Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1

by Erinn Ellender Quinn

  Vallé pulled off his justacorps, shrugged out of his weskit, and placed both of them neatly aside. He seemed to have some trouble opening his snug-fitting breeches, but once the buttons were freed, his full-sleeved chemise d’homme, gleaming white in the precious moonlight, followed. He sat on a chair to remove his boots, then untied his garters and rolled down his stockings. When he peeled down his breeches, a flash of white buttocks contrasted erotically with the sun-browned skin above his waist.

  He dragged the black ribbon from his hair, freeing it to fall past his shoulders. Christiana curled her fingers into the sheet, wanting nothing more than to run them through the white-gold strands, to trace his ear and fondle the single golden hoop he wore, and taste the moan that simple action would elicit. As it was, she waited, breathless and beguiled, thinking of the pleasure he’d brought her before and wanting it again.

  Needing it again.

  He lifted the corner of the sheet. The mattress dipped, and he slid into place beside her, not bothering to cover himself.

  The sheets would be kicked down soon enough.

  “Bonsoir,” he murmured, turning on his side. Leaning over her, he cupped her face and pressed a kiss upon her lips, then slid his hand downward in a voyage of rediscovery, tracing her neck, her shoulder, the length of her arm, before finding her naked hip.

  “Bon Dieu,” he breathed, leaving his hand in place even as he pulled back. Blue eyes glittering in the precious light, he watched her while he kneaded her flesh, rubbing her hipbone with his thumb. He splayed his hand and slid his callused fingers on the smoothness of her belly, drawing erotic patterns that made her flex, restive, beneath him.

  Christiana wove her fingers into the thickness of his hair, dragging it back from his face and urging his head down, meeting his parted lips with her own and welcoming the tongue he thrust into her mouth. As his respiration grew harsh and uneven, the language of his body grew more eloquent. His knowing hand brushed her most intimate curls, caressed the swollen folds, then slid between them. A single insistent finger penetrated the tightness of her sheath while his thumb found her aching center of sensation, stroking it with a scorching intimacy that made her twist and pant beneath him.

  She was shameless, she knew, but nothing mattered beyond this moment, beyond this bed. There was only Vallé, and her love for him, and the pleasure she knew that they could bring each other.

  He pressed a line of kisses down her throat, nipping it lightly, tasting the slim column before moving lower. His hair teased her nipple, then his tongue; his hot, wet mouth fastened on the crest and suckled while his fingers quickened their cadence below. She arched her back and cupped his head, pressing his face into her breast, wanting more, seeking to ease the building ache. He dragged his teeth across the tip, flicked it with his tongue, then drew it deep into his mouth while he fit a second finger into her.

  She gasped at the sensation, pushed her hips off the bed, and rose to meet the next thrust of his hand. Lifting his head, he smiled in the dark before bending over her. He nuzzled her breasts, her chest, her belly. Inhaling sharply, he pressed a kiss on the soft, dark curls and opened his mouth to taste her.

  His groan vibrated her tenderest flesh. Holding her hips still with his hands, he eased himself between thighs that she spread for him. He thrust out his tongue, a quick dart, then a slow, deep slide to her molten core. The sensation was hot, wet, wicked, unbearable. A whimper escaped her, trapped too long in her throat. She plunged her hands into his gilded hair, intending to pull him away, but he opened his mouth and teased her pearl with his tongue at the same time he pushed his fingers into her. She found herself clasping his head instead, holding onto him like a lifeline when the sensual tide he educed threatened to drown her.

  He tasted her, tongue circling, thrusting deep. He teased that secret, most sensitive bud and made her writhe with devouring kisses. His breaths were harsh against her skin, dragon fire searing flesh that wept for want of him. “Please. Oh, please,” she begged, unaware of what she asked for but trusting him to know.

  He closed his mouth over her again, tasting her thoroughly while she undulated beneath him and groaning in response when she whimpered, relishing the sound of her arousal. His hand moved: quick, elegant twists that spiraled into her center until she hovered, trembling, on the brink. Sensing it, he lifted his head and whispered against the most intimate part of her, one callused thumb cherishing its sweetest spot.

