Nobody's Angel (37 page)

"That's torn it," he said, releasing her jaw to wipe his face. An almost glacial calm came over him, although he could feel fury battling to get out. "You've run your course, my darling, and if you give me one more iota of trouble I am going to take my hand to your backside and paddle you until you can't sit!"

"Don't you dare threaten me!" Clearly the woman didn't know how thin was the ice on which she skated.

"Susannah," he said, very low, thrusting his face almost into hers so that she could get a sense, in spite of the darkness, as to just how very close he was to carrying out his threat. "I am not threatening you. I have apologized a hundred times for leaving you without a word and explained a hundred times why it was absolutely imperative that I do so. I have been patience itself while you have treated me to the full range of your hellion's temper. I have told you nothing but the absolute truth, and you accuse me of lying. I have had enough. I am going to let you go, and we are going to lie together in the one dry bed we have between us and go to sleep. Is that clear?"

Silence.

Ian waited, but got no reply other than the faster than normal cadence of her breathing. After a moment, deciding to chance it, he let go of her hands and waited. Nothing. Not the smallest movement or sound, other than her breathing. He untwined his legs from around hers. Still nothing. She lay unmoving, unspeaking, the wind taken from her sails as she recognized a will stronger than hers and an anger more powerful. Ian dared to take a deep breath. He had only needed to put his foot down, obviously. Susannah was a termagant, but like all termagants she could be brought, when push came to shove, to recognize her master.

"That's better," he said, and sat up, preparatory to moving to the correct end of the bed for sleeping.

Sitting up proved to be a mistake.

"Oh, is it?" she hissed, coming up off that mattress like a she-wolf and shoving him for all she was worth. Ian felt the rush of her movement, felt the soft little hands thrusting against his shoulders with an unexpectedness that compensated for her lack of physical strength, felt himself losing his balance and toppling backward, felt the cold hardness of the plank floor as he slammed into it shoulder first. Then for a moment, just a moment, all he felt was pain.

He lay there, stunned. Despite his threats, and warnings, and apologies, the beldam had actually dared push him off the bunk! The knowledge shocked him almost as much as his fall.

In the bunk, Susannah listened intently. She was still furiously angry—that he had actually threatened to spank her was the last straw—but, as the thud of his landing died away and not so much as a curse replaced it, she began to get anxious as well.

Her intention had not been to really hurt him, just to teach him that she would not be tamed, to use his infamous word, so easily. The bunk was only about five feet off the ground. Surely he could not have been rendered unconscious by so short a fall? Lying down, she peered over the edge of the mattress. It was too dark to permit her to see more of him than a shadow lying on the floor below.

The rasp of his breathing told her that she had not killed him, but other than that there was nothing. No sounds of movement, not even a groan. Hideous thought: had he perhaps struck his head?

"Ian?" Just to call him by his name gave him a victory of sorts. She had resisted even that during the time he had had her a prisoner aboard this ship. For that was what she considered herself—a prisoner. He had stolen her away from her family, from her life, for his own selfish ends, just as he did everything. Though she had to admit he had been amazingly conciliating in the face of her constant hostility. He had held her head and bathed her face most competently the first few times she had been sick, though she had made it clear that she wanted none of him. He had brought her broth, and weak tea, and tried to coax her to eat and drink. When she had flung both at him, he had silently cleaned up the mess. And brought her more, though he watched her warily as she ate. Finally, when she absolutely refused to let him tend to any of her personal needs, he had found Mistress Hawkins to tend her in his place. After that, he had absented himself from the cabin as much as possible, and when he had to enter he had crept around like a mouse. Had she been the least in charity with him, she would have had to smile to see such a tall, powerfully built man trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible in the tiny space afforded by their cabin. It had been impossible, of course, and she had been as aware of him as if he had stomped and shouted whenever he came in. But she was not in charity with him. She was on guard against him, her heart sternly armored in case he should try to wheedle his way into it again. From the first she'd known that letting herself love him meant setting herself up for heartbreak. Well, he'd already broken her heart once, and she'd be hung by her heels in a smokehouse before she'd give him the chance again.

