More Than You Know (19 page)

His eyes on that smile, Rand turned so he was under her. Claire pushed at his shoulders and sat up. She found his wrists and drew his hands to his sides. She didn't tell him not to move, but his stillness, except for the movements he couldn't help, was exactly what she wanted. Claire pulled the tails of his shirt free of his trousers. She finished unbuttoning it and spread the material open. Her palms crossed his chest from the flat of his abdomen to the base of his throat. Her fingers traced his collarbones and learned again the breadth of his shoulders. She felt the defining tautness of the muscles of his arms and the ridged plane of his chest. Beneath her hand, Claire felt the steady beat of his heart.

After a moment, her hand moved lower.

Claire felt along the waistband of his trousers. She felt him suck in his breath when her fingers dipped under the material. Leaning forward, her hair a dark curtain on either side of her face, Claire kissed Rand at the base of his throat. His pulse was unsteadier now, his breathing a little ragged. Through the material stretched tautly across his groin, Claire's knuckles brushed the rigid length of him.

At his sides Rand's fingers curled into fists. He watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Claire levered herself upward again, and this time moved farther down the bed.

She tugged on his boots, first the left, then the right. He started to help her, but she felt him rising and waved him to lie back again. There was a certain unexpected pleasure, she thought, in this role of handmaiden, undressing him while she remained fully clothed, moving over him while he did not move at all. One boot thumped to the floor. Then the other.

Claire removed Rand's thick socks before she stretched over him. For a moment, as her body unfolded sinuously across his, the cleft of Claire's breasts held the rigid outline of his penis. Only his soft groan gave her pause. She raised her head as if to search his face, but it was her fingers that did this work. Claire touched his forehead, the plane of his scarred cheek. She brushed his eyelashes and knew that he was watching her and that his eyes would be intense. Her thumb passed across his lips. There was no smile there, but a tension instead. Beneath her fingers she felt the cost of his self-denial in the shape of his mouth and the tightness of his skin.

She replaced her fingers with her own lips. He let her press the kiss, control its desire and its depth. Between them her hands fumbled with the buttons of his trousers. The only assistance he offered was to lift his hips. Claire broke the kiss long enough to remove his trousers and drawers. When she returned her attention to his mouth, she was his covering.

She liked that he let her do as she wanted, that the exploration was at her instigation and leisure, but in time it wasn't enough. Her breasts were tender, and between her thighs, where she was warm and damp, there was also a hollow ache. It was as if in learning the planes and angles of Rand's body, she became more intimately aware of her own.

Claire's mouth lifted. Her breathing was uneven and in her chest her heart hammered. “Please,” she said.

The single word was enough. He knew.

Rand grasped Claire at the waist as though to steady both of them. His hands slid to her bottom and he cupped her in his palms, urging her to bear down on him. Her petticoats and gown did not seem so substantial a barrier now. He began to unfasten the tiny buttons at the back of her gown. It required only six to be released before Rand was able to spread the neckline over her shoulders.

The thin lawn straps of Claire's chemise were eased lower. He searched for the strings to her corset and discovered she wasn't wearing one. Rand found he still had the capacity to smile, although this one was brief and vaguely wicked. He caught her by the back of the neck, his fingers threading deeply into her thick hair, and kissed her hard.

His tongue swept her mouth and this time sweet battle was engaged. He turned, bringing Claire under him now, and pressed his advantage. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, and closed her eyes with the touch of his lips. His hands slid under her bodice and lifted her breasts. First it was the rough edge of his fingers that flicked over her nipples, then it was the rough edge of his tongue.

Claire's neck arched. Her response surrendered the slim stem of her throat to him. Rand kissed her there, sipping on her skin, taking in her heady fragrance as if he could absorb her through his mouth and fingertips. She made a small sound that was part submission, part encouragement, as his mouth closed over her breast again. Her hands cradled his head, her fingers tightening when she felt the first hot suck of his mouth.

Rand raised Claire's gown and petticoats to her knees. She squirmed under him as he pulled on her drawers. They joined all of his clothes on the floor beside the bed.

