Untamed (7 page)

“Trystan?”

Desarae watched her captain slowly turn around. His eyes widened when he caught sight of her naked shoulders. Her heart pounded with unbearable excitement. While staring boldly at him, she continued to lower her bodice until only the taut tips of her breasts kept the cotton from slipping. His eyes darkened with controlled passion. She wanted to give a trill of laughter but the air between them had suddenly thickened, making speech impossible. Instead, she held out her arm in invitation. He did not disappoint. In a heartbeat he stood before her. His trembling hands pushed her bodice down and her dress fell in a puddle around her feet.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “I…”

Whatever he would have said was lost in her gasp of untamed bliss when his palms covered her nipples and his warm hands began to knead her full breasts. Desarae arched her back, leaning into his touch. When she thought she could take the sensation no longer, he lifted her in his arms and latched onto one nipple with his mouth. His wet tongue laved her and suckled on her until she mewled with urgency. He lowered her to the bed and stood gazing hotly down at her while he quickly removed his clothes.

Before Desarae’s fascinated gaze, his member thrust forward from him, full and glorious. She reached out to touch him but just as she felt his velvety length he climbed onto her bed and carefully lowered himself onto her. His warmth felt wonderful. Everything she had ever imagined, and she had imagined much and often, came to fulfilment with his touch—the feel of his hair on her skin; the hot, smooth, steel of his muscles beneath her hands, the press of his fingers into her flesh. These overwhelming sensations thrilled her so much that she spread her legs and lifted them so that she embraced him even tighter, her crossed ankles behind his hips.

“There’s more to this than hugging,” he said with a warm chuckle. Trystan raised himself onto his elbows but she was squeezing him so tightly her shoulders came off the bed with him. “Relax,” he advised. “Do not be fearful.”

“I am not afraid!” came her tart reply. Desarae released him and fell back onto the pillows.

“Certainly not,” he agreed, a slow grin causing strange swooping feelings in her stomach.

“Trystan,” she pleaded. Desarae speared her fingers through his curly locks, drawing his head down for a succulent kiss—the type of kiss calculated to end his teasing and bring him to a fever pitch of craving.

She got her wish. Trystan’s hands became searing brands against her already hot skin. Her breath sounded hoarse and excited, a syncopated counter-point to Trystan’s softly gasped instructions.

“Release your ankles for a moment…”

“Do you like that?” His hand was once more between her legs, stroking and readying her.

“Uh huh,” she gasped.

When Desarae felt the full length of him ease into her hot, moist centre, she cried out in momentary pain but then he surged forward and she forgot about the pain. He pulled partly out and she whimpered.

“I am not going anywhere,” he grated out and thrust forward again.

Desarae succumbed to the glory of the experience. Their bodies became slick, the bed became crumpled, and when the moment came upon them they both cried out with mighty shouts of unbearable rapture.

Trystan woke first. Desarae laid spread out across him. Her plait had mostly come undone. She looked like a woman who had been well and truly loved. The lightening of the room told him they had slept through the night but he could not tell how late they had slept for the heavy fog still blanketed the region. No one from the mainland would be joining them this morning.

“Desarae?” He brushed her hair back from her face. “It is morning.”

“Hmm?” she hummed, then her eyes popped open in sudden alarm. “Athena! Artemis! The chickens! How late is it?”

“It is fairly early still,” he soothed. Nonetheless she scrambled off him and jumped to her feet. She promptly wobbled and fell back against the bed, putting her arms out to stop herself from falling. Before he could reach out and capture her naked breasts, however, she let out a squeak.

“What is happening to me? Why are my legs so shaky?”

Trystan grinned wickedly. “That will pass.”

Desarae gave him a good scowl which turned into a leer for she had caught sight of his member swelling right before her eyes.

“Most extraordinary,” she said, keeping her gaze on it while she reached down beside the bed for her dress.

Trystan stunned himself by blushing. He reached for a pillow to cover himself but she snatched it away.

“Oh, no,” she scolded. “You promised.”

Trystan had never felt quite so embarrassed and so stimulated at the same time. Instantly he was painfully aroused. He forced himself to lie still while she examined him. His hands grasped the sheets and squeezed them. She pushed his legs apart and then leaned this way and that studying him from every angle.

