The Wedding Ransom

by Geralyn Dawson

  She knew he was trying to distract her, but she was curious despite herself. “Throat disease? Which one? Aren’t there a number of such maladies?”

  “With this particular infirmity the patient dies of a broken spine at the end of a few minutes and a rope.” Rafe’s pirate’s smile slipped and a shadow entered his eyes as he added, “I confess I’ve been close to picking up that bug myself.”

  Wanting—no, needing—to chase his shadows away as much as her own, Maggie gave the response she sensed he desired. She chuckled and to her surprise, it felt good. She’d been doubtful whether she’d ever laugh again.

  “You dare to laugh at the notion of my being hanged?” Rafe teased. His expression softened, and a pleased light entered his eyes. He pulled a shirt from the trunk and tossed it to her. “Put this on, Maggie. A man can only take so much temptation, and if I’m going to spend the night with you without acting like a bastard, I need you to keep your bosom covered.” Matter-of-factly, he placed his heel in a bootjack and tugged first one leg and then the other free.

  Her heart seemed to stop. He had said he would spend the night. He wasn’t throwing her out. A heavy weight lifted off Maggie’s soul as she donned the soft blue chambray shirt.

  Rafe whistled beneath his breath as he pulled off his socks. Then his hands went to the top button on the fly of his pants and froze. “Now that would be a plumb stupid move.” He blew out a long breath, tugged his shirttail free, and climbed into the bed beside her.

  He shifted her onto his lap and his arms wrapped around her, strong and steady and safe. Maggie rested her head against his chest and sighed with pleasure at the intimacy they shared.

  He clicked his tongue. “I listened at the window earlier, Maggie. You’ve had an awful time of it, haven’t you?”

  She wasn’t surprised that he eavesdropped. “I can’t believe they lied to me.”

  His fingers gently stroked her arm. “Don’t be so hard on those old corsairs, sweetheart. They did what they thought was best.”

  “I know. And I love them for it. I love them. I’m just… I don’t know.”

  “Confused.” He pressed a kiss against her hair. “You had a lot thrown at you this evening.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Maggie said with a grimace. She noted the slight increase in the tension of his chest muscles beneath her cheek.

  A dry drawl rumbled from out of his chest. “Yeah, but I bet I can guess.” He tilted her chin, exposing her neck and his thumb traced Barlow Hill’s mark. “You want to tell me about this?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Nonetheless, I want to hear. Why did you let him near you?”

  Maggie tucked her head against him. “Can’t we just forget about it?”

  “You’re in my bed, in my arms, wearing his pucker scar. I don’t think we can forget it.”

  “I don’t think that gives you the right to—”

  He leaned his head down and kissed her. Hard. And Maggie welcomed him. Her lips parted and his tongue probed, roughly stroking hers. She tasted both his hunger and his frustration, and though the kiss flirted with violence, she also tasted his restraint.

  Maggie’s entire body went limp. This man was pure magic. He wove a passionate spell with his mouth, awakening hollow aches and sizzling nerves inside her. Instinctively, she tried to shift in his arms, to press herself against him. But Rafe wouldn’t allow it. He held her captive in his lap, taking it no further than a kiss despite the hardened proof of his own excitement she felt beneath her thighs.

  “Maggie,” he whispered roughly, breaking the kiss. “You do know how to slip past a man’s defenses. In the future I want you to remind me that kissing you is not a good way to prove my point. Now, tell me about Hill.”

  The name served to jerk Maggie from the sensual daze. She groaned and started to wrench herself from his arms, but abruptly changed her mind. She liked being wrapped in his hug. If he was going to force her to tell this story, at least she should get a little something out of it. She vented her frustration by giving the hair on Rafe’s arms a tug as she said, “He wants me to marry him.”

  “What!” he yelped.

  “Barlow Hill has made me a proposal. He wants a lady-wife for the mansion he’s building here at Lake Bliss, and he thinks I’m perfect for the position. If I marry him, he will allow my grandfathers to stay at the hotel.”

