Heather Graham - [Camerons Saga - North American Woman 02] (35 page)

“Tell me, did you fall in love with my rogue cousin?”

“Of course not!” she argued, jumping up. “He—he was a pirate. I—I told you—”

“Ah, yes. He was cruel and horrible and forceful. You must despise him terribly.” The same cloud that came to cover the moon dropped enigmatic shadows upon his eyes. He looked up at her curiously. Words caught in her throat. “Of … course.”

He smiled suddenly, reaching out to her. “Come back here. Lie down. It’s comfortable upon the earth, and I will just hold you until morning.”

“I—I—” she stuttered, but she had no choice, for he wound a foot about her ankle and jerked upon it and she came sprawling down to the earth. She sputtered in protest, but he halfway rolled atop her, laughing, and then he pulled her against him upon the soft mosses. “It’s all right,” he said softly. Her head rested upon his shoulder. His hands held her close to his body.
His long hard frame curved around her back, like a living wall of security.

She smiled, curiously thrilled by the words. She didn’t need to face him, and so she closed her eyes.

“Umm,” she murmured. “You were ready to hand me right over to a pirate for being trouble.”

“You are trouble,” he agreed.

She did not dispute him. She closed her eyes, and slept in the wilderness, content to do so with him near.

As daylight came, she dreamed, and yet it was real. There were sun rays breaking through the leaves and trees, and she could hear the tinkle and melody of water.

The lagoon …

She lay by the water, with the Silver Hawk. She could feel the warmth of the sun and breathe the fragrance of the earth.

She could feel her lover’s hands upon her, stirring and provocative as they had always been. She could feel the heat of his breath at her nape and the tender stroke of his fingers over her breasts. She could feel the length of his body, hard and as hot as molten steel.

She lay there in her web of melody and sound and sensation, a dreamer in her distant paradise. His hand shifted, slipping beneath her shirt. His fingers stroked a fantastic dance upon the bare flesh of her thigh, and formed over the soft tender curve of her derriere. She murmured, and she would have turned to him to cast her arms around him, but he held her still. His touch was no longer gentle but demanding as his hands latched firmly upon her hips. Then she gasped, startled by the searing steel rod of his sex thrusting deeply into her. “Shh!” his whisper came to her, and he held her tight. The world erupted into life and vibrance and sweet fury. He moved against her with the force of the wind and waves, with the driving, undaunted tempest of a storm at sea. It swept her by surprise, but it enwrapped her completely in its splendor. It raged within and around her, and it left her crying out softly, reaching for the sunlight, reaching ever higher for a grasp of rapture. It exploded upon her, as sweet as silken drops of sugarcane, filling her limbs, her body, her very center with
warm liquid ecstasy. She trembled and felt him, groaning and shuddering, and holding her fast one last moment as his body surged into hers, seeming to touch the length and breadth of her in one sweep of magic.

Then he fell still. His hand rested upon her naked thigh, exposed beneath her skirts.

She opened her eyes and heard the delicate sound of the brook. She looked up and saw the trees, and she felt his limbs entangled with hers still, the life and pulse of him within her still.…

He withdrew from her, and she felt him adjust his breeches; she felt the buckskin next to her naked rump.

It was no dream.

She turned with fury to face her husband. His eyes were open, lazy silver daggers that touched upon her with satisfaction and pleasure and masculine triumph.

“Oh!” she screamed, wrenching free her skirts from beneath him, struggling and scrambling to her feet to right her clothing. He rested upon an elbow, completely and respectably clad. “How could you!” she sputtered.

The cloud fell over his eyes. “How could I, madame? Indeed, how have I waited this long?”

“But you knew—” She broke off.

“I knew what?”

“You knew that I wanted no part of you!”

“Oh?” His casual air left him as he sprang to his feet, lithe and agile as a cat. His hands upon his hips, he faced her. “I beg your pardon, wife. I did not hear you scream in protest, nor feel your hands upon me in any fight. Would you like to know what I did hear, what I did feel? Just this, milady. Soft sweet moans coming from your lips. The jut and rhythmic sway of your hips against my own. A lush sweet cry of pleasure escaping from your lips.”

“You did—not!” Skye protested furiously.

He arched a brow in stunned surprise. “This was deadly force?”

“Yes!” she cried too quickly. His eyes instantly narrowed and his voice took on the gravel of demand.

“Is this something like the force that the awful and despicable pirate used against you?”

She gasped aloud and stepped forward, slapping with all the strength that she could muster. He allowed her hand to fall across his face, but then he swept her hard against him, threading his fingers into her hair with a cruel grip and setting his lips upon hers with fire and determination. She struggled and squirmed and fought him and he held her still to his pleasure, coercing in his touch as well as demanding, filling her with his fire until it burned between the two of them and she went limp in his arms, lacking the power to fight him any longer.

He broke away from her and his tongue just teased her lips, then his mouth fell against her eyelids in a gentle touch. He lifted her chin and whispered, “The next time, milady, I will make sure that there is no mistaken identity on your part beforehand. The kiss will come first. And you will face me with your eyes open, and you will whisper my name.”

“There will not be a next time!” she cried.

“I say that there will be.”

She shook her head, no longer fighting his hold, but suddenly and fiercely close to tears. “I cannot make you understand!”

“No, you cannot, I fear, my love.”

