Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1

by Erinn Ellender Quinn

  She arched to meet him, a wordless whimper vibrating against his finger. The action drove him in deep, eliciting a fervent sob, a silent plea for release. Hearing it, he answered, thrusting with potency now rather than control, taking her up and over the edge with him.

  Her climax seized her, washing over him, triggering his own release. He bathed her with his fire, burying himself and bursting within her honeyed depths while his whole body shook with explosive tremors. He held her fast and poured himself into her, driven by ancient need, with a fervent, nameless prayer upon his lips for a child to survive him, regardless of whether he lived to see it.

  Christiana kissed his callused hand, placing it upon her breast when he turned with her, their bodies still joined, his manhood still firm within her.

  A subtle, elegant circle of his hips made her breath catch in her throat.

  “That’s better,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear.

  “What…?” Twisting, she looked at him over her shoulder. He felt himself grinning like the pirate he was—or had been. Now, he sought only to be dangerously masculine and utterly irresistible to her.

  “This,” he told her. Sliding in deeper, he grasped her breast and captured the sensitive peak in the web of his thumb. “Soft. Warm. Pliant in my arms.” His pirate’s smile widened. “Nine years ago, you’d have had your knees digging into my back, and I’d have been cold, because you’d have pulled any covering off of me and onto yourself.”

  How many mornings had he awakened with her nose buried in his jacket, as if his scent were enough to keep her monsters at bay? After her mother was killed, she’d sought solace in her nightmare-riddled sleep, alternately seeking reassurance from him and the guardian who protected her back, the other man she’d slept between.

  Ian O’Malley.

  Justin wondered if she’d somehow read his thoughts when he saw a suspicious sheen of moisture in her green eyes. Feeling her withdrawal, he knew that the mood had been shattered. He regretted the change in her but he understood the reason for it. Slipping free of her body, he pulled her on top of him and wrapped her in his arms, pressing kisses against her hair while her tears bathed his chest and her body shook with quiet sobs.

  He held her until her tremulous shudders had subsided.

  Christiana raised her face and looked at him, raw and pleading and eloquent. Even with her nose red from weeping, she was beautiful.

  “Take me with you,” she begged. “I need to tell him…thank him…let him know how much he means to me. Do you know, I’ve never called him ‘father?’”

  Justin wiped her cheeks with his thumb and focused his troubled gaze on her mouth. “I am sorry, ma belle,” he murmured, feeling an uncomfortable pinch when fresh tears welled in her eyes. “It is too dangerous. You must stay here, where it’s safe.”

  “Safe?” She hiked herself up on an elbow and brought her face level with his. “How do you know?” She argued as passionately as she made love. “Safety is relative, is it not? We could be raided while you’re gone. I could be carried off—or worse!”

  “Don’t!” he gritted fiercely, wrapping his hands around her slender upper arms and dragging her onto his chest. “I will not argue with you on this, Christiana! The fact remains that we sail into British waters, and I’m a wanted man. Think you that they’ll have mercy on you, should you be found with me?”

  Christiana went still beneath his fingers, suspended above him, stunned by the fierce emotions in Vallé’s eyes, in his touch. She met his gaze, captured it, holding it for long, drawn-out seconds while emotions warred in her heart. She needed to be there, as much for herself as for her father. Moreover, she wanted to stay with this man, always. She wanted to win his love, and share hers in return. She wanted to be his life’s partner, on land and on sea, walking and sailing beside him, sharing the joys of life and surviving its sorrows. She wanted to touch his heart and soul as she touched his body, bind him to her with a love so strong that only death could part them. And by then, God willing, they would have created a legacy that would survive them both, the best of them combined in their children, and their children’s children.

  “And why would I want mercy,” she whispered hoarsely, “if it means living without you?”

  His control snapped, and he thrust his hands into her hair, drawing her face down for a devouring kiss that left no doubt in her mind that he loved her too, even if he could not bring himself to confess it. But any hope that she could persuade him to change his mind was shattered by his next words.

