A Pirate's Wife for Me (3 page)

Damn him. He remembered all the tender places. The places that made her want to turn into his arms and welcome him between her legs.

"Stop that!" She knew it was useless, but she tried to climb out from under him. The sheets and blankets slipped free from the mattress, sliding toward her. Wisps of her hair came loose from her chignon and fell around her face.

He picked up one and slid it between his fingers. "You cut your hair." He had the nerve to sound hurt, as if she'd done it to spite him. "How could you cut your hair?"

"With scissors." Her breath rasped in her lungs. "I will never, ever open my door to you again," she said. "Never. I swear it."

"Your door." He chuckled and pressed his knee between hers. "I promise, you will open your door to me." His voice grew husky. "Caitlin. Dear God, Caitlin, how I've missed you."

He'd lost that undercurrent of amusement which so annoyed her, and he sounded … intense. Appealing. So much like the lad who she'd loved that, for one moment, she was swept back to the days when every breath she took, she took for him.

No. She would not fall into that trap again.

"Don't," he said. "Don't think of the old days. Think of
now."

Now, when she hadn't experienced the weight of a strong, healthy man atop her for nine long years. When the way he held here recalled the dreams that had haunted her and given her the only pleasure she ever dared take. His thigh pressed against her bottom. He thrust against her as if trying to ease the eagerness of his erection, and deep inside, desire spread its undeniable dampness.

"Think of you and me." His lips moved against her cheek. "You and me, alone with nothing more important than to live for this moment."

"Don't!" Her voice grew from a whisper. "I'm not one of your men. This mission is going to succeed, and I'm going to go on to another mission, another success."

He stopped kissing her. He laid his head next to hers, so close his breath touched her lips. "Tell me, darlin'." His cheek stroked hers. "What does Kiernan think about you working for Throckmorton … as a spy?"

He sounded calm, but her heartbeat picked up. Amazing how he could make her feel uneasy. "Kiernan knows what my life has been since my disgrace. He knows how I've searched for a way to give my life meaning." She stared straight ahead, ignoring the man above her. "Now I've found it."

Taran wouldn't allow her to distance herself from him. Of course not. He flipped her over to face him, imprisoned her hands, sprawled atop her again. "You must be jesting. You're a gently bred female, the daughter of a Scottish laird. You can't really be a spy for the English."

If she hadn't been in such an untenable position … if he hadn't been imprisoning her hands … if his scent didn't fill her nostrils … she would have rejoiced to see him so incredulous. "Do you think Mr. Throckmorton would send me as a jest? I am a spy."

"This is an aberration. A lark!" He stared down at her, his gray eyes hypnotic with conviction. "You can't possibly plan to make a career of this."

She stared back at him, strengthened by her own fervor. "Just like you, Taran Tamson."

"Like me? You've got it wrong."

"Then tell me how it is." She smiled, mocking him with her refinement. "Enlighten me, oh most mercenary of pirates."

"I'm not going to be a spy forever. I'm going to—" He shook his head, as if he couldn't believe their dispute. Yet he had to know she was serious. He did know she was serious, for he muttered, "Reason never worked with you."

And he kissed her. Kissed her with all the passion and warmth of summers long gone. On his lips, she tasted the sweetness of cherries, the freshness of the wind, the joy of first love. Her eyes filled with tears at the delight of having a male body – his male body – atop of hers once more.

Was she so susceptible to his touch, his concern, the history they shared? Apparently so, for her body warmed and softened. Desire arrived, fresh as the spring grass where they'd lain to consummate their union. All those old feelings of sensual pleasure and anxious longing flooded back, and with them the physical symptoms. Her fingers wanted nothing so much as to seek the hard planes of his chest and find the long-forgotten nipples that lay hidden in the rough curls of hair. Her breasts grew swollen and tender, and she moved beneath him, trying to ease the ache.

Yet no matter how much he coaxed, she wouldn't allow his tongue in her mouth. She'd learned hard lessons, and she wouldn't be used again. Now she lived for herself and her family, and her family … for her brother.

Oh, Kiernan.

Pain swept her. She whimpered.

"What?" Taran whispered against her lips. "Tell me what's wrong."

She would not. Years ago, he'd lost the right to comfort her. But she did want surcease from anguish. "You owe me," she muttered.

"Aye, but what's wrong?"

She pressed her mouth to his. She kissed him, slipping her tongue between his lips. Questions forgotten, he opened for her. That was how it should be. He had no right to question her about her pain, her joy, her sorrow. She explored the sweet cavern of his mouth, and his tongue twined around hers, a sweet struggle for supremacy.

Neither won.

Both won.

She struggled against his grip, but only because she wanted to run her fingers through the feather-soft length of his hair.

His beard softly rubbed against her chin, a new sensation both irritating and thrilling. He was a new man, harder, stronger, more dangerous, yet at the same time she recognized his body, his scent … his being. He gave to her with a passion that filled the empty hollows of her soul.

How could she have forgotten? They were lovers, bodies singing in tune: pleasure and pain, joy and sorrow.

His hands slid up her arms to her body, smoothing the black bombazine and delighting the flesh beneath it. Free to touch him at last, she caressed his cheek with the backs of her knuckles, and allowed him to press kisses on her palms. The caress of his lips, the brief, erotic touch of his tongue, made her gasp and sigh with enchantment.

His eyes flashed, alight with eager passion. Impatience pulled at the hollows of his cheeks and lit his tanned skin with a faint glow. That face, the one she had loved so long ago, had matured to a masculine beauty that made her throat grow tight.

She moved restlessly beneath his weight, wanting more, always more. A familiar longing, yet made different with the passage of time. Lifting himself, he looked into her face, then down at her breasts straining against the black fabric that covered them. "You are so beautiful." He brushed his palms against her nipples.

