The tightness within her began to clench and throb
along the length of him, and it nearly sent him over the edge. Her mouth was open in full rapture and in his desire to please her he thrust until her entire body moved higher up the bed.
And suddenly as he drove in past the wild tremors, the last channel unlocked deep within her and he found himself fully surrounded by her need and her surrender.
She moaned his name, “Luc, oh Luc, Luc…” over and over until the clenching eased. He strained and stopped, completely embedded in her to the hilt. His mind reeled with the sensation.
Her unforgettable eyes locked on his, beckoning him to find a fulfillment unlike he had ever known.
“Luc, I never knew. Never knew…”
She strained to kiss him tenderly. A kiss so giving and so trusting it broke him.
He closed his eyes and thrust himself fully into her again, reveling in the pure pleasure of it. She responded by urging him closer, pulling him nearer still until every inch of his skin touched hers in this erotic dance.
He felt the tremors begin deep inside of her again and he raised himself above her once more, notched himself just the barest way inside her, and slid slowly, inexorably down this valley of pure rapture. He exploded, his long pulses matching the rhythm of her heartbeat.
Pushing aside the last barriers, they tumbled headlong into passion’s grip, allowing themselves to meld into one heart, one soul, one instant in time.
Exhausted from holding back for so long, he eased his considerable weight on top of her before rising on his forearms.
He brushed a few locks of black hair from her flushed cheeks and kissed her forehead gently as they both struggled to regain their breath.
She brought a palm to his rough cheek, soft wonder filling her eyes. “Was that…was that how it usually goes?”
Amusement filled him. “Not exactly,” he drawled.
“Oh Luc, it was so very wonderful for me. You must show me how to make it wonderful for you too.” She paused. “I didn’t know exactly what I should do to please you. I wish you had shown me where to touch you.”
He growled and felt himself pulse and harden slightly inside her again.
Her eyes flew to his, uncomprehending.
He wedged himself deeper within her. “Rosamunde, does this tell you anything? I shall have to tie your hands behind your back if you dare touch me. I’ll have no control whatsoever.”
“Well, I guess it’s only fair to warn you”—she smoothed her hands down the deep muscles of his shoulders, down his spine, to pull him closer—“I memorized how to tie and untie every knot in my brother’s sailing manual when I was ten.”
He stifled a laugh. Before him was a woman who could face down her worst fears and then laugh about it. Well, one thing was certain, he wasn’t going to allow her to regret it. “Rosamunde, I’m going to withdraw
from you. You might feel bold now, but you shall be sorry for it if we continue. You’ll be very sore.”
He lifted an inch from her and she pulled him back down with her clasped legs and clenched his length. “It’s a lovely sort of soreness. Rather like an itch on my back I can’t quite reach.”
He rumbled and she gripped him again. “God woman, you’ll be the death of me.”
“But it will be a lovely sort of death, don’t you think?”
With that he swept her into a slow rapture as glorious and fulfilling as the last. He had lost his mind by the end of it. He could barely say his own name if his life had depended on it. But she had imprinted herself on his very soul, black as it was.
As afternoon light overtook the day and his eyes grew heavy watching the sky through the porthole, he untangled her legs from his and pulled her back snuggly against his chest, his heart constricting.
What was he going to do with her?
Perhaps, just perhaps—
Motive,
n.
A mental wolf in moral wool.
—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce
H
e could figure out a way to entice her to stay…at least for a little longer.
She would never accept the marriage proposal he was honor-bound to offer. She would refuse to marry any man, especially a man who had likened marriage to the bonds of hell. All the riches and titles in the world would not tempt her. Hadn’t she told him that at least a dozen times?
Even if he had awakened her to the selfish beast of desire, during more rational moments she was sure to resist capture. She had said she wouldn’t allow another man to own her if her life depended on it.
And she was right. He knew what a mistake marriage was. Knew it more than she. He knew not of a single happy couple married above a year or two.
Even though he could say with a fair degree of confidence that he would never, ever hurt her, there was always that tiny fear hidden deep within the recesses of his being. In the heat of the moment, would his actions supersede his convictions? His father had been cool and restrained for the most part, except on those rare yet memorable occasions when rage had overtaken him and threatened everyone in his path. Luc’s spine twitched in remembrance.
Who was he to say he wasn’t exactly like his sire? They had both had the advantage of being surrounded by kindhearted, loving women. All saints gracing God’s green earth. What had made his father unleash his temper in the face of such goodness? And hadn’t Luc felt that same fury overtake him on occasion? Why he’d killed more French sailors and pirates than any of the men who served him. In the heat of battle, he could coldly conjure up enough rage to destroy a fleet.
No. He would keep Rosamunde safe from the innate, baser ugliness lurking somewhere deep within him and all men. He would arrange an annuity, and settle on her the last of Ata’s purportedly
inherited
cottages he had secretly purchased.
A cottage would bring Rosamunde the peace and happiness she deserved. And they could, on occasion, indulge in their mutual passion for as long as she desired. It was the least he could do for this courageous woman who had been sent to hell and back courtesy of the St. Aubyn family.