Rand sat up long enough to remove Claire's shoes. His fingers traced a path from the arch of her foot, over her calf, to just above her knee, where her smooth stocking gave way to even silkier flesh. He bent his head and kissed her inner thigh. The scent of her was musky and her skin was warm. He left her skirt and petticoats bunched around her thighs, and lay across her again, this time levering his weight with his elbows. Her hips moved under him as if she resented the restraint of her clothes.

Slipping his hands under her back, Rand tugged at another button, then another, and Claire was finally able to pull her arms free of her gown. They closed around the small of his back. Her index fingers pressed the dimples at the base of his spine. She heard him groan when, as if against his will, he ground his hips against the cleft of her thighs. She palmed his buttocks.

"It's all right,” she whispered. “I'm not afraid."

Rand couldn't say the same. She seemed so small under him, every line of her body as supple and slim as a willow whip, but somehow more fragile. “I'm going to hurt you,” he said thickly.

"I know.” But she did not think they were talking about quite the same thing. She raised her knees on either side of his hips. One of her hands drifted away from his buttocks and slipped between their bodies. She was prepared for the length and thickness of him this time. She was prepared for the catch in his breath as her fingers curled around him. What Claire was not prepared for was the pressure she felt at his entry.

She tensed, breathing shallowly. Her hands returned to his shoulders, and this time her fingers dug deeply into his flesh. She sensed that he was holding himself back, waiting for her. She nodded slowly and he pushed again, this time deeply and swiftly, covering her mouth with his own so that he absorbed her cry of pain.

Claire's fingers eased their grip. Rand's kiss was sweet now, languorous, as if they shared nothing but time. She felt herself stretching inside and out to accommodate him. He did not urge her to this end but let her arrive at it on her own. Except for the movement of his mouth over hers, he was still.

Claire's hands slid to his neck. Her thumbs brushed the underside of Rand's jaw. She pushed gently, raising his head and ending the kiss. “No matter what you think,” she said thickly, “I won't break.” It was Claire's body that surged upward. Beneath her fingertips she felt the cords of Rand's neck tighten first, then the entire length of his body.

He moved in her, over her. His first withdrawal took her breath away, and his thrust gave it back. She was not so different than the sails overhead, she thought, unfurling in a following wind. Rand filled her, pressed her, and the response of her body, arching and sighing, defined his presence, his very existence.

It was as if she were standing on deck again with Rand behind her, holding her while she held the clipper's wheel. There had been exhilaration then, an unfettered joy that was not so different from what she felt now. What had changed was how it came over her, not in a rush, but slowly, in increments, so that she seized each bit of pleasure and guarded it selfishly, giving it up only when it was replaced by a fuller, richer version of itself.

In this way she opened to Rand, surrendering herself, if not to him, then to what he could make her feel. In the end the distinction blurred.

Claire's fingers curled in the coverlet under her. Her breasts were faintly swollen, the aureoles flushed darker than rose, the nipples engorged and erect. They scraped against Rand's chest as he moved. His breath was hot against the curve of her neck. Their bodies rocked, the intimate rhythm underscored by the pitch and roll of
Cerberus.

Claire felt the tempo of Rand's thrusts change. He seemed to struggle against it, fighting the quick and shallow movements. The words he whispered against her ear were mostly incoherent, but the tenor of them was angry. Instinctively she soothed him, running her hands along his back. She was whispering his name when his entire body stiffened and he cried out. Claire felt the tremor of his muscles as he spilled his seed into her. She held him, hardly daring to breathe as his own ragged breathing quieted.

She felt strangely tense, uncertain. “Rand?"

He levered himself away from her and turned on his side. “Shhh,” he whispered. Cupping the side of her face, Rand kissed her. Then, without breaking the kiss, his fingers laid a trail from her cheek to her thighs.

Claire's legs closed at the first touch of his hand. Rand waited, his palm rubbing the length of her thigh. He raised his head a fraction and said against her mouth, “Open for me, Claire."

