Heather Graham - [Camerons Saga - North American Woman 02]

by A Pirates Pleasure

  His hands were upon her, stroking the length of her, fire through fabric. They touched the bare flesh of her thighs, and she gasped, unable to breathe, for his lips burned their fiery path against her throat. They fell to the rise of her breasts, and still she did nothing but stare at the sky above her, beset by soft, flowing clouds. She felt the sun, but the sun had lost its heat, for fire burned deep, deep inside of her. It came where his lips seared her, where his fingers stroked her flesh, where the very hardness of his body drove her down to the earth.

  His fingers tore upon the ribbons at her bodice, and the fabric gave way. Her breasts spilled above the bone of her corset and his lips found that tender flesh as his hand cupped the mound to the hungry desire of his teeth and tongue. A molten, demanding tug raked upon her nipple, and then it was laved by his tongue. The sweet, blinding sensation ripped into her like cannonshot, firing throughout her body. His beard teased her bare flesh with ever-greater intimacy.

  “No!” she cried out suddenly, but he had seized her mouth again. She struggled, but fell limp as languor overcame her.The very earth continued to tremble. Perhaps it was not the earth. The trembling came from deep within her, a beat, a pulse, a sweet yearning need to know more.…

  She was not a prisoner. Her hands were free and they were upon his shoulders, and it did not occur to her that he was a pirate, only a man, and a man who had shielded her against all enemies. Muscle rippled beneath her fingers, and in this strange paradise with the water rippling around them and the tropical breeze a tender touch upon them, he was all that she had ever desired in the deep secret shadows of her heart. The scent of him filled her; the force of his passion swept her into netherworlds where nothing mattered at all except for the sleek animal grace of him, and of his touch.

  Suddenly he wrenched away. He stumbled to his feet. His back to her, he looked up at the sky. “God damn you!” he raged at her. He jerked around, caught her hands, and pulled her to her feet. “What would you have of me?” he shouted.

  She jerked away from his touch, horrified that it was he, and not her own protest, that had put a stop to what they’d been doing. “I wish that you would leave me be! I wish that I could be away from this place!” she cried, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She could not erase the feel of his lips. She felt his eyes upon her, burning still, and she realized that her bodice was askew, her breasts bared and spilling forth. She blushed deeply, but she did not lower her head and fought for whatever control she possessed. Still her hands trembled as she brought her fingers to her laces. He tore his eyes from her breasts and looked directly into hers. “You will be gone soon enough, I swear it!” he told her heatedly.

  She turned from him, running toward the offending mare. The frightened beast skittered away. An oath burst forth from him. “Don’t ever run from me, you little fool. You would never manage it, and in each of your attempts you are hurt or cause havoc!” He caught hold of the mare’s reins and brought her around. He reached for Skye’s waist.

  “I can manage, leave me be!”

  “You cannot manage.”

  He set her firmly upon the horse. She picked up the reins and stared down at him. “I think, Captain Silver Hawk, that you are running from me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Lady Kinsdale, I will never run from you, I swear it. I’ve tried to leave you be, as you so ardently wish. And even when you singe my soul with the heat of your flame, I do back away. Don’t try me again, lady. In this battle I tell you, the gentleman is surely giving way to the rogue within me, and if next tempted, the pirate will prevail.”

  Hot shivers ran down her spine. She jerked the reins from his hand, nudged the mare, and turned to race away from the lagoon, and from the haunting, bitter laughter that played upon the air in her wake.

  Skye returned to the stable in a tempestuous mood. She left the mare to Señor Rivas, and walked hurriedly into the house, ignoring Mr. Soames, who came to greet her by the stairway. She raced up to her room and slammed the door hard, then sent the bolts hammering into place at that door, and at the door that connected her room to the Hawk’s. She paced the room in deep agitation, then glanced at the connecting door again. The lock wouldn’t mean a thing to him if he wanted to reach her. A lock? Why the man fought battles upon the sea and had seized her very ship! What was a lock to such a man.…

  A lock lay within the heart, or within the soul, or so he had told her. No man could hold the key to such a lock, unless it was given to him, and freely so. And this the Silver Hawk seemed to know, and know well.

