“Prudish modesty really doesn’t become you, Cassandra,” he said as he stripped off the dressing gown. He was amused when her eyes, despite herself, fell to his belly, and he felt himself respond to her gaze.
“There is nothing like a hot bath or a lady’s eyes to revive one,” he said as he eased himself into the tub.
Cassie did her best to ignore him, but his booming baritone voice soon filled the cabin. He sang a lusty sea chanty, and she felt her cheeks flush red at the vivid image of the serving maid lifting her skirt for the amorous captain.
“I would that you be quiet.”
He laughed and stepped from the tub, huge and dark and dripping wet. “Would you care to hand me a towel?”
“Fetch it yourself, my lord.”
“Would you care for some more wine, Cassandra?”
Her hair swirled softly against her cheek as she shook her head.
“Shall I peel an orange for you?”
“No, I am quite full, my lord.”
“Excellent. I am delighted that my chef has again pleased you.” He paused a moment, and added softly, “And now it is time for me to show you that I, too, can please you.”
“You will not, you must not.” She pressed herself flat against her chair.
“Ah, yes, my love,” he said, and rose to pull at the bell cord.
Her weariness fled, and she slipped nimbly out of her chair. Instead of fear, she felt numb with anger.
“Damn you, you cannot be such a villain.”
There came a knock on the cabin door, and Scargill entered.
“All was as you wished it, my lord?” he asked carefully. He was acutely aware of the shrinking girl cowering in the corner and did his best to ignore her.
“Most admirable, given the storm and its constraints in the galley. You are much in need of your rest, Scargill. Remove the dishes and take yourself to bed.”
“Aye, my lord. Is there aught else that you wish?” A foolish question, he thought, as he followed his master’s eyes toward Cassandra. She looked like a skittish filly, ready to bolt if but given the chance. He prayed that his lordship knew well what he was doing. He filled his arms with the heavy pewter dishes and bowed himself out of the cabin, straining under their weight.
The earl leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips thoughtfully together. “At least you are not wearing that damnable gown.”
“You will not touch me, my lord.”
“I fear you are growing repetitious, Cassandra, in your conversation. How else will you learn a woman’s pleasure if I do not touch you?”
“I will never feel anything but hatred for you, I swear it. Damn you, take me home.”
He waved away her words and rose.
“No.” She thrust her hands in front of her, but he pulled her to him, crushing her arms to her sides. She jerked her head away from him, but his mouth found hers, the heat of his breath upon her as he forced her lips to part. She struggled as she felt his hand upon her buttocks, his fingers caressing and exploring her through the velvet.
“No!” she yelled again as his mouth left hers. But his mouth was on her throat, his tongue tracing over her wildly beating pulse.
Even as she twisted against his arm, she felt his fingers pulling free the sash from her waist and easing her out of the dressing gown. She was oddly aware of the soft brief touch of velvet at her ankles. She shuddered at the cold air upon her back, and the fierce heat of him against her. She had scarce time to draw her breath before he had shrugged off his own dressing gown. To her horror, he lifted her off her feet and pressed her belly against him.
“No. You will not rape me again.” Her final words were muted as he closed his mouth again over hers. She felt his tongue probing her mouth and the incredible power of his surging body, searing her, engulfing her in his passion. Her mind froze and her body went slack against him. An intense shudder coursed through her belly. She whimpered softly, aghast at herself.
“I don’t believe that I will, Cassandra,” he said. He looked into her eyes, glazed with confusion and with burgeoning passion. He wanted her to moan her desire into his mouth, to welcome him into her body.
“Please do not,” she whispered, but he paid no heed and carried her to the bed. She felt the smooth, cool cover beneath her back, and his hard body against her as he pressed himself down upon her. She felt the hair on his chest against her breasts, and his swelled sex, frightening and urgent, between her thighs. She thought wildly of Edward, of his love for her, of his passion, and an anguished moan broke from her mouth. Whether it was from the pain of her loss or from the scalding sensation building within her, she did not know. She realized dimly what was happening to her and she fought with all her will to deny herself and him.
His mouth caressed her breast, and she felt both her body and her will to resist him begin to slip away from her. She cursed herself, willing herself to fight him, but her hands lay limply above her head, clasped lightly in his.
He reared back and her body cried out at the loss of his touch. She drew a ragged breath, and curled her hands, now free, into fists to strike him. She felt his tongue caressing her breasts and then her belly.
“No,” she said, forcing her body to tense. But his mouth closed over her, and she knew that she could not bear it if he were to stop. She felt her body opening to him, felt her hips moving upward against his mouth. Her hands closed over his shoulders, kneading the taut muscles, pressing at him to bring him closer to her.
Suddenly, with a force that left her gasping, a shock of burning pleasure exploded within her. His mouth left her, but the burning need remained, and she was trapped within herself, within her own passion. She moaned aloud, not really understanding, a helpless cry of frustration.