  Rafe’s complexion turned Brazos River red and his eyes shot daggers. He squeezed his fist so hard the veins in his hands bulged and looked ready to pop. “The maggot. That’s blackmail!”

  Maggie had sensed he wouldn’t like the idea any more than she, but she never expected such an extreme reaction. “You sound like my grandfathers.”

  “They know about this?” he asked incredulously.

  “No, of course not. They’d kill him if they did, and we can’t have that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hill was wary of my grandfathers from the first. He claims he has taken steps to ruin my family should he suffer an untimely death, and I believe him. The man has proved himself to be intelligent, after all. He owns Hotel Bliss.”

  “Well he doesn’t own you. He needs to keep his mouth to himself. When did he propose this bit of extortion anyway? Tonight?”

  Maggie shook her head. “He talked to me about this right before we left for the Caribbean. I told him I was going to New Orleans and that I’d see about a wedding gown there.”

  “You accepted him!”

  “I never came right out and said it. He, however, seems to believe my acceptance is a given.” She paused, shuddering at the memory of her struggle to free herself from his arms. When she spoke again, she couldn’t stop her voice from catching. “I expected to come home with the treasure. I had no idea my father had stolen it. I had no idea I had a father.”

  “Aw, Maggie,” he drawled, his voice a tender sigh. His fist relaxed and he gently stroked her hair, his touch both a comfort and a temptation. As a pair of tears overflowed her eyes to roll down her face he laid her back against the mattress and gently kissed them away.

  It felt so right to lift her lips to his.

  His mouth was warm and wet and sweet with the faint taste of cider. Maggie wanted this pleasure to ease her pain. She wanted Rafe Malone. In that chamber of her mind where her most honest thoughts took substance, she admitted she cared for him more than she’d ever cared for any man. Was it love?

  Maggie shied away from the idea. She’d have to be a fool to love a man like Rafe Malone. A rambler, a rogue. He appealed to her for many reasons, not the least of which was because he was so much like the papas. But that same fact told her to guard her heart. Too many women had come and gone through her grandfathers’ lives for her not to understand the folly of loving an adventurous man.

  This wasn’t about love. It was about comfort and caring, and for tonight that was enough. Tilting back her head, she lifted her face toward him and said, “Hold me.”

  “I am holding you.”

  She stroked a finger down his bare chest. “Make the hurt go away.”

  He fought it. He looked away, the cords in his neck bulging from the clench of his jaw. Tension hovered like a living thing between them.

  Maggie stared into his eyes and whispered, “Please?”

  The word seemed to shudder through him. She waited. She watched. Losing herself in the brilliant depths of his eyes, Maggie knew the moment he decided. Pleasure washed through her, sweet and clean.

  “Aw, shoot, Maggie. I tried.”

  Chapter 10

  Rafe eased her back onto the bed and rose above her, his knees on either side of her hips. “You don’t fight fair.”

  “I didn’t realize it was a fight.”

  “Oh, it’s a fight, all right. Let me show you.”

  His hands moved over her, spreading heat with every stroke. Nimble fingers worked the buttons of the shirt she wore, and she caught her breath at the warm brush of his fingers against the underside of her breasts.
“Oh, Mary.”

  At the husky rumble of her name a sinuous shiver ran all the way to her toes. His heavy-lidded gaze took a leisurely trip down her body, leaving her aching for his touch. He whispered words of desire and wanting, erotic images that circled in her mind like satin ribbons. She would have responded with needy words of her own had the ability to speak not deserted her.

  Rafe yanked off his shirt. His eyes were fierce with concentration, and the air surrounding him all but crackled with raw sexuality. Slowly, too slowly, his hand lifted toward her swelling breasts. When finally he touched her, his bronzed hand a vivid contrast against her white flesh, an exquisite sensation speared through her, and Maggie couldn’t hold back a gasp.

  “You are so beautiful, Mary. Seeing you starts a fire inside me. Touching you—” He flicked his thumb across a pebbled crest. “—Makes me ache. Tasting you…” He bent his head to her and traced his tongue slowly, wetly, arousingly around her nipple. “Tasting you makes me hungry for more.”