  “Come, Christiana. Give this to me....”

  He pressed a kiss against each slender thigh, then dipped his head and buried his face against her, nuzzling her belly, rubbing his beard-shadowed chin against her cleft. Sliding down, he closed his mouth unerringly over her, binding her to him with searing suction. Instantly she stiffened as she felt the tide break free, washing over her, over him, a second time, and a third.

  “Oui,” he murmured against her, thrusting his tongue inside to taste her passion. “That’s it, ma belle.”

  When she peaked again, she seemed to go outside of herself, only to return to awareness feeling dazed, wrung out, so very, very tired. She felt Vallé slide up, up, until the sweat-dampened curls on his chest teased her swollen breasts and the hot, hard tip of his manhood pushed slightly inside the wet, warm folds, stretching her open. His breath was labored, and when he bent his head to kiss her, she tasted herself on his lips, moist and musky, slightly salty, unbelievably erotic.

  She smiled at the wonder of it all. Scooping out the hollow of his back with her palms, she slid her hands down to cup his derriere, nipped his ear, and whispered, “Come, Vallé. Give this to me....”

  Vallé pushed himself deeper into her tightness, eliciting a gasp as she stretched to accommodate him. He paused, holding himself suspended above her, taking care not to hurt her while he eased his way inside. His consideration touched her, but once he’d seated himself, she didn’t want gentleness. She wanted his passion, full-blown and magnificent, and made no secret of it.

  “Take me,” she whispered, fondling his earring while she teased his other ear with lips and teeth and tongue. “Take me. Have me. I won’t break.”

  He growled and bucked against her, pushing impossibly farther, deep enough to touch her soul. He lifted himself on his fists, straightening until they were joined at only one point. He drew back his hips and thrust in again, and again, extending his strokes until he nearly pulled the full length of his erection out before plunging back inside. Sweat beaded and dripped off his face, his chin, his chest, onto her and down her sides. He came to his knees and slid his arms beneath her thighs, lifting her hips off the bed and claiming her with a single meaty thrust that took her breath away.

  “Again,” he whispered harshly, the rise and fall of his magnificent chest glistening in the moonlight that spilled through the cabin’s windows. “I want to feel you come again, while I am inside you.”

  She touched his firmly muscled flanks, slid her hands along his corded arms, unable to reach anything more until he lowered himself again, urging her legs around his waist. He braced himself on his forearms and filled her, huge and hard and pulsing with life. She reveled in the sensation, found pride in the way she could ripple along his great length and draw forth a sensual rasp while he gathered himself to thrust in deeper, rougher, faster.

  Christiana threaded her fingers through the damp curls on his chest, stroked the carved planes, ran her fingers over the hair-dusted curves to find the hard brown buttons nestled there. Air hissed between his teeth when she took one in her mouth and suckled.

  Vallé lowered his head and pressed a heated kiss to her hair.

  “Christiana,” he whispered, quickening his pace, chanting her name as the flames burned brighter. Tension took hold of them both, carrying them to the volcano’s edge. She felt the molten flow, in him, in her, felt the sweet, searing tide of release wash over her at the same time he wedged his hands beneath her hips and pulled her tight against him. Feeling her explosion, he buried himself inside her, diving in d
eep while the waves still rolled, then gritted his teeth and pulled out at the last second.

  He held her fast while his manhood pulsed between them. A turbid warmth spread on her belly. Understanding what he’d done, Christiana told herself it was for the best. For better or worse, she wanted Vallé, but to trap him with a child would do neither of them good. He had to want her, too. If requited love was not to be the tie that bound them, then surely passion was the next best thing.

  She pressed a kiss against his chest and held him to her heart, telling herself to be grateful for what she had. The man of her dreams was in her arms…but the tide of regret that swept over her when she thought of the child they might have created made the aftermath bittersweet.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Christiana paused outside the closed door of the captain’s cabin, hesitant to knock lest she interrupt the meeting Vallé had been in since his lieutenant returned to the ship an hour ago. Under cover of night, the stolen sloop had been returned to Tortola. The one Vallé was forced to leave behind—a loose end that might have been traced back to him—had been successfully retrieved and was now anchored close by.