  She stiffened suddenly, aware of a door slamming below. The Hawk had returned, too, and it seemed that he, too, was not in the best of humor. His shouting could be heard throughout the house.

  Skye raced to the hallway door. She could not make out the crisp words, only that it was his voice, deep and vibrant, commanding. She heard his footsteps upon the stairs, and then the door to his room opened and slammed, and she stood dead still, her hand cast to her throat. He would come to her then. He would ignore the door that lay between them, he would come to her in anger, seize her.…

  Seconds ticked by. The door slammed again. The Hawk was gone. She breathed a deep sigh of relief and cast herself across the bed, then stared up at the canopy. Surely, he had business to attend to. And he had broken away, not she.…

  She flamed with humiliation. He wanted her gone. This would not go on much longer. Perhaps, say what he might, he had his own sense of honor. She was his cousin’s betrothed, despite the fact that that cousin be distant, and born on the right side of the sheets.

  Betrothed …

  She had no wish to meet such a man! Not when her lips remained swollen and her flesh burned from another’s touch.

  She sat up, pressing her temple between her palms. God help her, she did not know herself anymore.

  She leaped from the bed and threw open the door to the hallway. Mr. Soames had said that he was there to serve her. Well, she wanted to be served. “Mr. Soames!” she called down the stairs.

  “Milady!” Within seconds the elderly gentleman had climbed the stairs to reach her. “I’d have some brandy, if I may, please,” she told him.

  He arched a brow in surprise that she should ask for spirits, but quickly lowered his brow again. “Yes, milady,” he said, and was quickly gone. She paced again as she awaited his return. He arrived with brandy and a single crystal glass upon a silver tray. She thanked him, and waited for him to leave.

  “The Hawk will have supper with you, milady. He will knock for you at eight.”

  “Will he? You must tell the Hawk that I do not care to have supper with him,” she said.

  “But, milady—”

  “You have heard me, Mr. Soames, and you have said that you will attend to my every wish. Well, I wish you to tell your master that I will not have supper with him.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  With no further display of emotion or opinion, Mr. Soames bowed to her and left her side.

  She liked the brandy. It soothed her spirits and eased the tempest in her soul. She stared broodingly out the windows at the startling blue beauty of the island. Bone Cay. Such an ugly name for such a striking piece of paradise.

  The day grew warm and she opened the windows to feel the breezes. She cast aside her jacket and tried to cease her endless pacing. What would his reaction be? He had come back in a state of anger to demand that she attend him for a meal. Would he accept her refusal with a casual shrug?

  The afternoon was waning, but her spirits slowly rose and her confidence returned in direct proportion to the brandy she consumed. He would not break the lock; it would be against his very peculiar code of honor.

  Feeling hot and sticky as sunset neared, she called down to Mr. Soames again. He ran back up the stairs. She asked him sweetly if she might have a bath. He stared at her blankly, and she knew that sending a half-dozen servants with a tub and water would be a hardship on him as head of the household staff at this particular hour of the afternoo
n. She wasn’t terribly sorry. She didn’t care to be there. If they didn’t care to have her there, then they would hurry to see that she left. The Hawk had said that she would be gone soon. He had said it with a vengeance. Surely, Mr. Soames would help see to it that he kept that vow!

  “I should like it very quickly, Mr. Soames!” she told him as innocently as she could.

  “I shall do my best, milady.”

  “Perhaps you could send my own young lasses along, and spare your own staff.”

  “That won’t be possible, milady.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, they’re at the fish market, milady.”

  “The fish market?”

  “They wished to stay busy, and you had given them no word that you might require their service.…” His words trailed away. He had given the girls leave to go, she realized. She smiled. She had no rights here—except those given her by the Hawk, and it was the Hawk she longed to annoy.

  “Whenever you can manage, Mr. Soames,” she said very sweetly.

