Between A Rake And A Hard Place [Pirates of London Book 2] (9 page)

As worried as he was about hurting her, it was exquisite torture for him to try to ease in slowly. Her body was supple in his arms and she was tight and hot and he wanted to plunge deep so badly when he was stopped by her maidenhead that he gritted his teeth and swore softly. “Spread your legs wider and take a breath.”

A small part of his brain was still functioning because even as he pushed through the fragile barrier and embedded himself fully he recognized that this might be the best, or the worst, moment of his life. Her low cry echoed that sentiment, and he kissed her in silent apology.

“That’s the worst of it,” he promised, looking into those violet eyes, the low motion of the ship always in the background. If she had any idea how badly he wanted to move, it might balance out what pain she experienced. He could feel the prickle of perspiration all over his body. “It can’t be done another way.”

“I’m glad it was you.”

That artless comment touched him, and quite frankly, he thought that years ago no one any longer had the ability to accomplish that. Perhaps for that very reason, he had no idea how to respond and so he withdrew a little and sank back in experimentally, watching her face for signs of discomfort. He could break into a royal palace and outrun the world’s most ruthless pirates, but he was not familiar with ruining virgins.

“Tell me if this is painful…I’ve no interest in hurting you.” His weight braced, he cautiously moved again.

The friction was perfection, and it was his turn to close his eyes. Control was his forte, but this particular evening somehow she was in charge. He didn’t even argue the point with the rapture of being inside her finally thrumming through his nerve-endings, his veins; his beating heart.

His heart?

Later, he might contemplate that revelation, but for right now he might just explode at any moment and he didn’t want her to remember the discomfort, but more the ecstasy.

“No, it doesn’t really hurt now, it just feels odd…”

“Let me help.”

If there was something he knew do how to do, it was seduce, and now that the actual deflowering was past he was back on familiar ground, with the lady willing and her small hands pressing the small of his back. “Cassie,” he said persuasively, “just move with me. Your body will know exactly what to do. Take what you want. This isn’t about finesse; it is about desire and pleasure. I don’t know how better to explain it.”

Her smile was endearing and reassured him immeasurably that she was telling her truth about her discomfort. “I’d rather you didn’t try to explain. So far this evening demonstration has worked admirably. Shall we continue the trend?”

Vixen
.

He didn’t realize he’d even said the word aloud until her eyes widened. “Am I?”

“You have no idea.” He leaned down and whispered against her lips. “I am captivated. Entranced. Bewitched. Whatever you wish to call it. At the lady’s request, we shall continue to demonstrate how much.”

He would have been chagrined at how quickly it ended, except she had no one to compare him to, and quite frankly, he thought she enjoyed it as well if the press of her fingernails into his bare shoulders were any indication. The culmination was rather like being tossed off a cliff—which had actually happened to him once—a spiraling descent that had no order and no reason, although this time when he hit the bottom it was to an explosion of pleasure so intense he went rigid for what seemed like a lifetime as he tried to remember how to breathe after he released his seed.

No withdrawal.

Damn him. He’d at least told himself he would do that much to protect her.

Usually he was a very careful man.

Beneath his sprawled body Cassandra reached up and touched his hair. He found the soft, shy caress arousing, which was nearly impossible considering his sated state.

They lay there, intertwined…drifting.

* * * *

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he registered the rocking of the vessel and rose from a semi-doze. It wasn’t the natural gentle roll of the sea; that he knew and knew well. There was no lightning, because the watch would have alerted them, but these could be the worst kinds of storms.

As if to confirm his worst fear, a wave slapped the side of ship hard enough to make it list awkwardly and Cassandra stirred against him, her eyes opening in confused inquiry.

“Rough waters.” He didn’t lie. He rarely ever did. Actually, he
never
lied. It wasn’t worth the effort. They were in for an interesting night if the rising keen of the wind was an indication.

She drowsily closed her eyes again. “What’s happening?”