She hadn't been touched like this so long. She was starved for pleasure.

He fed her with his eagerness and his skill. He opened the top button of her bodice and petted the hollow of her throat. "Like the finest silk from China," he muttered hoarsely. He opened another button, and another, revealing her chest, the beginning of her chemise, her corset …

No warning bells rang in her mind. Her flesh was starved for him, and she fed on his touch without thought. Experience assured her he would bring her pleasure, and she sought pleasure ruthlessly. She clutched his shoulders, taking joy in the width of them, the heavy muscles that layered his arms and weighed her down. He kissed her flesh with slow, languorous strokes, tasting her skin at each stop, moving ever closer to her breasts. Her nipples beaded with anticipation; soon, so soon, he would suckle with all the purpose of a man bent on gratification. His … and hers.

He drew back the light cotton of her chemise. He gazed on her with all the power of a conqueror. He reached with his fingers, circled her nipple, touched the tip lightly with his callused thumb.

Pleasure struck like lightning. She arched up, flung her hands out…

She touched the hard metal of cold reality.

The pistol.
When she tore at the sheets in her futile effort to get away, she had pulled the pillow toward her, and beneath it rested her salvation.
Her pistol.
A chill worked its way up her spine. She shuddered as odious deliberation worked its way through the haze of sensation.

She'd put that pistol there to defend herself. Defend herself from men like Taran.

What was she doing?
Yes, if she made love with him, she would feel better … while it was happening.

Afterward … oh, heavens, afterward! How could she have forgotten? Afterward, he would laugh and be off, once again leaving her in the wreck of her dreams.

No. Never again.
Before she could entertain second thoughts, she smacked his temple with her elbow.

With a roar, he clutched his head.

Shoving him off her, she rolled to her feet and out of his reach. She ran backward toward the window. She raised the pistol. It shook in her hand, but she pointed the barrel at his chest and in a level voice, said, "Get out of my room."

He bounded up, still holding his throbbing temple. "What the hell did you do that for?" Seeing the gun, he stopped, swaying. "Where did you get that?"

"From under the pillow." She supported her firing hand with the other. "I want you out of my room."

"Are you joking? A minute ago you wanted me. In fact" – his gaze sharpened as he looked at her bosom, displayed like a shopkeeper's goods – "in fact you still want me."

All the wispy remnants of pleasure dispersed under his scrutiny and his sarcasm. "You know I know how to use this. Get out of my room and don't ever come back."

"You don't mean that." He started walking toward her slowly, speaking in the soft tones of a wild animal trapper. "You love me. You've always loved me."

The room wasn't big enough for the two of them. The world wasn't big enough for the two of them. She steadied the gun, aimed it. "Don't make me do this."

"Caitlin, darlin' …" He moved closer. His eyes gleamed.

She knew that expression. He wasn't going to stop.

So she pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER FOUR

The blast spun Taran around.
The bullet ripped through his right upper arm, barely missing the bone. Blood blossomed. He yelled as he hit the floor, tumbled sideways, and held the wound as if he suffered in agony.

As Cate supposed he was. "I did not enjoy that, but I hope this taught you a lesson on the futility of wagering with me while I hold a firearm."

He writhed on the floor.

Damn him. Why had he forced her to take such drastic action? If he'd endangered the mission, she would personally tear him limb from limb. Or at least complain severely to the Home Office. With deadly calm she walked to the door and opened it. "I want you out of here. Now."

Taran stared out the door. The flush drained from his face, leaving it the color of parchment. His lips moved, although Cate didn't know what he said.

She didn't care. She wanted him to leave her alone to face the ugly truth … that she still wanted this smug, lying, despicable pirate who had loved and abandoned her. Gesturing toward the corridor, she said, "Out."

She watched as he lurched to his feet. Saw that he wasn't watching her, but stared outside the door. Turned to look…

A woman of perhaps fifty years stood beside Cate's trunk. She was short and plump, with a round face lined by harsh experience, and a head of snowy white hair crowned with a dowager's lace cap. The style of her plain black clothing echoed Cate's, but while Cate's was a hardy bombazine traveling outfit, this lady's dress was a finer, newer mixture of worsted and silk called barathea. She wore a double strand of pearls in an old-fashioned twist, and the clasp of silver and tiny diamonds sat at the side of her sagging throat. She carried in her slight form a dignity and authority that made Cate gulp and Taran … goodness, Taran was blushing.

Cate fumbled to cover herself.

The lady stared at Taran, her mouth a grim line. With a distinguished French accent and in a tone of ominous fury, she snapped, "I heard the gunshot and rushed down in fear and trembling … and what a sight meets my eyes! You are here, in a young lady's bedchamber, and by the manner in which she is clothed or unclothed and clutching that pistol, and you are clutching your shoulder, I would have to say you are unwelcome." Her gaze flicked to the rumpled bed. "Taran, what have you done?"

"Made a tactical error," he admitted.

"Such a mistake could get you killed." Sweeping in, she walked to where he stood, swaying. "You're not badly injured," she stated in a manner so decided Cate thought his bleeding would cease.

"No, ma'am. Caitlin is a crack shot." His lips were white. He held his arm, and blood seeped through his fingers. "She chose not to hurt me badly."

Eyes narrowed, the lady looked Cate over, and such was the strength of her pale blue gaze that Cate found herself making an explanation. "I shot him in his right shoulder because he's left-handed. I didn't want to incapacitate him."

"Why not, young lady?"

"Because he's –" She looked to Taran for guidance.

"Because I'm the Cap'n," Taran said. "She
knows
. Caitlin is the picklock we've been waiting for."