Lovesong

by Valerie Sherwood

  “Will I?” he asked hoarsely, for the soft pressure of her delicate hands upon his chest had fired him even more. “Then I’ll regret it in the morning instead of tonight! I’m holding you to your promise—Christabel!”

  Christabel... He had called her by that other alien name, that name she had taken for her sea venture, a name that had seemed to have no connection with her at all. Suddenly she crumpled—it was as if being called by that other name had set her free. She was not Carolina Lightfoot any longer—Carolina Lightfoot would have fought to the death to save her honor. She had become Christabel Willing, a woman who had but one goal in life—to save her imprisoned lover! She would give this lean buccaneer what he wanted—the pressure of her silken body against his own, the melting softness of her lips and thighs, the sweet crushing of her breasts—yes, even though she shrank from it, she would do it.

  For hers was a high purpose: She must save Lord Thomas!

  Kells felt this instant change in her. He looked down at her, puzzled, then leaned over to peer into her face below the silver blonde hair that had come loose from its pins and cascaded down, catching the moonlight. “You have changed your mind?” he asked softly. “I am not such a blackguard after all?”

  “You are a blackguard,” she said in a voice that trembled. “But”—her arms stole round his neck and her body twisted against his in a way that made his flesh ripple—“I desire you.”

  There, the lying words were spoken! The words that would transform him from an opponent into an ally. He could not refuse to help her now!

  She desired him. From her own lips he had heard it! Any hesitancy he might have felt at taking to his bed a reluctant woman was flung away on the instant. He swept her up and carried her triumphantly to the bed.

  “Wait,” she whispered. “I have but one favor to ask of you—and you must grant it. Lord Thomas is imprisoned in Havana and I would have you secure his release.”

  His muscles jerked as if he had received a savage blow. So this was what the wench wanted, this was the price of her acquiescence—to have Lord Thomas back again! Such a flood of disappointment and anger and frustration engulfed him that his voice was thick and savage as he flung her upon the bed.

  “You’ve made me one bargain, wench,” he rasped. “I’ll not be cozened into making another!”

  And with that he took her. It was as if devils were driving him. He had forgotten for the moment how young she was. He had forgotten that she was a virgin—and then was astonished and somehow hurt to find that she was not. Overwhelmed by his own frustration, rage—and grief that she did not truly desire him—he drove straight and true within her and felt her soft shudder as she tried now to resist, to ward him off.

  And then with a convulsive shudder—for she was in his arms at last, her female softness pressed against his hard loins—he relaxed and took her more gently. He began to make love to her then, exciting her, tempting her. He moved within her rhythmically, luxuriously. She lay tense beneath him, fighting against the powerful sensations that roused her, lured her, lulled her as he played delicately with her body. He bent his dark head and his thick dark hair spilled in a shining mass over her white skin in the moonlight as he nuzzled her breasts, tickling her pink nipples to flaming life with his tongue.

  She trembled beneath him, trying to fight back the warm feelings that were flooding over her in an irresistible tide. She told herself desperately that it was only because it had been such a long time, that she was not responding to him but to her own urges. She told herself, even as her senses swayed and righted and swayed again, that it was the tropic night and the scent of strange exotic blossoms that drifted on the trade winds, that it was the glitter of the stars against a black velvet sky that produced this magic. She told herself it was the aura of danger that surrounded this man, his fascinating reputation—and the fact that she knew his secret, knew that, renegade though he was, he was still a gentleman born and bred and that . . . sometimes, as he had done last Christmastide, he returned to that life. But all the while her passion was flowering as little waves of excitement danced and crested within her. Her heart thumped so wildly that she was sure that he must hear it. She tried to resist but she could feel the sudden unbidden ripple of her stomach muscles, the fiery involuntary tremors of her inner body responding —indeed her whole slender frame seemed to vibrate softly as he did wondrous things with his lips and fingers.

  And then she gave up the unequal struggle and sagged beneath him, let her arms twine around his neck, and with a little moan low in her throat surrendered herself to joy.

