Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1

by Erinn Ellender Quinn

  Candle in hand, she headed for the stairs. The smooth wood was cool against the soles of her bare feet as she descended, the hem of her robe cascading down the steps behind her like a silken waterfall.

  The whole house shook as a blast of angry wind lashed it. She called Vallé’s name.

  “Oui?”

  He was in his library, where she had left him. Opening the door, she stepped into the room. He had extinguished all but one candle, and in the thin light from their tapers, she saw that he had stripped down to shirt and breeches. He was soaking wet, with a scowl on his face and a towel in his hand.

  Vallé knelt to wipe a puddle from the fine wood floor. “What is it?” he tossed over his shoulder as he moved to the next spot where moisture caught the candlelight.

  “The storm,” she said. “I thought to help secure the house.”

  The tension emanating from him eased somewhat. “I’ve done all I dare,” he told her, a hint of fatigue in his voice. He blew out his candle. “The downstairs shutters are battened. It would be wisest to spend tonight below. If you would, mademoiselle, light our way above, that I might secure dry garments and bedding and you can collect whatever you may need.”

  Christiana brushed past him, lifting her hem and hurrying up the stairs, not pausing until they stood before the door to the master’s bedchamber. Remembering her own near-fatal illness after being drenched to the skin, she prayed Vallé would change first. Surely bedclothes could wait long enough for him to dry and dress.

  She stepped aside until Vallé had opened his door for her, and entered his domain. A quick glance affirmed her expectations, that his room would be elegant but not opulent, its fine furnishings a masculine complement to those in her chamber.

  The candle flame had grown overlarge from a wick in need of trimming. Any flame in a storm was risky enough business, and she dare not light another unless at his request. When Vallé remained silent, she set the taper on the dresser, where the wall mirror would amplify its light, and focused her gaze on the far door. Vallé found a length of toweling, stripped off his shirt, and rubbed briskly as he rummaged through drawers and flung open the door of the armoire.

  She wanted to watch him, but it hurt too much, seeing the scars that marred the perfection of his back and thinking of what he’d suffered. Christiana studied the molded details on the ceiling instead, until a soft curse rolled across the floor. She lifted her gaze as high as the mirror and went no further. On the far side of the room, Vallé was struggling to pull on another pair of breeches, with little success. His skin glistened damply, and he struggled to draw the fabric up and over his hips. She could only guess that her presence in his room had triggered the change in his anatomy that made buttoning the front impossible.

  Her mouth went dry, and heat coursed through her veins as she admired the beauty of his form, and thought of what the night ahead may hold.

  Damn that tailor to hell and back. He’d told him to add an inch—they’d just made St. Thomas after a long run on short rations, but he would guess half an inch, at most. And he’d kept Comfort McBride too busy sewing for Christiana to see if his new breeches could be let out.

  Justin tugged harder, cursed again, managed to work the waistband nearly to its proper place before he caught Christiana watching him. Her blush betrayed her. No accident, the proud lift of her chin said. Her refusal to hide sparked in his own eyes twin gleams of approval and reciprocated desire.

  Lightning crashed, and Justin left his breeches open. He gathered the rest of his clothes, tossed them and two pillows atop the counterpane. Pulling free the top sheet beneath it, he gathered the corners and headed for Christiana’s room.

  Rain pummeled the house and the wind raged, driving it in sheets against the window. Beyond the glass panes, the ocean roared, and he lifted a silent plea for the men riding out the storm in the harbor. Thoughts of their peril cooled his ardor and occupied him to the extent that Christiana had to tap his arm when she’d gathered all she wished to take downstairs.

  He took her bundle and gave way, letting her go first with the candle but allowing enough distance for her hem to clear the steps. When she reached the downstairs hall, he directed her to the grand salon, the safest room in the house due to its leeward position.

  “You take the divan,” he offered, nodding at the piece, upholstered in wide striped silk of gold and white. “I can sleep on the rug.”

