My Lady Captive (13 page)

“Wyndham?” Orèlan whispered.

Wyndham took a deep and steadying breath.
“Yes, baby love?” It was a cautious question and answer as he
stared at the wooden beams on the ceiling in the Captain’s
cabin.

“The tattoo,” she gasped, with nearly a
whimper.

Jesus.
He grimaced with his gut
clenching like steel. What did a man do in a situation like this
one? He rolled over and reached for Orèlan, bringing her resisting
body into his embrace. “Please, Orèlan, let me hold you,” he
murmured. Thankful a moment later, when he felt her body relax a
bit, even though she continued to tremble.

“Orèlan, I love you,” he murmured into her
hair as he held her close and warm against his body.

“Oh, Wyndham,” she mumbled into his chest,
where her lips touched his skin, between the opening edges of his
shirt.

He valiantly ignored that and her soft warm
nakedness resting so tantalizingly against him. This was for a life
time. How could he explain to her that he would not be dissuaded in
the least by a tattoo of any kind placed on her tender, moist, and
spectacularly beckoning cove. A place he humbly called his own and
intended to covet religiously. Just thinking of it, sent a
spectacular throbbing into the base of his cock. Which he once
again strove to ignore.

“Do you trust me, Orèlan?” he asked with his
voice deep in huskiness.

“Yes,” she murmured instantly and without any
sound of reservation.

“With your life?” he asked in a whisper.

She lifted her head and gazed into his eyes.
“Yes . . . always,” she whispered.

He smiled. It was a true honest smile.
Orèlan's eyes widened as she gazed at his arching lips, then she
looked up into his eyes again. There was a hint of wonder and
dawning pleasure in her eyes, as she murmured, “My Wyndham, you
never smile.”

“Your Wyndham is in love, Orèlan.” He grinned
now. “Your Wyndham is in love with a fiery woman, who has set his
heart on fire. And who . . . asked him to marry her.”

“Wyndham!” A tentative smile broke across
Orèlan's lips.

“And I have accepted, my fiery woman. My
wonderful beautiful, Spitfire,” he said, teasing. “This very night
in fact,” he finished with an arched eyebrow.

“This
very
night?” she exclaimed.

“The Captain of the ship will marry us this
very night, Orèlan. Because, I am allowing no chance for you to get
away from me ever again. I have found that I am very possessive
where you are concerned.” And then, he added on a deep murmur, “My
baby love.”

“
Oh,
Wyndham,” Orèlan exclaimed, just
as their lips met in an intimate kiss.

Long moments later, he raised his mouth from
her well-kissed mouth. “And now we will consummate the marriage,”
he murmured, gazing into her passionate eyes. “To hell with
tradition,” he added with a grin.

“To hell with the traditions,” Orèlan
quipped, smiling at him.

Wyndham adjusted his position, allowing his
hands to cup Orèlan's face. “I have one serious question first,” he
said, brushing her chin with his thumb.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to know what the tattoo says, my
love? Because I could not care, one wit.”

Orèlan slowly licked her plush lips, gazing
at him, as he watched the decision being weighed in her mind, then
she whispered, “Yes, I want to know.”

“As you wish, my lady, my love,” he murmured,
leaning down to kiss her softly. When he was certain his lips had
told her how much he loved her, he lifted his head and whispered,
“Lay back, Orèlan.”

“
Si
, Wyndham”

Wyndham smiled. Orèlan always reverted to a
bit of Spanish whenever she was nervous, angry, or excited, as in
passion. The nuance clung to him warmly.

“Will you be honest?” she asked
nervously.

“Always, baby love,” he murmured as he
separated her trembling thighs, then he looked downward. He kept a
hand on her warm satin belly, stroking it gently, as she jerked her
hands and the piece of cloth away. The scents of her earlier
arousal lifted to his nostrils, like a musky piquant dream. He
looked closely on the left side of her coral pink and perfect
labium’s lip. The lingering dewiness there glistened over the
tattoo.

“Wyndham?” she asked anxiously.