  Kells was not the man to miss such a signal of surrender. More confident now and feeling a kind of bittersweet triumph that at least he could have her body if not her heart, he gathered this loved woman to him and increased the pace of his lovemaking. He was infinitely clever now, thinking ever of her enjoyment, driving her to sobbing bursts of passion when her nails dug into his heavily muscled back, so fervent was her grip. He lifted his dark head to watch her face in the moonlight, and though her eyes were closed with their fringe of dark lashes resting against the peachbloom sheerness of her cheeks, he saw her smile despite herself, heard the little gurgling laugh that caught in her throat as he tickled her almost to madness.

  But this buildup of shared caresses had taken its toll on him and now, thoroughly aroused, with his hot blood throbbing a drumbeat in his head, he held her tighter and took her with him on a dizzy climb to passion and beyond, into deep driving moments of white hot ecstasy that made them seem alone and triumphant in a lost and beautiful world past all mortal enduring, bright scalding moments that would leave footprints across their memories, trackless ecstatic moments that lifted them up and seemed to have no end. . . .

  It was with a soft fingering sigh that Carolina came down from that lofty ledge of bliss on which she had been poised, drifted down from it in total exhaustion, spent in mind and body. Drained by the fires of strong emotion, unwilling to face whatever lay ahead, she fell away from him like a tired child and—as if to hide her troubled emotions from him—she threw an arm across her face and bent her body away from him in the bed.

  She did not see him rise on an elbow and study her tenderly, although she did flinch as he gently brushed away a wandering tendril of fair hair that clung to her hot cheek in the moonlight. Had her arm not been clasped tightly over her eyes, she would have been amazed at the softness of the lean buccaneer’s expression and how boyishly young it made him look.

  Ever since he had first met her he had been haunted by the thought of that wondrous body pressed to his, close enough to feel the beating of her heart. The silken way he had imagined her smooth skin beneath her chemise, all her enchanting feminine secrets were even lovelier in reality. She seemed to him a creature of wondrous design, endlessly fascinating, abrim with delights to be tasted with every touch, every sigh— heady wine indeed. . . .

  And—her body desired him, if not her soul. At least, there was some comfort in that to a man who loved her passionately and without reserve.

  Now in the moonlight he forced himself to consider her critically. Her beauty was wonderful, challenging, it overwhelmed him. But in his heart he knew that it was not her winsome face, not her thick gleaming silver blonde hair, not her dainty alluring figure that attracted him so much as something else.

  Being with her was like being on the leading edge of a storm. From the first he had felt excitement race through his veins at the very sight of her. Every sense seemed to come alive, his whole body grew taut and strained with desire every time she walked toward him. Her every graceful gesture seemed to him a marvel, her every slanted look held a deeper meaning. He had been tormented with dreams of her that woke him sweating and unsatisfied in the night, and even by day, out careening his ship, he had found himself falling into a reverie that brought her lovely face tauntingly up before him.

  And there was more to it: He had divined in her the hurt child, although he did not know just what it was that had hurt he
r. Something left over from her childhood perhaps, some deep scar that had never quite healed over. Someday she would tell him about it, someday . . . For surely what he had felt in her just now was more than a mere physical response to an experienced lover. Surely that wild passion with which she had returned his every kiss, his every caress, lay somewhere along the shallow shoals of love, if not the deeps. . . .

  Certain she had fallen asleep, he bent down and pressed the lightest of kisses upon the soft bare nipple of the rounded breast nearest him.

  But Carolina was not asleep. She was lying there with her spirit cringing at what she had just done.

  It would have been one thing to have faked a response, to make him believe she cared—so that he would help Thomas. Her conscience could have endured that. But her response to this buccaneer had been as overwhelming as it was unpredictable. By its very violence it had shaken her—and made her afraid of what she might do in the future. She felt as if her body was a battlefield and it had been overrun and plundered.

