Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1

by Erinn Ellender Quinn

  “I would,” she said, unashamed to admit it. “I fear I do not have your patience.”

  “You challenge it tonight.” Keeping one arm around her waist, he slid his other hand up, over her stomach, her breast, her neck. He urged her face over her shoulder and kissed her fiercely. She raised an arm to encircle Vallé’s neck, clinging to him when he shifted forward in his chair and parting her lips to accept the thrust of his tongue. He grasped her waist, holding her fast when he rocked his hips. He tilted his pelvis and pressed himself against her, into her, as far as their clothing would allow. To feel him, so close, was sweet torment.

  “Please,” she whispered against his lips, then turned away to face the table, bringing both of his hands to cover her breasts.

  His mouth came down, hot and sharp, on the back of her neck, a sensual nip, then a devouring kiss that made her tremble against him. Holding her to him with one arm, he stood and leaned forward with her. With his other arm, he pushed his plate to the side and cleared the end of the table.

  Vallé cursed under his breath when he had to use both hands to undo the buttons on his breeches and free himself. Gathering the hems of her underskirts and chemise in his fists, he pushed them up, out of the way.

  Christiana splayed her fingers on the tablecloth and curled them into the linen. Behind her, she felt the rougher texture of Vallé’s clothing against her bare skin. She bit her lip to keep from moaning. Silk rustled as he positioned himself, edging closer to stand with his legs bracketing hers.

  He stroked her swollen folds with his right hand, traced her cleft, and parted it. She was wet enough to ease his way but he was so very large, she still needed stretched out to take him.

  Vallé slid one finger inside her. He worked in two fingers, then three, spiraling them into her, preparing her for his possession.

  Replacing his hand with the tip of his erection, he reached for her hair, fragrant with the essence of lemons. Weaving his fingers in it, he gripped her waist with his other hand, bent over her, and thrust, driving deep inside her honeyed warmth as far as she could take him. He drew back, then plunged in again, and again, hips snapping, flesh slapping against flesh, filling the air with the liquid sounds of sex.

  Slipping his fingers from her hair, Vallé stroked her neck and slid his hand over her shoulder and down the front of her dress. His other hand abandoned its hold on her waist to forge deeper, long, strong fingers threading through her nether curls to unerringly find her pearl. When his other fingers claimed the tip of her breast, pinched, and twisted it to diamond hardness, the sensation was like a lightning strike to her core, a bolt felt all the way to her womb.

  His breath was hot on her neck as he surged inside, while his practiced fingers twisted and pulled, stroked and probed. The concomitance made her rise on her toes to meet his thrusts, circling her hips and grinding against him in quiet desperation.

  “Non, ma belle,” he whispered hoarsely. Squeezing her breast, he pulled back a bit, then surged forward, an exquisitely sensual plunge that drew forth her woman’s dew and ripples of pleasure. “Let us take our time. Savor each moment. The end will be sweeter if we do not rush to swift completion.”

  Christiana’s breath caught in her throat when he rocked against her. He threaded his fingers through her most intimate curls and stroked the swollen flesh that gripped his shaft. He pressed a kiss against the nape of her neck, scored it with his teeth, bit it, then licked the hurt while his hand tormented her below, igniting wildfire in her veins that threatened to consume. She closed her eyes against the flickering candlelight, focusing all of her senses on this elemental joining until she was filled with naught but him—his scent, his heat, his touch, his taste, glorying in each compelling thrust that drove her towards the climax that Vallé ultimately promised yet resolutely refused to yield.

  “Please…,” she whimpered when she reached a fevered pitch. She inhaled sharply, filling her lungs with the heady musk of arousal. Desperate for release, she ground herself against him and gasped when he drove in deep. His callused fingers sought the delicate button of flesh at the cleft of her thighs. Her breath snagged in her throat when he cherished that most sensitive spot, his practiced touch drawing forth a sob of pleasure that bordered on pain. She wanted to cry enough, to beg him to stop, to not prolong the torture, but she was already losing control, tumbling headlong into the sea, drowning in waves of mindless pleasure while he thrust in once, twice, and bathed her with his fire.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Eventually they made it as far as Vallé’s bed chamber, but not before he’d taken her, both of them still dressed, on the divan, on the rug, and the stairs. He finally carried her up the steps, two at a time, not slowing down until they reached his bed and he lowered her in a slow, teasing slide down the hard length of his body.