When he drove into her, her body surged to meet him. She felt his belly against her, felt him driving into the depths of her. Her hands moved down his back, urging him, drawing him closer. She was aware of his ragged breathing above her cries. A jagged moan broke from her throat and she cried breathlessly, “Please, oh please.” Her hips thrust up against him and her legs, without instruction, wrapped themselves about his sides.
Suddenly, her legs stiffened as incredible spasms of pleasure crashed through her, holding her a willing prisoner for an endless moment. She cried aloud, unable to help herself. She felt his hot breath against her cheek, and then his mouth closed over hers and a tremendous shudder passed the length of him. He moaned his release into her mouth.
Cassie lay quietly beneath him, thinking nothing, wanting nothing. She was breathing heavily, between parted lips, and felt her heart finally slow its furious pounding.
“I don’t want to crush you, Cassandra,” the earl said, and slid his arms beneath her back. He rolled onto his side, bringing her with him, and clasped her tightly against him. He gently stroked her tumbled hair as she lay slack, soothing her, comforting her. He lightly kissed her temple and stroked her. He drew a deep, relieved breath, a slight smile touching his lips. She was capable of passion that rivaled his own. He wanted to tell her that she had brought him to consummate pleasure. He held his tongue, unwilling to risk her struggling away from him. The smile on his lips became rueful. She would likely yell at him like a fish-monger’s wife on the morrow; her intense pride would force her to. She would see passion at his hands as submission to him. He did not mind that, for now; he was confident now that he would make her forget her viscount. His fingers curled around her buttocks, lightly caressing, and he heard her sob softly, deep in her throat. He drew back so that he could see her face.
Tears were welling in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. “I have betrayed him. God, I have betrayed him.”
He drew her closer and stroked his cheek against hers, wiping away her tears.
“No, Cassandra,” he said, his mouth next to hers, “it is not for you to cry. You have betrayed no one. You must believe that.”
She drew another sob and he kissed her ear, her smooth cheek, and gently nudged back her
head until his mouth found hers. He tasted the salt of her tears upon her lips. To his delight, she made no move to pull away from him. Though she kept her lips tightly locked, he felt her quicken. He grew hard again and he felt himself filling her once more. His fingers moved over her, lightly teasing, and her soft belly trembled against him. He pressed his mouth more firmly against hers.
“Please, no,” Cassie whispered, only to feel his tongue smooth over her mouth. He was moving slowly, deep within her, his hand cupping her hips to press her against him. She drew a deep breath, and slowly, inevitably, she let herself move against his thrusts.
He withdrew from her and his fingers caressed her. She thrust her hips toward him and pounded at his chest until she felt him enter her again.
The earl clasped her to him and rolled over onto his back, bringing her with him.
“I would look at you, Cassandra.” He smiled at the dazed bewilderment on her face.
She tried to pull away from him, but he encircled her waist with his hands and drew her upright. She felt him deep inside her and quivered, not looking at him.
His hands moved from her waist, upward, to cup her breasts.
She moaned softly and spread her hands on his chest to support herself.
The earl went slowly with her. He lifted her, kneading her as he moved her over him and pressed his fingers against her belly, splaying them downward to caress her. She writhed at his touch, and her thighs tightened about his sides. She arched her back to draw him deeper. The intensity of her response broke his control.
Engulfed in her own desire, Cassie felt his shuddering climax deep within her, and gave herself to him and to her pleasure.
She had not the strength to support herself, and fell, her hair cascading over his face and shoulders, her cheek against the hollow in his throat. Gently, he straightened her legs and felt the length of her soft body against him.
“I love you, Cassandra.”
His words floated vaguely through her mind, but they did not touch her. She fell into an exhausted sleep, lulled by the gentle rocking of the yacht and enveloped by his warm, hard body.
Chapter 9
Cassie awoke feeling cramped and hot. There was something tickling her lips. She opened her eyes and tensed. She was locked tightly in the earl’s arms, her cheek against his shoulder. She drew back her head, scarcely able to weave her thoughts together. I have given myself to this man. She gave a shake of her head, recalling the intense, rampant sensations that had driven all thought from her mind, remembering vividly moaning her lust to him, holding him against her as if she would have dissolved into jagged pieces if he had released her. She was a woman now. But she had given herself to a ruthless man she did not love, the man who had abducted her. She wanted to scream her fury at herself and her hatred of him for making her respond to him. How could she have felt what she did but one night after he raped her? Her unspoken reply made her shrink within herself. But I am a lady, an English lady. No, she was not a lady, she was a slut, with no more moral fiber than the cheapest harlot, and she had betrayed Edward. She remembered her words, wrenched from her last evening. He had been gentle and comforting, had spoken words to her that had stilled her guilt. I let him seduce me again and I did not want it to stop.
Stop it, Cassie. She held her breath, for he stirred. How could she face him when she could hardly face herself? She felt his arm slip down to her hips. She tried to ease herself away from him, but realized that if she moved he would surely awaken. She looked down at him. He appeared strangely vulnerable in sleep, a lock of raven hair falling over his wide forehead. Vulnerable indeed, she thought. His black eyelashes were long and thick, lush as a girl’s, but there was nothing else about him that was remotely feminine. She looked at his straight nose, a Roman nose, his finely etched cheekbones, his wide sensual mouth, his square jaw. She remembered other ladies of her acquaintance talking of him as devastatingly handsome, wickedly handsome. She decided that wicked was the more apt term. She felt his belly beneath her thigh, tautly muscled, his hair caressing her skin.