  She was quickly obliged. Very little time had passed before Señor Rivas and one of his young grooms dragged up a brass tub, and then a stream of servants—household and estate men, so it seemed—arrived with water. She thanked them all charmingly. Mr. Soames himself came with towels and rose scents and a thick sponge. “If you require anything else …”

  “Not a thing. Just my privacy,” she said.

  “Yes, milady.” He bowed his way out. Skye stared after the closed door, suddenly sorry for making the elderly man miserable. His master had already screamed at him, and now poor Soames had the sorry task of telling the Hawk that his female prisoner had no intention of obeying his commands for the evening.

  Her guilt faded away as she cast her clothing off in disarray. She had consumed way too much brandy, and she knew it. She didn’t care. It had eased her torment, it had made her almost cheerful. Content and relaxed, she crawled into the tub. She coiled her hair on top of her head and lazily rubbed the sweet-smelling rose-scented soap over her body. She smiled. There were benefits to being the hostage of a prosperous pirate. He did supply the finest in luxury accommodations, fresh from Paris.

  She set aside her sponge and soap and leaned back, basking in the warmth of the water. With one eye barely open, she saw that the sun was setting, sinking into the horizon beyond the windows. The colors of the coming night were breathtaking, strident red, shocking gold, so very bright, so very deep.

  She allowed her eyes to close. It was so easy, so gentle, to be there. The water was warm, near tender in its touch. Her head was so delightfully at ease.…

  She was aware of shadows upon the rippling bathwater, then she was aware of nothing at all. Then she thought that she dreamed, for she heard a fierce pounding, and it was as if her name was being called from a distance.

  There was a sound of thunder, stark, strident. Skye bolted up just in time to hear wood crackle and split, and to hear the Hawk slamming into her room, the door falling flat to the floor. He stared at her, his hands on his hips, his eyes on fire.

  She parted her lips and tried to speak. He sounded as if he was strangling.

  “My God! I thought you were dead!”

  “You said I might lock the door—”

  “Did you hear me! I thought that you were dead! I knocked, I shouted!”

  “I—”

  She slipped within the tub, nearly going under. He exploded with a furious oath, and she heard a new thunder. It was the sound of his footsteps, falling upon the floor. Then his hands were upon her, wrenching her up, and into his arms.

  She soaked him. Water sluiced from her body to his own, and dripped onto the floor. He paid no attention to it, but stared at her sharply. Alarm swept through her, as shocking as his hands upon her.

  She struggled against him. “I did not care to come to dinner!” she cried.

  “But I commanded that you should.”

  “I do not dine with thieves, with gentlemen rogues. Your manner does not save you from the truth! I will not sit to eat with a courteous—”

  “Sea slime? Gentleman rogue, milady?” his eyes, flashing fire, fell upon hers. “This night, lady, I am no gentleman rogue, and a rogue at the very least. You wish a pirate, you expect one—”

  “Put me down, Hawk!” she cried, her panic growing. The soft brandy blur was deserting her. She was naked, and his touch upon her bare flesh was an excruciating sensation. She was in his arms, and he was vibrant, burning with the heat of anger. He was a flame that seemed to consume everything, her will, her heart. She had to escape him, to stand outside that flame. She did not so deeply fear his anger; she feared the tempest within him that so seduced and beguiled her.

  She pressed fully against his silk-clad chest. “Now! I demand it!”

  He shook his head slowly. “You do not like to be treated with courtesy, not by a pirate, so you say. Well, take heed then, lady. This night you have the pirate, the demon, the monster, the rogue. And trust well, lady, that this night, the rogue will have you. If you have thought to cry for mercy, now is the time to do so, milady.”

  VIII

  “Perhaps we should dine first,” Skye said softly.

  He stared down upon her. “What?” he shouted in exasperation.

  “Dinner!” she whispered desperately, meeting his silver gaze. “You wished to have dinner. It’s … it’s all right with me.”

  He was still stiff with anger, as hot and radiant as a winter’s fire, but as hard as stone. “You’re drunk,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’re drunk!”

  “I am not! Ladies of good breeding do not get drunk, sir!”

