by Kimberly Nee
Never mind skipping a beat, her heart threatened to burst free from her chest.
He didn’t stop there. His lips crept up, over the delicate flesh of her inner wrist. Julian wasn’t shy, he pushed her sleeve back, and back, until he bared her inner elbow. When his lips teased the crease, she sucked in a sharp breath.
But then he released her arm, leaning in to move his assault up along the slope of her neck. When he caught her earlobe between gentle teeth, she gasped aloud, and loudly enough that several men swabbing decks around them stopped and stared.
“We should go below, Mrs. McCallister.” Julian’s voice was barely a growl. “I should hate to make a spectacle of you so soon into the voyage.”
She didn’t want to leave his embrace, but still…he was right, so she nodded and allowed him to lead her back below.
In the time they’d been gone, someone—Thomas, most likely—had changed the sheets and removed the foul bucket and opened the window. The rancid stink had been replaced by those delicious ocean aromas of salty air and wood shavings.
Julian swung her up into his arms, and he carried her across the threshold and to the bed. There, he gently pressed her into the mattress and covered her body with his. She smiled up at him, all signs of her upset belly long gone. She linked her fingers about the back of his neck, her heart beginning to beat a little quicker.
The bed was soft and comfortable, molding to her curves as if she floated on a cloud. She didn’t relinquish her hold on him, tugging him against her.
He smiled. “What are you doing, Mrs. McCallister?”
“What? I’m just holding on to you.” But her smile must have given her away. She couldn’t help it. She almost felt as if she could fly.
Julian dipped in toward her and his lips, warm and dry, brushed hers. Sunlight streamed in to spill across the bed, adding to her growing sense of wickedness.
Not that Julian seemed to mind. His mouth moved slowly against hers, and he lowered himself until he was flat against her. She welcomed the weight of him, the feel of him surrounding her. And when he wrapped his arms about her, she surrendered to the delights she knew she’d find with him.
Julian’s eyelids refused to stay open and he refused to fight with them. Delicious drowsiness stole over him, along with a wonderful glow that he was sure he could never get enough of.
Emma fit so perfectly next to him, curved against him, her head nestled into his shoulder. Her hair spilled down his arm, as soft and silky as it looked. He wanted to let his fingers skim down the lustrous mass, to gather it in both hands and bury his face in it. At times like this, he could forget why he’d always been so dead-set against marriage. At times like this, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he wouldn’t go mad.
He glanced down at the top of Emma’s head. His wife. All because of a single, poorly timed kiss.
But at the same time, he couldn’t complain. After all, he was where he’d wanted to be, sharing his bed with her. And for some reason, he wasn’t unhappy about that single, poorly timed kiss.
Emma stirred, lifting her head to blink sleepy eyes at him. “What time is it?”
“The clock is on the shelf above my desk. I can’t see it from here. But I’d say it was near four.” A raven curl stuck to her cheek, and he brushed it back behind her ear. “Do you have somewhere to be?”
She smiled, rolling onto her belly. The sheet molded to the curve of her backside, and he almost groaned at the sight. It was almost as sensuous as seeing her naked. “Of course not. It’s just that—”
She ducked her head, but not before he saw the pink flush sweep up over her cheeks. Even her blush was beautiful. He’d never realized it before, never saw her for what she was. She wasn’t just Garrett’s sister, the little girl who so staunchly told him “I love you” to keep him from running off to join a war.
“It’s just that, what, sweetheart?”
Propping her chin on one fist, she smiled down at him. “Is it always like this?”
He brought his hand to her cheek. He couldn’t help himself. Her skin almost begged to be touched. It was soft, smooth, and the urge to pull her close and pin her beneath him roared to life again.
“God willing, it will be.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Her brow furrowed, and he brushed that same curl away from her face again. “What’s on your mind, Em?”
“I never liked sailing.” She lowered back against him, tucking her head back on his chest. “I’ve always been afraid something would happen and the ship would sink. My mother lost her mother and sister that way, you know.”
He didn’t. “Did she?”
She nodded. “It happened before she met Papa. And she rarely speaks of it, but I wonder if that’s why I don’t like being on a ship. I’ll be so happy when we arrive.”
“Nothing’s going to happen. We’ll arrive safe and sound in St. Kitts in a few weeks.”
“What about you? What’re you afraid of?”
He stared at her. Where had that come from? The last of his feelings of peace and serenity vanished as the air grew uncomfortable. He didn’t even know how to answer her. “I—that is—well, to be honest—”
“Julian—” she sat up, pulling the sheet with her “—it’s not that difficult a question. I was just laying here thinking that we don’t know each other all that well—I mean, really know each other—and—”
There was one way to divert her questions, and so he reached for her, fully intending to silence her uncomfortable question with a deep kiss.
But she wasn’t having any of it. Warding him off with a hand pressed to his chest, she said, “Julian, wait. I’m serious. I want to know. It seems like something a wife should know.”
