The Rogue’s Prize (19 page)

ceiling over the captain’s bunk cast

obsidian shadows on the mahogany

walls. The wind whimpered through the

open window and an occasional flash of

lightning illumined the darkness in the

distance.

Sitting opposite Thomas Sexton,

Constance dared not utter a sound. She

scanned the room, settling her gaze upon

the bunk where she’d lost the only thing

she had left to give — her virginity, if

Thomas was to be believed.

Heat flooded her cheeks. Careful

not to hint at her thoughts, she lifted her

gaze from her plate. Food was the

farthest thing from her mind right now,

even though her stomach rebelled,

growling loudly. She was acutely aware

of the captain, and to her relief, he

appeared to ignore her. Occasionally, he

glanced up, pointed at her plate and then

focused on thrusting as much food as he

possibly could into his mouth.

Constance toyed with her fork,

turning it over and over between her

fingers. The cold, unforgiving metal

reminded her of the unbending will of

the man sitting before her.

Remember the heat between us

when you’re cold and aching with

want.

The fork clanged to the tabletop

with a resonant bang. Instantly alert, the

captain peered over the rim of his wine

glass. “Too weak to feed yourself?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not

hungry, after all,” she said.

“You cannot find anything here to

your liking?”

She swallowed hard. “No,” she

whispered, heat suffusing her cheeks.

“What is it you desire then?”

He rose from his chair. His eyes

gleamed wickedly. He did not hide

behind pretenses like Burton. He didn’t

serve his country like Guffald. His

formfitting breeches and open shirt left

little to the imagination. Her heart

thrummed in her chest, nearly taking

away her breath. God in heaven, this

pirate was going to be the death of her

yet.

• • •

many nights since the
Octavia
sank, he’d

stayed away from her for one reason and

one reason only, her protection. After the

debacle with Frink and now with a

traitor aboard, he couldn’t afford to

leave her alone. But being this close to

her tempted him beyond reason. Devil

take him, when he was with her, he

forgot about Frink, Whistler, the fox,

Celeste, and Josiah Cane. What he felt

now, with her, was something he dared

not explore, but desired to more than

anything else. He’d never before

experienced need this strong. God in

heaven, he wanted her. He wanted what

she represented — purity, strength,

goodness.
Damn him!

Crossing the distance between

them, he knelt on one knee and gently

caressed the side of her face. “Does this

appeal to you?”

“No,” she answered, turning away

from him, denying him an honest

reaction.

“Does this appeal to you?” he

asked, lifting her to her feet. He leaned

her head back in his hands and bent

down to brush his lips against hers. She

did not fight him.

“No,” she whimpered, her half-

lidded green eyes igniting.

“How about this?” he asked,

leaning down, kissing her with wine-

laced lips, deepening the kiss until she

responded by putting her hands around

his shoulders.

That was all the encouragement he

needed.

• • •

possible to drown in a kiss? Her knees

responded, weakening beneath her as

she reveled in the feel of Thomas’s lips

against her own. Effortlessly, his tongue

slipped into her mouth and curiosity

exploded within her as her tongue

parried his. His wine-laced kiss, his

gentle

touch,

was

hypnotic,

unforgettable. Why didn’t she fight him?

Try as she might to remember, she

couldn’t recall his hands ever roaming

down her back, to her hips, pulling her

closer than ever to the bold reminder

that he was a man in his prime. They had

already slept together. If that was the

case, why didn’t her body recall him?

Cautious

and

feeling

completely

scandalous, Constance yielded to his

exploring hands. She wanted to be

comforted. She wanted to feel loved.

She ached to understand what her body

wanted, needed, and she gave herself

freely, embracing him with a restless

fire, moaning, leaning into him, wanting

to savor everything about him, wanting

to remember what it felt like to be in a

real man’s arms. Without this, she would

never know. He was taking her back to

London, to her father — to Burton, to a

world in which she would never truly

live.

She made no move to resist Thomas

as he lifted her into his arms and carried

her over to the bunk. In one fluid motion,

he deposited her on the bed and lowered

himself over her, covering her with his

lengthy form. Again he kissed her,

delving his tongue into her mouth,

siphoning her strength. If she’d wanted

to resist him, the time had long passed.

Instinctively, she pulled him close,

squeezing her eyes closed to blot out the

knowledge that giving herself to him was

wrong. She was playing with fire. But

he’d

saved

her

life

and

her

determination to make love to a real

man, rather than be pawed by an

undesirable lout, closed off her doubts.

Images flashed before her eyes, her

torn shift lying on the floor, waking up in

a pirate’s bed — naked. Thomas’s own

admission led her to believe that she

was no longer virginal and therefore had

nothing to lose. It served no purpose to

act coy when every fiber of her being

wanted to draw him in.