He lifted his head, gazing deep into her eyes
as she lifted her head looking down on him. “It says, Orèlan, the
words, I love you.” Her eyes widened as she gazed at him. “And that
is all it says,” he finished on a murmur.

“Wyndham!” she exclaimed, and not at all
unpleased.

“I,” Wyndham began, “Will consider this
Alexei’s wedding gift to us.”

“Oh, si,” Orèlan replied, smiling with
him.

“And now,” he murmured, tugging off his shirt
and pants. “For the consummation, hmm?”

Orèlan giggled. “Si, Wyndham, we will
consummate together.”

“At least,” he answered, waggling his
eyebrows at her, and making her giggle again. “I have one
question,” he said, as he bent down again, and slowly crawled up
her body. “How does a widow continue to remain a virgin?”

Orèlan laughed, reaching for him. “It is a
very mysterious story, my golden puma. Perhaps, I might not be a
widow at all.”

“Ah,” Wyndham replied. “Using it to keep the
swine away?”

“All but one, my handsome puma,” she said,
chuckling.

“That, baby love, is the only way I would
have it,” he said with the tip of his cock, nudging her wet and
welcoming opening.

“
Oo, si,”
Orèlan gasped, clutching his
shoulders as her hips rose to meet his.

The way was tight. Not an easy conquest. Just
as he would have it, as he nudged and retreated and nudged a little
deeper again. But the haven was dribbling and hot, clutching at the
head of his cock exuberantly and making him groan as Orèlan gasped.
He pressed harder, demanding surrender, slipping deeper. Then, he
felt the fiery circle of Orèlan feminine flesh enclosed around the
column of his throbbing dick. The inner walls were slippery and
gripping. Tight then lax, tighter, then lax again. The heat sizzled
along his cock and saturated him to the core.

“Christ,” he groaned hoarsely as Orèlan
passionately panted beneath him. It seemed that raised and tilted
as he was, only on one knee, produced a riveting angle for both of
them, and it also showed him that he could, if he wished, fuck his
woman in anyway he could imagine. Leaning on one hand he clasped
Orèlan by the small of her back, and thrust into her, seating
himself with a groan, to the hilt of his thickening cock.

“
Oh hhh hh,”
Orèlan cried, arching
beneath him.

He instantly felt the inner walls of her
vagina clench around the full length of his dick, making him tense
in pleasure. But he held still, deeply embedded, and raised his
head, whispering hoarsely, “Do it again, baby love. Grip my big
cock inside you.”

Orèlan's red lips parted on a gasp as she
looked at him with burning passion in her eyes. The intimacy of
what they both felt, being joined, feeling each other, was written
there, as she tightened her inner muscles stroking him deep.
“Oo,”
she squealed and the pleasure flashed across her
lovely features, as he belly-groaned his immense approval.

“I am going to make you come like this,” he
vowed in a deep tenor voice as he twitched his thick cock strongly
inside her, making her squeal excitedly. He never thrust. He never
left his deep haven, as he murmured, “Grip my cock, baby love. Try
to push me out.”

“Wyndham,” she cried out, as she followed his
command, squeezing, then releasing, in ever faster tremors around
his impaled cock.

“Ah,
Christ
, baby,” he groaned harshly
as he too twitched his broad stiff root up inside of her, while
they gazed at each other, seeing each motion reflected in the
others eyes. The pleasure was intense and expanding, rippling . . .
overpowering. Suddenly, Orèlan cried out, arching up against his
stiffly inserted cock as her exploding climax convulsed over his
dick, and he bellowed. “God!” His cock drew inward, and then burst
forth with raw pleasure so deep it burned his guts, as his seed
ejaculated.
“Ah,”
he grunted, beneath the powerful rapture,
shuddering through his body.

“
God,
I love you, baby,” he
belly-groaned.

“Oh, my Wyndham, I
love
you too,”
Orèlan gasped.

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by Shirl Anders

Instantly, her breath sucked inward with
surprise at him being there, but not surprise of discovery, because
his head was bowed forward. Joelle realized immediately that she
could have thought him female at first glance, with the fall of
long brown hair hanging before him. But it was his bare chest, seen
through the long strands of dark hair draping each side of the
muscular expanse that proved him male. He was sitting slumped on
the floor behind the stretch of her feet, and Joelle noticed
abruptly that he was chained. It came to her then, as though she
was struck with a sudden flash of lightening.
The
Marquess.