  Their clothes came off quick enough and lay where they landed, discarded on the bare wood floor. Moonlight swept through the windows, catching in the whorls of hair that gilded his chest. Unable to resist, she ran her fingers through its crispness, smiling at their differences. Vallé was all man, huge and hard and strong, fierce in battle and passionate in bed, a magnificent animal that she would hate to see tamed. He was as wild as the sea that was in his blood, and she understood him well enough to know that he would not be happy to remain forever locked on land. She did not want to tame him. She wanted to be the one to stir his passion, to go with him, and be the one to whom he would always return.

  The lovemaking that followed was full of tender fury and keen desperation. Sleep was elusive, riddled with dreams that drove them into each other’s arms. They could not forestall the future and sought to make the most of the time left to them, drifting into slumber in the hour before dawn and not fully awakening until the sun was well up.

  They performed their morning ablutions and dressed in silence, casting sidelong glances at each other, then looking quickly away, as if neither wished to burden the other with fear or regrets. Mattie was unusually quiet as well, serving a breakfast kept warm on the hearth while she’d cleared the remnants of last night’s meal.

  Vallé excused himself after eating and returned to his bed chamber to pack his sea chest. Christiana helped Mattie with the dishes, then stayed long in the cuisine, playing with Jamaica’s kittens until a familiar shadow fell across the floor.

  He was wearing his tricorne. He’d come to bid her adieu.

  “So soon?” she asked, setting the kittens aside and getting up. She put on a brave smile, but felt it go thin as spindrift when she saw Vallé’s somber mood. The curve of his mouth held no humor. The light in his penetrating gaze was enigmatic, guarded, as if he had already distanced himself from her, to ease the pain of parting.

  “Oui. I must see that all is ready to sail on the morrow’s tide.”

  She nodded, understanding all too well the ways of the sea and the men who sailed them.

  “I will be sleeping aboard tonight.”

  She knew that too, and felt her throat tighten, missing him already. “Safe journey,” she managed, her voice thick with emotion.

  “Merci.” He canted his head; the single golden hoop worn in his ear glinted in the sunshine as he studied her for a long moment. Then he moved, in two giant strides, grasping her upper arms and pulling her against him. “You know that I would take you if I could,” he rasped, a world of regret in his voice, frustration and hunger in his eyes, in his touch.

  Christiana placed her palms upon his shoulders and curled her fingers into the fine wool of his justacorps. The time had come for their paths to part. She could only pray for guidance along the dangerous one she’d chosen to follow.

  “I know,” she whispered, sweeping her gaze across his face and memorizing his features. She lifted a hand and traced the scar on his cheek, then tenderly cradled his face in her palm. Somewhere in the silence, she fancied she heard their two hearts beating as one, in a moment that might have to last them a lifetime.

  Justin’s gaze swept over Christia
na, settling on her tremulous lower lip. His face grew taut and he closed his eyes, then opened them, startling her with their intensity. He bent his head and claimed her with a searing kiss that spoke of love, and want, and need.

  Long moments later, he drew back, regretting the unbearable longing that spilled from her eye in a single, eloquent tear. “I shall miss you, ma belle,” he whispered roughly, brushing his lips across hers in a silent benediction.

  “I shall pray for fair winds and fortune’s smile,” she promised him, pressing her trembling fingers to her lips to muffle a sob.

  Justin’s throat worked but no sound emerged. He stared at her, a man in agony, torn between his duty and his desire to stay by her side, desperately wishing he had that choice. Perhaps after this voyage, he would, he promised himself fiercely.

  He touched her hair, black silk threading between his fingers, wrapping tendrils around his heart, ties that would bind him to her, no matter how far he roamed, hurrying his return and leading him back into her arms. “While I have you, fortune smiles on me, ma belle.”