He heard a shout and rose from the bunk, putting on his breeches and shirt in one fluid motion.
“Rosamunde…” He shook her twice, but she refused to budge. He had to go. Had to find out what was wrong on deck. He cursed through a smile. She slept like a child after too much Christmas candy.
Rosamunde crashed awake, and found herself sprawled on the floorboards of Luc’s cabin. The entire vessel seemed to have tipped sideways.
She struggled into her chemise and gown, not bothering with the stays. For all she knew they were about to sink to the bottom of the sea, and heaven knew she didn’t need a cinched waist to meet her Maker. She fumbled with her hairpins and crawled through the door.
She swayed while trying to make her way up the ladder and prayed for more strength. Two strong hands hooked under her arms to haul her to the deck.
Luc’s eyes locked with hers. “Stay with Brown, and for God’s sake lash yourself to the mast if necessary.” With that he was gone to join the three deckhands aft.
From the shouting it became clear the men had set the sails before pulling up anchor, and now the anchor had snagged onto something and could not be pried loose. The wind in the sails was making the boat list to one side.
Luc yelled at the men to tie back the sails while he tugged off his shirt. In the fading sunlight, he looked like a wild Greek god, his skin kissed by the sun, his hair whipping about his face. His strength was palpable, the lines slung round his torso as he lowered a sail. He was far from the polished, jaded aristocrat she had
first met, appearing more like a hardened privateer with gold on his mind.
And she had lain with him.
There was no doubt about that, and she had the uncomfortable impression that everyone on the yacht knew it too.
She was sore where he had been inside her. Just the thought of the wicked things he had done brought heat to her cheeks. Nothing that pleasurable could be anything but sinful. She had lain with a gentleman without benefit of marriage. And she should be repentant.
But she was not.
She would do it all over again given the chance. Only she would be less fearful and more determined to take part in his pleasure. She would keep her eyes open and explore every inch of him. And ask him how he had gotten the long scar she could see carved from his shoulder to his waist.
She was afraid she would never be pure in thought again after today.
A sail billowed at Luc’s feet and he cursed. Rosamunde released her pent-up breath when the ship righted itself and went dead in the water. She watched the play of his muscles as they bunched and hardened while he worked to furl the sail. An ache filled her.
How was she to leave him now when she had tasted such forbidden pleasures? But leave him she must. She couldn’t stay anywhere near him, for the temptation to be with him again would be too great. And where would that lead them?
She couldn’t face Ata or anyone else for that matter
if there was even the remote possibility of a longer-term affair. She already felt guilty about what had transpired. She would destroy a little bit of herself and the hard-won inner peace she had built if she ever gave in to these new base desires.
She was not cut out for casual affairs. But she also knew she had never been good at resisting temptation.
And so she must leave.
As soon as possible.
To London she would go, with Ata and Sylvia and the other widows. And she would find employment far, far away from him. It would be her chance at a new life with a slate wiped clean.
And she would be happy. Yes, she would force herself to be happy. And she would be grateful.
The deckhands monkeyed down the rigging. Her reflections scattered in the wind when Luc took a long look toward her before diving over the side.
“What is he doing?” She rushed to the rail.
Mr. Brown appeared at her side. “Loosening the anchor if he can. Otherwise we’ll be stuck here.”
Luc swam to the chain and jackknifed beneath the waves.
“Cap’n ne’er fails us,” a deckhand said with patent false cheer.
“Except that one time,” said another, peering over the edge.
Mr. Brown coshed him on the side of his head. “Remember your manners. There’s a lady onboard, scallywag.”
They looked at her respectfully. She felt a blast of self-consciousness again.
Surely more than two minutes had passed.
“He’s been under for so long,” she said.
“Don’t worry, yer ladyship, they float when’s they drown.”
Brown took the sailor by the ear and wagged a finger. “No grog for you.”
“Aren’t any of you going to help him?”
They looked at her aghast. Mr. Brown muttered, “He’s never needed help in the past.”
But he had been under for at least three minutes now. He was probably caught on something, struggling. No one could hold their breath this long.
Not taking time to think it through, she jumped overboard before anyone could stop her. She prayed her skirts wouldn’t hamper her. She had always been the strongest swimmer of her family. Three strokes later she felt the gown’s back and arm seams give way.
They were yelling at her from the deck, but she couldn’t make out anything, so focused was she on finding him, saving him. He was trapped below. He must already be gasping for air, drinking salt water.
She dove down, eyes burning. It was so murky she couldn’t see much other than shadows. She followed the anchor’s chain and kept going deeper, the pressure on her eardrums building.
Something rammed her stomach and she felt herself floating to the surface.
Luc gasped for air and she grasped his arm, pulling him close to the chain.
“What…what are you doing?” he sputtered.
“Saving you,” she replied, spitting out seawater.
“Really?” He glared above. “They let you—”
A wave crashed over them and she coughed. A strong arm clamped about her waist and he shouted for a line. “Now who’s saving whom?”
A rope slapped her back and within moments he had fashioned a loop for a seat. She felt herself being reeled in like an overgrown fish. The final insult was the sound of her lower gown ripping from the bodice.