  “I don’t know what I’ll find when I get to Jamaica, ma belle,” he said, his voice harsh with concern. "I hope to bring your father back to you. But if I don’t—if I am captured—swear that you’ll stay away, that you will not attempt to see me. I will not allow you to put yourself at risk for my sake.”

  Christiana stared at him, shaken by the sense of unease that he hadn’t told her all, that there were other reasons why he would not let her sail with him.

  “What is it?” she asked, her eyes searching his, probing, trying to see behind the frustration that shaped his features and veiled his deepest thoughts. The effort proved futile, and desperation drove her to drastic measures.

  “If you don’t tell me, I swear I’ll stow away,” she threatened.

  He knew she’d do it, too. There would be no turning back—not and reach Jamaica when he’d planned. He would be taking her with him into whatever dangers—real or imagined—he would face.

  Vallé’s mouth tightened grimly, and he looked away, his scarred cheek ticking. He blew out harshly, then looked at her, deadly serious. “Rafe went to Tortola. He hoped to learn more about O’Malley’s gaming partners, to see who might have wagered the ring that he won, the one that got him arrested.”

  Christiana released her breath and willed her heart to slow. When he mentioned the ring, for a moment she thought that Vallé meant her ring—the one in his mother’s portrait.

  “Christiana, the ring was my father’s. Won at cards, the same as the one you wear. You understand, the two may be connected?”

  “May be?” It was all she could do to feign ignorance.

  Vallé nodded, his mouth tightened grimly. “The ring you wear—everything you know about it, was told to you by this Druscilla, yes? She was the one who had the letter sent to you, who gave you the ring and told you it was from O’Malley. But how do you know?”

  Sweet Mary. Christiana, for the first time, wondered about Druscilla’s story. Had O’Malley truly won her ring as well…or had Druscilla only pretended he had…?

  Christiana’s head was near spinning, trying to make sense of the threads, seeking loose ends to see where they might lead. The same man who’d framed O’Malley could easily have paid Druscilla for her cooperation, sending the letter to get Christiana here, encouraging her to seek out Vallé, giving her a ring that Vallé would be certain to see.

  Druscilla hadn’t given it to her before she went to Charlotte Amalie, but afterwards. Indeed, she had “found” the ring only after learning that that Vallé had agreed to the rescue. Had it slipped her mind, as she claimed, or had she been ordered to give Christiana a ring that Vallé would recognize as his mother’s, fueling his desire for revenge, making certain he would go for O’Malley?

  The blood drained from Christiana’s face when she considered the possibility that Vallé was the target all along, with her father used as bait…and her playing the unsuspecting accomplice. Vallé had almost been captured once. His arrest would mean a great deal of money to the man—or woman—responsible for leading authorities to him.

  “Did Rafe talk to Druscilla?” she asked him. “What does she say?”

  “I’m sorry, ma belle.” When he stroked her cheek, she braced herself. “Druscilla is dead. She was murdered.”

  Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.

  Christiana felt sick to her stomach. “How? Why?”

  Vallé shoved his fingers into his hair, pulling it away from his face, then rubbed a hand tiredly across
his beard-shadowed chin. “I don’t know,” he gritted, frustration underscoring each word. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  Christiana thought of Druscilla’s letter. Had whoever written it killed her? Was the source of their current evils someone capable of wielding a pen and a murder weapon with equal ease?

  “When Rafe tried to ask questions, no one would talk. No one. Now we must look to O’Malley for answers.”

  “Of course.” Bittersweet relief coursed through her, chasing away the last vestiges of doubt that Vallé might possibly bring O’Malley harm. He had only to learn the truth. Once he was satisfied of O’Malley’s innocence, he would bring her father to her, just as he’d promised.

  Or die trying.

  The danger to Vallé frightened her, and it showed in her eyes.

  Oui,” he murmured. “I tried to warn you. I told you, I don’t know what to expect when I reach Jamaica. Now do you see that it is too dangerous for you to go with me?”