  Now, bitterly, the realization of how treacherous she had been washed over her in a great wave. It was to Thomas that she owed her loyalty! And she was overcome with hot shame by her wild response to this man who had taken her against her will, driven her into his arms by his unfair bargain!

  “Go away!” she gasped, striking his face away from her breast. “You have no right here!” She was voicing a revulsion of feeling against her own infidelity, flaying herself—but she did not realize it.

  Her words struck Kells like a sword thrust, and gashed not only his vanity—for she had seemed indeed to respond to his lovemaking—but his heart that ached for her to return his love. The wound was sudden and deep and he wanted to strike back.

  “No right,” he murmured. “But then I take it I was not the first?” he said ironically.

  She sat up violently. “No—did you expect to be?” she cried.

  She had said it rudely, before she thought, and was oddly surprised that he flinched. In truth he had expected to be the first.

  “Lord Thomas?” he murmured and at her vengeful nod, “I might have known. First in love, first in war—you told me he was a redoubtable duellist, did you not?” His face darkened. “Would you like me to find him, to pluck him from his ‘prison’ and show you what kind of duellist he is? Would you?”

  “I would like for you to rescue him!” she shouted. “Is that so much to ask?” And she turned her angry face away.

  He stood up, studying her. “Perhaps it is. . . .” he said. “In any event, you can sleep on it.” He had reached the door, swooping down and picking up sword and clothing as he went, and his parting shot held an edge of bitterness. “I promise you will not be disturbed further this night, mistress,” he said grimly and went out, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  Carolina lay there tingling and trembling, her mind wavering resentfully between what was pleasurable and what was right. Her teeth nearly met through her soft lower lip as she thought of how fully she had enjoyed having her body plundered by this buccaneer—and how well he must know it!

  But, she told herself quickly, it was all in a good cause—the best of all causes: Setting Thomas free! For she would make Kells do this for her—she would make him do it!

  Still her mind was roiling so that dawn had pinked the sky over Cayona Bay before she got to sleep.

  Chapter 34

  The sun was high when Carolina’s door burst open. She, who had not slept much, sat up to face a man who had not slept at all. He had sat alone in the courtyard drinking moodily, listening to the night birds’ cries and the sighing of the palms, feeling his resentment building as the trade winds blew upon his scowling face.

  “Get up!” he commanded. “Up!” He went over and seized the light coverlet, tore it from her indignant grasp. “Dress!” His voice was a little slurred, his eyes bloodshot. Carolina retreated from him in fear, easing her back up against the headboard.

  He turned away from her, reeled a little unsteadily toward the tall wardrobe where her elegant dresses were hanging. “Wear this.” He flung toward her the scarlet dress she had worn to the quay. “Wear every damn thing you wore when you plotted with O’Rourke and Skull to leave me!”

  And when still she did not move, but sat there paralyzed, watching him, he strode to the bed, seized her and spun her out onto the floor, held upright only by his steadying arm.

  “Katje!” he roared. “Katje!” And when Katje appeared, he loosed such a torrent of Dutch that the girl, her usually calm face showing alarm, went into violent action. She helped Carolina in such disastrous haste that the first pair of stockings to be slid over her legs were ripped—they had to be discarded and new ones found. Carolina’s feet were summarily jammed into her black satin slippers with the high red heels, and the black chemise dropped over her head.

  Kells thrust his face into hers—just a breath away and smelling strongly of spirits.

  “I have killed enough men for you,” he said thickly. “Men who doubted you were really mine. Today I will prove to all Tortuga whose woman you are! You will walk on my arm and smile and bow pleasantly to those who speak to us. You will turn to me and ask my opinion, you will lean toward me—by God, you will show everyone on this cursed island once and for all to whom you belong!”

  Carolina, who had just gartered the newfound pair of black silk stockings and who had just had the sheer black lacy chemise pulled summarily over her head by an anxious Katje, gave him a baleful look.

  “I will not do it!” she cried. “I will not be put on display like a pet Pomeranian dog for your pleasure!” She pushed away the glittering black and silver petticoat that Katje held out. “Nor will I wear these clothes!” she added hotly.

