Authors: Danelle Harmon
Chapter 16
Something was rubbing at her foot.
Rhiannon jerked it back and turned over. Light burned against her eyelids, and opening them, she saw that it was dawn.
The sun was on its way up, painting the eastern sky in bands of lemon, mango, and purple.
Again she felt something rubbing at her foot, and then, an impatient, “
Meee-ow!
”
Purring loudly, the cat padded up toward her face and began rubbing itself against Rhiannon’s nose. It was obviously hungry.
And its master was nowhere to be found.
Rhiannon sat up, groaning. She must look a sight. Her back was stiff from lying all night on the open deck. She felt sore between her legs, and her lips were tender and bruised from kissing.
“
Meeeee-ow!
”
She pulled the blanket around herself. Oh, God, the crew was surely going to come back soon, and she couldn’t think of a greater humiliation than to be seen in such a sorry state. She needed a bath, she needed a brush for her hair, she needed—
“Good morning, Rhiannon.”
It was her husband, coming up from the aft hatch and carrying a tray in his hands. He looked fresh and rested, the formal clothes from the previous evening long discarded in favor of his usual casual attire: canvas pantaloons cut off at the knee, an open shirt and the straw hat, through which the first rays of sun were already beginning to leave tiny checkers of light across one of his cheeks.
Oh, he looked delicious.
“Good morning, Connor.”
He came to sit beside her. The breeze, wafting over the water, picked at his open shirt and she longed to touch the tanned skin of his throat, to feel again the hard play of muscles underneath.
“I brought you some breakfast,” he said, and gently shoo-ing the cat aside, set the tray down on the deck. Delicious smells assailed her. Two mugs of strong black coffee, a pitcher of cream, cubes of sugar in a little pot, a spoon, and there, a chipped bowl of oatmeal. She picked up the bowl, its steam rising to fill her nose, its warmth delicious beneath her palms. It wasn’t just oatmeal but something more, something made with skill and care, thick and golden and liberally stuffed with big, plump raisins and chunks of exotic fruit.
“You made this?”
“I did.” He smiled disarmingly. “I’m not the smartest man to ever walk the earth, but I do know how to cook.”
“That’s a skill most sea captains probably don’t have,” she said, digging the spoon into the oatmeal. “Oh! This is good!”
“Aye, someone in the family had to learn how to cook,” he said, grinning. “God knows my mother never mastered the art.”
“Didn’t you have servants? A cook?”
“Oh, we did, but my mother enjoyed trying. Nearly poisoned us all whenever she’d set her mind to baking a pie or a cake.” He watched her tuck into the oatmeal, obviously delighted with her appetite. “I figured that if she couldn’t cook, maybe I could. Might come in useful some day.”
“It’s coming in useful right now. This is delicious.”
“I put mango in it, and papaya, too. And some spices we took off a recent prize bound for Europe.”
“Did you already eat?”
“I did. I’m an early riser, I confess.”
“Do you ever sit still, Connor Merrick?”
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and perhaps he might have done more if it weren’t broad daylight with dozens of ships moored around them. “Not for long. Now finish up, because I have a surprise for you this morning.”
“A surprise?”
“Aye. Your next swimming lesson.”
* * *
What was she supposed to wear?
He had found her an old black shirt that wouldn’t reveal too much when wet, a pair of cut-off canvas trousers that he said belonged to Toby and reached nearly to her ankles, and a straw hat, much like his own, to protect her fair face from the sun.
And then he began pacing the deck, back and forth, back and forth, as restless as ever as he waited for his crew to straggle back from a night of in-town carousing.
Nathan and Toby were the first to arrive. Toby blushed to the roots of his flaming red hair when he saw Rhiannon, and Nathan politely removed his hat to reveal his thick, sun-bleached locks. It didn’t take long for the rest of the crew to return, most of them sporting dark circles under their eyes, expressions of exhaustion and overindulgence, and the unmistakable signs of hangovers.
“And how was your wedding night,
Capitaine
?” asked Jacques, with a knowing grin. “Quite an outfit the missus has on there, eh?” He looked tipsy and a bit of drool followed the cleft of his split-scarred lip and clung to his chin, and it was surely only that which saved him from his captain’s ire as Connor turned irritably on him.
“My wedding night is none of your damned business, and have a care what you say around the new Mrs. Merrick or I’ll scald your arse in pig’s fat and feed you to the fishes.”