He sighed. “Emma, are you sure you want an answer to that?” When she nodded, he took a deep breath and drew a hand through his hair. “Tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow. The day after that. Every day ahead of me. I have no idea what lies ahead, and that’s enough to scare me more than anything.”
Chapter Nineteen
EMMA STARED AT HIM as if she’d never seen him before. That was the last thing she’d expected him to confess, and it left her at a loss as to how she should respond. She bit her bottom lip, casting her gaze to the sheet partially wrapped about her. It covered her front, protected a little of her modesty, but her back was exposed, so she wriggled back to sit against the wall.
“Julian, no one knows what tomorrow will hold,” she finally said, reaching out to cover his hand with hers. She half expected him to pull away and was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t.
“True, but most people don’t have to worry about what their future holds, either.” His forehead wrinkled and he rubbed it slowly. “And I don’t worry about myself. At least, not entirely. I assume that if I do go mad, I won’t be aware of it. But now I don’t have only me to worry about.”
Her heart ached at the pain in his voice, so soft and yet so plain to her ears. Curling her fingers over his hand, she murmured, “I don’t believe in curses, Julian. I don’t believe in all of the rumors and gossip that’s been spread about your family. No one was there that night. Only your mother and father. No one, aside from them, knows if your father went mad. Perhaps he didn’t.”
“What if he did, though?”
“And what if he didn’t?”
“But what—”
“Julian—” she broke in carefully, still holding his hand “—if he did, does that mean you will have no choice but follow?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
There was something in his voice, a low steeliness, that she’d never heard before and it sent a ripple of unease along her spine. “The first time what?”
“The war.”
She didn’t have to ask, didn’t want to pry by asking, so she assumed he meant he’d killed when he was in the war. “That’s different. That was a war.”
“Still—”
“And have y
ou killed anyone since you got out of the navy?”
“No.”
“And there’s my point.” She tugged harder on the sheet, pulling it free from the foot of the bed to wrap it completely about herself, leaving Julian with the quilt. She scooted up to him. “Julian, you are not your father. Why, in all the years I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you raise your voice in anger. When Garrett and Drew were busy pummeling their way through everyone in town, where were you? Off with your nose buried in a sketchbook, working on ship designs. You aren’t a violent man. At least, I’ve never seen you violent.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t become violent.”
“No. No, it doesn’t.” She traced her finger along a fold in the sheet. “But by that logic, anyone could become violent at any time, and none of us are safe.”
Julian slid to the edge of the bed and rose. He bent to retrieve his trousers from the shadows beneath the bed then slid into them. “And if I do, who do you think I’ll direct that violence at?”
He said it in that same, low voice, but this time, she felt a flutter of fear. “But what if—”
“I don’t,” he finished, and none too happily. “Emma, the last person in the world I would want to hurt is you. And that’s what happens. The men in my family kill the women in my family.”
“Maybe the women in your family were trying to kill the men first. I won’t kill you. I love you.”
The words popped out before she could hold them back. But then, once they were free, the oddest thing happened. She didn’t care. It felt good to say them out loud again.
“You love me.” Julian’s voice was flat, void of any emotion, and his eyes took on a decidedly guarded look. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes, Emma. You keep telling me you love me; I want to know why.”
“Because you are warm, and caring, and funny, and handsome as sin. What isn’t there to love about you?”
To her relief, that made him smile as he drew the trousers up and fastened them. “That is definitely a question I wouldn’t mind hearing answered. What’s not to love about Julian McCallister?”
The tension in the air thinned and she chuckled. “We could be here a while.”
He leaned over and kissed the nape of her neck. “Can we not talk about this right now?” He nuzzled her, sliding an arm about her to ease her back against him. “I’d rather do this instead.”
Her eyelids drooped at the brush of his lips along her neck. He swept his kiss up toward her ear and then caught her earlobe between gentle teeth. She sucked in a sharp breath, pressing her lips together as tingles rippled in his lips’ wake. It would be so easy to simply sink into him as his lips found their way to hers, to wrap her arms about his neck and lose herself in him.
At the same time, she didn’t want to surrender. It was too easy for him to avoid uncomfortable topics by wooing her into bed and kissing away her questions. She was about to pull away, to attempt to make him see that he wasn’t his father, but then, as he cradled her to his chest, decided it would wait a while. What was the harm in enjoying his attention now? Her questions would be there when they were finished.
But then Julian pulled away and, to her surprise, he was scowling. “What’s the matter?” she asked as he rose once more.
He yanked on his shirt. “I need—I can’t—I’ll be back,” he muttered, throwing open the door.
It closed behind him with a resounding bang, leaving her to stare at it in disbelief. What happened to make him turn from warm and loving to cold and angry? Her first impulse was to dress and go after him, but after she managed the first, she wavered on the second. Maybe the best thing she could do was leave him be. At least for now.
With a sigh, she plunked herself into the chair at his desk and picked up the novel she’d packed in her sea chest. While she waited, she would immerse herself in the story. Julian would return eventually. And maybe then he’d be willing to tell her exactly what it was that made him so angry.
