His touch brought the lightning to her again, and a sweet fever seemed to rage through her body. His beard and mustache teased her flesh as his lips pressed against hers with a consuming force that swept all thought from her mind. His tongue teased the edge of her mouth, causing her lips to part to the provocative demand. His tongue filled her, and the kiss was planted deeper and deeper.
No longer was he content with the sweetness of her mouth. His hands fell to the small of her back, bringing her flush against him. Then his fingers fell against her cheeks, along the slender column of her throat, to the rise of her breasts.
Not once did she think to fight him.
Not even when his hand closed over the full naked curve of her breast and she dimly realized that her towel had fallen. Not even then did she fight him. She did not think to fight, for thought eluded her completely, and the shattering sensations ruled her heart and soul. The liquid heat of his kiss swept into the length of her, the sensual stroke of his callused fingertips brought a peculiar sob to her throat.…
It was the sound of that sob, wanton and hungry, that shocked her from her paralysis. She pressed hard upon his chest, but he held her there tightly. She beat against him desperately, but he did not free her. Her head fell back and she met his eyes. They were dark with a brewing tempest, frightening to behold. “Don’t play with me, girl, so help me!”
“Play!”
“Don’t tempt, lady, and for the love of God, don’t tease!”
“I have not! You are the puppet master here, pulling the strings like an almighty god! You seized me! You imprisoned me, and you give out orders like a tyrant king. You are a master of torture. You taunt until I am insane. I fear rape, I fear death, and you play with me like a cat with a mouse!”
He touched her cheek, his eyes still stormy, his features tense. She strained against him, but his thumb fell over her damp and swollen lips.
“Was that, milady, a threat of rape?”
“Please …”
“You made a promise. Perhaps you do mean to fulfill it.”
She jerked from him, falling to her knees, reaching for the towel. He came down beside her, resting upon the balls of his feet. “It seems that I am the plaything, lady. You cling to me in the night, and trust in my goodness. In the darkness I could take whatever I desired, couldn’t I, Lady Kinsdale?” Her head was down, but he lifted her chin.
“I was kidnapped—”
“Answer my question.”
“All right!” she shouted. “It would be easy for you then. So easy. I’ve oft wondered why you didn’t …”
“Rape you as you clung to me in terror?” he demanded sharply.
“Yes!” she whispered. Tears came to her eyes, glazing them. He would not let her free.
He shook his head slowly. “I will never have you that way, milady. Coming to me in fear of the darkness. I will have you only when you turn to me because desire, not fear, guides you.”
Her eyes widened.
“I will never desire a pirate!”
A slight smile touched his features. His finger rode slowly, sensually over the bare slope of her shoulder.
“If I willed it, you could be coerced into desiring me this very moment,” he said softly. Then he rose abruptly, and she felt very small as he spoke down to her. “You are right, milady, on one account. I am a master of torture, and it is myself that I so abuse. I will depart, until you are safely clad.”
He turned smartly upon a heel and left her. Slowly she rose, her body on fire, her limbs quaking. She was lethargic at first. She could scarce will herself to move.
She touched her lips with her fingers, and she started shaking all over again. She could feel his lips still, she could feel his hands upon her.…
He was coming back. He had said so.
She dove into her trunk. She had one nightgown left within it. Soft blue flowered cotton with satin ribands about the puffed sleeves and waist. The cotton was gossamer, sheer but strong.
She plunged quickly into the gown, and none too soon. There was a sharp rap upon the door, then the Hawk entered once again. For a pirate, he was absurdly regal, striking in his outfit of black, from his elegantly cut coat to the plume that danced upon his hat. Robert entered behind him, and the pirate captain gave his mate the ledger. “Care will be taken, the gravest care,” he said.
Robert looked her way and nodded. Then he smiled nervously, finding her eyes meeting his. “Supper comes, my lady,” he told her.
She didn’t care. She wanted only to escape the presence of the Hawk.