  Christiana nodded, shaken by Vallé’s revelations and torn by love, duty, and devotion. She owed it to O’Malley to attempt a rescue, but not at the cost of Vallé’s life. All the more reason to go for him herself. If a trap was set, they’d be expecting Vallé, not her. If the attempt proved futile, O’Malley’s fate would be unchanged. Vallé’s capture meant death. If she were caught trying to help her father escape…a dutiful daughter, convinced of her father’s innocence and so distraught over his arrest that she’d do anything to see him free…?

  Her punishment would be mild in comparison—and worth the risk, if it meant Vallé’s survival.

  “I see what must be,” she told him. And she did, although it was not what he wished for her to admit. Nay, she’d simply acknowledged what she was prepared to do: mount the rescue and trust, when all was said and done, that Vallé could at least come to terms with it.

  Searching his eyes and silently praying for understanding, she was aware that she might be asking the impossible. If she succeeded, if she freed O’Malley and Vallé remained safe, a day of reckoning would come when she would have to explain her actions. She could lose Vallé anyway, she realized as he leaned towards her and brushed a kiss upon her forehead. He had his pride. He would not accept this easily.

  But he would be alive, and as long as there was life, there was hope.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Justin might as well have eaten breakfast alone. The table, set for two, held food fit for peerage, but the morning’s disclosures had stolen Christiana’s appetite and rendered her incapable of conversation. She sat locked in pensive silence, not eating a bite, merely rearranging the food on her plate, her fair brow creased with worry, her gaze disturbingly thoughtful.

  It worried him when the only other sounds were the occasional clink of silver against china and the insistent tick of the clock. She was too quiet. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was recalling the layout of his ship and was planning where to stow away. The possibility plagued his morning hours. By afternoon, he had trouble concentrating on his work. Lists of provisions, reports on repairs—he could only see Christiana’s green eyes, shuttered, with that clever mind working madly behind them.

  The quill snapped between his fingers. Justin tossed it on his office desk in disgust. Out in the harbor, his men were changing the Raptor’s appearance, giving her a new paint scheme and switching her figurehead from an eagle with outstretched wings to a rendering of Athena, the goddess who’d taught man the use of tools and helped him invent the sail. Athena, the mistress of strategy, as skilled in battle as she was intelligent and wise. The perfect patroness for his ship when she sailed forth as Principia.

  Principia, plural for beginnings. Once he decided to change the Raptor’s appearance, it hadn’t taken a minute’s time to decide on a name to fit her new identity. Since the day Christiana had approached him in Charlotte Amalie, his life had been turned upside down. The need for vengeance that drove him to sail the seas, seeking his parents’ murderers, had been tempered by his growing need for her and the realization that he’d finally found a woman worth keeping, worth building a life with, worth loving. He felt as if he’d been offered a new beginning, but at a price, for their relationship, their future, hung precariously in the balance, threatened not only by the bounty on his head but by the secrets he still held, that she wore his mother’s ring, that he needed O’Malley as much as she did, if only to help him find the ones who’d killed his family, his bride.

  Damn it. Justin shoved himself to his feet, pushing the backs of his knees against the edge of his seat hard enough that the heavy wooden chair shot back on two legs, balancing precariously before it crashed to the floor. His boot heels marked his passage as he headed for the door. Propelled by thoughts of Christiana and his avowal to see her safely kept, he headed for the McBrides’ house.

  Justin had had it designed to protect its Highland-bred inhabitants from the tropical heat. At two stories, built with wide porches and thick stone walls, it was exceptional among the thatch-roofed cottages and symbolic of the high esteem in which he held its occupants.

  ‘Twas the daughter who answered the door. Seeing him, Comfort lifted a hand to check for tendrils of brilliant red hair that were forever escaping her cap.

  “Captain. Please, come in.”

  She smiled and moved back, taking care not to step on the yellow-orange cat that was her shadow. “Da’s in his study. Shall I fetch him fer ye?”

  Justin smiled. Of late, he’d come for Comfort’s help, needing her sewing skills for Christiana’s wardrobe.