He sighed deeply in his sleep and rolled onto his back. Slowly, Cassie slipped out of his hold and wriggled off the bed. She breathed a sigh of relief that he still slept. The water in the basin was cold, but she paid it no mind. She wanted to be bathed and dressed before he awoke. She was leaning over, scrubbing herself, when she heard his voice from behind her, lazy and teasing.
“I would be delighted to perform that duty for you, Cassandra.”
She whipped around, the washcloth dangling from her fingers. She looked wildly about for something with which to cover herself, but there was nothing. Her dressing gown was on the far side of the cabin, on the floor, where he had stripped it off of her the night before.
“You are awake,” she said, holding the washcloth in front of her belly.
“Yes. I missed you. Come back to bed, Cassandra, it is so early the seagulls are still at roost.”
“I am not tired.”
“Then we will talk. You do not mind that I am unshaven, do you?”
“You are very dark.”
“I really do not wish to come and fetch you.” He patted the bed beside him.
She wanted to tell him to take himself to the devil, but she found herself gazing at his body. A light, tingling sensation pulsed through her belly, and she shivered. “We will talk?” she whispered. “You promise?”
“Of course. We shall do whatever you wish.”
She placed the damp washcloth atop the commode and walked slowly to the bed, not looking at him. He held the cover back and she slipped in, pulling it down over her and clutching it to her throat.
She lay on her back, her eyes fastened on the cabin ceiling.
He was on his side facing her, his head propped up on his hand. “You slept well?”
Her wayward breathing calmed, for he had made no move to touch her. She replied honestly, without thinking, “Yes, very well.”
“Excellent. I will not remind you of the reason.” The teasing went out of his voice as he continued easily, “Don’t be afraid of me, Cassandra. I will keep my word.”
“I am not afraid of you.”
“I know. Now you have only to be afraid of yourself.”
She choked, hating him for so easily guessing her thoughts. She compressed her lips into a tight line and turned her face away.
“I told you last night that you had betrayed no one. It is true, you know.”
“That is a lie.” She turned back to face him, surprised at the desolate calmness of her thoughts and voice. She drew a deep, steadying breath. “But it will not happen again. I will not allow myself to feel such things again.”
“One cannot control passion, Cassandra. It is a mighty force, one that cannot be denied. It simply happens between some people.”
But I felt passion for Edward. But even as she thought it, she could not be certain. She had felt curiosity, to be sure; she had never doubted that the strength of her love for him would allow them to share physical pleasure.
He saw her confusion, and her pain, and sought for soothing words to help her. He was taken aback when she said suddenly, her voice deadly calm, “My mother. Did you feel such passion for her?”
“I never made love to your mother. As I told you yesterday, I was but a lad at the time, though as you can imagine, I dwelt with a boys’s fervent imagination on what the experience would be like.”
“Did she desire you?”
Constance. It had been such a long time since he had thought of her in that way. So many years. If Cassandra did not so closely resemble her, her face would have become but a blurred image in his mind long ago.
“I cannot be certain. The years blunt the edges of every memory.” He paused a moment and gazed closely at Constance’s daughter. The physical similarities to his mind were all that they shared. He saw that she was waiting for him to reply, her eyes almost accusing on his face. He said deliberately, “Even though I was quite young at the time, I can remembe
r thinking that your mother feared anything that she did not understand. That is why, I believe, she married your father, a man who cared little for people, a man who was most content contemplating his possessions. She was but another possession, one to be prized and cherished, to be sure, but nonetheless a possession.”
She interrupted him, her teeth clenching. “You speak with such certainty about my family. Could you possibly know more of my father’s character than did I?”
“You regarded him through a child’s eyes, Cassandra. I know that you suffered because you sensed his indifference to you, but so did Eliott. At least he treated you no differently because you were a female.”
She was silent. What he said was true, but it pained her too much to admit it. “We were speaking of my mother and your love for her.”
“No,” he corrected gently, “you asked me if she felt passion for me. You are unearthing old memories. In all honesty, no, I do not believe that she did. She was always afraid, not of herself, but of society and what her friends would think if they believed her to be indulging in such a liaison.”
“If she had been your . . . lover, and if she had been afraid of herself, felt that she was betraying my father, had told you that she hated you, would you have released her?”
He smiled at her ruefully. “You are like an agile spider, weaving her web. I was younger than you at the time, Cassandra. For many years I believed that all women, all women with incredible beauty that is, were like Constance: vain, without character, save when it achieved their desires, and spineless. And, because she did as she was bid, and wed your father, she sealed her own fate. She used me, a boy who adored her, worshiped her, to bolster her image of herself as a desirable woman. Your father, she admitted to me once, was not a sensual man.” He stopped abruptly, sensing her bewilderment.
“I will always hate you.”
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