Chapter Twenty
JULIAN GLOWERED AT THE BOTTLE on the table before him as he sat in the forecastle. He ignored the men around him, and although each one greeted him respectfully, they then kept their distance. It didn’t matter. He was there for the distraction of listening to them laugh and exchange bawdy jokes as they played cards, and the bottle of rum before him helped ease the feelings swirling through him like snowflakes in a blizzard.
Amber rum glinted in the light as he tilted the bottle to refill his glass. His head buzzed from what he’d already swallowed, and it still wasn’t enough. There were no answers to be found in the glass he held. But that didn’t stop him from looking again. And again.
The rum went down smoothly and his thoughts wandered to his wife, tucked away in their cabin. What was he afraid of? He almost laughed now, thinking about her expression when he told her exactly what he feared most.
It was the first time he’d ever admitted it aloud. And now he wished he had kept quiet.
“Damn you,” he muttered, still glowering at the rum bottle. “Old man, you left me in quite the spot. Afraid to touch my own wife because I can’t keep it to just a kiss, and if I let myself forget, even for a moment—”
Night after night, he and Emma rolled about in their bed, driving each other wild with pleasure, falling asleep spent and sated with her curved up against him, her head nestled on his chest. And night after night, as he collapsed against her, he prayed she never noticed that when he went over the edge, he maintained enough control to not spill himself inside her. His teeth clenched, his muscles tensed, and it took every bit of control he possessed to pull free from her and finish in the sheet instead.
And each time, that control slipped a little further away. Each time, he hated that he had to do it a little more. And he hated above all else, that he wanted to come inside her when he climaxed. He wanted to fall asleep still buried in her warmth, their two bodies becoming one and staying one until dawn broke over the horizon.
And what was more frightening, he felt the first plucking, the first whispered yearning of a family. A child, several children. Hell, if he was totally honest with himself, several dozen children would be welcomed. But those children would only come from his seed, and he had yet to share it with her.
Julian, you are not your father.
“She’s right,” he muttered, lifting the glass to his lips. “I’m not him, damn it.”
He set the glass down hard enough that it banged against the table, earning him curious stares from the card players at the far end.
“Did you say something, Mr. McCallister?”
Julian squinted at the man. His face was familiar, but the name escaped him. “Nothing you need concern yourself with, Mr.—”
“Charles. Emerson Charles, sir. Boatswain.”
Julian nodded. “No, Mr. Charles. I was just talking to myself.”
Mr. Charles nodded and gestured to the deck of cards. “Care to join us?”
“No.” He roughly shoved back from the table. He stumbled, but quickly righted himself. “Why on earth I’m sitting here, when I could be tucked away in my cabin…”
“Begging your pardon, of course—” Mr. Charles reached for the glass before him “—but I was wondering why you were here instead of there. Lord knows I certainly wouldn’t be.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be.” Julian staggered back then grabbed hold of a support beam to steady himself as the ship lurched. “I should be there—” he jabbed a finger in the general direction of his cabin “—and so there I will be.”
And with that, he took himself off, weaving his way along the corridor until he found himself face-to-face with the closed door of his cabin. His wife was just on the other side of that damned door. His beautiful, sensuous, temptress wife. The one woman he ached for, the only one he ever truly ached for.
His gut churned. No matter how often he felt Emma wrapped all around him, no matter how many nights he collapsed into her, that ache never
went away. And as he leaned to press his forehead into the cool wood, his blood began that same slow boil it did whenever he was near her.
Julian, you are not your father.
He wanted to claim her completely, and there was only one way.
The door banged loudly against the wall when he threw it open, and Emma bolted up from her chair, the book she held flying from her grip to hit the stove.
“Julian?” Her eyes widened as he threw the door shut with the same amount of force. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart.” He smiled as he crossed to her. The room tilted slightly, but he maintained a straight line to close the space between them. “I wanted to apologize for how I left.”
She looked up at him, her blue eyes tender. “I shouldn’t have pushed, and for that, I apologize.”
He caught her face between his hands. Her skin was soft, too inviting to resist touching, and her lips were equally soft as he tilted her head back and bent to cover them with his.
She melted against him, her arms sliding around his waist to pull him even closer. Her lips parted, her mouth warm and welcoming as he plunged his tongue deep to explore her depths. He groaned into her when her fingers curled about the bottom of his shirt to tug it free from his trousers. Her hands skimmed up along his bare back, and when they skimmed back down, her fingernails on his skin sent a torrent of pleasure spinning through him.
He slid his hand down from her cheek, down along her neck, until his fingers brushed the swell of her right breast. He curved his hand about the pert mound, sweeping his thumb over the tip until he felt her nipple bead and she gasped into his mouth.
Her fingernails scraped him harder, as she moved down his back and beneath the waist of his trousers to graze his backside. The caress filled him with fire, and his body responded swiftly. His erection strained against her, his hips moving on instinct to seek her out.
“Emma…” He groaned, his hands moving around to loosen her bodice. He had to feel her skin bare against hers, had to take one of those rose-tipped breasts into his mouth and tease her into mindless oblivion.