He teased her and did so well,

weaving his fingers through her hair,

palming her body with his hands,

increasing her agony with every stroke.

Then he drew back.

“No,” she cried.

“Are you certain?”

She nodded and he began to remove

her clothes, one garment at a time.

Instinctively, she wanted to hide from

him, to retain the barriers that had kept

them apart, but, amazingly, she felt no

embarrassment. Every inch of her

wanted to know him as if they were the

only two people in the world.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. His

eyes devoured her hungrily. He moved

off the bed and disrobed, his gaze never

abandoning hers, and she took in the

sight of him, every amazing inch of him.

“You’re definitely a real man,” she

teased, though she had no experience

with the alternative.

He eased himself down upon her,

wasting no time. He teased her lips with

his mouth, his mustache and beard. He

trailed kisses along her jaw until she

shivered with delight. While he did so,

his fingers moved to cup her breast,

kneading, tweaking her nipple until she

moaned and arched into him, wanting,

needing more. Her body was a kindling

flame. And just when she thought she

might succumb to the heat, his probing

fingers found the juncture between her

thighs and slipped inside, stroking,

creating

a

throbbing

need

that

crescendoed until she quaked.

“You’re almost ready, Constance.”

“Almost?” She gasped with need.

“Almost,” he promised.

He slipped his knee between her

thighs. “I promise to be gentle.”

She had no time to think as he eased

inside her and then stopped. Pain knifed

through her core. She cried out.

“Shhh,”

he

whispered.

“It’ll

subside, little blossom.” He stroked her

hair, murmuring promises. Then he

moved slowly at first, until a mounting

inferno blazed within her and she bucked

up to meet him. “Hang on to me,” he

said. “Don’t let go.”

He moved in rhythm, stroking her

inside and out. A part of her was dying

and she understood the ramifications.

She’d thrown away her innocence, an

innocence she’d already thought lost.

“Look at me, Constance,” he urged

her. When she refused, he kissed her

forehead and cheek, until she turned her

mouth to meet his. Ever so slowly, she

found her hips mimicking his thrusts,

forging a natural rhythm that surprised

her.

“Look at me,” he ordered on a

ragged breath. His raw, urgent plea

tugged her heart. She opened her eyes.

Obeying him came easily as her hands

clawed his flesh, reveling in the

contours of his muscular arms, sliding

down his skin toward his hips before he

stopped her and moved her hands over

her head.

He labored to speak. “Let me show

you … how good I can be.”

He’d lied to her. He was her enemy

and, yet, her savior. And now she was

no longer a victim. “Show me,” she

panted. “Show … me.”

Thomas

deepened

his

kisses,

pressing her into the bed with his

weight. Constance wanted to absorb

every inch of him, to climb the summit of

desire with him until nothing else

mattered.

“Thomas!”

At the sound of his name, Thomas

plunged deeper, his movements faster

and faster until she reached the pinnacle

and climaxed. Almost simultaneously, he

stiffened above her and groaned. He lay

over her for a time and not wanting to be

parted, she wrapped her legs about his

waist to hold him close. Finally, when

their breathing synced, he rose up on his

elbows and gazed down at her. Tension

lined his face. She smiled shyly. But then

his gaze hardened.

In one swift movement, he rolled

off of her to sprawl lazily on his back.

Befuddled, not knowing what a man and

woman did after coupling, Constance

cuddled against his side and placed her

head on his shoulder. She knew he

wasn’t what she needed. He was a

pirate. Men like him did not make

attachments. Men like him did not need

or want women like her.

When she returned home, she

would be forced to deal with reality and

a gilded cage. Until then, she would

enjoy the freedom of being in Thomas’s

arms. Twirling her fingers across his

chest, she let her adventurous digits trail

a path down his rippled abdomen.

Bolder now, her eyes followed her

fingers until she caught sight of his

arousal. He grabbed her errant fingers,

raised them to his lips and kissed them,

and then turned her over onto her back.

“You can’t mean to — ”

“Aye, Constance. I do.”

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Lord Burton descended from his landau,

tapped his cane on the ground, and

looked up at the Duke of Throckmorton’s

manor house with a frown of contempt.

Perusing the property with a skeptical

eye,

he

appraised

its

Georgian

architecture

and

small,

whimsical

garden. The home had its merits and it

was his deepest desire to make it a

glorious addition to his portfolio when

the time presented itself.

Byron

Danbury,

Duke

of

Throckmorton, was nothing more than a

means to an end. A gentleman of good

breeding, it was pitiful he had to ruin the

man in order to get what he wanted —

land and the dutiful daughter who’d

fallen into his conniving hands. Her

mother’s death educed public sympathy.

Now the little victim, the darling of the

ton, would bring him accelerated

acclaim.

Indeed, he had plans for Lady

Constance. No matter her complaints,

she would become his wife in every