  “Then I shall pray for my father’s successful rescue,” Christiana whispered hoarsely as Vallé turned on his heel and headed toward the dock, ignoring the squeeze of her heart, the inner voice that reminded her, what she was about to do was tantamount to the betrayal of his trust.

  Once Vallé was gone from sight, she hurried into the house and entered the library. Closing the door carefully behind her, she thought twice and locked it before seeking a pen and paper and seating herself at the desk. She wrote another missive, this one to her father. In case something happened, if Bryce did not come, if the Bold Avenger was somehow barred from completing its mission, she wanted O’Malley to know she’d tried her best, wanted him to know, too, that she loved him.

  The words flowed from the sharpened quill much more easily than when she’d written to Vallé—perhaps because she’d already worked through the reasons behind her actions and had committed them once to paper. She would personally deliver both letters to the Principia.

  Giving O’Malley’s to Vallé would be her apparent reason for coming aboard, but her true mission was to find Caleb and enlist his aid. Vallé’s letter must be kept a secret, to be opened well after he sailed, ideally when he neared Jamaica.

  Knowing another way to soften a man’s heart, she had Mattie pack a lunch for Vallé. Tucking the two letters in her réticule, she looped it on her wrist, lifted the laden basket, and headed for the dock.

  With Comfort’s help, in the space of a quarter hour, Christiana was seated in a dory whose oars were wielded by Beauvais, a handsome lad near Caleb’s age. He was missing a foot and ankle, but any doubts of his youthful capabilities soon vanished. He handled himself with practiced ease, assisting her into the boat, his peg leg bumping on the wooden dock, his bare foot planted firmly on the craft. They cast off to the strident cries of the sea gulls that wheeled and bobbed overhead, spiraling upward and hovering suspended on the stiff ocean breeze.

  The waves provided extra challenge for Beau, who used all his youthful strength to reach the Principia, which was nearly unrecognizable with the changes wrought over the past few days. Christiana clutched the basket handle and willed her heart to slow as they drew near the ship. Their presence drew some stares, but most of the tars went on about their business. Directing Beau to wait for her, she tucked her skirts, hooked the basket on her elbow, and carefully climbed aboard.

  Fortunately, Caleb was one of the first to greet her. His face split into a familiar grin, and he hailed a greeting. “Good morning, Mum! Has the Captain decided to let ye sail with us after all?”

  Christiana smiled. In the time she’d been with Vallé, in Caleb’s eyes, she’d gone from “Miss” to “Mum.” The thought pleased her, but she shook her head and heaved a little sigh. “I fear not,” she said, smoothing the skirt of her only printed cotton dress, worn to avoid ruining her silks. She checked the basket, looking around to make certain their exchange remained private. “Mattie sends him lunch,” she whispered, “and I must return as soon as it’s delivered. Vallé has ordered me to remain here—and while my thoughts will be with him,” she added, “I had hoped that you might do me a favor and give this to your captain once you reach Jamaican waters.”

  Using her body and the basket to block the view, she withdrew the letter from her réticule. Vallé’s name was inscribed on it just below the red wax seal. “I can entrust this to you, can I not?”

  Caleb nodded.

  “You swear to give it to him when you near Jamaica? You won’t forget?”

  Caleb drew himself up, affronted. “I won’t forget. I swear, I shall give it to the Captain for ye.”

  “When you near Jamaica,” she repeated. “I would have him read my prayers for his success just before he enters British waters.”

  The cabin boy took the letter and tucked it into the pocket of his sleeveless vest. “As you wish. I shall guard it and see it safely delivered,” he assured her. “Will that be all, Mum?”

  She looked past his shoulder, down the companionway toward the farthest door. “There is one more thing. Do you know where I might find Captain Vallé, to give him this repast?”

  “In his quarters, Mum. I’d be honored to escort ye there.”

  Caleb led the way, knocking on Vallé’s door and receiving permission to enter. The captain was clearly not expecting his lady. His brows lifted, then fell, pulled by the scowl that shaped his mouth. A tight smile warned: Do not dare it.

  Christiana lifted the basket. “Mattie sends her best,” she said, smiling sweetly and crossing to Vallé’s table. She set down the basket and saw that he was unconvinced.