  “I shudder to suggest, Lady Kinsdale, that your breeding is anything but the absolute best, so I must beg to differ upon the principle itself. You are drunk.”

  “Tipsy, perhaps.”

  “Sodden.”

  “Sir, you drive me to drink,” she said woefully. Her fingers curled about his neck as she held him tightly rather than fall.

  “I drive you to drink, lady! My God, but a sane man would have left you upon the sea!” He cast her down suddenly and with such vehemence that she gasped, for she was certain that her bones would shatter upon the floor. They did not, for he had come to the bed and cast her upon the soft down mattress. Like silver daggers, his eyes flashed upon her. “I drive you to drink? Lady, you would drive the very saints to despair!”

  He whirled around and she clutched nervously at the bedclothes, dragging them around her. He seemed as explosive as a keg of powder, and though she had a reprieve, she wondered what his next action would be.

  He wrenched open one of her trunks with a vengeance. Silks and satins and velvets went flying about. Then he tossed a soft green satin garment her way. She reached for the fabric as his footsteps cracked and thundered upon the floor and on the shattered door. “Dinner, milady, is already served.”

  For the longest time she lay there, her hand at her heart, feeling the frantic beat. He was gone again. But not far. He stood away from her, through a doorway that could no longer be closed or locked. It had never meant anything anyway. He had always known and she was discovering that the barriers lay within herself.

  And within him.

  Skye lay very still. Night was coming quickly. It would not matter, she realized. If darkness fell, he would come back to light up the night for her, whether she did or did not rise. If she stayed just as she was, she would need have no fear. He would not touch her, nor would he let blackness descend upon her.

  She rose quickly, glancing nervously to the open doorway. She could not see him. She scrambled into the gown he had left her, a satin dinner gown with a laced bodice, high collar, and sweeping train. She came to the dresser, observed her pale image within the mirror, and mechanically picked up the silver brush he had provided and swept it through her hair. The golden locks fell like waves of sun and fire upon her shoulders. The high collar of the gown complemented the deep cleft of the bodi
ce. Her eyes were grave then, for the tender embrace of the brandy was fast fading away, and it seemed that very much lay at stake that night.

  Impulsively she turned from the dresser to dig about in her trunks. She found a delicate gold necklace with an emerald pendant that was surrounded by a sunburst of diamonds. She hooked it about her neck and it fell far below her throat to touch the valley of her breasts.

  She walked over to the open doorway and paused there, watching him.

  He stood by the windows, and seemed as pensive as she. The drapes were open, the breeze blew in. He looked the gentleman then, the striking young gentleman, more lordly than any man she knew, lost in thought, tall and undaunted against the coming night. He held a silver goblet in one hand. Across the room, Skye saw that the small dining table was laden with a meal, with silver flatware and fine plates upon a white cloth. Candles were burning, casting a gentle glow over the table.

  “Lord Cameron comes for you any day now,” Hawk said without turning to her.

  “How can he?” she murmured. “How can he even know that I am here?”

  “I sent your ship, the Silver Messenger, close in to Cape Hatteras as we traveled south. Her signalman sent messages to a merchantman. The Silver Messenger came here this afternoon, and my man assures me that his messages were received, and answers were sent.”

  “That is … good to hear,” she said softly.

  He turned around suddenly and his eyes swept over her from head to toe. They lingered upon the emerald that lay between her breasts, but he did not mention it. He bowed to her. “Milady, you wished to dine?” He indicated the table. She walked to it and he was quickly behind her, pulling out her chair. He poured her wine in a goblet before taking his own seat. The candles glowed softly between them, flickering occasionally, for the table lay before the open window, and both the colors of the sunset and the coolness of the twilight breeze rushed softly in upon them.

  “Shall I serve you, milady?” he asked.

  Skye nodded, sitting back, her fingers curving over the arms of her chair. She watched his dark head and the fine, brooding line of his features as he dished out food from the servers. She wasn’t sure what touched her plate, for she studied him so earnestly. He caught her gaze at last. She flushed and picked up her wineglass. But she continued to study him.