My Fallen Angel (18 page)

So engrossed was she in thought that it was a while before she heard a distant “Psst,” followed by silence, and then another louder, more emphatic,
“Psssst.”

Beth headed for the rail. Lucy’s white face stared back up at her, her aqua eyes wide with anxiety. “Is he gone?”

Beth nodded. “But you’d best hurry. He’s looking for you. It’s only a matter of time before he gives up and retires to his cabin for the evening.”

“Is there any water left?”

Beth shook her head. “That was the last of it.”

“Well, thank you very much for hitting me over the head with it.”

“He startled me. Are you injured?”

“No. Thankfully it barely touched me. Besides,‘twould take more than that to damage
my
brainbox.” Lucy smiled up at her … a small, wistful smile. “Well, wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Lucy.” And to her surprise, Beth found herself actually meaning the words. After her run-in with Garrick and his glowering expression, she had a feeling there was trouble on the horizon. She only hoped Lucy didn’t end up with a broken heart. She would never allow her heart to be captured so easily.

And as she turned away, she wondered why a pair of dark eyes flashed across her mind and a name to form on her lips. She scowled.
Ravenwood.
Blast his rotted soul.
He’d
be the last person on earth for whom she’d develop a
tendré.

Garrick paused with his hand on the door to his cabin, wondering if, perhaps, he should scour the ship once more. But, no. Lucy was hiding from him, he was positive of it; there was simply no other explanation for why he couldn’t find her.

“G’night, cap’n.”

Garrick raised his hand, then opened the door to his cabin, surprised by the light which spilled out to illuminate the deck beyond. Had he forgotten to extinguish a lantern?

Perplexed, he stepped into the room, the door squeaking shut behind him. A slight breeze blew a hank of hair across his eyes. How bloody odd. He swiped at the strands, his confusion increasing.

Something was wrong. There should be no air circulating through the room, and the cabin looked … different. Clean. And there was another smell, too. He couldn’t quite place what it was, but then it hit him.

Roses.

Gone was the moldering odor of Tully’s slovenly cabin; in its place was salty breezes mixed with roses.

Bloody hell.

“’Tis about time, Garrick. I fear my skin shall fall off my bones if I continue to soak a moment longer.”

And suddenly the reason why he couldn’t find her clicked into place, along with the look on Beth’s face when he’d discovered her on the poopdeck earlier, the reason for all those buckets, and Mousad’s vague answer about not knowing where sahib was. Blast her eyes, those damn beautiful, conniving eyes.

Anger surged through him as he stepped around the table. But as he strode beneath the skull archway he came to an abrupt halt, stunned by the picture she made.

He took it all in at once: Lucy, an innocent yet brazen expression on her face as she reclined in a wooden tub, her alabaster shoulders rising from the soap as if she were a mermaid. The window behind her was broken, her clothes thrown haphazardly atop the brown coverlet on the bed. Candles were atop every available surface. They rested in holders, leaned against pewter mugs, and nestled within the eye sockets of masks.

He clenched his hands at his sides. He would not be tempted.
I will not be tempted.

It was an effort to focus his thoughts on something else, but he did, forcing himself by grim will.

How in the hell had she managed to get into his cabin? The lock on Tully’s door was like something one would find at Newgate and he’d been standing within eyesight of the door for most of the day.

And then it hit him.

“You didn’t?” he said, glaring down at her, all the while fighting the urge to jump into the tub with her.

She blinked up at him with a tentative smile. “I did.”

Bloody hell. He couldn’t believe it. She could have been killed. Three angry steps and he was by the side of that tub, the pull of her delectable body almost as alluring as the look in her eyes. Somehow he managed to keep his hands to himself, though he was torn between wringing her pretty little neck and yanking her out of the water and into his arms.

“Damn you, Lucy, you could have fallen into the ocean.”

“Now, Garrick, don’t be melodramatic.”

She smiled up at him, though he could see the insecurity in her eyes, the innocence that threatened to override her bold nature. But despite that innocence, she was a sight he’d never forget.

Long ringlets of autumn fire coiled atop her head to spill into the water. She trembled, whether from cold or nervousness or desire, Garrick didn’t know. Another breeze blew in from the open window, setting the flames nearest her flickering. And as he stared down at her, for the first time in his life he was tempted to run.

