Even now, simply lying here, danger stirred.
He was stroking her back, doubtless in the same meaningless way that he stroked Coquette, but heat began to flicker along her skin and below where her thighs were open against his leg. She pulsed with the same kind of hunger an empty stomach might feel and perhaps had done so since Montreuil. Her body remembered and ached to complete what had been interrupted.
No, no, no. What a disaster that would have been.
But she couldn’t make herself tear away from him. Couldn’t ask him to stop his gentle, tormenting stroking of her shoulder.
A sudden sharp toss made him tighten his arm and pushed her harder against his thigh. “We’re well under way,” he said.
Too far, too fast.
“How long?” she asked.
“We could arrive by two in the morning.”
Arrive where?
Petra tried to be practical. “We can travel on to your friend’s house at that time?”
“There’s always a way, and there’s a moon.”
“Who is this friend?” she asked, unable to resist moving her hand to cover his naked arm, to feel his firm muscles there, and fine springy hair.
“Captain Rose of the
Black Swan
. A smuggler of sorts.”
She stirred to look at him in the increasingly dim light. “Now we have the truth. You, too, are a smuggler. Your wealth comes from brandy and lace.”
He grinned. “Not me. I’m a respectable fellow.”
She made a disbelieving noise, and he looked hurt. “I just hope Captain Rose is at his place in Stowting.”
“And if not?”
“I have free run of his house. We’re by way of being related.” He pulled her close. “Once there we’ll be safe.”
“I hope so.”
“It will be so. Forget Vile Varzi.” Had he moved his hand lower, or had she only just become aware of its heat in the small of her back?
“Mind you,” he said, breath warm in her hair, “I’m wondering if I should introduce you to Rose. He seems to appeal to the women, even though he’s a dark-visaged fellow.”
“Is he rich?” she asked, realizing she was stroking him. She stopped.
“Are you mercenary?”
“A penniless lady has to think of these things,” she murmured into his chest, slipping helplessly into flirtation that had once been so natural to her. And so very dangerous.
“He’s rich,” he said. “All that smuggling, you know.”
“Richer than you?”
“Alas, yes.”
“Then perhaps I
will
woo him and win him.”
“Then perhaps I shall be jealous,” he murmured with a bit of a growl in it, playing the game.
“Not you,” she teased.
He raised her head so she had to meet his eyes.
“Why not me?”
“Because you have more hens than you know what to do with, Cock Robin.”
“Cock?” His eyes lit with laughter. “Do you resemble your mother?”
“Why?” she asked, startled.
“Because if you do, I understand Riddlesome entirely.” His lips met hers, but only in a teasing brush. She should leave it like that, but her tongue flickered out to play. The tingle in her skin ran hot now, and her breasts felt tight. She was moist and hungry between her thighs, but she couldn’t go as far as that.
They played, a joust of tongues and hot breath, then came together for the unavoidable kiss. Petra sank into it with despairing relief, like a starving woman grabbing poisoned bread, not caring for anything as long as she ate. The boat rocked and tossed, adding tumult to a tumultuous blending of mouths and more than mouths.
Men talked on the deck. They might hear. Perhaps that’s why she and Robin were being so very, very quiet. That taut control drove Petra wildly beyond hope of resistance. She tugged his loose shirt completely free so she could explore his body, so lean, so strong, so perfectly vibrant. She stretched her leg around his, wanting, needing.
He gripped her stocking-covered calf, then her uncovered thigh, widening her still more as he slid fingers to the inner side and up.
“No!” she gasped.
He went still, rigid. She heard the silent plea. And surrendered. “Not no,” she whispered in helpless, trembling surrender. “Yes, yes, please. Yes.”
He slid a finger deeper, catching her gasp in a kiss, shifting them both again and exploring more deeply. She should fight, she should, but all willpower, all thought incinerated in the flaming desire roaring through her, arching her.
Cool air brushed her naked thighs. He’d pulled her skirts up high. “Open your bodice for me,” he whispered as his clever fingers stroked in gentle torment.
Fighting to suppress gasps, her hips moving against his hand, Petra fumbled with the hooks, cursing the way they resisted. But then the gown fell open, so she was covered only by her shift above, her bunched-up petticoat below. She fumbled with the tie that gathered the neck of her shift, but her fingers wouldn’t work.
He nuzzled his way to her linen-covered breasts. They were already aching, and when he found a nipple with his teeth she let out a soft cry.
“Hush,” he said, as he had to the dog, but with bright laughter in his voice.
Petra turned her head into his shoulder to smother other noises as he started to stroke again, faster now, driving and demanding her, as Ludo—
Don’t think about Ludo!