  He covered her with his mouth and began to feast.

  Maggie threw back her head, arching her back, offering herself. His mouth was hot, his tongue so sweetly rough. Shivers rippled through her and she moaned, low and throaty. “Oh, Rafe.”

  He lifted his head then, showed her his pirate’s grin, and his eyes glowed like polished jewels. “Oh, Mary,” he growled in reply before devoting his attention to her other aching breast.

  Darts of pleasure pierced her with every lave and nip and tug, sensations that tore straight to the hollow core of her, that achy, needy place inside her crying out to be filled. Maggie circled her hips seeking, instinctively demonstrating her need.

  She knew a keen disappointment as his mouth freed her breast. He shifted, rolled back. His hands went to the buttons of his pants and paused. “Are you certain about this, sweetheart? A woman only has one first time. It’s a wonderful gift—one I’ll treasure forever—but I want you to be absolutely sure. No regrets.”

  “No regrets,” Maggie whispered. “I want it to be you, Rafe.”

  He breathed a relieved sigh. “Thank God.”

  He stripped off his pants with swift, decisive movements, drawing Maggie’s gaze inexorably downward. Her mouth went dry as he stood before her, naked and bold and…hungry.

  Even as a responsive yearning quickened in her womb, a whisper of doubt fluttered through Maggie’s mind. What if she didn’t please him? What if in her inexperience she did something wrong? Even though she needed the comfort, needed the heat now melting the ice from her wounded heart, Maggie wasn’t the type of woman to take without giving in return. Her pride wouldn’t allow it.

  Lifting her arms toward him, Maggie made a decision of her own. Virginity be damned. Heaven knew her upbringing hadn’t kept her unaware. She was an intelligent woman. She could figure out what she didn’t know. By the looks of things, she was doing all right up until then.

  He came to her, took her hand, and lifted it to his mouth for a courtier’s kiss. Hot eyes blazed down at her, and in them Maggie saw something that both soothed her fear and filled her with a woman’s power.

  This was more than lust. More than sex.

  She went pliant with delight. Rafe Malone would remember the time she spent with him. Mary Margaret St. John would be more than just another of the women who had passed through his life and through his bed. She would be the one whose memory haunted him in the months and years to come.

  Secure in her position, Maggie joined the battle.

  She drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “I want to touch you. May I?”

  “I think I might die if you don’t.”

  The muscles in his long arms flexed as he lowered himself to the bed to lie beside her, and she chose to touch him there first. Her hand skimmed his bicep, felt the bulge of hard muscle beneath soft skin. She smiled, appreciating the feeling, enjoying the intimacy.

  “You slay me, woman,” he rasped as she pushed him over onto his back then brushed her fingers across his chest and his nipple.

  Tanned skin quivered beneath her hand and she thrilled at her feminine power. Her palms spread out on his chest, her fingers tunneling into his chest hair. She stroked him as he had done her and gloried in his reaction as he sucked in a sharp breath. Maggie wanted to laugh. She felt so free, so delicious. So much a woman.

  Her hands stroked lower and lower. When she skimmed below his navel his entire body grew taut, and he unleashed a growl. “Enough.”

  He grabbed her hands and pinned them to the bed, then fit his body atop hers. “You are a bold woman for a virgin, Mary-mine, and as much as I love it, you’re about to end this when we’ve barely gotten started.”

  Maggie hardly heard him, so conscious was she of the heat of him poised against that achy core of her. The air surrounding them thickened and her body tensed in nervous anticipation. Unconsciously, she circled her lips with her tongue.

  Rafe groaned and loosened his hold on her wrists as he lowered his head. He mimicked her action with his own tongue before fusing his lips to hers. He kissed her deeply, his tongue thrusting hard as she wrapped her arms around him. Maggie relished his hunger and knew it for her own.

  His harsh breath sounded in her ear as he skimmed a finger up her thigh, and for the first time she felt a glimmer of apprehension. His hand found her, cupped her, kneaded her. Then he eased one finger inside her slick folds.