And then he saw her swallow, saw determination light her eyes. She stood, her graceful, delectable body rising like a sea-nymph above the water.

A groan rose low in his throat, his manhood hardening even more. A soapsud clung to the side of her breast, another to her abdomen. He watched, entranced, as it slid ever so slowly toward the ringlets above her thighs.

A few fat droplets of water broke free from her body and plunged into the water below.

He ached to lick that moisture away, yearned for it.

“Garrick,” she whispered softly. A stream of rose-scented water rolled past her elbow, navigated the crook of her arm, and glided down her side. He watched it for a second, fought with all his strength to leave it there and not suckle it from her flesh.

“Don’t send me away, Garrick.”

Oh, how he wished he didn’t have to. His wanting was a physical ache, yet more than that. Standing there by her side, he could almost feel the crackling energy which bound them together and entwined them. For the first time in his life, Garrick experienced a want unlike any he’d ever felt. He wanted her now. In the tub. On the floor. Everywhere.

And then she leaned toward him, one wet hand coming to rest against his face. He closed his eyes, knowing he was a doomed man.

“Damn you, Lucy,” he groaned just before he crushed her to him.

She raised her head for his kiss, accepted his assault willingly, drew his head down, and twined her hands in his hair. Their lips met, and suddenly everything spun out of control. Her mouth opened and every thought fled from his mind as he flicked his tongue inside her velvety wetness.

Sweet. God, she tastes sweet.

No,
warned a voice inside him.
Don’t do this. Don’t risk it all.

But he was helpless to stop the explosion of need that burst between them. Wetness crept through hisshirt; she moaned and began to undo the buttons. He didn’t let her finish; instead, he reached down and scooped her up in his arms, water sloshing from her body, his lips never leaving hers. The kiss turned deep, hot, consuming.

He didn’t give himself time to think about his actions. He only knew he wanted her. Heat radiated from her; her upswept hair tickled his chin with its silky softness. She snuggled against him. Never once did she protest nor hesitate, even when he laid her on the bed, her determination and commitment to the course she had chosen so utterly Lucy.

Thunder boomed from above. Lucy flinched.

Garrick paused for a moment, listening. He saw her move, and then a quivering hand stroked his manhood. He groaned, just groaned as if he were a man on a torture rack. He couldn’t have her.
Couldn’t.
But as her hand glided down his length, every thought, every dire warning he’d received disappeared like flotsam pulled under a wave.

“Lucy,” he groaned, ignoring the voice telling him to pull away, the same voice that also warned him of the penalty should he not.

“Love me, Garrick. If not with your heart, then with what you can spare me.”

He threw his head back and closed his eyes. Heaven help him, she seduced him with her touch, lured him with each caress.

And he knew it was useless. They were fated to be together. Now. This night.

He sank to his knees. Their bodies met, heart to heart, wet skin to wet skin. He rolled her beneath him, finding her mouth by touch. She opened for him, and what little control Garrick had left vanished as she stroked the velvet of her tongue against his. Long, nimble fingers ignited a throbbing inside of him, a burning need for release such as he’d never known. He moved his hand up the soft skin of her side, then palmed her breast, teasing the nipple into a hard little point.

She groaned again, and an answering moan rose in his own throat: the only thing which penetrated his explosive need for her was the intense heat building between them. He touched her everywhere—the soft flesh of her shoulder, the satiny skin of her sides. And when he caressed the mound of copper curls at the apex of her thighs, she parted for his hand without hesitation.

Lightning flashed into the cabin. Thunder rang out and its resonance rattled every piece of glass in the cabin. She looked startled, but then Garrick covered her lips with his own, willing her to forget as he had willed himself to forget all that he gave up by touching her. Her eyes closed as she gave herself up to him, moaning.

She was wet, oh, she was wet. The rhythm of his tongue matched the stroke of his hand. God, she was fire beneath him, the moans she emitted inflaming him nearly beyond control.

She arched her back and nearly came off the bed. “Garrick,” she moaned, grinding herself into him.