“I am not hungry,” she whispered. Robert nodded vaguely, watching her, then his eyes narrowed as he looked at the Hawk again. The pirate captain had taken his chair behind his desk, and seriously studied figures within a second book.
Skye crawled into the bunk, far against the wall. The two men continued to talk about cargo to be bartered, bought, or taken. She closed her eyes. Their voices droned on.
She drifted to sleep, hearing their conversation like some lulling sound. Sleep was sweet, and sleep was good, until the darkness suddenly intruded upon it.
She was trapped. She pushed and shoved and she could not escape. It had come to choke her, the darkness. She could not breathe, she could not swallow, she could not summon the air to scream.…
“Skye!”
His voice fell upon her like a gentle ray of sunlight. Her eyes flew open.
His face was above hers. Light filled the room; there had never been any darkness.
“Oh!” she cried, and she tried to cover her face with her hands. The fear had seized her, and would not let go.
He must have come to bed with her that night meaning to sleep, for his chest was bare, and though the coverlet spread over his lower torso, she assumed that his legs would be bare as well. It was the way that he slept.
His arms came around her and the gentle touch of his fingers led her cheek to rest against his chest. He stroked her hair. “What is the terror?” he asked her softly.
She shook her head. He sighed.
At last, her shaking began to ease. She pressed against him, her face rising upon his chest to meet his eyes.
“You—you needn’t comfort me.”
“It’s all right.”
“But you say that I crawl to you … and taunt you.”
“It’s all right.”
“I do not mean to do so.”
He caught her hands, and eased them from his chest. Her hair spilled over the golden breadth of it. His features seemed tense, for all of the gentle tenor of his words.
“Truly, you do not have to comfort me!” she whispered.
He sighed very deeply. “Milady, it is all right. It is my pleasure, Skye Kinsdale, I swear it. Lie still, and sleep once more.”
She closed her eyes, and felt his body shudder.
My pleasure! he thought.
And truly, torture beyond all earthly reason.
V
The Silver Hawk stood high atop the forward deck of his ship, legs firmly planted, his hands upon his hips. The breeze rushed by him as he surveyed the channel they so carefully navigated. They were clear, he knew. Robert was at the helm while certain of his sailors climbed the rigging with the agility of monkeys, leaving them enough sail to catch the breeze, but cutting in deftly for speed and maneuverability. They were coming upon the island of New Providence, to the lusty port town where rogues held sway and thieves and butchers ruled.
He knew the port well. He had come here often enough.
Some curious little tremor seized him suddenly, as if he had stepped from a hot bath into the chill of a winter’s day. He shook away the feeling with a shrug of his shoulders. There was danger here still, he thought.
But there was always danger. He had entered into this devil’s pact of his knowing that danger abounded.
Still, this was different.
It was the girl, he knew.
He should have gone on to Bone Cay, he thought, even if it increased his trav
el time. He couldn’t have done that, not plausibly so, but it was from this den of thieves that he would send his messages out and strike his bargains for the return of the ship and the hostages. And he had to come here now, for this was where the captains all came to plot their courses and pick their prizes. It was imperative that he come.
It was just the girl, damn her hide!
She would be safe. He would leave her carefully bolted within her room. They would take the long boats in, and he would leave her in the care of Jacques DuBray. That mammoth Frenchman was a master with a rapier. No harm would come her way.
He took his glass from his pocket and surveyed the scene they came upon. He could see the shanties of the town, the ribald colors and patterns that made up the pirates’ haven. Kegs of gunpowder and salt fish lay on a wharf. A dark-haired whore stretched atop the bow of a small cutter, her skirts high against her thigh, her legs bronzed from the sun. She waved a fan in a leisurely fashion, idly listening to the talk of the two men who straightened fishing nets nearby. Further into town, there were more decent structures that resembled houses, but most of the place was beach and shanty … and warehouse for ill-gotten gains.