  Christiana set the candle on the fireplace mantle and found the bundle he’d set in the matching chair. She opened the makeshift porte-manteau and draped her next day’s clothes over the chair back, beginning with her morning gown and ending with her stockings. The soft kid slippers she sometimes wore in the house, she slid beneath the chair legs. Taking the sheet, she found the corners, shook the creases from the linen, and refolded it to fit the length of the divan seat. She tucked in the edges, then took another sheet and fixed it on top, placing a folded coverlet at the foot of her makeshift bed and an inviting pillow at its head.

  In an unexpected flourish, she unfurled a length of mosquito netting and glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes luminous in the thin, flickering light of the candle. Justin thought about putting out the flame but trimmed the wick instead, allowing Christiana to shed her robe and slip between her sheets. She sat, linen pooled at her waist, while she worked to spread the length of sheer netting along the back of the divan.

  Justin had smoked the rooms earlier, but would not begrudge her protection from any insects seeking shelter from the storm. Instead he turned his attention to the thick fringed rug that covered most of the floor and made his bed in front of the divan, doing his best to focus on the task at hand. By the time he added his pillow to his pallet, Christiana lay beneath the sheer wall, eyes closed, like some sleepy beauty waiting for her passion to be reawakened with a kiss. She had only to ask it, to want it.

  Christiana listened to Vallé make his bed, wishing he would be less the gentleman and more the pirate. She gripped the sheet, counting the minutes, closing her eyes to hide her growing desire, trying to quell the rising anticipation of where tonight might lead.

  Earlier, she’d thought that they might all but devour one another…until the past had intruded to prolong their abstinence. But outside a storm was raging, how devastating or deadly remained to be seen. All she had was now. All she knew was that she wanted Vallé, needed him—and not only for the feeling of safety that he inspired. He was the fever in her blood, the fire in her heart, a passion that she feared would consume her if left unassuaged.

  The candlelight cast his face in exotic shadows. Vallé crossed to the mantle, prepared to extinguish it. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Oui.” Oh, yes. She could feel herself swelling, moistening, and shifted her legs together restlessly while Vallé snuffed the flame, plunging the room into darkness. She heard the seductive whisper of his clothes being peeled off and laid to one side, before he stretched the length of his nude body on the floor only an arm’s reach away.

  And she wondered, if she dared to roll over and touch him, would she find him as ready and as willing as she was?

  Justin lay in the darkness, listening to the sound of the gale beating against the house, built to withstand the forces of nature, and he wondered which he was—the storm, or the shelter, or both? Both, he decided, propping himself on one elbow and reaching for the netting.

  “Vallé?” Christiana whispered. Lightning flashed, and through her sheer covering, he saw that she was on one elbow, too. She placed a hand on her encasement, like a damsel in a prison of her own making, waiting to be freed. “Do you want this?” she asked him, pressing outward, making the diaphanous fabric ripple between them. “If you stay close to the divan, there should be enough netting for both of us.”

  Justin smiled softly at her consideration and wondered if she knew what she was asking. Did she think, once invited in, he would go no further? Perhaps she did. And he thought, we shall see.

  “Oui,” he said. Christian
a lifted the gauze and found the edge. Flinging her arm, she threw the netting. It drifted down to settle over them both.

  “Are you covered?” she asked, her voice stroking his already-heightened senses.

  The net grazed his face as he sat upright. Reaching, he caught the end of the fine mesh and tossed it over his feet. “Oui.” He lay back down and turned on his side, towards the divan. His eyesight had always been like a cat’s in the dark, able to see when others were virtually blinded. Now he caught a glint from opened eyes that looked down upon him, the same bewitching green eye that haunted his dreams, sometimes heavy-lidded with desire, sometimes drowsy in the sweet aftermath.

  The howling wind, the sultry heat, the fabric that tented them made Justin think of Arabian nights, of sheiks and bed slaves, of sultans and seraglios and exotic, hedonistic pleasures. He reminded himself that he’d resolved not to take her until he’d freed O’Malley, but his inner voice was muted by the howl of the wind, silenced by the elemental storm that raged inside him, stirring his blood and urging him to seek the shelter of her arms, to find surcease in joining with the one woman, he realized, whom he wanted more than he’d ever wanted anyone in his life.

