Darach and Malcolm exchanged a look, and Malcolm responded with an almost imperceptible nod, apparently agreeing to keep an eye on their decidedly untrustworthy host.
The mate gestured for Malcolm to remain on the deck as he led Darach and Laurien to the mast, bending over to pull aside a small hatch.
The opening revealed a ladder that led into the darkness below. The mate went down first, Darach quickly followed, and she hurried to keep up with them.
But at the bottom of the ladder, she paused and turned, looking up at the small square of blue sky and sunlight above her—suddenly aware of all that she was leaving behind: the land where she had been born, the only home she had ever known, the convent at Tours, everyone she loved.
Darach came back to the ladder and caught her arm. “Laurien, we have to hurry.”
She turned to look at him, her sorrow and regret abruptly replaced by a rush of anger and hurt. She withdrew her arm from his touch. “Then move along, milord.”
She followed him forward into the darkness. The ceiling—or rather, the deck—above their heads was so low that the men had to hunch down. The sailor lit a small lantern. But the flicker of light was not enough to help her identify the dark shapes that filled the ship’s hold. She had to feel her way forward. From the smells, she guessed the cargo included fruits, spices, and a goodly amount of costly woods from Morocco and Spain.
The mate led them toward the pointed front end of the ship. A few steps brought them to the far wall. Handing the little lantern to Darach, he grinned at them like a small boy about to reveal a prized secret. He felt along the wall, then pulled at the bottom of one of the boards. It loosened, and he yanked it free to reveal that the solid wood of the bow had been hollowed out to create a hidden chamber.
“What mon capitaine cannot see, he cannot demand a portion of,” the man explained in a low tone. He crouched down and moved inside. “You two stay here, no one will know you are aboard. After we get to port and unload the other cargo, I come get you out, eh?”
Laurien peered inside. The “cabin” was triangular in shape, no larger than a stall in a stable, filled with thick furs of every description and diaphanous silks shot with metallic thread. The mate shoved his private cargo into the corners to clear a place for them.
She eyed the chamber with dismay. “B-but how are we to breathe?”
The mate grunted, pointing to the wall he had just passed through. Looking at it more closely, Laurien could see what appeared to be decorative carving, cut deeply into the wood, jagged like the crenellated top of a castle wall. From the inside, she could tell that the design had been cut all the way through.
Clearly, it was not the first time the man had smuggled human cargo under his captain’s nose.
“The air, she come in through there,” the mate explained. He took the little lantern from Darach and fitted it into a small sconce attached to the point of the bow.
Laurien had no time for further questions. At the sound of many footsteps above, the man backed out of the little chamber and urged the two of them inside. “The crew, they come back.”
He grabbed the board, then his face appeared at the opening one last time. “Until I return, you keep silent, eh? Mon capitaine find out about this, he throw us all three over the side.”
With that cheerful thought, he slipped the secret panel into place and shut them into their makeshift cabin. They could hear him rearranging the cargo in front of the door.
Hunched over, Laurien took off her cloak. Already, the air seemed too close, the scant flicker from the small lantern the only light in the darkness, the space so cramped that there was no room to stand up. She sat on the floor, hugging her knees, her back against one of the piles of furs. Darach sat beside her. She pressed herself as far away from him as she could manage, but with the narrow point of the bow on her right, she gained only a few inches between them.
She prayed that the footsteps over their heads were indeed the crew coming aboard, and not de Villiers’s men. She tugged at the neck of her tunic. The air was thick with the scents of wood and spices and the sea.
She watched Darach set his sword aside, slip off his cloak, and slouch down more comfortably, stretching his legs as much as was possible.
“I am so pleased that you are able to relax.” She tried to keep her voice low. “If those guards find us now, we are trapped!”
“Since their leader divided the group, it will take them longer to search. And I do not believe our host or his capitaine will allow anyone to force their way aboard to search this ship.” He cast a wry glance at the rich plunder surrounding them, then nudged off his boots, closing his eyes with an exhausted sigh. “We are safe enough for now.”
“For now?” Laurien’s throat felt dry.
“We will be sailing within moments, and I do not see how they could find us after that. By the time de Villiers’s men realize what has happened, we will be riding up the coast to Scotland.”