  “I did not come aboard to stow away, so cease the dour look, sirrah. I came to give you this.” She nodded to his lunch. “And this,” she added, drawing O’Malley’s letter from her réticule. “One last favor, please. If you would but give it to O’Malley, when next you see him…?”

  Justin reached for the folded piece of foolscap, sealed with wax and bearing O’Malley’s name. The ship rolled on a swell, dipping, then rising again, a buck and heave that launched Christiana forward into his arms.

  They had said their fare-thee-wells this morning. He was disciplined enough to not take advantage of the situation. He steadied her and stepped back, putting enough distance between them that he couldn’t smell the lemon in her hair, or the hint of jasmine that scented her skin. Instead, he turned his attention to the basket, rummaging through the offerings and spreading the bounty on the table.

  “There is more than enough for both of us, I see.”

  Christiana smiled and shook her head. “Nay, I’ll not stay,” she told him. “My carriage awaits. Actually, a boat and a boy to row it. I am sorry to bother you. I—I just wanted to let O’Malley know that my love and prayers are with him. If I’d thought of writing him sooner, I could have sent it with you this morning. As it was, I wrote the letter after you’d gone.”

  She bit her lip and added, “Then I asked Mattie for a lunch, in case I needed to curry the captain’s favor. I have no more coin and fear I must resort to bribes from your stores.”

  “When I return, I shall remedy that,” Justin promised. “Whatever coin you need, you shall have, and gowns, and slippers, and jewels. Just name it, and it’s yours.”

  She angled her head and looked at him curiously. When she understood that he was serious, understood that he offered her everything that was in his power to give, she might have pressed him for more—an avowal of his feelings, or a declaration of love, or a proposal of marriage—and he might have given it. Instead, she accepted his offer with a soft smile, asking but one thing.

  “Whatever it takes to free O’Malley is enough for me,” she told him, her green eyes holding him to his word.

  “And you shall have it,” he promised. “As for your bribe, I would have agreed to deliver your letter if you’d brought nothing else. I promise you, ma belle, I shall do my best to bring him safely home to you.
”

  He reached for her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm, holding it against his lips for a long moment, until he heard the soft rush of her breath, saw the beckoning softness in her eyes, and knew he must steel his resolve. But not yet. Not yet.

  One last kiss, he promised himself, gathering her to him and lifting her, angling his head and brushing his lips against hers, before claiming her mouth in an intimate kiss. She shuddered with an intense wave of longing, an answering need that echoed his own. She dragged a hand down his chest, slipping it beneath his justacrops and vest to feel his heart beating.

  “Ma belle,” he whispered, his voice low and gravelly.

  She stretched and kissed him again, but not before he had seen the love shining in the green glass of her eyes. “Aye,” she whispered, opening herself to him, hiding nothing. “I am yours, to have and to hold, if ye do wish it.”

  Nostrils flaring with each sharp breath, he focused on her mouth, grown pink from his kisses. He’d never known anyone like her, never found a woman who was so perfectly matched to him in her passion.

  “I do wish it,” he told her, casting a look of terrible regret at the door. One kiss, he’d told himself. So much for his good intentions.

  He caught her hands and brushed his lips on the backs of her fingers. “Mon cœur, what you do to me,” he murmured, reaching to smooth her sea nymph’s hair, his gaze locked on hers. “My days are divided into the hours when I hold you in my arms, and the hours when I’m missing you and wish you were here.”

  My heart. Vallé’s words were like St. Elmo’s fire, striking a spark inside Christiana that seemed to light her whole being. In wonderment, she searched his face. Seeing only truth, she offered him a tremulous smile. “It’s not too late to take me with you.”

  He drew back his head, shook it with regret. But he did not release her hands. He kept her there, looking at her with such tenderness, she wanted to weep. She was tempted to look away, but she feared her eyes would betray her, straying toward his desk, his maps, his plans to free O’Malley. Plans that she herself would put into motion before Vallé had the chance. Tonight, she would take the key to his treasure room and remove the gold that was required, the coin he’d just given her permission to take. She would go with Bryce to her father’s ship, and race the wind in a bid for his freedom—