  From her perch in the crow’s nest, she had seen the yawl that ferried the lieutenant to the Raptor. She’d spent the morning high above the deck with a borrowed book and a handkerchief, hoping the first would occupy her mind and the other would suffice until the sunshine dried her dripping nose.

  She listened at Vallé’s door for a moment longer. Hearing no voices, she knocked.

  “Entrez.”

  She opened the door and saw Vallé and his lieutenant standing at the mahogany desk, their attention focused on the papers framed by Vallé’s fists. The captain was fully dressed, silver buttons winking on the cuffs of his justacorps. Before she’d gone above deck, he was stripped down to snug-fitting fawn-colored breeches and a full-sleeved shirt. The sensual smile he’d given her then had made her speculate on how he might wish to spend the afternoon.

  “Well?” Vallé slashed his blue gaze towards the door. His grim expression oddly did not ease when he saw her. “So,” he murmured, straightening. “You have decided to come down.”

  The other man turned and acknowledged her with a curt nod. Like Vallé, he was tall, but he had the look of a Spaniard: long and lean, with raven hair and olive skin stretched over angular cheekbones. He looked at her with open animosity, a dark, brooding Lucifer with hellfire burning in his black eyes.

  Unsettled, she did not know what to think. What had happened? Or what had she done…?

  “Aye,” she answered, resisting the urge to cross herself. Vallé nodded curtly, and she heeded the flick of his wrist, giving her permission to enter. Crossing the floor to the bookcase, she replaced the volume she’d borrowed, a tedious work on the history of clock making.

  “And did your perch allow you to plot our position?”

  Vallé asked casually enough, but there was an edge in his voice that put every instinct on guard. Closing the bookcase door, she blew her nose, then glanced over her shoulder, her gaze drawing a line from him to the distant smudge in the window she knew to be Saint-Domingue.

  “The view from here would have been enough,” she said matter-of-factly. Tucking the kerchief in her shirt sleeve, she brushed a glance at the chart on his desk and met his enigmatic gaze. “How long do you intend to remain in these waters?”

  “I don’t, now that Rafe has returned. Lieutenant Rafe Quintanal, this is Mademoiselle Christiana Delacorte.”

  “A pleasure,” she said, offering her hand.

  The lieutenant made no move to take it. He glared at her for a taut moment, then gritted, “I wish I could say the same.”

  Shocked by his vehemence, she stepped back, as stung by Vallé’s silence afterwards as by the insult hurled at her.

  “You must excuse Rafe,” Vallé said at last. “He just returned from Mrs. Smith’s House of Entertainment. He spent an enlightening evening there with, what’s her name? Druscilla?”

  Rafe nodded curtly, angling his head, his devil’s gaze boring into her. “Si,” he gritted. “She was not the best companion, however. I had to ply her with wine before she started talking, and then she complained, of fickle, faithless men in general and one in particular. An Irishman who, she claimed, had sworn to set her up but who had yet to make good on his promises. She said she hoped he choked on his empty words, if he managed to ‘cheat the cheat.’”

  Cheat the cheat. Escape the hangman’s noose.

  Christiana jerked as if the lieutenant had struck her. She took a strangled breath and raised a hand to calm the lurch of her heart. “O’Malley?” she whispered in hoarse disbelief. “Why would she say that about O’Malley, after all he’s done for her? Jesus and Mary—”

  “How well do you know this Druscilla?” Vallé asked, an odd weariness in his voice.

  She looked at him, still shocked by the Spaniard’s disclosure. “Only a little,” she admitted. Obviously not enough. “I know she was young, fourteen or fifteen, when O’Malley—she knew him as Jean Delacorte—first met her. Her mother had been selling her since she was six. I think he felt sorry for her, at first.”

  “And later?”

  Christiana arched a brow and shot a glance to the Spaniard. “You tell me,” she said, smiling tightly. “Is she as good as they say?”

  His jaw clenched, but when his captain looked at him with the same question in his eyes, he nodded.