“Sorry,
Capitaine
. It’s the rum talking.”
Connor shook his head and gave him a good-natured shove. “Go to your hammock and sleep it off, you wretch.”
Jacques attempted to salute, turned green, and promptly vomited on the deck. Around him, laughter ensued.
Connor swore under his breath and relinquishing the deck to Nathan, took Rhiannon’s arm and guided her to the rail.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at Jacques, who was being given a mop and a bucket of seawater by an unsympathetic Nathan. “My crew are a bunch of ill-behaved rascals. Not good company for a lady, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll get used to them,” Rhiannon said cheerfully. “And really, Connor, I’m not so easily offended as all that.”
“Shall we head ashore then, for our lesson? I can rig a bosun’s chair if you like.”
Rhiannon gazed down at the clear, turquoise water below. “No. If I’m going to be the captain’s wife I need to learn how to be something of a sailor, and that means getting off a ship as well as getting on it.”
“What a brave girl you are!”
She laughed. She didn’t feel very brave. But she was determined, and that would have to do.
“I’ll go first,” he was saying. “Watch how I do it. Watch my hands, and where I put my feet. Watch how I hold this line in my hand.”
Nimbly, he put a leg over the rail and still holding her gaze, moved quickly down the side of the ship and into the boat that one of the returning crew had left bobbing in the water below.
It wasn’t that far down. Not really.
Kestrel
was a lean, trim vessel, and she sat low in the water. It wasn’t that far.
I can do this.
In the boat below, her husband looked up and gestured for her to take the line. The boat, as
Kestrel
herself was doing, moved in the water. Up and down. Up and down. “You can do it, Rhiannon. Toby’s right there. He’ll keep an eye on you, and I’m down here. Trust yourself.”
“Trust myself.”
He grinned then, his eyes twinkling. “Live a little.”
Rhiannon sensed someone near her shoulder and yes, there was Toby, ready to help if she needed it.
“Don’t help me,” she said. “I want to see if I can do this by myself.”
“As you please, ma’m.”
Keenly aware of the fact that she was wearing cut-off pantaloons—oh, how scandalous!—Rhiannon took the rope, put one leg over the side and with her toes, found the little wooden slats that served as footholds. She took a deep and steadying breath, aware of two dozen pair of eyes upon her and one very green, very handsome pair, below.
“Have faith in yourself,” her husband called up from the boat.
She couldn’t trust herself to speak. Taking a deep breath and clinging to the rope, she let herself down a little more. This wasn’t so bad now, was it? She was no delicate, simpering creature; she had arms that were strong, balance that was good, nerves that were standing up to what was quite a test, given her fear of heights.
She lowered herself further down and stopped for a moment, resting.
Kestrel
’s rail was level with her eyes now; she could smell the hot sunlight and dried salt against the varnish. She descended some more, searching for toe-holds, and then felt strong hands go around her waist. Her husband’s hands.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Well done.”
She let go of the rope, turned, and flung her arms around his neck.
Above her the crew let out a roaring cheer: “Hip hip, huzzah! Three times three for the captain’s lady!”
Rhiannon found herself blushing, and it was all she could do not to let out three cheers herself.
* * *
Connor settled Rhiannon on the thwart, took up the oars, and as she turned to wave happily at his crew aboard the schooner, shot them a gesture that his wife wasn’t meant to see and put his back to the rowing.
He was looking forward to their swim. One would have thought that the tender, intense lovemaking of the night before might have satisfied him for a time, might have cooled his ardor for this innocent but mischievous girl-woman he had married, but no; he’d had a taste of her, and now he wanted more.
Much more.
Thank God they weren’t in England. He couldn’t imagine trying to teach her to swim in one of those infernal bathing machines. No, here on Barbados he could clothe her in more functional attire, find some sheltered cove, and have all the privacy he could desire without fear that someone would spy on them and see his wife’s long, lean legs and high, firm breasts revealed by wet clothes.
He looked at her sitting opposite him, a smile on her face, her beautiful hair caught in the loose thong of leather he’d found for her and hanging down her back. Maeve, he recalled, had worn her hair much the same way during her Pirate Queen days, and perhaps some might have found the clothes, the hair, and the bare ankles shocking and unacceptable.
Connor thought they were perfectly wonderful.