  Maggie gasped. “Rafe?”

  “Shh, honey. Relax.”

  Relax? She couldn’t relax. His fingers were wicked, teasing her, teaching her of hungers she’d never dreamed existed. Her fear drowned beneath the tide of rising heat and need. Soon she moved against him, willingly, impatiently, beseechingly.

  “That’s it, Mary,” he said raggedly. “Let me. Let me make it happen for you. Relax and let it happen.”

  Maggie writhed atop the sheets, trapped by his fingers and the hot, boiling, glowing throb building in her core. Rafe drove her higher and higher. Faster. Faster. A pleasure-pain that made her want to scream. “Please!” She sobbed. “I can’t!”

  His tight voice whispered in her ear. “Yes, you can. We can. Ah, Mary, didn’t I warn you this was a fight?”

  Maggie lay with her head thrown back against the pillow, her eyes closed, so she didn’t see him move. It didn’t matter. Nothing could have prepared her for the shocking flick of his tongue against her softest skin.

  “Rafe!” And Maggie shattered. Tides of molten pleasure crashed over her, sweeping her along in a spectacular journey of shudders and shivers and quakes.

  “That’s it, Mary-mine. Now share it with me, sweetheart.” He eased inside her. “It’ll only hurt—” He thrust his hips forward, breaching the barrier of her innocence, filling her with himself. “—A minute.”

  Maggie lay quietly, adjusting to the unaccustomed fullness, shaking with the aftershocks of her climax. “Liar,” she whispered.

  “Oh hell, sweetheart. I’m sorry. But it is—”

  “It didn’t hurt a minute, Rafe,” she said, smiling, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. “It didn’t hurt at all.” Now that she could think again, she remembered her desire to make this memorable for Rafe. She abandoned herself to her instincts and wriggled her hips.

  He ground his teeth and didn’t quite hold back a moan. “Mary Margaret, you are playing with fire.”

  “I know,” she breathed, rotating her hips in the opposite direction, trying to determine whether the route made a difference.

  “Siren,” he muttered, as his hips began to move. “I intended to give you time to get used to me.”

  She didn’t need time; she needed him, more of him. She needed to satisfy the hunger burning in his eyes. She wanted to give back. Instinctively, Maggie arched up to meet his thrusts. “Look at me,” she demanded. “Rafe, look at me. At who I am.”

  He did. He looked at her and never looked away. And when he poured himself into her, her name was on his lips. “Mary.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~

&nbs
p; A long time later, when pulses had calmed and heartbeats had slowed, Maggie lay snuggled up against Rafe. Filled with tender joy, she drew lazy circles in the whorls of his chest hair and asked in the softest of whispers, “Rafe? Why Mary?”

  He wore only a lazy smile and a sheet as he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “That’s simple, sweetheart. Snake has his lass and Ben his Mary Margaret. Lucky has his Magpie and Gus his Maggins.”

  His eyes glowed like a pirate’s treasure in the lamplight as he added, “Mary is mine.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Maggie dreamed she was down in the cenote. Her arm lay trapped beneath the treasure chest that was filled with rocks. She yanked and she tugged, but it wouldn’t come loose. Then a noise sounded. A loud rumbling…snore.

  Maggie’s eyes flew open. For a second her mind remained a blank. Then, like a dam bursting, memories came flooding back to her. She realized her arm wasn’t trapped by a treasure chest filled with rocks, but instead by the man whose bed she shared.

  Oh, my. She wrenched her arm free. The body beside her mumbled sleepily then settled back into a snore. Oh, my heavens.

  She’d actually done it.

  Maggie rolled off the bed and onto her feet in a swift, smooth movement. Moonlight beamed through the unshuttered window, illuminating the broad washboard torso against which she’d lain mere seconds before. A dozen different images from the previous night flashed through her mind, and Maggie swallowed hard.

  She bent and grabbed her dress up off the floor where it had fallen, then winced in the darkness at the unaccustomed soreness between her legs. She wasn’t a virgin any longer.