Never had he seen a woman so hot. Like bolts of lightning from the heavens above she sizzled for him, dancing beneath his hand.

Higher and higher she climbed, until, in a bunching of spasms, she cried out, “Garrick!” Then she clutched athis hand. Her eyes widened in surprise before she closed them and lost herself to the splendor of her release.

He reared back, tugged off his shirt, released his breeches. He moved to cover her, his whole body trembling with the ache of his own need. Now …
now
he would bury himself inside her, slake his thirst. Now he would get his heavenly reward.

But just as he was about to settle himself between her legs, the ship pitched violently to the right. Garrick automatically clasped Lucy to him as he rolled to one side of the bed.

Lucy ended up sprawled on top of him, both her legs to one side, more the pity. Undeterred, he rolled her beneath him. But no sooner had his body rested between hers again than the ship swayed, this time to port.

Two tries later Garrick gave up in defeat.

Arlan, damn his feathered hide.

Resting his head in the crook of her neck, his breath labored, his body shaking from his need to possess her, he knew he’d been beaten. Were he to try again, the ship would undoubtedly roll in the other direction.

“Garrick, the cabin’s on fire.”

Her voice penetrated the deep fog of unrequited desire that clouded his mind. Fire? Yes, it had felt as if the whole cabin was on fire. Like an inferno. Almost as if the devil breathed fire down their necks.

“Garrick, the flames are getting bigger.”

He was big, all right. Big and hard and aching to sink inside of her still.

“Garrick?”

It was the panic in her voice that caught his attention. Panic? Lucy? He drew back.

And that was when he saw it.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed, rolling off of her.

A candle had tipped over near the window, the wood beneath it flaming like a hearth. He tried to take a step, realized his legs were effectively shackled by his breeches, and had to hop toward the tub. No bucket. Damn. His eyes searched for something, anything to douse the blaze with. A pewter mug caught his attention. He hopped toward it, grabbed it, then hobbled toward the tub. One scoop later and he was heading toward the flames, the water sloshing out.

Fortunately, or perhaps mysteriously, there was enough water left to douse the flames. They sizzled out, leaving behind a trail of smoke which wafted up and out the window. Slowly, he turned back around to face Lucy.

She stared up at him in dismay, her hand covering her mouth. Then she giggled, the giggles erupting into peals of laugher.

Garrick was not amused.

Damn her. Damn it all. Damn Arlan. Damn Belial. Damn the whole world.

She was still giggling, in between sneaking glances at his privates.

He tossed the mug, the pewter cup landing with a resounding, satisfying clank. Next he pulled up his breeches, feeling as if he were a pubescent schoolboy.

“Oh, Garrick” she gasped. “You looked so silly hopping about like that.”

He ignored her.

“Like a rabbit.”

He ignored her again.

Her laughter slowly faded.

He headed over to the sideboard. He needed a drink. A
big
drink.

“Garrick?”

Her voice was still tinged with amusement, but now there was a question in it.

But it was only when he’d swallowed a healthy dose of the fiery brandy that he turned back toward her, ignoring her disheveled state.
“What?”

She looked startled by his terse reply. Sometime during their time together, long strands of her hair had tumbled around her like a molten river. She shoved a hank of it aside and wrapped the coverlet around her. “You’re not angry, are you?”

She sounded so completely stunned, so filled with disbelief that he could actually be
mad
at her that his control snapped.

“No, I’m not angry. Not at all. I enjoy vanquishing flames as much as the next man.”

Her cheeks filled with color.

“God, Lucy. Can’t you even couple with a man without destroying something?”

She stiffened.

He stepped back, though she hadn’t physically reached for him, only with her eyes. “Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t touch me.”

“Garrick, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“Nothing has happened, Lucy, except that I’ve come to my senses.”

Her face paled.

“Now. Get the hell out of my cabin.”

He stared down at her, those emerald eyes of hers glistening, her lips trembling while she fought to contain her tears. God, what was he going to do? For suddenly he wanted to go to her, wanted to wrap his arms around her and ease the hurt in her eyes, wanted to reassure her that no one would ever say horrible things to her again. But he couldn’t. God help him, he had to end this now.

If he didn’t, it would be too late for both of them.