But, oh, how she’d missed this, this soaring, tightening, tormenting surrender to a man’s hot, hard body, his spicy man scent drowning all. And this man was tormenting her, playing her with hand and mouth. She wanted to demand, to scream, but instead sank her teeth and felt him jerk. He gave up his games and she exploded again and again, her mind going blind white with pleasure.
He captured her lips and she poured desire back into him, still wanting, still needing, deep in her throbbing, cavernous core. She pushed her hand down between them, tugging at the buttons of his flap.
“No,” he said, struggling to control her, but she had his hot, hard length now. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. She wriggled under him. “Please, please…” And he broke. He moved between her wide, hungry thighs and plunged deep.
It had been so long it shocked her, and he was big, almost too big…. But then he slid on thick moisture and was perfect, filling her perfectly, joining to the hard-hitting hilt again and again so it seemed almost too much, but never too much, as their sweat ran together and her heart raced fit for bursting.
He stopped, still deeply seated, breathing in deep gasps. He couldn’t stop now, could he? Just in case, she wrapped legs and arms around him, pushed her hips against him, and he pumped into her again, pounded against her, and the sailors were probably hearing everything but she didn’t care as she exploded again more blindingly than before, and again moments later when he went rigid with the same burning, arching ecstasy.
Lax on her back, sucking in air, Petra finally felt astonishingly, perfectly complete.
“Hell,” he said, and moved out of and off her.
P
etra lay there, still against him, sweat cooling, abruptly hollow with empty dread.
Hell?
What did one do or say? Ludo had said sweet things, flattering things. She was going to be sick….
A touch startled her. Robin’s fingers in her hair, playing gently. She could interpret it as loving and satisfied, but she thought of his fingers in Coquette’s fur—offering dutiful kindness to a burdensome devotee.
She longed to thrust away from him, to run. But where was there to go? This room offered only a few feet of escape, and outside lay the deck, the sailors, and the deep, dark sea. If she stayed very still and silent, perhaps this would all go away.
The boat tossed more wildly, and cold spray shocked her skin.
“’Struth,” Robin said, scrambling over her to close and fasten the shutters.
Petra sat up, hastily rearranging her clothing, thanking God for rescue. But she was surrounded by the smell of him, of them both, of what they’d done. The last shutter thumped closed, dropping pitch darkness over them.
Hell.
She sensed him sit on the opposite bench.
Please don’t say anything.
“You honor me,” he said.
She swallowed and tried to make her voice practical.
“You know I wasn’t a virgin, so that was of no great moment. Though pleasant, of course.”
Silence suffocated and Petra struggled not to gasp for breath, wishing that by some magic she could be sucked somewhere far, far from here.
“You could conceive.”
“A common risk. I won’t expect you to marry me.” Practical was becoming brittle.
“Don’t you think I might wish to make a child of mine legitimate?”
Petra wished she could see his expression. “Why? This can hardly be a new risk for you.”
“There are ways to lessen the risks, none of which we used.”
Petra rested her head back against hard wood and closed her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
After another long silence he said, “I need to check on our journey.” He fumbled around for clothing. Perhaps he stepped on Coquette, for there was a yelp, then some soothing. Soothing another inconvenient female. The door opened, letting in some moonlight and a blast of damp air, then shut again.
Petra sat where she was for a while, then lay down wearily on the pad still warm from their passion, still scented in that musky, mysterious way. She fought it, but began to weep. She wept until she hurt, she wept until she ached, and then until she slipped mercifully into sleep.
“Petra…”
Petra stirred out of sleep and squinted against light. Daylight? No, someone had brought a lantern, but the boat was tossing sharply, with creaks and cracks and howling wind.
Robin was looking down at her, made macabre by the wild candle flame. She flung her arm over her eyes, but not before seeing that he was fully dressed even to the cravat.
Was that armor?
Hell.
“I thought it time to wake you,” he said. “We’ll be off Folkestone soon.”
His exquisite care was painfully wrong for the man she’d come to know, but she tried to match his tone. “Can we land in this weather?”
“It’ll be calmer close to shore.”
“No other trouble?”
“Signor Varzi bearing down on us like Blackbeard the pirate? No.”
He left, letting in a blast of air and spray that almost touched her. Struggling in the tossing ship, she scrambled for her cloak and pulled it close against the weather and against a deeper cold. She’d soon be alone in a strange land without a guide, for she would have to flee Robin Bonchurch at the very first moment. At least now he’d be pleased to see her go.
“Coquette?” she said softly, needing comfort, but Robin must have taken the dog with him. She was truly alone.