  “That’s not necessary,” he responded, stepping in.

  “Will ye sit?”

  Justin nodded, and took the divan after Comfort had seated herself in the chair, arranging her sack gown so that her pregnancy was barely noticeable. She was obviously one of those women who carried their young more to the inside and looked only half-done, though she had to be close to her time. The babe’s father, Hunter Cameron—a Black Scot who’d proved to be an equally black scoundrel—had fled in the night a good six months ago.

  The thought gave him pause. He had no wish to ask a favor of Comfort if it meant putting her health—or that of her babe—at risk.

  “How is Christiana?” Comfort asked, not bothering to disguise the twinkle in her eye. She didn’t need her second sight to know why he was here.

  Justin grimaced. “Quiet,” he told her. “Too quiet. I believe she plans to stow away and sail with me to fetch her father.”

  Comfort glanced away, as if she could look beyond these walls and into his home and see what mischief, if any, was brewing behind his back. Her brow creased, and her eyes were troubled when she turned back and met his own. She held his gaze, searching—for what, he did not know, save that he breathed easier when she offered him a crooked smile.

  “Blame her, would ye?” she asked, watching as Buí jumped to the arm of her chair in a bid for attention. “Put yerself in her place,” she told him, scratching the cat behind one ragged ear. “What would ye do, were it yer father looking at a hangman’s noose? Would ye nae wish tae see him safe? Do ye ken how she feels, thinking she’ll be left behind tae await yer return, with no idea how lang that may be?

  “Do you—can you tell me anything?” he forced himself to ask the seer he knew her to be.

  Comfort knew what he wanted, but the gift was not hers to demand, only to welcome when it came. But if she saw success, he knew it would be his.

  “I see ye safe,” she said at last. “And Christiana. And one she calls ‘Father.’” A brief look of confusion swept over her face, and she shook free of it. “Tha’ is, if all goes as it now stands. The future is nae carved in stone. More like clay, tha’ can be shaped by another’s will. And there are others,” she warned. “Others with ill intent, ones who seek tae harm. For what it’s worth, I dinnae see her hiding on yer ship,” Comfort said, adding, “though I saw you wishing she had.”

  “She cannot go,” he said flatly. “I refuse to carry her into
danger when she’ll be safe here. I don’t need the worry or the distraction. If I agreed to her demand and take her, how do I know she’ll stay aboard ship and not try to follow me?”

  Justin rose, too tense to sit a moment longer. Comfort watched him as closely as the first time they’d met, when her father had agreed to sail with him—as long as he met the daughter’s approval. He’d been weighed, and found worthy. Pray, she still found him so.

  He paused by the window, his eyes scanning the hillsides, his heart gripped with a nameless fear. “You’ve no idea what she dared as a child,” he murmured, rubbing beneath his queue at the tension in his neck. “It frightens me to think what she might do for her father….”

  “Ye love her.”

  Justin swung his head and met Comfort’s knowing gaze. When he didn’t bother to deny it, his silence was rewarded with another smile.

  “Then why d’ye nae seek tae ease her mind? Convince her yer plan is sound. Sway her tae yer side. Make her see tha’ she’ll be better off here than anywhere. If she believes tha’ her presence may cause problems, she’ll nae risk her father’s life—or yers, d’ye ken?”

  Justin nodded. If he hadn’t already decided to talk to Christiana about the rescue, Comfort’s suggestion would have persuaded him quick enough. Still, he couldn’t help thinking of what Comfort had said, how the future could change. Success was likely, but not certain.

  “If ye like, I’ll keep an eye on her,” Comfort offered, even before he asked. “I’ll make certain she’ll nae stow away, at least. Beyond tha’, I make no promises.”

  “Fair enough.” Feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Justin exhaled the breath he’d been holding and smiled. “I am in your debt, again.”

  Comfort angled her head at his comment, and Justin was reminded that, even with her gifts, she had to rely on ordinary observations and given information at times.