A Scandal to Remember (36 page)

He closed his eyes to shut the thought away, but the image rose, and grew to include more and more of her—pale, pink shadowed skin under her breasts tapering down to her waist, and flaring again over the smooth, round curve of her hips down across her soft belly.

She must have read his intent in his face, because by the time he opened his eyes, Jane had colored a vivid shade of sunset pink that painted a swath across her cheeks and neck, and she had pulled her foot back under the cover of her skirts. “No. Never mind that. Finish your supper before it gets cold.”

It was surprisingly good. Meaty and smoky tasting from the fire. Much better than he had thought. Which brought another thought about something he had overlooked—the fire. “How did you start the fire?”

“I packed a tinderbox with a fire steel and flint,” she said as if it would have been unthinkable for her to do otherwise. “I had planned to do this—to stay put in a camp to work and collect my shells while the rest of the expedition moved about, making maps and charts and finding new islands with new peoples and fauna to study.”

Again, he had not thought of the particulars of the expedition’s study. But it was clear that she had thought of little else. Remarkable.

He ran another compliment up her masthead. “You are taking this all remarkably well. I don’t know another lady who would be so sanguine about being shipwrecked on a deserted island with me.”

“Oh, you’re not so bad, now that you’ve stopped being all disgruntled, sea captainy. Unprepared as you are, I expect you’ll prove to be a smart, handy fellow to have around.” Her eyes sparkled with mischievous pleasure. “I reckon, once you find your feet, you’ll do well enough.”

She was teasing him. And doing a very good job of it.

He turned to survey the small but well-defined area of her temporary camp—and it was clearly
her
camp. He had had nothing to do with its provision, its location, or its construction—he had bloody well
slept
while she had done it all. It was as neat and tidy and organized as she had made the captain’s day cabin. “Damn my eyes, but you really ought to have been a quartermaster—I am quite in awe of your practical planning abilities.”

“Well, I did not think of everything. I packed a great deal of things for shade, but not very much for warmth. I had thought that once we got to the islands that it would be a great deal warmer.”

“So had I.” He looked up at the deep purple sky. While the temperature was certainly warmer than it had been rounding Cape Horn, it was certainly much cooler than he might have thought. “I can only think that I’ve made an error in my navigation, and that we are much farther south than I had thought.”

But that still didn’t explain the strangely overcast skies. “In all my years of sailing I’ve made two trips into the Pacific, and I’ve never seen the like. It’s as if we’ve brought the weather from England with us.”

“Yes. And though I did pack good English wool in my trunks, with the exception of my cloak and what I am wearing, what little I had in the way of warm clothes went down with the ship. Which is why I thought it best to remove ourselves to that much more protected spot on the larger island.”

“Yes, we’ll do that tomorrow.” It was too late in the evening now to think of such an undertaking. And though he had slept the day through like a newborn baby, he felt as if he were sailing against the tide. And she, who had clearly toiled all through the day while he slept, was tiring as night darkened everything but the small circle of light around her fire.

But her talk of being cold gave him at least one task he could do for her. “Speaking of your cloak, I’ll collect it, if it’s still in the pinnace with mine. I want to have another look at the boat while there is still some light, and I’ll collect more fuel for the fire.”

“Yes, thank you.”

There had been some scattered bits of driftwood at the high-tide mark all along the beach, and there was bound to be some fallen timber of a sort in the scrub covering the low hump of the island. But what he really needed was to move, to feel like he was doing something to contribute to their upkeep.

He headed back for the boat, dragging it higher on the sand, well above the high-tide mark, and retrieving his coat and logbook, and her cloak, all the while cursing himself for feeling so entirely out of sorts in the face of Jane’s enormous competence.

Her flint. Her fire. Her tarpaulins. Her lobster for dinner.

Not for the first time in his life, Dance felt entirely extraneous. And he didn’t like it one bit. But he did what he always did—he carried on. He moved a few more small, well-packed crates from the pinnace. He thought about ways to repair the cracked keel. He made an unobtrusive pallet on the sand from a tarpaulin and his uniform coat, and their cloaks. And he waited for her to fall asleep.