He thought again of last night. Of how hot and tight and wet she had been when he had so carefully eased himself into her. He had not known what to expect, making love to a virgin, and his rather dim expectations of the act had been surpassed by the delicious reality. Yes, he had introduced her to the art of lovemaking and she was likely sore and tender this morning, but she had not complained, and the fresh, rosy glow to her cheeks, the lush color in her lips, the sparkle in her eye were all testimony to the fact that she had enjoyed it, enjoyed that “awful moment,” more than she had dreamed possible.
“What is so funny, dear husband?”
“Oh, I was just thinking about last night.”
She blushed, but her eyes brightened and the corner of her mouth turned up in a shared grin. “Ah. That awful moment.”
“Are you sore this morning, dearest?”
“I am, but it was worth it.”
“You won’t be sore, the next time.”
“When can we do it again, Connor?”
“When you’re feeling up to it.”
“What a considerate man I’ve married.”
Connor sincerely hoped she’d be “up to it” within the next hour, because he had some things in mind to top off their swimming lesson.
“I suppose I should write to my sister to let her know that I’m married now,” she said, reaching out to trail her fingers in the water as Connor’s powerful arms drove the boat at an ever-increasing speed toward the shore. “I wish I could see her face when she opens the letter!”
“I wish I could see Morninghall’s,” Connor returned wryly. “I’m sure he wanted more for his sister-in-law than a Yankee rogue with a price on his head.”
“Who cares? He’s not the one marrying you. I am.” She reached out and laid her sweet little hand on his knee as the rowed. “And I am more than happy with my choice.”
Connor just smiled. He was used to idol worship from Toby and his little nephew Ned, but they were both young and didn’t know what a true cock-up he really was. They didn’t know, as his parents knew, as Nathan knew, that math and numbers and chart-reading came hard to him and that if he tried to read a book he might get three paragraphs into it before he realized that he had little recollection of what he’d read, and he’d have to go back and read it all over again and sometimes the words made no sense or made him get a headache, which only added to his frustration; even so, his mind would be thinking of something else, and in the end its wanderings would win out over the book. Mr. Preble, of course, had been right: he was unteachable, probably stupid, but as long as nobody except his parents and Nathan—who could plot a course and read a chart when the numbers were all a’jumble in Connor’s eyes—knew his shameful secret, he figured he could get by all right.
And if he couldn’t be smart, well, he could still beat Nathan at chess. And he could be brave. He could be lucky. And he could be a good husband to this woman who seemed to think he could walk on water, when it was all he could do to read a chart.
He had observed the way his father had treated his mother all these years and he would treat his own wife with the same gentle respect, kindness, and reverence. He was his father’s son, wasn’t he? He would take good care of Rhiannon. He would help her to let go of the limitations imposed on her by what the world expected of gently-bred young women—limitations that his own mother had flaunted—and together, they would have a good life. And in the meantime he would be the best privateer he could be and take as many prizes as he could before the war ended—as some day it surely would.
His father was a naval architect, good with figures, brilliant even, for he could design a ship and make minute calculations that would result in increased speed, stability, and gun-carrying ability. His father was a brilliant man and a brave one, and if there was anyone in the world that Connor wanted to emulate, it was him.
He would never be good with figures.
But he already was a damned good privateer, and before the war was over, he’d be a famous one.
Chapter 17
He took her to the same little cove where they had spent the forbidden nocturnal rendezvous that had landed them in such trouble. Boating the oars, he let the forward momentum carry the little craft smoothly onto the beach, where its bow crunched against the sand and lurched to a halt.
In daylight, Rhiannon saw that a small headland extended out into the sea for a distance, shielding the cove from the gazes of anyone who might be watching from ships in the harbor; a thick tangle of exotic trees screened the cove from Sir Graham’s house, and there was nobody here except a colorful parrot squawking from a nearby branch.
At night this had been a somewhat frightening place, the water deep and mysterious. Now, she could easily see the bottom, and the play of morning sunlight sparkling over the surface of the sea was soothing. Pretty.
Connor helped her out of the boat and pulled the little craft farther up onto the beach. She watched the play of strong, hard muscles in his arms as he worked, and the way his rich chestnut hair curled against the back of his neck beneath the brim of his straw hat. She wanted to touch him. To feel his arms around her, his lips against hers, and that delicious, intoxicating sensation of having him on, alongside,
inside
her, surrounding her with his strength and protection once again.