  “Christiana….” He lifted his hand and touched her lower leg. She inhaled sharply. Beneath the sheet, under her gown, he felt a tremor of anticipation. “Ma belle,” he whispered hoarsely, rubbing her knee, her thigh, circling her hipbone with his thumb. She panted softly, and he felt his sex grow warm and heavy in response.

  She leaned towards him. He rose to his knees and peeled back the sheet, baring her legs to his touch. The fury of the storm outside faded into nothingness as he explored their length, rediscovering the sensitive spots behind her knees before moving higher to thread through the soft curls at the juncture of her thighs, then sliding past to find the silken heat that lay beyond.

  She gasped, a sensual moan that had him taking her hips and pulling her towards him, until her bottom was on the edge of the divan while her gown shifted to bunch around her waist. He held himself a little away from her, forced himself to slow down before he simply took her, so great was his hunger.

  Christiana caught her breath when Vallé dipped his head and nipped the inside of her thighs. Caught it again when his callused hands wedged beneath her to knead her derrière at the same time that he kissed her secrets. She felt his tongue probe softly, tasting, stroking, finding the point that throbbed with aching need. Instinctively, she thrust against him, threading her fingers in his hair and encouraging him in this most intimate caress. He obliged, opening his mouth and pressing harder against her, stroking her heated flesh and thrusting his tongue inside.

  She sank back into the cushions, curled her fingers into the divan, and hung on for dear life. His beard-shadowed chin was rough against her skin, erotically abrasive, while his tongue was scalding hot. It sought the center of her being, cherished it, circling, then plunging inside and sounding her depth. He opened her legs wider, lifting her hips, devouring her very essence.

  She moaned and moved against him, forsaking her hold on the cushions to fist her fingers in his rain-dampened hair and urge him deeper. Harder. The pressure grew, painfully exquisite. Desire coursed through her veins, building like the storm outside. She panted with need, whimpered, felt the molten tide rise higher and higher. She stiffened, her toes curling and her bottom arching off the divan as the first crest peaked, washing over her, over him. Then another, and another, bathing them in liquid fire.

  When she surfaced, it was to the feel of soft kisses, planted on her thighs, her fleece, her belly. Vallé took off her gown and slid his body higher, against hers, shifting their weights until she lay with her head upon her pillow and his big, hard body found berth between her parted knees. His hair-dusted skin was deliciously, erotically abrasive, making her stomach convulse and her bosom swell and tighten against his chest. Bracing himself on his forearm, he cupped one breast and caught her nipple between his fingers, teasing and tugging, until it hardened to a diamond point beneath the sensual twist of his hand. Replacing his fingers with his mouth, he laved it with his tongue while his splayed hand stroked and shaped her other breast. He feasted on one side, then the other, while she arched into the searing heat of his mouth.

  “Please,” she whispered when the pleasure grew unbearable, tangling her fingers into his hair and urging his head up to meet her kiss. She tasted herself on his lips, hot, humid, musky, at the same time he reached down and stroked her with himself, once, twice, finding her portal and breaching it.

  So tight. Justin’s breath hissed between his teeth as he struggled to hold himself still, waiting for her body to accommodate him. But she rippled in the wake of her passion, tightening around him. Her soft, gasping breaths and insistent fingers that clutched at his hips and kneaded his backside nearly drove him beyond the brink of control. In one long, slow stroke, he buried himself inside her.

  “Mon Dieu,” he breathed, wondering if she had any idea how good she felt. Her responsive body, lissome as a willow, trembled beneath his touch. Her silken sheath was warm, and wet. In the wake of her climaxes, it gripped his manhood, pulsing along its length. He drew back and surged forward again, driving in deep. She arched beneath him, kissing his chest and tilting herself to welcome the next thrust, and the next. Pleasure and lust and desire coursed through him, fueled by her abandon. He lost himself in the feel of her, moving beneath him in the rhythm he established, listening to the moans that vibrated in her throat until he took her mouth and swallowed them. Wedging his arms beneath her to cup her derrière, he thrust into her with an intensity that made his breath burst in rushes against the black silk of her hair.