It could be just a bit of wind, but he had a feeling this might be an even more tempestuous event. “Currents.” He kissed her throat and gathered her into his embrace. “Some wind might cause the vessel to list. I’m right here. Just go back to sleep.”

Her lissome body relaxed again. “This is usual?”

He prevaricated. “It isn’t unusual.”

The single oil lamp rocked dangerously as her lush lashes fluttered, but in a moment she seemed to slide into a sound slumber.

Which was just well, he thought as he eased away and got up to put out the light, because he was fairly sure they were about to be given a demonstration of the power of the elements.

Jerking on his breeches, he let himself quietly out of the cabin, not that it mattered since the wind was beginning to howl like a banshee.

Stepping on to the deck bare-chested, he caught the full blast of a particularly high wave and cursed in colorful language he’d once heard on a street corner in a particularly undesirable neighborhood in Paris.

A passing sailor laughed and went to tame the mainsail, climbing upward like an agile monkey despite the unruly seas as the mast swayed.

Where the hell was Marcus?

In the captain’s quarters he discovered, calmly holding an open bottle of wine but no glass, which was wise considering how the ship was rolling.

His friend proffered the bottle, bracing one foot on the floor while Christopher caught a hold of the doorjamb as the ship tipped sideways. “Well, if it isn’t our resident lovesick swain. Drink?”

“I’m neither lovesick or a swain.” The denial would have been more effective if he hadn’t almost lost his balance as he let go and reached for the wine. He noted the label and said dryly, “Looting my private store I see.”

“I was thoughtfully bringing it to you but then realized that you were too busy to sip this vintage with the proper appreciation it deserves. I hope you don’t regret the decision, my friend.”

“It was a
mutual
decision.” He took a drink and managed to land successfully in a chair.

Marcus gave an inelegant snort. “She’s an idealistic young woman, Chris, and fancies herself in love with her dashing rescuer. I am quite certain she was willing, but I doubt that assurance will assuage the outrage of her noble papa.”

He rather doubted it as well. “I appreciate your concern but I sought you out to ask about the storm. Bad? Is she in danger?”

Marcus’s dark brows went up. “You put her first…interesting. I would think you’d be concerned about your own neck, or perhaps that of your devoted friend who blew up half a palace just to help you—”

“The storm?” he interrupted pointedly, ignoring the amusement in his friend’s tone. “You are more familiar with these waters than I am.”

“It will blow by us quickly.”

Christopher took another long drink and handed the bottle back. “I was hoping to hear that. I need to get back in case she wakes and is frightened.”

“Go and comfort your beautiful damsel and I will console myself with your fine wine. However, since you came seeking my opinion, while this storm will move on, the one you created for yourself this evening might be of typhoon proportions.”

* * * *

Cassandra might have slept on except she was nearly pitched from the bed and woke with an exclamation.

And she was petrified.

Darkness, utter and complete.

She tried to sit up but just then the world shifted, her hands sliding on the sheets. The door opened just in time as she managed to keep from being dumped on the floor, a gust of rain and wind filled the cabin, and then it was warm again as someone joined her in the bed, his arms strong against the pitch of the ship.

“Christopher?”

“Tell me you wouldn’t welcome anyone else like this.” His hand smoothed her bare hip. “It’s a squall, no more.”

She wished she could see his eyes. However impassive he could keep his expression, his eyes were incredibly expressive whether he knew it or not.

He told her, “I’m sorry I cannot light the lamp when the sea is this rough.”

As if to emphasize his point, a particularly unruly blast of wind made the ship shudder. His shoulder was damp but she pressed her face against it anyway, wondering if he could feel how she was trembling.

He could. “It’ll pass,” he murmured, his arms tightening. “I take it you had a smooth voyage over. The first storm at sea is a frightening experience.”

“It was a horrible voyage, smooth or not.” She still remembered her utter confusion over what was happening, her useless pleas to be released, the lack of communication with her warders, and the desolation when she was finally locked in the harem.