“Don’t you see!” she demanded desperately, and the tears did spill over her lashes. He frowned, as serious as she, taut and straight with tension. “What?” he demanded.

She wrenched away from him, turning aside, and spoke in a broken whisper. “I will not be able to bear it, and neither should you, if I—if I carried a child now. I would not know if it belonged to the pirate or the lord, and still, sir, I should love it! And you would despise me … don’t you see?” she repeated.

He was silent for a long, long time. She turned at last, and was stunned by the anguish that seemed to touch his features.

The look was quickly gone. He reached out to her, and then his hand fell away. He sighed, then bowed to her.

“Milady, I will not disturb you again,” he said quietly, and then he turned away from her. “Come on. Williamsburg should not be more than a few hours’ walk by daylight.”

XIII

R
oc Cameron paused long enough to drink deeply by the spring, dousing his head in the cold waters. Skye longed to sink within the water, but she did not, sipping it in silence and cooling her heated face with several splashes of it.

He waited for her quietly. The fire had long since died away, but he kicked the scattered ashes, dusted his hat upon his breeches, and proceeded toward the road. She followed him in silence. Even when they came upon the main road, she hovered slightly behind him. Exhaustion seemed to weigh heavily upon her heart. She could not forget the night, or the dark secrets she had given away during the length of it. Nor could she forget the morning. She knew him better than she had known him before, and still she did not know him at all. Perhaps she could escape him still, and perhaps she didn’t really want to escape him at all. He intrigued her, and fascinated her, and he could evoke wild fires within her. If she could just forget the man who had come before him …

But that didn’t matter now. He had admitted that he was
worried about her father, too. They did not head back toward his estate, but hurried along the road to Williamsburg.

She paused to pluck a pebble from her shoe. He waited for her, frowning. “Do I walk too fast?”

She shook her head. “No.” Then she admitted softly, “Perhaps, just a little.”

His dark lashes fell over his eyes for a moment, then he reached for her hand and took it within his own. “We needn’t travel so swiftly,” he said, and started out again. They had not moved far then when he paused once more. She looked at him curiously. “There’s a carriage coming. Mine, I hope.”

It was his carriage. It came around a corner and Skye saw the family crest upon the doors. She looked at Roc and he offered her a rueful smile. “I should hope that they would have come looking for us. I can almost guarantee that Storm followed that mare all way home.”

Perhaps Storm had followed the mare, but now he obediently trailed behind the carriage. Peter sat by the coachman; he leaped down from the driver’s seat as he saw the two of them, his face splitting into a relieved grin. His affection for his master was so apparent that Skye felt her heart warm and shimmer slightly. There was, perhaps, much about the man to draw affection. His voice could ring with steel and he could command with the finest of captains. He was a seaman of worthy measure. He knew his own mind and seemed determined to his own will.

And he was young and striking, with his silver-eyed charm and reckless ways. He could make her laugh, she thought, and he could also make her tremble with excitement and desire.

“Milord, milady! And glad I am to see the two of you!” Peter called out, hurrying to them. “When those horses came back with the dawn, we were deeply worried.”

“No harm done anywhere, Peter,” Roc said. “Minor spills and mishaps, but we’re most heartily glad to see you, too. Peter, we’ve a need to reach Williamsburg, and quickly.”

“Yes, milord.” He opened the door of the lovely teal carriage for them. “Williamsburg, and quickly!” he cried to the driver, who nodded gravely to Roc beneath his low-brimmed hat.

Skye paused, wondering if she hadn’t seen the man before. Then she forgot him as Roc urged her into the carriage with a prodding hand upon her derriere. She moved in quickly and sat, gnawing upon her lower lip. He sat in his own corner, ignoring her then. When she glanced his way, she saw that his eyes were dark and brooding and a finger of fear touched upon her heart. He was worried, too.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him. “Where could Father be?”

“At home, perhaps? Thinking that we should come to him?”

She shook her head. “You know that isn’t so. Where could he be?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

He reached out as if he meant to take her hand and squeeze it with assurance. He stiffened his fingers instead, and his hand fell flat. “We shall see soon enough.”

The carriage stopped in another few minutes and Peter came around to the door. “We’re on the outskirts of the city, sir. Am I to go direct to the governor’s house, or Lord Kinsdale’s?”

“Lord Kinsdale’s,” Skye said over Roc’s shoulder. She glanced his way as he watched her. “Just in case Father is there.”

She parted the drapes as the carriage set to motion again. Her heart leaped. Williamsburg had changed. They were passing the Bruton parish church, and it had been built anew. They turned, and she saw the governor’s mansion, complete now, rising at the end of the broad greenway with grace and elegance.

Children were playing, men were hawking their wares. Slaves were working in the gardens, and upon a pile of bricks before a white house a fifer was idly playing a tune. She sat bolt upright. There, halfway down the street, lay her own home. Two-storied, whitewashed, brick-trimmed, with a picket fence about the small yard.

The coachman knew his way. He drew up before the house. Skye didn’t wait for anyone to come to her. She leaped down from the carriage and tore through the fence, ran up past the steps, past the flower beds, and burst through the doors.

“Father!”

She heard footsteps from the parlor and headed that way. A tall black woman with strong handsome features came hurrying toward her. “Mattie!” she said with pleasure.