But she hadn't meant to hurt him. Just to demonstrate that she wouldn't be bullied.

"Ian?" she said again in a small voice. The ship pitched, but she had grown so accustomed to that that she scarcely noticed. Timbers creaked, the lantern must have swayed because it squeaked as the swivel hook that attached it to the ceiling turned—but there was no other sound.

None. Not even the rasp of his breathing.

"Ian!" She knew he wasn't dead, of course, knew it as well as she knew her own name. But still—black-hearted rogue that he was—she could not just leave him lying on the floor in the dark, possibly injured, without at least checking on him.

"Ian!" She tried one last time. Nothing.

Cautiously Susannah swung her legs over the bunk and dropped to the floor. She landed almost atop him, one foot between his sprawled legs, but still he didn't move. Growing increasingly concerned, she stepped over him and crouched beside his chest.

"Ian?" Putting a hand to his face, she encountered warm, sleek skin and the roughness of a day's growth of beard.

"That's going to cost you, vixen." The rough growl came out of the darkness even as he caught her wrist and pulled her down against his chest.

"You liar!" she wailed, knowing that she'd been well and truly had. The scoundrel had been playing possum!

"If you call me that one more time, so help me God I'll throttle you." Ian's arms came around her, and he rolled with her so that they both lay on their sides facing each other. Susannah had known, of course, that he was naked —it was impossible to live with a man in such close quarters and not realize that he slept naked—but she had not experienced the fact so vividly before. With his shirt tangled around her hips, she was nearly as bare as he. She could feel the heat of his skin, the roughness of the hairs on his legs, the steely strength of his muscles, pressing against her own soft smooth flesh. It was the first time she had been so near him in months. Had she not known the scalawag for what he was, her senses would have reeled.

But she would not respond to the lure of the flesh. She was done with sinning—and being a fool.

Against her thigh she could feel the unmistakable evidence that her nearness was affecting him in much the same way that his would have affected her, had she allowed it to. The burning heat of the swelling thing made her grit her teeth in determined rejection.

"You've had your joke. Now let me up," she said as evenly as she could under the circumstances. It had occurred to her that this was not the time to escalate their battle. Not when he was naked, and she was nearly so, and they were both so—hot.

"I believe I warned you what I would do if you did not lie quietly in my bunk with me and go to sleep?" One hand moved down to pat her backside suggestively. The tail of his shirt covered her at least that far, Susannah was thankful to discover. But still she felt the touch of his hand like a brand through the thin linen.

"If you dare . . ." she began furiously, holding herself rigid in an effort to combat the weakness that his nearness engendered.

"Susannah." His voice sounded almost weary. "Don't dare me. I find that I am averse to paddling you, after all. But you could push me to it, if you really tried."

His hand still rested against her bottom. She would have tried to dislodge it, but she had the feeling that any movement at such a moment might be a fatal mistake.

"Let me up," she managed through stiff lips.

He said nothing for a moment. Then, "Say please."

"How childish!"

"I thought we'd already established that I am childish. Now say please, Ian, let me up."

Susannah gritted her teeth. But her situation was really very dire, because she wanted nothing so much as to stay where she was. While with her head she hadn't forgiven him and her heart was still very much on guard, her foolish, fickle body seemed not to have gotten the message. His hand on her bottom awakened all kinds of shameful longings inside her. Like the wish that he would push the shirt out of the way . . .

"Please, Ian, let me up," she muttered in hostile surrender. But it was worth it, to escape him before she could make a complete fool of herself again.

"No," he said, and, though it was too dark to be sure, she thought he smiled mockingly.

It took a moment for his perfidy to sink in.

"No!" she gasped. "Why, you skunk! You polecat! You . . ."

He laughed. "I may be all of those things, Susannah. But I am also the man you have to please if you wish to get out of this predicament you've placed yourself in with a whole skin. It's going to cost you more than a grudging please. It's going to cost you—a kiss."