“And how do we know that our host will not simply kill us and throw us into the sea?”
“His sort is more interested in coin than killing. I have promised him more money when we arrive. That should be enough to secure our passage. For now, he has a generous amount of our silver.”
“Not to mention all of mine,” she pointed out tartly. Opening her aumoniere, she was dismayed to find that the pieces of her wooden cross necklace were also gone, lost when Darach had poured out the coins.
It had been literally all she had left. And now even that was gone. She blinked against a sudden sting of tears in her eyes.
“A few coins is a small price to leave de Villiers and his pack of wolves behind,” Darach said. “Does your knee hurt?”
Laurien slapped his hand away when he reached out to touch her. “Your hostage is undamaged.”
He examined his fingers with a frown. “Milady, we are likely to be here well into morn, so might we call a truce, if only for now?”
Trapped between the piles of booty, the narrow bow on her right, and Darach’s brawny frame on her left, Laurien had never felt less inclined to making a truce. “I have been abducted by Scottish brigands. I am on a ship of thieves. It will likely sink before we reach land. Is all of this supposed to put me in a good humor?”
“I saved you from your impending marriage,” he said lightly. “Is that not worth something?”
“I was not in need of saving at the time, you overgrown oaf. I was about to make good my own escape. I would be free now, if not for your interference.”
“You never would have made it out of Chartres on your own. You would be Lady de Villiers now, if not for my interference.”
“As if my fate matters to you! Have you given one thought to what will happen to me after I am returned to him—”
The boards above their heads reverberated with the stomping of a booted foot.
Darach leaned closer until their shoulders touched, whispering in her ear. “’Twould seem our host wishes to remind us of the need for quiet.”
“That suits me perfectly,” Laurien whispered.
Slouching down against the furs, she stared at the ceiling—or rather, the deck—and held her tongue.
She tried to ignore the warmth of Darach’s body pressed against hers. Not only his shoulder, but his side, his hip, his leg… he was entirely too large for such a small space. Their little cabin was beginning to feel far too warm. And she seemed to be breathing too fast.
Listening to the increasingly louder sounds above, she prayed it was only the crew moving about, and not de Villiers’s men forcing their way aboard. She felt only a little better when she heard someone start whistling a jaunty tune to accompany the thump of ropes being moved around on the deck.
The Scotsman, to her amazement, seemed quite comfortable. Though she refused to look at him, she could hear his breathing, steady and deep, could feel his shoulder rise and fall against her own—
A sudden movement of the ship threw her against him. Startled, she tried to bra
ce herself as the bow lurched forward and down. But there was no part of the tiny chamber that was not moving.
Darach wrapped an arm around her and pressed his lips to her ear. “’Tis all right. We have moved away from the pier. Do not be afraid.”
“How could anyone not be afraid of this?” Laurien gasped, remembering how small the ship had looked in comparison to the size of the sea.
“Have you never been on a ship before, at all?”
“Only if a river ferry on the Loire is considered a ship.” She could hear the waves lapping hungrily along the sides of the boat. How deep was the sea? More than deep enough to swallow this entire vessel and all aboard.
The bow began to pitch up and down in a motion that made her stomach queasy. She felt all the color vanish from her cheeks.
“Milady…” Darach said uneasily. “You are not going to have seasickness, are you?”
Laurien looked at him, blinking, suddenly aware that he was holding her and just as suddenly not minding. “What is seasickness?”
“Something I experienced my first time at sea, with no one to help me through it.” He paused. “Mayhap ’tis best if you do not hear the details.”
Releasing her, he reached up and took two of the pelts from the pile at their back. He nudged her out of the way and unrolled them in the small space. “Lie down, with your head toward the bow. You will not feel the movement so much.”
Not of a mind to argue at the moment, Laurien did as he ordered. She found to her relief that she had enough room to stretch out to her full height in this direction, and the furs felt soft and comforting. The top pelt was wolf, the black-tipped silver fur silky in her fingers. She lay on her side, closed her eyes, and tried to ignore the motion of the ship.
She heard, more than felt, Darach ease down beside her.
“Do you feel at all better?”
His voice was less than a whisper, but it sounded oddly tense, striking a spark of similar tension in her. Her heart began to beat faster.
“A little.”