He returned. “It’s time.”
“We’re there?”
“The smuggler’s boat is coming alongside.”
There was a bump, and Petra heard voices calling against the wind. She pulled the strings of her cloak tight at her throat, and one broke. She simply looked at it, helpless.
“Where’s the brooch?” he asked.
She fumbled in her pocket, then was tossed by the ship’s movement and would have fallen if he hadn’t grasped her, his other hand braced on a wall. She dragged out the cameo, and sat for safety. He fastened her cloak, apparently unaffected by their closeness, by contact, when she thought she might choke from his touch on her throat.
He stepped away. She touched the brooch as she rose. “I’ll mend the strings, return this to you….”
“It’s a trinket. It’s yours.”
Petra hit him. It wasn’t a slap. She swung her fist and caught him on the side of his jaw. He staggered and a curse escaped. She cursed more, cradling her hand.
“Good God, woman, did you break it?”
“No, may you rot in the deepest depths of hell.”
He froze in the action of rubbing his jaw. “Don’t dare to accuse me of rape.”
“
What?
This is not about that!”
“Isn’t it?”
She knew it probably was, but not the way he seemed to think.
“It’s because everything’s a trinket to you! Because you can treat what happened as nothing! You—”
“Nothing!” He dragged her into his arms and kissed her. Petra fought him, because not to struggle was to die. He suddenly went still, then shoved her away from him. “I apologize.”
Petra closed her eyes. “There you go again.”
When she dared to look, he was in complete control. “It must be because I’m English. I don’t think I have a temperament in me—carefree or sober—that you could like.”
It would be so easy to deny that, and fatal.
Someone knocked on the door. “Monsieur, you must come.”
Petra thanked God again. Robin picked up Coquette and tucked her into his pocket. “Getting crowded in there with two pistols to carry. Try not to wet the powder, no matter how nervous you get.”
He opened the door and stood back for Petra, saying, “Keep hold of something as you go.” Not surprising if that something wasn’t him, but as Petra staggered into the rolling, wind-tossed night, she wished it was. Instead the captain gave her his hand to help her to the side.
They were close to shore and a longboat lay alongside, knocking against the side now and then as barrels and boxes were passed down in the dark. Petra held on to a rope as Robin paid the captain, taking in the moon riding high among clouds, and the dark, turbulent sea laced by its silver light. She suddenly saw beauty amid the violence, and inhaled the sharp, intoxicating air.
Robin came up beside her and she asked, “What’s that white to our right? Mist?”
“No. That’s the chalk cliffs. The end of them. The cliffs on the other side of the town are darker. Ready? I’ll go first so I can help you into the boat.”
He climbed over the side of the boat and disappeared. Petra leaned over to watch him climb down a rope ladder, and thought she’d finally come across something she couldn’t do. She’d evaded Ludo, endured Lady Sodworth, joined her fate to a rake, fought off evil women and Varzi’s henchman, but she couldn’t climb down that rope.
She was given no choice. The captain hoisted her over and dangled her until she grabbed the sides of the ladder. Someone, probably Robin, guided her feet onto rungs. The prickly, wet rope stung her palms, but his hands on her ankles stung more. If she fell into the sea and died, perhaps it would be a blessed escape. She was about to give up when he grasped her around the waist and swung her onto a narrow, hard bench. He sat beside her, bracing her in place, just as the boat bucked waves toward shore under the power of urgent oars.
He held her close of necessity, but as soon as the boat jarred and scrunched up onto land he let her go. He leapt out into shallow water, then turned. Again she had no choice but to let him carry her onto dry land. No slipping this time, and no teasing, either. Just aching memories and tears that sea air might explain.
The eight smugglers were working with swift practice to unload their cargo. Everything went into sacks, and the boat was hauled up to join a row of them. Then all the men but one moved with remarkable swiftness up the beach toward the town above, disappearing into the dark. Out on the water, there was no sign of the
Courlis
.
Petra saw some cottages nearby, but no sign of life. If anyone was awake, they’d know not to interfere with smuggling matters.
“Who be you, then?” the remaining man asked, in an accent so rough Petra had to guess the meaning.
“Robin Bonchurch, sir, and glad of your assistance. And this is my sister, Maria.” He held out some money, which clinked into the smuggler’s pocket. “Any chance of a vehicle?” Robin asked.
“Not this time of night, sir, not without questions asked.” After a contemplative moment, he said, “You’d best come up to my place till morning, sir. Doesn’t do to have strangers turn up in the night.” He set off, surefooted in only moonlight.