Because he had known what he was doing when she had been in his arms. He had felt useful and strong then. He had slept better when he had been touching her, when he could personally account for her safety. But with her sitting in the sand on the other side of the small fire, he was everything on watch, alert and searching the endless dark around them for dangers.

But he didn’t like to be away from her for too long. And when he returned to her camp with his last load of driftwood, she had already nodded off in front of the fire, with her head on her knees, asleep where she sat. “Jane? Are you asleep?”

“No.” She almost opened her eyes.

“Yes,” he countered gently, and eased her into his arms, and settled them on the soft pallet, with his back propped against the horizontal trunk of a palm tree, and her settled firmly against his chest.

And thought that perhaps she was right. Perhaps this place was Eden, because this—holding this woman in his arms—was indeed bliss.

*   *   *

Jane awoke to find herself wrapped in the woolen warmth of her cloak, and held securely against Dance’s chest, as tucked in and warm as if she were still in her bed at home. But her bed at home had never contained a man. But sleeping with Dance was a marvelous improvement on her years of being alone in her narrow bed. He radiated lulling warmth, and his chest was a marvelously comfortable place to be. And since his arms were wrapped tight around her, it appeared he thought it a marvelous thing as well.

In fact, one of his arms was around her waist, his hand pressed flat against her belly, while the other hand was curved along her rib cage, just under her breast.

The moment she made the realization, awareness swept through her, unleashing a flood of dark, forbidden thoughts. He had held her like this in the boat, and warmed her then with his clever fingers and erotic murmurings.

Beneath the salt-stiffened confines of her clothing, her nipples contracted into tight, needy buds. She knew what it was, this awareness, this want. She was six and twenty, and not some wide-eyed young girl fresh from the schoolroom. She had lain awake at night in her narrow bed at home feeling the pulsating hum and rhythm of her body, and wondering what it would feel like—a lover’s touch.

And now she knew—it was almost bliss.

It had been bliss, before, in the boat. And she wanted those feelings, that glorious bliss again. But she could not bring herself to tell him so, though it was ridiculous to feel awkward with Dance—she had slept for nights and nights upon his shoulder. And chest. And because he had brought her to unimagined ecstasy. And because he had held her as if she were precious.

It had seemed natural then—something he did in order to help her survive the shipwreck, and the trial of staying alive in the boat. It was only natural that they should have clung to each other in that situation.

But things were different now. There was fruit and water and a fire on which they could cook their food. Their survival was assured—for the short term anyway. Yet there was only the two of them, alone together at what felt like the end of the world. So why should she not take comfort in his presence? Why should she not learn what it was like to fully be a woman?

She could not keep herself from moving to try and ease the discomfort of her strange and inappropriate arousal. But doing so made his hands tighten around her. His palm flexed and pressed against the slight swell of her belly, but she felt the motion deep inside. The pang of want spread until she had to close her eyes to hold it in.

She indulged herself in the heady luxury of being held safe in his arms, without contemplating how she had arrived there, or when, or how she was going to extricate herself before she went up in flames.

She drew in a long, deep breath to savor the lime and salt scent of him. Her movement didn’t wake him, but it disturbed him enough so that he shifted, taking her with him as he rolled onto his side, snugging up tight to her from behind. He pulled her back against his chest and his thighs. He was everywhere around her, enveloping her in warmth, protecting her with his body.

And doing other things as well. His fingers flexed lightly against her belly as if he were still truly asleep, and simply making himself comfortable. But he was making her something more than comfortable—his sleepy, offhand caress was sending wave after gentle wave of pleasure lapping through her body, until she could think of nothing else. Until all her concentration was centered on the next fraction of an inch his fingers might stray to left or right. Or up or down.

Oh, sweet heaven. Down.

And as if he had actually heard her most secret longings, his fingers fanned out, low across her belly, kindling a low fire within, before his hand swept higher, skimming across the bones of her stays before it came to rest on her breast.