  The same tension that gripped her took hold of him, heating his blood to the point of conflagration. Sweat dripped from his forehead, beaded his back, his arms, his legs, ran down his sides to bind their skin with a sensual suction. He quickened his pace, dissolving into mindless pleasure. She nipped at his throat with hungry kisses, whispering in the dark, murmuring against the corded muscle of his neck, scoring it with her teeth. He inhaled sharply and drove into her, deep enough to wring a gasp, but when he drew back, she gripped his hips and held him fast, arching against him, begging him for more.

  He gave it, pushing her to the brink and taking her beyond it, to another peak, and another, relentlessly driving them both to the pinnacle, then exploding inside her as they plummeted over the edge. Her body closed around him in spasms, milking his length, accepting all that he had to give, all that he could give, at least for now.

  He emptied himself into her clinging warmth, even as he silently questioned what he’d done. It was not in his nature to be so careless. Why, this? he asked himself. Why now?

  Why not?

  He told himself it changed nothing.

  Why, then, did it seem like the world had shifted on its axis? He felt like a ship without a rudder, at the mercy of the tides of fate, not knowing where this would take them, or how far they would go.

  It changed nothing?

  Somehow—somehow, he wondered if it hadn’t changed everything.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Vallé rolled Christiana with him, their bodies still joined, until she was nestled against the back of the divan and he blanketed her front. He pressed a kiss against her crown; she nuzzled his sweat-dampened chest.

  “Sleep, ma belle,” he ordered, and she did, still locked in his embrace when the storm abated and the house heaved a quiet sigh.

  She awoke alone, forcing open her eyes and blinking in the light of the morning’s brilliance. Denied its due yesterday, sunshine burst joyously through the clouds, bathing the verdant hillsides and dusting the lush jungle foliage with sparkling diamonds. At some point, Vallé had left her to check the house and had thrown open the hurricane shutters. A brilliant wedge of sunshine glinted off a tall leaded glass window, while another pierced the gold silk drapes that framed it and filtered through the film of netting that still tented the divan.

  Bene
ath the gauze, Christiana allowed herself time to adjust to the new day, the new world in which she’d awakened. With memories of what they’d done still burning in her mind’s eye, she sat up gingerly and emerged from her cocoon.

  She felt…storm-tossed. Her body ached, with soreness in muscles she didn’t remember having. A blush tinted her cheeks when she thought of the cause—unbridled, passionate lovemaking with the privateer who’d stolen her heart. The man who’d plundered her treasures yet had cared enough to leave her alone and decently covered, if Mattie should come in.

  Christiana drew her knees to her chest and hugged herself, smiling at Vallé’s thoughtfulness. Even now she could hear the faint stir of domestic life as Mattie moved about upstairs. She could only guess where Vallé was. In the aftermath of such a storm, his priority would be seeing how his people and ships had fared.

  She donned her robe and disassembled their nest, stripping the tangle of soiled sheets from the divan. Upstairs, she returned her pillow to her bed which, thanks to Mattie, already boasted fresh sheets. While Mattie moved about in Vallé’s bed chamber, Christiana washed herself and changed clothes in her room. She was thankful that Vallé’s seamstress—the ship surgeon’s daughter, said to stitch blind hems and sutures with equal skill—had had the sense to design gowns that allowed her to dress herself rather than rely on a lady’s maid. Mattie had enough to do as it was without waiting on her, too.

  Christiana left her chamber, intending to seek out the older woman, but Mattie met her in the upstairs hall.

  “Good morning, Miss.” Mattie closed the door to the master’s room, where she’d no doubt remade Vallé’s bed. “The Captain said for ye t’break yer fast without him. He went out early and has no hopes of coming back any time soon.”

  Christiana nodded. “I pray no one was hurt.”

  “None lost that I know, but the doctor’s house has a line to be seen,” the housekeeper told her. “Looked like mostly cuts and scrapes and bruises. Last night’s storm played rough with the ships, and now there’s repair work to be done, in short order.”