes. In them, Abby saw the color of the sea in storms. It thrilled her, frightened her, made her forget the hands that had been so unwelcome and think only of his, holding hers.
He looked at her with an intensity that threatened to pry every truth from her heart, and the truth was, from the moment Abby had first seen him, she had been captivated—her yearning was rooted in something she didn’t understand and could no longer suppress.
Ryan breathed it in—the very truth of her—and Abby felt herself slipping inside him along with her secrets. With an unsteady breath, she took him deeper still into the rich soils of her heart.
She would be open to him this night, she knew, as she had never been before. The moment swelled and simmered. She sensed it quiver all around her, felt her heart vibrate beneath its weight. She felt the whine of tension and knew the moment was about to rupture into something magnificent.
As light as breath, his lips touched hers. Behind her closed eyelids, she felt an explosion of light that rushed to the core of her, scattering every remembrance of her life as it had been, singing through her veins an anthem of new possibilities.
She grasped his shoulders and pulled him deeper into the kiss, felt his fingers splayed on her back and opened her mouth wider.
At last he was hers, completely. She felt his pleasure as he tasted her, drew her lip into his mouth and flicked his tongue over the silky, swollen flesh.
She pressed closer to him, needing him to feel the beating of her heart, needing to feel the beating of his.
He responded with a force that shocked her—tasting the secret folds of her mouth, breathing himself into her with a longing so fierce that it left her breathless.
As if she were weightless, he lifted her from the couch, her legs dangling over his arms.
She felt the room disappear behind her, felt the jerking roughness of stairs beneath her, felt the brush of a foreign hallway, the thud of foot against door, shoving it open.