Jane wanted to look at him, to be able to gaze and marvel at his rugged handsomeness like a schoolgirl while he was still asleep, and could not scowl at her with his own stony, probing gaze. She shifted slowly, so as not to disturb him, but when she had turned, she found him wide awake, though those green eyes were slitty with sleep. And pleasure. “Kiss me.”

“Dance.” She gave herself willingly to the irresistible lure of his lips, to the voluptuous pleasure of his sweet, lazy kisses, sending her tongue to swirl and waltz with his, sucking lightly at his taut lower lip, and feeling the pleasure blossom up from deep within her.

And she wanted more. She wanted to touch him. To run her hand up the corded tendons at the side of his neck, and slide her fingers through his short-cropped hair. She wanted to feel the warm bliss of his skin against hers.

She slipped her hand inside the open neck of his shirt to press her palm flat against his chest, and he made a sound of acquiescence and encouragement that soothed and enflamed, and made her all the more curious. So she kissed the corner of his mouth, and the rough line of his jaw, and the smoother side of his cheek above his rough beard. She put her lips to the hollow of his throat, and tasted the salt on his skin, and felt the strong steady beat of the pulse pumping through his veins.

He was everything sure and steady. Everything she could depend upon. Everything she could love.

And he kissed her back, pressing his clever lips to places she had never thought about—the corner of her shoulder, the thin, sensitive skin over her breast bone. His hand flexed and the tips of his fingers flared low between her hip bones, and her insides clenched into a tight needy burst of pure, instinctive want, sending a shivery sensation rippling across the surface of her skin despite his warmth.

“Shh.” It was more of a sound than a word—the whispered reassurance hummed in her ear. But his hand retreated. And then moved higher. And all trace of lazy sleepiness was gone when his hand took possession of her breast with unmistakeable intent.

“Yes,” she said, in case he should be in any doubt, and think to take his hand away.

“Yes,” he affirmed, and rewarded her boldness by fondling her more firmly, brushing his callused fingers back and forth across the fabric of her bodice until her nipple had budded into a tight, needy peak.

Oh, heaven. It was glorious. It was bliss.

It was not nearly enough.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” he whispered as he played his lips along the sensitive skin at the side of her neck.

“You have no idea how long I have wanted you to.”

Her whispered words seemed to prompt him into greater action. He rolled her onto her back, and rose above her, pulling her bodice down so he could take the pale pink flesh of her nipple between his lips and suck and lave her until she thought she would float away on the flood of pleasurable need.

Jane closed her eyes, and surrendered to the pleasure arcing through her, making her arch her back, and press herself into the sweet pressure of his clever, clever hands and mouth. Showing him what she wanted. Hoping he would do more. Bring her more of the delicious, needy pleasure.

He made another low sound of encouragement and approval that hummed and insinuated itself under her heated skin, and fed the sly hunger that only seemed to grow instead of being appeased. He turned his attention to her other breast, lavishing her with his attention, taking her aching nipple between his strong white teeth and biting down ever so gently.

Her breathing fractured into a gasp, and Jane could not stop the sound of inarticulate longing that flew from her lips, but she was rewarded by the low hum of satisfaction that came from his as he wound her higher and higher with every delicious stroke of his tongue across her heated skin.

And then his clever fingers were at the buttons at the back of her worn, salt-stained gown.

“Yes.” She twisted away from him to give him access and help the process along.

And when he peeled the gown over her head, she immediately turned her attention to loosening her front lacing stays. She wanted to be rid of them, free and unbound. She wanted to feel his skin—his golden, glowing, warm skin—flush against hers.

“How practical you are.” His voice was a teasing growl while his clever fingers helped pull the laces away.

She didn’t care if he were teasing her. “Very,” she breathed. It was true—she had always valued practicality over fashion so she could dress herself without assistance. And she didn’t need any assistance now, quickly unlacing the short stays, and pushing them away so Dance could practice more of the practical magic of his mouth and hands.