And then miraculously, Christopher had appeared, resourceful and daring, and she had instantly trusted him.

She had certainly trusted him earlier. In the darkness he couldn’t see her blush over the outrageous things he’d done to her. She was still nude, and he held her so closely her bare breasts were erotically pressed against his hard chest.

What would happen when they docked in England? No doubt he would find someone suitable as a chaperone and arrange to have her delivered back to her father and she would never see him again.

It was impractical to hope for anything more and he certainly had never mentioned he was interested in a courtship. He did not seem like the kind of man who would be content living the idle life of a gentleman anyway.

“I think it is passing, just as Marcus predicted. He has sailed these waters often.”

It was true, the sound of the wind wasn’t nearly as fierce and the vessel wasn’t pitching quite as much.

“Now then”—his voice was smooth—“since the excitement is dying down and you are conveniently awake and naked in my arms, may I persuade you to consider a second demonstration of how irresistible I find your considerable charms?”

He could, she discovered, be very persuasive indeed.

Chapter 9

The club was crowded this particular evening, the hum of voices and clink of glasses being refilled familiar, and Beau would have been relaxed and enjoying the convivial atmosphere if it wasn’t for the rising irritation he felt over his companions’ choice of the topic for their conversation.

“Lady Hannah is not as beautiful as her sister, of course, but she is still quite attractive.”

“Very.” Barston’s son, just out of Cambridge, agreed and took an appreciative sip from his glass.

“Didn’t marry last season. Wonder why.”

“Turned down quite a few offers, as I understand it. She refused that Italian count, remember? He couldn’t take his eyes off her bosom. I often have that trouble myself in her presence.”

“I agree.” Sir Garrett nodded sagely. “She certainly has a very nice pair of—”

“Don’t say it.” The interruption was lethally vehement. Beau didn’t even realize he was scowling until he saw the other three men at the table exchange glances.

Hastily, Sir Garrett said, “I was going to say eyes, Auberville.”

Considering the opulence of Hannah’s lovely figure, Beau sincerely doubted that, but he was startled enough by his reaction that he didn’t press the matter. Of course other men admired her.
He
admired her, and in his opinion, she was every bit as lovely as the missing Lady Cassandra.

“Out of respect for the lady and to preserve your own good health, I suggest you move on to a different topic when in my presence. Understand?”

“It must be true then. Didn’t know you and she…er…that is…I’ve heard you call on her, of course, but word has it…”

Finishing his drink in one long swallow, he rose. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

A few moments later he was in his carriage, sprawled on the seat in a careless pose, moodily contemplating the tips of his polished Hessians. He hadn’t called on her in over a week and wasn’t sure why he was avoiding it.

Avoiding her.

Well, not true. He knew exactly why if he was honest with himself, and though he was rarely forthcoming with anyone else, he tried to keep his personal perspective clear and unfettered by illusion.

Her request had disordered his world. He, who could pretend anything, found detachment difficult.

The facts were simple. He desired her, but he didn’t want to marry at this time in his life. Out of duty to his title he would have to wed someday, that he acknowledged, but he was only thirty, blast it.

Besides, his somewhat unusual occupation might go unnoticed by the average empty-headed young debutante, but not by Hannah. Already he could tell she sensed he was more than an indifferent dilettante when it came to political intrigue and he really didn’t want to reveal more. For one thing, his little hobby was dangerous and he refused to drag her into it.

On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to call. Since her sister’s disappearance she had stopped attending most social events, so the odds were in his favor she would be home.

A simple call. Out of courtesy, and he had given his word to feign a romantic interest.

He rapped on the panel, gave his driver new instructions and arrived at the fashionable Mayfair address at what was probably not a very acceptable hour for a social visit, but not that late by
ton
standards. Lady Hannah, he was informed by the earl’s butler, was still awake and in the library.

“No need to announce me,” he said casually, stripping off his gloves. “I will just join her there.”

“Yes, my lord. Of course. I am sure she will be pleased to see you.”