The words tickled her lips and tripped down her spine. Her small shudder was a prelude. When Rand's fingers slipped between her parted thighs, he touched off a fire-storm. Stroking her intimately, he forced her to give up all the tension and pleasure she had been hoarding in equal measure. Her skin was like liquid velvet under his fingers, damp and warm. When her body arched, it was as if he controlled the single nerve that could pull her taut and create a slipstream of pleasure in her rushing blood.

Now it was Claire who cried out as Rand brought her to the very brink and pushed her over. She groped for him, needing to find his solid frame as her dark world melted. At first she could not hear him clearly, deaf to everything but the roar of her own blood, but then she felt his mouth close to her ear and felt his breath against her skin. She was not afraid. She was not alone.

He said her name. “Claire. Look at me.” Rand found her wrist and lifted her fingers to his face.

She explored his features with her fingertips. The tension was absent from the line of his jaw. The muscle no longer worked in his cheek. She brushed his lips and relearned the shape of his mouth when it was relaxed. A smile hovered at the corners. Her own was tentatively offered.

"You can show more pleasure than that,” he said. “You did a moment ago."

Claire's capacity to blush had not changed. She felt the heat creep into her cheeks. Her hand dropped away from his face and she pushed at the gown self-consciously, covering her legs. Smiling to himself, Rand lifted the neckline of her bodice and chemise over her breasts. His hand lingered on the high curves even after they were modestly hidden from his view.

"Better?” he asked.

"Hmmm.” She turned slightly, curling into him. Claire rested her hand on his hip. “You don't mind being naked?"

"As long as you don't take advantage of me."

It seemed like an invitation. Claire's fingers dipped over his thigh.

"You have no shame,” he told her. Rand caught her hand as it brushed his groin. He placed it back on his hip. “No peeking."

Claire turned her face into the pillow to muffle her laughter. It took her several moments to compose herself. “You have a wicked sense of humor,” she said with credible sobriety.

"Do I?"

She nodded. She thought he seemed genuinely surprised by her observation. “Not many people would dare find humor in my sightlessness. In fact, you and Mr. Cutch are the first. My condition makes so many people uncomfortable...” Claire shrugged. “It never seemed to bother you that way. You treat me as if I were any woman."

"Not
any
woman."

Claire's small smile edged the corners of her mouth. “You told me once you liked to chase girls."

"I remember,” he said. “As you pointed out, I was six then."

"Some things don't really change."

Rand touched her cheek with the back of his hand. His knuckles brushed the line of Claire's jaw. “That did,” he said quietly. “I've spent most of the last ten years on
Cerberus
or raising money for her next voyage. Those activities never lent themselves to other pursuits."

"Until now."

He frowned. “Claire, I'm not—"

"I'm a convenient sort of woman."

Rand's brows rose. “That's the
last
thing you are."

Claire lifted her hand from his hip and touched his mouth. It was narrow and flat. There was a ridge across his brow. “You're glowering,” she said. She let her hand fall away. “I wasn't being serious ... well, not entirely. I'm not so experienced with what one says ... afterward. It's not easy to be as certain now as it was when you were kissing me."

His cupped her cheek. “There's a remedy for that, you know.” His mouth was close to hers. Claire's murmur of agreement vibrated against his lips. He kissed her slowly, deeply, reacquainting himself with the taste of her. Her mouth moved under his with the same languor. It was hard to remember who had initiated this kiss and more difficult still to think why it mattered. When Rand started to withdraw, Claire's lips held him for just a moment longer. “Feeling a little more confident?” he whispered, his voice husky.

"Hmmm.” Eyes closed, Claire lay on her back. She doubted it was seemly to be so satisfied, or at least to show it, yet there was nothing she could do about her smile. “Do I surprise you?” she asked at last.

"Yes,” he said. “Often."

Claire nodded, thinking this over. “I surprise myself,” she admitted. She opened her eyes, her smile fading at last. “When I realized that I might be blind for the rest of my life, one of my first thoughts was that I would never know this experience. It struck me as odd at the time because it had never been much on my mind before. When I considered it at all, I supposed that I would meet someone very late in my life who wouldn't care that I had spent my youth in the South Pacific staring into a microscope and gathering and cataloging plants for my father. I never thought beyond meeting that gentleman. I never thought of marriage or the marriage bed. I didn't think of lying under him. Even though I understood the biology of conception and the mechanics of passion, I never applied either to me. Yet, when I was struck by blindness, I could only think that what was taken from me was so much more than my sight."