  “And the gifts?” Vallé asked her. “The drawer full of trinkets?”

  “From O’Malley’s winnings,” said Christiana. “I think—I believe he wanted her to have something that Mrs. Smith couldn’t take away, something she could use for the day she didn’t want to sell herself anymore. I think,” she said, remembering her mother, “that, secretly, he wanted to enable her to choose. Around Druscilla, though, he claimed that she was his good luck charm when he played cards, and he was just sharing the spoils.”

  The Spaniard lifted a sardonic brow and looked to his captain. “What did I tell you? She has known all along.”

  “Known what? That O’Malley gambled? I told Vallé that.” Christiana forced herself one step closer to her accuser, the light of challenge in her eyes. “What exactly is it that you think that I have done?”

  Rafe flicked his hot black gaze over her, then curled his lips in disgust. “I think, señorita, that you are either a fool or a liar. You listen to a puta when she tells you to seek out a wanted man, then you lead him to her. Do you know where she was when the soldados came to arrest el Capitán?”

  Christiana fisted her hands, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “No,” she admitted. “She was gone when I awoke.”

  “Gone, she says.” Rafe barked a harsh laugh. “And I suppose you think she did nothing when you told her that you’d met el Capitán and he had accepted your offer. Fool! Did it not occur to you that she might go to the authorities?”

  Christiana’s mine reeled. What the Spaniard suggested—it didn’t make sense, not when Druscilla had done so much for her, letting her know of O’Malley’s arrest, helping her find a way to free him. “But she wrote to me,” she stammered. “She—”

  “No. She did not.” Rafe leaned towards her menacingly, his eyes as cold and hard as shards of black glass. “The puta cannot read, let alone write.”

  Holy Mother. Christiana resisted the urge to cross herself. The Spaniard knew what she did not, that Druscilla was illiterate.

  Yet Druscilla had known of the letter. It wasn’t as if someone had sent it, pretending to be her.

  “She had someone write it for her, then. She wanted me to know about O’Malley. Wanted to find a way to free him. Why would she betray Vallé?”

  “Perhaps she changed her mind, at some point, between the letter she had someone send to you and el Capitán’s arrival on Tortola. Perhaps she grew tired of waiting. Is it possible she lost hope that O’Malley would take her away and, suddenly, the bounty on el Capitán’s head seemed a better bet than an im
prisoned Irishman sure to be sentenced to death?”

  She conceded his point. She didn’t know Druscilla that well, but if Rafe was right, what had happened to turn her from O’Malley’s bedfellow to betrayer? Hell had no fury like a woman scorned. What could Druscilla have heard, or learned—

  Dear God. The Oaks.

  Christiana’s heart skipped a beat when she recalled Druscilla’s surprise at the mention of O’Malley’s farm. The single raised brow had engaged Christiana’s survival instincts. She was careful to say no more, not where it was, what it was, or who else lived there, only that she’d visited it and had returned to Charles Town to find Druscilla’s letter waiting for her.

  Recalling the course of their conversation, she tried to envision Druscilla’s face, tried to see again her reaction. Surprise, yes. And curiosity, but no rage did she show. It must have come as a shock, to hear that the man she knew as Jean Delacorte owned property. The Oaks was a small plantation, with a growing stable of blooded horses. O’Malley’s alter ego Ian O’Manion had had it for years, and he hadn’t said a word to the one woman who’d have given anything to be its mistress.

  Still, she’d let it slip that he had a farm. Jesus and Mary. What had she done?

  Christiana shuddered, feeling a chill upon her soul.

  The Spaniard looked so deeply into her eyes, she was sure that he could discern her thoughts and was awaiting her confession. He smiled coldly, his black eyes alight with unholy flame. “She had to have at least one partner. A confidante,” he said, his voice deceptively silky. “The question I must ask, is it someone else, or you…?”

  Christiana’s spine went rigid. She shook her head, but refused to say anything more. Her composure shaken, she was suddenly certain of nothing except her innocence and what she saw in front of her—the Spaniard, with his hostile eyes and accusations, as suspicious as Vallé had been that night in Charlotte Amalie.