Then without forethought, Joelle rolled
upward to sit, staring at the man as she clutched the cloak tightly
around her nakedness. He was a prisoner as she was with his hands
perhaps bound behind his back and a chain across his chest and
possibly his neck. Could he be the Marquess that Baco had so
crudely stated was set to rape her? Certainly, her instincts and
the proof of her sight told her that he was. She turned her head
and gazed quickly from the lush river of his chestnut hair and the
lean, ridged outline of his lower belly. He had a cloak thrown over
him, just as she did, and she had no doubt that beneath where the
heavy black cloth lay across his hips and legs, he was as naked as
she was. And . . . he was drugged, where she was not.

Chained meant unwilling. Drugged meant
unwilling. How would he rape her? Joelle’s flesh crawled as she
tried hard to think and hold back her fear at the same time. A
sexual ritual, perhaps to the death, involving her, the Marquess,
and her virginity. It was insanity! Hardly believable, yet she
would defeat herself by not believing it completely. She had enough
of the pieces to make an intelligent conclusion.

Suddenly, Joelle rushed to stand, and then
carelessly on her bare feet she ran to the cell door and examined
the lock. Her grandfather had taught her to pick locks by the time
she was seven years old. Her grandmother to pick pockets. Her
parents had been more reserved about such things, but they both had
knowledge of unusual talents. Joelle reached through the bars
lifting the heavy lock, bigger than her hand. It was a turn key,
with a hook and snap lock. If she had anything long, pointed, and
sharp, she could open it. But the angle would be difficult to hold
the lock, and then hold something straight and backward into the
lock.

Joelle grimaced and she set the lock back
down quietly. Nonetheless, when she turned away, it was with quick
agitated movements. She held the cloak tightly around herself as
she paced restlessly. She was avoiding a momentous decision . . .
there was little time. She did look, with half-hearted attempts,
for a long pointed object as she paced. A stick perhaps. But more,
she kept glancing at the Marquess.

“It is useless to open the lock. They would
catch you before you could escape and drag you back,” Joelle
muttered, “And then, they would know you picked locks. When you
could have saved it for a better attempt . . .” Joelle lurched
through a turn in her pacing, looking at the Marquess as she did
so. He looked young . . . perhaps. Yet, it was hard to tell with
his head bowed forward.

Rituals.
She knew of many tales of
ungodly and morbid rituals through her gypsy’s heritage. And all of
them were of sacrificial innocents that were put to death in the
end. This . . . this seemed more sexual and not a life threatening
ritual. “You are fooling yourself,” Joelle hissed, slashing her
hand through the air. “Whatever unspeakable use they have in mind
for me, without a doubt it will eventually end in death, if nothing
else, just for knowing too much.”

“Indeed.”

Joelle gasped, whirling about at the sudden
sound of a masculine voice. Her gaze sweeping immediately to the
Marquess. He looked the same however with his head bowed.

“Are you awake?” she whispered in a rush that
sounded like a hiss.

“Barely.”

Joelle nearly jumped backward at the
quickness and reality of the confirming sound, but not from any
action of the Marquess. He was still slumping forward with only his
chest rising and falling. A bit heavier perhaps. Spirits take her,
he was English, not French! She could hear it in the two short
words he had spoken. And, Joelle realized that providence really
did shine harshly in the moments of decision . . . pressing her
forward, guiding her. It did not allow her to waver from the only
good plan that she had, no matter how much she despised to do
it.

Fate had just burst in upon her, because with
the Marquess semi-awake, then she really could do it. Where before,
because he had been unconscious, she had been unsure. She knew
quite a bit about sexual relations between men and women, and she
knew enough about male physiology to understand that it might have
been impossible to harden the Marquess’s cock if he'd remained
unconscious. Nevertheless, now he was regaining consciousness. A
perfect time to implement her plan and use the only form of drastic
diversion, vengeance, or complete insanity she had.