Rand studied her face. Bitterness was absent from her features, and her voice held only a faint ironic note. “Was there never anyone, Claire?"

A small crease appeared between her brows as she considered Rand's question. “No, not really."

"What about all those kisses you told me about?"

"There were not so very many of them,” she admitted. “And none so very recently. The last time I returned to Solonesia with my father, he had a paid assistant, a student, who accompanied us. He was rather handsome, I suppose, in an intense sort of way. Trenton spent a lot of time with me, but it was more in an effort to learn what I knew. He wanted to make himself indispensable to Sir Griffin. Any other interest he showed in me was because he thought it would please my father."

"Did your father encourage him?"

"I couldn't say if my father even noticed. Except for what I knew about his work, I was not so very interesting to Sir Griffin either."

Now Rand heard something creep into her voice that wasn't there before, a kind of resignation that let him know she had accepted this as fact, even if she had no peace with it. “What happened to Trenton?"

"He followed my father's example and took a native mistress. Several of them actually.” Her slight smile held no humor. “I'm not certain Sir Griffin would have approved of his profligacy, and I'm quite certain Trenton didn't know I was aware of it, but I don't think he could have helped himself in any event. The Solonesian women are as lush and beautiful as their islands, and to Englishmen who take no notice of any culture save their own, the women seem more than welcoming and gracious. They appear available. Trenton took what he thought he was being offered."

Rand nodded. He had seen it happen time and again, on occasion with members of his own crew. There had yet to be a voyage where
Cerberus
did not leave a man or two behind. Even before the first sloe-eyed, honey-skinned young women came out to meet the ship, the South Pacific islands seduced men with cerulean waters and emerald landscapes. “So Trenton has six wives and a herd of children now,” he said.

"No, he never married any of his mistresses and I'm not aware of any children. He contracted a disease of the blood."

"Syphilis?” asked Rand, struck again by Claire's ironic tone. Rand knew the Europeans had brought syphilis to the islands along with smallpox and typhus. There was some justice, he supposed, if Trenton had gotten the disease from one of his mistresses.

"Yes,” she said. “Trenton was diagnosed about six months before I left the islands. My father was treating him but did not hold out much hope that it would not eventually kill him. I can't say what's happened to Trenton now. Perhaps he left Pulotu in a canoe as I did, or perhaps he stayed behind with my father. I have no expectation of seeing him again, or caring if I do."

If she had said the last with passion in her voice, Rand would have wondered if she spoke the truth. Claire's voice, however, had no inflection. “You still have no memory of what happened to make you leave?"

Claire shook her head. Her eyes narrowed and she drew in her lower lip, worrying it.

Watching her, Rand could see that she was agitated by this turn in the conversation. He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

"Why did you do that?"

"I didn't know I required a reason,” he said. He saw that she would not be put off. His fingers threaded in her hair. “You looked as if you were in need of reassuring."

The urge to deny it was strong. She wondered at her reaction and paused long enough to think better of it. It was true, she thought—she
had
needed something from him. Reassurance was as good a word for it as any other. “How did you know?” she asked quietly.

Rand turned his palm so Claire's dark hair spilled over it. He shrugged in answer to her question. Her hair slipped through his fingers. “You have an expressive face,” he said finally.

"Do I? Even without my eyes?"

"Even with your eyes closed.” He added dryly, “Claire, you've never shown much reluctance to say what was on your mind."

"I suppose you wish I were more circumspect."

"What I wish is that you were more tired."

"Oh.” With a mixture of naivete and bold curiosity, she asked, “Do you want to sleep now?"

"One often does ... afterward."

"I didn't realize."

"It's not something one learns studying—what did you call it?—oh, yes, the biology of conception and the mechanics of passion."

"Do you commit everything I say to memory?” she asked.

"Yes,” he said, smiling. “I think I do."

Claire's response came to nothing as Rand's mouth covered hers. She fell asleep wondering how he always knew the right thing to do.