Robin extended a hand and again Petra felt she had no choice but to take it. A broken ankle would be one disaster too many.
“Can we trust him?” she murmured in French.
“Thus far,” he replied. He didn’t say
Don’t worry,
but she heard it.
The shifting pebbles became a kind of ramp that became a rough street between narrow houses. Rushing water suggested a stream had cut this valley.
“You live nearby, sir?” Robin asked.
The man twitched his head. “Just up the town a bit. Best not talk.”
Soon after, he stopped at a door that looked to be in an ordinary house, but something shrieked above. Petra flinched, but when she looked up she saw a swinging sign.
“It’s an inn or tavern,” Robin said quietly. “Should be all right.”
“Goulart,” Petra reminded him, shivering.
They were ushered into a gloomy space with a sour smell. The smuggler opened a lantern to shed more light, showing five rough tables surrounded by chairs and benches, and some huge casks against the wall. A tavern, as Robin had said, serving not wine but beer. She knew the English drank a lot of beer. Would she be expected to?
“Want something to drink?” the man asked. “Or some baccy?” He took a long clay pipe from a rack over the fireplace.
“No, thank you,” Robin said. “In fact, we’d like to leave the town as soon as possible. With a few directions from you, or better, a lantern, we could walk.”
The man crushed aromatic tobacco into the pipe bowl with a thumb. “You can if you want, sir, but it threatens rain tonight, and come first light my brother Dan’ll be driving into Ashford to pick up an order of rope and deliver a few things, if you know what I mean.”
Robin turned to Petra. “Which do you prefer? It’ll be hard going in the dark.”
Petra felt hopelessly undecided. Why had she imagined that being in England would make things simpler? Her instinct told her the smuggler was in his way an honest man, however, so she said, “It will be wiser to stay, I think.”
The man nodded. “I sleep in the kitchen, but there’s a bedroom upstairs if you want it. I’ll wake you come morning.” He put down the pipe and went to a door. “Name’s Josh Fletcher, by the way.” He went through the door, leaving them alone.
Petra stared at that pipe as if it were a dark mystery. “Why did he fill it and then leave it?”
“Some do as a nervous habit. Remember, he’s probably wondering if we’re a danger to him.”
“That’s what I thought about Mère Goulart, and see how that turned out.” Petra knew, however, that she was more concerned about the bedroom upstairs than danger.
“We can leave if you wish,” he said patiently. “I suppose we can’t lose the road.”
Silence fell around and between them, threatening to suffocate her again. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said.
There seemed no argument to make, but Petra was sick at the thought. She felt as sexual as a marble statue, but he might think he had a right to her now. She’d have to fight. She couldn’t imagine the outcome.
He’d picked up the lantern and was waiting to light her way up the wooden steps that were almost steep enough to be a ladder. She climbed it with her skirts bunched up, aware of her legs being visible, although they were no secret to him now.
He followed, bringing the light to illuminate a large space under the bare, sloping roof and one enormous low bed.
“Probably sleeps six in a pinch,” Robin said, putting the lantern on the floor and taking Coquette out. “Lie down and get some sleep.”
Petra studied him and realized he meant it. Of course. He wouldn’t want to repeat a hellish experience. She pushed that word out of her mind. If she could, she’d forget the whole thing herself. Remembering Mère Goulart’s, she pulled back the patchwork quilt, but though the sheet wasn’t fresh, it wasn’t unbearable. She’d not be taking off any clothes, after all.
It really was large enough to sleep six, and she could prove to him that his rutting had meant little to her. “We can take a side each,” she said. “I slept a little on the ship, but I doubt you did.”
Avoiding eye contact, she took off her shoes and lay down close to one edge, pulling the quilt over herself. The mattress was lumpy and probably supported by ropes, which needed tightening. It sagged toward the middle, pulling at her, but she could cling to the edge.
She heard Robin taking off some things—his boots, she supposed, his sword, perhaps his coat with a pistol in each pocket. Coquette was still exploring the room, her nails clicking on wood like rat’s feet. What would happen if she met a rat? The dog was Robin Bonchurch’s problem, not hers.
He blew out the candle and it became dark except for clouded moonlight coming through the one unglazed window in the end wall. She felt the bed shift as he lay down on the far side. Probably five feet separated them, but her every sense knew he was there.
Say nothing, say nothing, say nothing,
she told herself. But sleep wouldn’t come, and the question wouldn’t go away.
“Why ‘hell’?” she asked softly. Perhaps he was asleep and wouldn’t hear.
She thought that was the case, but then he said, “I apologize. That was unforgivable, but I could have planted a child in you.”