“Well, at least we’ve a noble end to that hideous thing.” Luc had appeared beside her and ordered the deckhands away. The sound of a jaunty tune being whistled revealed the hands’ pretending to ignore the scene while working to restore the sails.
“Yes, well, I’ve no way to return with any sort of respectability now, do I?” she replied, then muttered, “Not that I consider myself respectable in any way, after today.”
His eyes twinkled. “Thank God for that, Mrs. Baird.”
“Yes, well, you would say that.”
He looked both ways and pulled her close. “We have a two-hour sail back. Are we to spend it making sure I warm up every disreputable bone in your body, or are we to read Fordice’s Sermons and ponder my future residence in hell?”
“Neither.” Her teeth were definitely chattering now, and she wasn’t sure if it was due to his arms or the wet clothing.
He rubbed her shivering arms. “Come. We have to get you out of these clothes. You’re freezing. I’ll find something below.”
She knew without doubt then that he wouldn’t try to entice her into his bed again. There was just the smallest degree of strain in their conversation. But she had to tell him what she was determined to say before she lost her nerve. She touched his arm before he turned. “Luc…thank you,” she whispered, “for everything. For not chastising me when I foolishly jumped in after you, and more importantly, for everything
before
.”
He chuckled and his eyes glinted with amusement. “It is I who should thank you. I’ve never had anyone try to save me…in more ways than one.” He fingered a lock of her hair and placed it behind her ear. “It was a novel experience.”
The sail and subsequent carriage ride back to Amberley was accomplished with nary a hitch nor another private word. It was all about staying alone behind the closed door of his cabin, and staying warm.
Mr. Brown had knocked on her door, urging her to eat part of the wedding feast he had surreptitiously smuggled before their hasty departure. “But lass, you really should try some of the Captain’s salted snapper from the West Indies. It’s a rarity in these parts.”
She refused, having neither the appetite nor the courage to face any of them.
The final indignity was being bundled into the carriage before the duke joined Mr. Brown on the driver’s bench. He didn’t want to be inside with her. It was a serious blow to the small amount of vanity she possessed. It was very clear that he, at least, was regretting their actions, while she was not.
He was obviously not interested in another tryst. But then, why should that matter to her? It made it all easier. She had said to herself that she wouldn’t prolong the agony of their eventual parting. And she would hate to have to rebuff him. But the tiny spark in her ridiculous female mind perversely knew it would feel better for her to have to rebuff him than for him not to seek her out again. Oh botheration…
She should show more compassion. This was the man who had so successfully shown her how blindingly surreal and passionate intimacy could be after all.
A quarter of an hour after their return he tossed a gown inside the carriage. She paused at the color, a deep crimson. There was no possible way—
“Make haste, Rosamunde,” he said quietly from outside. “Ata is ill if the dim-witted apothecary has the right of it.”
She prayed there was no one else in the stables, and inched open the carriage door to peek around it before descending. He did up the back of the gown and barked at someone to see to the horses.
“I didn’t know whether to kiss the pretentious fool for scaring away the houseguests,” he said while she struggled to keep up with his long strides, “or kill the idiot for urging most of the servants to leave as well.”
“What does he think it is?”
“The self-righteous witchdoctor had the audacity to suggest a return of the plague before I ushered him to the door with a promise of a true
black death
unless he sent a reputable physician in his stead.”
The older housemaid, Mrs. Simms, met them on the
threshold and spoke as she huffed her large frame up the wide staircase behind them.
“This ain’t the plague if you was to arsk me. But,” she wheezed, “it looks like some sort of putrid infection. There were other guests who took ill, too. And the undercook.”
They wended their way through the maze of halls while the maid babbled on. “They’ve all gone, except me and the cook, who ’ates the apothecary. Calls him the grim reaper, she does. The widows refused to leave. And”—she turned to Rosamunde—“your sister. That pretty Miss Clarendon and the ’andsome vicar are tryin’ to drag ’er off to stay with them.”
Luc put up a staying hand in front of the door. Hushed whispers greeted them inside the darkened room. The unmistakably elegant profile of Grace Sheffey shadowed most of Ata’s tiny form on the bed. The dowager was making pitiful little sounds while the countess wiped her brow. It struck Rosamunde right through the heart.
“Stop, please. The water’s too hot,” Ata whispered. She turned her head and it seemed like his grandmother’s eye sockets were too large for her small face. “Oh Luc, you’re here. This is ridiculous. I’m certain it’s just the food…perhaps it was the sausage pie.”
Luc’s large hand half covered his grandmother’s head. “You’ve not a fever. Perhaps you’re right. Did anyone ask the others who were ill what they had eaten?” He grasped her good hand in his.
But his expression.
Frozen, despite the cool and collected words he uttered.
“I don’t know,” answered Grace. “It makes no sense, as we all ate the same things.”
Rosamunde hadn’t eaten anything since early morning. Between the events and her nerves, she had completely lost any desire for food.
Luc dipped the cloth in the water and smoothed it over Ata’s brow again.