“What will happen if I touch it?” she asked, tilting her head. Her hand reached out and hovered over the full tip.

“I will probably explode,” Trystan admitted. Her hand withdrew an inch. Her eyebrow rose in self-indulgent speculation. “Go ahead,” he invited, and waited with eyes closed for her touch. Her hand loosely surrounded him and he groaned. His hips jerked. He felt her climb on the bed and when he felt her hot breath and then her wet tongue taste him he almost came off the mattress. If they had not made love the night before he didn’t think he would have lasted through her enthusiastic ministrations. Her uncle’s diaries must be very, very, descriptive!

“Climb on top,” he ordered, panting with the force of his self control.

“Oh,” she said, and then laughed with pure delight-filled anticipation.

Desarae lifted her skirt, spread her legs, and then climbed on top of him. She reached down and guided him to the entrance of her moist, tight sheath. Slowly, oh, so slowly, she lowered herself down onto him, feeling him fill her and fill her until she sat full to capacity with the engorged length of him. Experimentally, she squeezed her muscles around him. When he moaned, she gave a throaty chuckle and massaged him again.

“Oh, luv,” he moaned again.
I could die now,
he thought, sparkling lights exploding behind his eyelids.

Desarae rocked her hips, bringing him in and out of her. He matched her slow rhythm, keeping his hands at his sides, letting her fully control this experience. In a single movement, she ripped her dress over her head, freeing her breasts, which bounced and swayed with each rocking motion. She spread her legs wider each time she thrust down over him. He gasped again and again. He’d never experienced anything like this wild and wanton woman. She reached for his hands and placed them on her breasts. He squeezed them and pulled at the pebbled tips which made her grunt and pant and softly scream. Her actions became abandoned and she lost the rhythm. Trystan clasped her hips and as soon as she found the rhythm again, he eased his hand down between them, and stroked that oh so responsive nub. When she fell forward into his arms, her release causing her to jerk and spasm, he spent himself within her, dizzy and unrestrained and madly free.

“Now, I really must see to my animals,” Desarae said after she lay beside him recovering. “No more distractions,” she ordered, shaking a finger at him. “Have some control.”

“I?” Trystan asked, managing to curl up into a seated position. “You have half-killed me.”

Desarae laughed as she stumbled over to her clothes. “This dress is going to be ruined if we do not take care.”

“
I
never touched it.”

Her gurgle of mirth brought on a huge grin. He glanced out the window again and saw that the fog remained as thick as ever. “We are free to do whatever we wish today,” he suggested, waggling his eyebrows.

She frowned and looked out the window. “Good. Come and put some water on to boil so we can wash.”

“You are a bossy bit of goods,” he teased, rolling over to the bed’s edge and reaching for his trousers.

“Please,” she added tartly, and flounced out of her bedchamber.

The fog lasted two more days. The isle sounded with laughter and shouts of pleasure. Long moments of silence were punctuated by occasional directions, such as, “Lie still.” And, “I am almost finished.” And, “You are such a child.”

“I am not!” Trystan protested, justifiably affronted. “My hip itches.”

Desarae stood back from the easel and glared at him. “Now I have to adjust the draping,” she complained, laying down her charcoal.

“How soon until you are finished?” he asked for the umpteenth dozen time. “I thought sketching was quick.”

“That remark has only revealed your ignorance,” Desarae muttered, leaning over his reclining naked form and moving the sheet so that it resembled the former draped position. “I must do you justice, must I not?”

“I do not know how I let you talk me into this,” he complained.

“I do,” she assured, smirking at him. He reached for her. “No. I am almost finished.”

“That is what you said an hour ago.”

“The light is improving. I do not wish to lose it.”

They both realized what her words meant at the same time. They turned sharply towards the studio’s windows. The fog was clearing. Just then Athena’s furious barking could be heard in the distance.

“Hell!” Trystan swore, throwing back the sheet and reaching for his clothes lying across a bench nearby. He scrambled into the trousers in record time.