It was not a place for a lady.…
He scowled suddenly and leaped down from the bow peak. He waved to Rutger Gunnan at the wheel and nodded out his satisfaction at their course. They would cast anchor soon. “Tell Robert we will set to shore within the hour!” he called.
Rutger nodded his assent. “Aye, Captain!”
The Hawk turned and approached the door to his cabin. To his great annoyance he paused before sliding the bolt and entering his own realm. He’d been a fool to ever bring her here. She’d been such a challenge with her lightning speed with a sword that it had seemed necessary to cast the very fear of demons into her soul.
He had not suspected that they resided there already, nor that it would be he who would suffer the torment of the damned rather than she.
Impatiently he shoved the doors open and entered his cabin.
She was perched upon the window seat. The drapes were back and daylight streamed in. Her legs curled beneath her; she wore a soft white muslin with a brocade bodice, which was fashionably low cut to display the rising curves of her breasts. The skirt spilled out over a volume of petticoats in a soft burst of snow white and soft pastel. She worked on some piece of mending for him, which brought another scowl to his lips. Her hair was free.
The color of a sunset.
Cascading and waving over her shoulders and breast like a web of radiant silk.
He itched to run his fingers through it. Actually, he itched to do much, much more. When she looked up at him, a soft smile on her lips, her aquamarine eyes shimmering like the most glorious Caribbean sea, he wanted to stride right to her and wrench her into his arms. He wanted to play the pirate in the most heinous fashion, rip her beautiful gown to shreds, and leave her with no doubt as to his rapacious desires and determination.
She looked so damned comfortable! And assured. Even domestic.
He clenched down hard upon his jaw and swallowed the force of his emotion, watching her as he walked around to take his seat behind his desk. He cast his booted feet upon the desk and laced his fingers behind his head. She held his shirt, he saw. The full-sleeved shirt he had worn the evening of their first encounter. She mended a tear near the throat. Her fingers, long and elegant, lay still over the material.
Just as they lay by night, long and elegant, over his bare chest.
“You will make a wonderful wife,” he found himself snapping out at her with a startling hostility.
She arched a brow. A flicker of amusement curled her lip.
“Why, Mr. Silver Hawk,” she taunted, “I strive to be the very best of hostages, and still I do not please you! I no longer toss about jam and coffee cups, but spend my endless time pursuing the best interests of your wardrobe!”
He wagged a finger at her. “Beware, lady, you do play with fire.”
She lowered her head, smiling. Damn her! She trusted him. Six days and nights with him now and she thought that she had discovered his true measure. Something made a snapping sound. He looked down to see that he had picked up a quill, and crushed it between his fingers.
He dropped the pieces and walked around to her. She barely skipped a beat with her task. She did not look up, nor did her fingers cease to move.
He reached down to her, cupping her chin with his fingers, raising her eyes to meet his. She was, indeed, a startling beauty. No artist could ever capture the blues and greens that mingled within her eyes, nor find the glorious reds and golds of her hair among oils or paints. The greatest sculptors of the Renaissance could not have duplicated the fine and delicate structure of her face, the regal position of her cheekbones, the determined set of her jaw. No man could mold what God had created of her form, an Eve cast upon him from the sins of Eden, slender in the waist, long-limbed, with delicate ankles and lush firm breasts, ripe and provocative beyond measure. To touch her was to stroke silk.
And she smiled … in complete comfort in his presence.
She needed to fear him somewhat. It was essential.
He plucked the mending from her hands, casting it aside. A look of startled alarm came into her eyes, and she struggled against him as he drew her inexorably to her feet.
“We come to the island,” she said breathlessly.
“So I see,” he told her, but he saw nothing at all at that moment, nothing but her eyes.
“Shouldn’t you be—”
“Do you know, my lady, that you are one of the most beautiful creatures ever to walk this earth? Perhaps you do know. You are not a woman who lacks confidence.”