"I'd sooner kiss a . . ." She had been going to say pig, but then, remembering how he'd gibed her about her fondness for swine before, she shut her mouth with a click on the last word.

"That's just too bad, my darling. Unless you want to lie here all night, you're going to have to kiss me."

37

"I hate you!"

 "That's too bad, too. Come on, Susannah. Kiss  me. Or I'll have to think of some way to persuade you." He patted her bottom suggestively. It was all Susannah could do not to squirm.

"You are the most despicable . . ." Screwing up her courage—and her mouth—she pecked his mouth with hers.

"There!"

He laughed. "You call that a kiss? I barely felt it. I've taught you better, and I want to reap the results of my lessons. Now, are you going to kiss me or . . ." His fingers spread over her left buttock, and he squeezed. Susannah, galvanized, jerked away.

"All right!" she said, glaring at him although of course he couldn't see. Anything, anything, to get away from him before she succumbed to the heated languor that was rising through her body. If he did not remove his hand from her backside soon, she would be reaching down and pulling the shirt out of the way. She wanted his hands on her flesh with so much intensity that she was losing the will to fight. Kissing him might prove a mistake—though she thought she could hang on to her slipping self-control through the course of one kiss—but staying in his arms was certainly dangerous.

"A proper kiss, tongue and all," he cautioned her. Susannah took a firm grip on both her temper and her self- control and set herself to giving the swine what he wanted.

But when she pressed her lips to his he didn't open his mouth.

"That's not fair," she pulled back to say furiously. "How can I kiss you if you won't cooperate?"

"You have to persuade me to cooperate." From his voice, she knew he was smirking. "Wrap your arms around my neck. Press your breasts up against my chest. Wriggle around a little. Stroke my mouth with your tongue. Do it right, and I'll let you go."

"That's blackmail!"

"Blackmail has its uses," he observed, and squeezed her fanny again. Susannah gasped and jerked free.

Seething, trying to ignore the inward trembling that competed with anger for equal space inside her, she freed her arms from his grasp—he obligingly let her—and slid them around his neck.

"Hug me tighter," he whispered. "And wriggle."

Scarlet-faced, thankful that it was too dark for him to see, Susannah tightened her grip to the point where she was plastered so close against him that her breasts felt as if they were being squashed flat. Then she—wriggled, to use his distasteful phrase.

"Ah." It was a curiously hoarse sound. "Now use your tongue."

Hesitantly, Susannah pressed her lips to his, put out the tip of her tongue, and slid it over his closed mouth.

"That's good. That's very good," he whispered. "Now slide your tongue inside my mouth. And wriggle again. I like the way you wriggle."

Susannah wriggled. His lips parted obligingly, and her tongue slid inside his mouth.

She had forgotten how he tasted. Hot, faintly musky, with the merest hint of tobacco—where had he been smoking cigars?—and wet, very wet. She moved her tongue around inside his mouth for what must have been a full minute before he responded, sucking on her tongue and stroking it with his.

"That's enough. I've kissed you," she said, withdrawing hastily. "Now let me go." But her arms still hugged his neck, and her breasts were pressed flat against his chest. After a moment—it took so long because her senses were clouding fast—she realized that he was holding her as tightly as she was holding him.

"You kissed me," he agreed, on a deep husky note that sent shivers down her spine. "What would you say if I offered to return the favor?"

No, her mind shouted. Stop, shrieked her heart. But her body, her traitorous body, on fire from her kissing and wriggling and his hand on her behind, quaked yes.

Paralyzed by the batde that raged within her, she moved restlessly. That move proved her undoing. It shifted the tails of the shirt she wore, pulling it out from under his hand, so that now his hand rested on her soft, curved flesh.

"Ahh." She could not help the small sound. The mere resting of his hand against her bare bottom awoke trumpets of passion in her blood. Unable to help it, she moved again. His hand slid down to the top of her thigh and then closed upward over her cheek.