“We must hide. Make haste!” Desarae cried, wringing her hands as she watched him button his shirt. “If we leave by the studio door, we can make it to the cider shed before they see us. Where are your shoes?”

“Wait. No.” Trystan ordered. He grabbed her by the shoulders. Her eyes gleamed wildly and her breath came in sharp staccato gulps of air. She tried to wrench herself free but he held her tight. “No. We will not hide. Think, Desarae. You are of age, now. Your grandfather cannot force you to do anything. I will not permit it. If he is here, then so are my men. They are loyal to me. We will protect you.”

“I…I…” she stuttered, her desire to flee obscuring her ability to reason.

“Everything will be all right. You have no cause to fear.” She frowned at this and pressed her lips together in irritation. “Come, we must make ourselves presentable.”

“Very well,” she acquiesced. “But, I am not afraid. If you tell anyone I was afraid I shall deny it.”

“Certainly. Certainly.”

“I will go and change my dress. You greet our guests. It may just be Jim,” she said hopefully, but then, after listening again to Athena’s agitated barking, she added, “But, I think not.”

“Go!”

Chapter Five

T
rystan awaited their arrival on the terrace. The fog lay in lingering wisps curling through the apple orchard and around the ancient Greek statues. As expected Lord Ashburne led the way, striding along the path through the overgrown garden. One gentleman, carrying what appeared to be a bible, followed closely behind. William Lawtey, the
Lady May’s
first mate and Trystan’s close friend, trailed behind, harrying the mincing, sly, Sir Henry Lordling, the Earl’s choice as a husband for his granddaughter. Behind everyone else came Jim, carrying several bundles. Athena romped and barked about the entire group.

“Athena, heel,” Trystan called. She gave a final warning yip and then scampered up to sit beside him.

Lord Ashburne stopped on the terrace a step below the captain. He was a tall, lean old gentleman with white hair oiled and arranged in neat waves swept back from a high, intelligent forehead. “Captain Larabette,” he said heartily. “I am pleased you survived the storm.”

“I am also pleased that the
Lady May
managed to bring you safely into port.”

“Ho, Captain,” William called, taking Sir Henry’s arm and propelling him the last few steps forward until they stood beside Lord Ashburne. “`Tis good to see you alive. I knew the sea would spit you out somewhere.”

“This island attracts half-drowned sailors,” he replied. “Please, come in. Lord Ashburne, your granddaughter will be down soon. She wanted to make herself presentable for you.”

“Excellent, excellent,” the Earl said.

They all gathered in the front room except for Jim, who muttered something about tea and lumbered off giving Trystan a darkling look as he passed.

“This is a fine room,” the Earl said, sweeping the room with his hand. “I had not expected to find it so well appointed.”

“I must sit. I must sit,” Sir Henry mumbled weakly. He reposed himself onto a leather armchair and raised an elegant white hand to his brow while the other pressed his stomach.

“This is most irregular,” the unknown man murmured as if he had made the statement into a mantra.

“Captain, this is Reverend MacLeod, a traveling Presbytery minister visiting from Halifax. I imagine you know why I’ve asked him to attend us?” said the Earl, smiling grimly.

“But, I do not.”

Every eye turned toward the open door. Desarae stood there, straight, proud and magnificent in a pale blue silk gown of simple, Parisian design. An unpretentious knot contained most of her hair though riotous curls had escaped artfully. A red ribbon bound a golden filigree lavaliere around her throat.

“Desarae!” her grandfather cried impulsively. He started forward a step and then stopped short. “You look just like your mother.”

“Thank you, sir. My uncle often stated as much.” Desarae gestured toward the chairs and settee. Her heart fluttered with the fear the sight of her relative engendered in her. “Please, will you not be seated?”

She walked passed Trystan to a chair beside the cold fireplace. “Close your mouth,” she mocked softly. His mouth clamped shut. After she sat down and arranged her skirts becomingly and introductions had been made, Desarae turned to the Earl.

“Grandfather, kindly explain the reason why Reverend MacLeod is here. It is not that I am sorry to see him for I have not spoken with a minister in years.” She paused and nodded regally to the skinny vicar, “We do not yet have a permanent church in Canso of any denomination. However, I am most curious. No one has died, surely?”