Her breath came quickly. Her lips were dry and she moistened them. She strained against his firm hold upon her upper arms, but he did not release her. Her gaze wavered, then returned to his. “What do you want?” she cried.
He smiled slowly, assessing her. “I’m not quite sure as yet. I think I’ve decided that I could tame you. Perhaps I shall not ransom you at all. Perhaps I shall take you with me and have you reside with me forever.”
“Don’t tease me!” she pleaded, her eyes very wide upon his as she sought some truth from him.
What did plague him? he wondered. His fingers bit more forcefully into her arms. “Indeed, why should you think that I tease you, Skye Kinsdale? We pirates revel in debauchery and conquest. It would be most natural to return the ship … but not the maiden.”
He lowered his lips as he spoke until his words fell like a warm breeze upon her parted lips. Then his mouth formed to the sweet curve of hers. She gasped but he drew her closer, seized by the dark power of a sweeping desire. Her lips were sweet; the clamor of her heart was sweeter still. He plundered her mouth with his tongue. He ravished and he laid bare. He tasted her until drums beat explosively in his head, and he knew that he would lose not only control, but his very soul in the bargain.
His lip moved from hers. He seared a trail down her throat with the damp heat of his parted lips, teasing her flesh with the tip of his tongue. He swept her collarbone, and the rise of her breasts above the haunting décolletage of her gown.
She had been still through it all. Then, as his kiss touched her breast, she let out a shriek of rage. He no longer held her with force, and she wrenched from him, shaking, wiping her lips with the back of her hand as if she had tasted evil.
It was less than complimentary, he decided wearily.
“Bastard!” she screamed, and she flew forward, her fists flailing. He barely protected his face and beard, catching her clawing fingers in the nick of time and bringing her back into his hold.
Damn her, he thought, then, and damn himself, for his desire for her remained, or perhaps it burned more fiercely. She was energy there in his arms, she was the power of the sun and the rhythm of the sea. She loathed him so … but it had taken her a long, long time to protest against the intimacy of his kiss, and she seemed ablaze. Was it hatred? Certainly, but it was
a passionate hatred, alive, searing. It caused her to sizzle, to tremble, to stare at him with eyes afire. She swept into the very core of his being, heating him anew with her fire. In silence he swore against himself, and he swore against her.
He was captain. He could do what he chose. He was a pirate. The dread pirate Silver Hawk. He could sweep her across the room to his bunk, tear her clothing asunder, have her, sink into her, die within her … and it would but enhance his reputation.
He was losing his mind. He struggled with his heart, with his soul, and with the searing piece of his anatomy that was sweeping away his senses. Then he smiled at her, crookedly.
“Good, Lady Skye. Your kiss is good, your lips are sweet, your body is sound. You would not make a bad companion for the while, except that your temper is quite a thorn. But then again, perhaps your father or Lord Cameron will offer a high enough price for your head. No woman is worth too much a sum of silver or gold. And you do seem to lack experience.”
“Oh!” she cried, and swore again with vengeance. Her eyes snapped and sparked their luminous aquamarine and he was ever more tempted by her.
“Milady, I have not heard such language from the rogues who sail with me. Take care. I may well tame you yet.”
She spat out an explicit oath, struggling fiercely.
“Maybe you sit too easily today. Perhaps you need to be reminded that my touch is not always so gentle and tenderly given.”
“Gentle!” she gasped. “Tenderly given!” But she went still then, her eyes very round, her features ashen. She had not forgotten their encounter the day when she had wreaked havoc upon his tableware.
No, she had not forgotten, nor did she sit so easily yet. Skye gritted her teeth and kept her eyes hard upon him. She fought no more, for she was suddenly certain that the words were more of a warning than she could imagine, that he was truly at some brink, as if his temper burned on some very short fuse. But oh, she longed to hurt him! How she longed to have the power to taunt and humiliate! She despised him with every breath within her, she was infuriated.…
Heather Graham - [Camerons Saga - North American Woman 02] Page 10