Yes, she wanted to touch him.
And, as he straightened up after beaching the boat, she did.
Just her fingers, reaching up to trace the hard bulge of his forearm, the crisp hairs there that lent roughness to the texture beneath her fingers.
He paused, and that slow, slightly lopsided, and altogether charming grin that did strange things to her insides curved one corner of his mouth.
“Well, now,” he murmured softly.
She smiled.
He reached down and pulling off his shirt, balled and tossed it into the boat.
She pressed closer to him, shyly sliding her hand up past his elbow and to the rock-hard muscles of his upper arms. The base of his neck. The side of his jaw, slightly bristled beneath her palm, hard and scratchy and manly.
“You look like a pirate,” she said.
“And you look delicious.”
“Will you kiss me, Connor?”
“You have to tag me, first.”
“What?”
He laughed, and moved backwards into the water until he was thigh-deep in the gently rolling surf.
“That’s not fair.”
“You want to learn how to swim, don’t you?”
“Of course, but you have an advantage!”
She lunged forward, the water roiling around her knees and soaking Toby’s cut-off pantaloons, but he just laughed and moved farther back.
“Connor!”
He stood there with arms crossed, waist-deep now, the gentle swells swirling around his navel. His smile grew.
“Ah, the water is nice,” he mused. “You really should join me.”
“Come back here!”
“No, you come and get me.”
She waded farther out. He let himself fall backward until he was floating quite happily on his back, wiggling his toes at her as the waves moved past him and toward the beach.
Rhiannon waded farther. She could feel the water up around her rib cage now, her breasts. Her husband was tantalizingly out of reach, looking up, briefly, to check on her progress before folding his arms behind his head, gazing up at the cloudless blue sky and every so often, kicking a little to stay just out of reach.
Rhiannon was in up to her collarbone now; the waves were coming up to and lapping her throat, her chin, and suddenly a particularly large one lifted her straight up and off the bottom for a full second.
She stifled her cry of fear and surprise, her feet on the sea bottom once more. Connor eyed her from a few feet away, and turned agilely in the water until he was treading it.
“Feel the power of the sea?” he asked, knowing what had just happened.
“I feel it, and I’m frightened by it.”
“There’s no need to be frightened. It’s a wonderful and magnificent thing, the sea, and you know I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Rhiannon stood there for another moment, rising up on her tiptoes to try to keep her chin above every swell that washed past on its way to shore.
Connor turned on his side and kicked a slow circle around her.
And behind him Rhiannon saw another wave coming, larger than the one that had stolen the bottom out from beneath her feet for that frightening moment, a wave that moved beneath him, lifted him up, and now came straight at her.
She felt its immense power, felt it shove her straight up with it. Her arms flashed out to retain her balance, the bottom dropped away from her feet and a moment later, Rhiannon was swimming.
Swimming.
“Keep your fingers together,” Connor called, deliberately moving away but paralleling the beach. “Cup and push the water past you. Stiffen your legs. That’s it. Yes! Yes, Rhiannon! You’re doing it!”
And she was. She felt her fear suddenly become joy, and her joy become exhilaration, and then she was laughing as she paddled clumsily toward her husband.
“Trust the water, Rhiannon. Trust yourself. Feel it buoy you up, as salt water does, and stop stretching your neck up and out but just relax, let the water come up around your chin, your ears; you won’t sink.”
“Promise?” she gasped, breathlessly, as she paddled closer to him.
“I promise.”
She swam to him. She swam with him. He taught her how to turn in the water, to flip over onto her back, her side, and back to her stomach again. She followed him out into the cove just a little farther, and as they swam slowly over a coral formation some four or five feet down, she tucked her chin and tried to see it.
“It’s a beautiful world down there, Rhiannon.”
“I wish I could see it.”
“You can. Follow me.”
“Underwater?”
“Yes.”
“But how am I going to be able to see?”
“The same way you see on top of the water. By opening your eyes.”
And then, before she could protest more, he took a breath and angling his body, dived beneath the surface.
Trust him.
Rhiannon took a deep breath, pinched her nose shut with two fingers, and ducked her head into the water; at first she was afraid to open her eyes but curiosity got the best of her, and when she did, she realized that she had entered a whole new world.