  He leaned toward her with a wolfish expression. He was a little unsteady on his feet but somehow it made him all the more menacing. His bloodshot gaze was fixed on her with what she thought was a murderous light.

  “If you are not dressed in five minutes,” he warned her, “I swear before God that I will parade you through Tortuga dressed as you are—in your chemise!”

  Carolina recoiled from him and grew a shade paler. He would do it, she knew he would! Oh, that she should be the prisoner of such a man! He would not hesitate to shame her! In sudden desperation she lunged for the petticoat which Katje quickly tied about her and then held out her arms in angry silence so that Katje could slip the vivid red silk dress over her head. Dressed at last, she gave him a resentful look and hitched up the neckline of her low-cut silver-edged bodice.

  “I prefer it worn low,” he said through his teeth. “The way all Tortuga remembers!” He reached out and gave the low-cut neckline a jerk downward that stopped just short of ripping the fabric. The tops of her white breasts gleamed pearly white—even as they had when she had worn this dress down to the quay—and a slow flush spread over her face.

  “My hair,” she cried, when he would have taken her arm. “I have not combed it! And my parasol—in this sun, I will need my parasol.”

  “I prefer your hair streaming down,” he said coldly. “It makes you look as if you have just been tussling with me between the sheets, and that is exactly the impression I wish to convey.”

  Her flush deepened. “You were never a gentleman,” she said bitterly. “How wrong I was to think you were!”

  “Wrong indeed.” He gave her a tipsy bow. “But now your vision is righted, you see me more clearly? Will you precede me, mistress, or must I drag you along?”

  She lifted her dainty chin. In courage she was not lacking. Head held haughtily high, she swept from the room. Behind her Kells snapped his fingers. “Katje, the parasol,” he said in Dutch and Katje whirled around to bring it.

  Hawks was standing guard at the door. “You are taking her into the town?” he demanded in wonder.

  “Aye,” said Kells grimly. “I want all Tortuga to view my prize!” His long body came to a rocking halt. “Wait—keep her here, Hawks. If she tries to bolt, bring her down.” He stalked
away, leaving Carolina seething and Hawks looking alarmed, and when he returned she saw with shock that he was wearing a red band tied around his head and was sporting a single gold earring.

  ‘This is how you told me I should look, I believe,” he said, leering at her. “So I’d be recognized for what I am, was the implication, I believe.”

  Both Carolina and Hawks looked taken aback. In his loose flowing white shirt open to the waist, with a pistol stuck into his belt and the big cutlass slapping against his leathern trousers, he did indeed look like what all the world knew him to be—a buccaneer chieftain, armed and dangerous.

  Hawks shook his head. He called to someone to take his place at the door, loosened his cutlass warily in its scabbard—for who knew what a stroll into the town would bring!—and trailed after them in wonder, keeping some distance behind. Hawks had known Rye Evistock since his boyhood in Essex, he had followed him to this godforsaken island and watched his transformation into the feared buccaneer captain whose name rang throughout the Caribbean—Kells. For himself Hawks had chosen not to become “Irish” for he never could master the brogue or remember the names of Irish towns, but his loyalty to Kells was such that he would have let his throat be slit before he would have revealed Kells’s true origin, that he was an English gentleman—something anyone would have found hard to believe could they have seen him at that moment swaggering down the white coral rock path with a reluctant Carolina, in her scarlet silk dress and twirling her parasol, clinging perforce to his arm.

  They were a handsome pair—but not to Hawks.

  “Many a foolish thing I’ve seen ye do, lad,” he murmured to himself. “But none more foolish than to lose your heart to this slip of a wench who won’t have you!”

  Kells walked more steadily now and his grip on Carolina’s arm was less punishing. The fresh breeze that swept in from the ocean was clearing his head. By the time they had cleared the grove of dark waxy-leaved trees in their descent into the town, his step was as crisp as ever, his eye as keen.