Authors: The Passion
Nicole Jordan
Contents
Part III: A Passion of the Heart
Read on for a sneak peek at...
If you enjoyed The Last Knight...
To four wonderful writer friends:
Rosemary Edghill, India Edghill,
Donna Sterling, and Deborah Smith.
I hope you realize how special you are.
Prologue
Journal entry, July 16
I take up my pen once more, aching with the struggle in my heart. I must escape this passion that consumes me, but I know not how.
You came to me tonight. I felt your presence, your warmth, before hearing your footfall, my senses are so highly attuned to your nearness. The spell you cast over me has made me your slave more surely than any shackles.
You murmur my name and I turn to you. Your dark eyes are intense, questioning. I stare back, entranced. You have only to look at me and a rush of pleasure fills me.
I move into your arms, aching with love and desperation. Your touch is like a balm, your hand on my breast at once soothing and arousing.
I close my eyes, feeling your maleness, your strength, against my fragility. You know so well how vulnerable I am to you, to your fierce passion. I feel my body flame with it. I tremble at the caress of your lips, your heated breath, your deft fingers as you undress me.
Your robe falls to the floor. In the light of musk-scented candles, your nude body shimmers with grace and power, the master of any woman’s fantasies.
Your hand brushes along my loins and I feel myself shudder. In turn I stroke the thickening swell of your hardness. I feel no shame. You have taught me desires of the
flesh, sensitized my body to pleasure, burning away all inhibition.
I am already flowing, my center hot and throbbing, turning liquid with your touch, as you lie with me. Your eyes filled with challenge and desire, you move over my body and glide within me, thrusting deeply. My cry is hoarse with delight as I arch in surrender.
You command my senses. I am desperate, hungering to taste you, drugged with your opiate, with the need to fill and be filled.
You flood me in your passion. I am drowning and I draw you down with me.
Afterward, we lie close, our harsh breaths mingling, our damp skin clinging. I feel you grow still as you taste the salt of my tears. Rising above me, you stare into my eyes and see the ache in my heart I cannot hide.
Your fierce kiss is meant to soothe, but it only deepens the conflict tearing at my heart.
The choice is mine, you say. You offer me freedom, a precious gift. Because my happiness means more to you than your own, you will let me go.
But can I bear to live without you?
And is the choice truly mine to make?
PART I
Bonds of Desire
Chapter One
At first glimpse he seemed infinitely dangerous, even barbaric. And yet something in his eyes called to me….
British West Indies, February 1813
The scene was pagan—the half nude man bound in chains, his sinewed torso bronzed by the Caribbean sun. Silhouetted against the ship’s tall masts, he stood defiant, unbowed.
For a brief instant Lady Aurora Demming felt her heart falter as she stared up at the frigate’s railing.
He might have been a statue carved by a master sculptor, all rippling muscle and lithe strength…except that he was flesh-and-blood male, and very much alive. Sunlight warmed the hard contours of his body, gilded the dark gold of his hair.
That tawny shade of gold was heart familiar. At first glance Aurora had flinched with the memory of another face forever lost to her. But this brazen, nearly naked man was a stranger, possessing a raw masculinity quite unlike her late betrothed.
He was stripped down to breeches, but though he wore the chains of a prisoner, he remained unbroken, his gaze fierce and remote as he stared out over the quay. Even from a distance, his eyes seemed to glitter dangerously, giving the impression of simmering anger tenuously controlled.
As if he felt her gaze, his focus slowly shifted and locked on her, riveting her in place. The bustle and noise of the waterfront faded away. For a fleeting moment, time ceased and only the two of them existed.
The intensity of his stare held her motionless, yet Aurora felt herself tremble, her heart suddenly drumming in a painful, almost wild rhythm.
“Aurora?”
She gave a start as her cousin Percy recalled her to her surroundings. She stood on the harbor quayside of Basseterre, St. Kitts, before the shipping office, the warm Caribbean sun beating down upon her. The pungent smells of fish and tar permeated the salt air along with the raucous cries of seagulls. Beyond the busy quay stretched brilliant blue-green waters, while in the distance rose the lush, mountainous island of Nevis.
Her cousin followed the direction of her gaze to the prisoner on the naval frigate. “What has you so fascinated?”
“That man…” she murmured. “For a moment he reminded me of Geoffrey.”
Percy squinted across the quay. “How can you possibly tell at this distance?” He frowned. “The hair color is similar, perhaps, but any other resemblance must be superficial. I couldn’t imagine the late Earl of March as a convict, could you?”
“I don’t suppose so.”
Yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the fair-haired prisoner. Nor could he from her, it seemed. He still watched her as he stood at the head of the gangway, prepared to disembark. His hands manacled, he was guarded by two armed, burly seamen of the British navy, but he gave no notice of his captors until one jerked viciously on the chain that bound his wrists.
Pain or fury made his fists clench, but he offered no other sign of struggle as he was herded at musketpoint down the gangway.
Once more Aurora heard her name called, this time more firmly.
Her cousin touched her arm, his look full of sympathy. “Geoffrey is gone, Aurora. It will do you no good to dwell on your loss. And your grief can only prove detrimental to your upcoming marriage. I’m certain your future husband will not appreciate your mourning another man. For your own sake, you must learn to quell your feelings.”
She had not been thinking of her loss, she was ashamed to admit, or the unwanted marriage her father was forcing upon her, but she nodded for her cousin’s benefit. She had no business showing an interest in a barely dressed stranger. A criminal, no less. One who evidently had committed some heinous crime to warrant such savage punishment.
With a small shudder, Aurora forced her attention away. The primitive display was no sight for a lady, much less a duke’s daughter. She had rarely seen so much naked male flesh at one time. Certainly she’d never been
shaken
by a man, as she had been moments ago when he caught her eye.
Chastising herself, she turned to allow her cousin to hand her into the open carriage. She’d come to the docks with Percy to confirm her passage to England. Because of the conflict with America and the danger of piracy, there were few ships leaving the West Indies. The next passenger vessel was scheduled to depart the island of St. Kitts three days hence and was only waiting for a military escort.
She dreaded returning home and had delayed as long as she dared, months longer than originally planned, using the excuse that travel was dangerous while a war raged. But her father was adamant that she present herself at once to prepare for her wedding to the nobleman he’d chosen for her. In his last letter he’d threatened to come and fetch her himself if she failed to honor the agreement he had made on her behalf.
Aurora had one foot on the carriage step when a disturbance across the quay made her pause. The prisoner had reached the end of the gangway and was being harangued to climb into a waiting wagon, obviously a difficult task because of his chains.
When he moved too slowly, he was given a savage shove that sent him stumbling almost to his knees. Saving himself by clutching the wagon’s rear gate, he drew himself up and turned to eye his guard with a contemptuous stare.
His cool insolence seemed to infuriate his tormentors for he received a musket butt to the ribs, which doubled him over in pain.
Aurora’s cry of protest at the vicious attack lodged in her throat when the prisoner swung his chains at the guard. It was a futile gesture of defiance, for he was bound too tightly to effect any real damage, but apparently his rebellion was the excuse his guards wanted.
Both seamen set upon him with the stocks of their muskets, driving him to the cobblestones with cries of “Scurvy dog!” and “Bastard sea scum!”