She let herself sink down, and holding her nose with one hand, letting her feet rest on the rounded surface of a huge chunk of coral that looked like a brain, realized that there was a beautiful yellow and blue fish swimming just inches from her nose.
It stared at her.
She stared at it.
And realizing she was getting short of breath, pushed herself to the surface.
Connor was standing only a few feet away, his grin about as broad as she had ever seen it.
“I am so proud of you,” he said, and beyond his grin, beyond the way his eyes crinkled at the corners with a roguish merriment, she could see the heat building in his gaze and knew that he wanted her.
As she wanted him.
He moved closer to her, swam past her, and headed inshore.
She followed.
Well past the coral, he stood up in waist-deep surf, the water streaming down his chest and sparkling in the sun.
Rhiannon joined him.
He caught her as she moved close, pulling her wet body up against him, sliding his hands around the small of her back and pressing her hips against his own. Desire flared in her as she felt his arousal stabbing against her belly, and despite the lingering soreness between her thighs, she felt herself wanting him all over again.
His hips still against hers, his arms still around her lower back, he gazed down at her.
“I want you, dearest wife.”
“Here?”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . someone might see?”
“They can’t see what happens underwater,” he said wickedly. He moved backward and as he did, his hands moved lower, curving over her bottom, squeezing her. She gasped and glanced nervously toward the beach, but he was right. They were alone. There was nobody there.
Considerate as always, he turned her so that the rising sun was behind her and not in her eyes; then, lowering his head, he kissed her.
His lips were wet and salty, hard, demanding, and hungry. Her breasts were crushed against his bare chest and her heartbeat began to bang out a frenzied beat as his tongue swept into her mouth and his hands drew her hips even closer, pressing them hard, hard into himself until she was grinding shamelessly against his thick and swollen member. She groaned deep in her throat as his hands moved lower, finding her cleft beneath the fabric of the old trousers, stroking it and causing her to catch her breath in surprise and wonder.
“You are a wicked man, Connor Merrick,” she managed, pressing her forehead against his wet shoulder.
A gull winged past but he only laughed, found the buttons of her pantaloons, and in one quick move, had them unfastened and in the water around her knees.
“Connor, someone will see!” she squealed.
“Who?” He walked a step or two backward, allowing the rising water to shield them further, to shield what his fingers were doing beneath the surface to the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thighs now that he had full access to them, tracing up and down, coming a little closer to her slit with each upward pass.
“S-Sir Graham . . . someone in a boat . . . the—
oh!
—the fishes, oh, oh, please—”
He spread his fingers, forcing her to widen the stance of her legs, and there, deep underwater, he ran his hand back up her thigh. As she struggled to keep her feet, he played with her silken curls, teasing and touching her most sensitive parts until she was gasping, and then inserted a finger between the inner lips and pushed it deep inside her.
Rhiannon cried out and he quickly silenced her with his mouth, his fingers plunging further into her, beginning to stroke the innermost wall of her pelvis until she felt herself squirming, pleading, frenziedly biting at his mouth as he brought her closer and closer to release.
And then with his fingers still stroking deep inside her, he pressed his thumb against her swollen bud. Her knees buckled and with a cry she spasmed against his hand, and it was only the arm he had locked around her hips, and the hand that was bringing her to such sweet torment, that saved her from slipping beneath the surface and drowning right then and there.
She hung there, shaking and convulsing, and then he withdrew, waded farther out into the surf, turned her so that his own big body shielded her own from the beach and unbuttoning himself with one hand, allowed her to feel him.
He swelled against her, huge and hardened and completely filling her hand, and as he bent his head to kiss her once more, he put both hands beneath her, lifted her up with the help of each incoming wave, and planted her firmly atop himself.
“Oh . . . oh, Connor. . . .” She felt him sliding deep, deep, deep inside of her, touching areas inside of herself that she didn’t know existed, and then he was lifting her up with strong hands and, to the rhythm of the incoming tide, he began to move inside of her.
Up and down, deeper and deeper until—
He suddenly clenched his teeth and tipped his head back, holding in his own hoarse cries as he spilt his seed deep within her and she climaxed once again, her body convulsing around his shaft. For a long moment they both stood there, he on shaky legs, she with hers wrapped around the back of his thighs, her cheek pressed against his chest and his heartbeat thundering like a racehorse beneath her ear.