“Roll on your back,” he whispered.
Laurien opened her eyes, but he motioned for her to close them again. Fighting a wave of nausea, she complied and rolled over. The scant inches of distance between them disappeared, and she could feel the full length of his hard, muscled body pressed against her side. A shiver coursed through her. And she did not think it was from this thing he called seasickness.
Darach touched her stomach.
“Nay,” she cried, her eyes flying open.
He pulled his hand away. “Do you wish to feel ill the entire journey?”
Laurien shook her head. She did not think she could bear feeling this miserable for even an hour.
“Then lie down and close your eyes, and allow me to help you.”
Laurien swallowed hard. Her stomach was now pitching with every roll of the ship. She weighed the merits of spending hours in such suffering against the thought of allowing a man—this man—to touch her in a way that felt so… intimate.
Feeling uneasy, she lay down again, her eyes squeezed shut, her body stiff as a lance.
She flinched when he touched her, but did not pull away this time.
“’Twill be all right,” he soothed.
His hand began to move in a slow circle, up toward her ribs, then down over her stomach. She barely breathed, taking in only short, nervous little gasps of the sea-scented air. Even through the rough cloth of her tunic, she could feel the warmth of his touch. She trembled, remembering the strength she had seen him use on more than one occasion, aware that he was holding that strength in check now, being so gentle with her… gentle and caring.
To her surprise, the queasy feeling gradually began to leave her. The light pressure of Darach’s touch actually began to feel… good. Slowly, almost against her will, and certainly against her reason, she found herself relaxing beneath his hand.
The ship seemed not to lurch so much. The rolling motion began to seem peaceful, almost as pleasant as the feeling of Darach’s strong fingers moving over her belly. Memories of the anger she had felt toward him only moments ago flickered through her mind, but she could not find cause to renew their sparring. She had to admit, just to herself, that he had been right this time.
She much preferred this to arguing.
Her muscles gradually relaxed. Her breathing slowed and deepened.
And this time, she did not flinch when he whispered in her ear.
“What made you help me at the gate, just now in Calais?”
Her lashes fluttered open. She did not answer. Because she did not know. She had seen him in danger and reacted without thinking. Even now, it brought an odd little flutter of fear to her heart to think that he might have been killed.
“You could have run.” He sounded puzzled. “You could have saved yourself. Instead you stayed to help me… Milady, that is twice now that you have saved my life.”
She reached up to gently touch his bearded jaw.
“Bana ghaisgeach,” he whispered.
“What does that mean?”
He rested his forehead against hers. “Lady warrior. What you did was both foolish and brave, demoiselle. If I did not know better, I would say you were a Scot.”
For a moment, they fell silent, holding each other in the darkness. Laurien could hear that his breathing had become unsteady, like hers. She felt a tremor go through him, and for the first time, she realized that she affected him just as powerfully as he affected her. He felt it, too—this jumble of emotions and longings, this wanting that she knew must be desire… and something stronger.
Somehow, against their will, they had become more to each other than what either of them should allow.
His hand had stopped moving. Her body languorous from his ministrations, her lips parted.
And for the first time, his kiss did not catch her unaware. She lifted her mouth to his as he angled his head, and their lips met, touched, sealed in a restless joining.
Then as had happened time and again at his touch, her body responded before she had time to think.
She welcomed his kiss, returned it, moaning softly, and his ardor deepened. His tongue parted her lips and she uttered the barest little gasp. The prickly silk of his beard felt ticklish against her chin, then rough as he grew more aggressive. A fluttering tension began low in her belly, heat igniting, flooding her body. The sensitive place between her thighs began to ache, and she felt an unfamiliar, melting dampness there.
He lifted his mouth from hers, and his tongue darted out to soothe her swollen, bruised lower lip. He nuzzled her jaw, then nipped at her throat, laving her tingling skin.
His hand moved higher, up over her ribs, and a very small, distant voice cried out that she was being wanton, that she should resist what he was doing—and all that she felt. She should not be enjoying his caresses, his kisses, these startling sensations he lavished on her body.
Her heart silenced the voices with a single thought. This man was unlike any she had ever known, strong and powerful, yet gentle and protective. And he made her feel as no man ever had. She had tried desperately to deny the unsettling power of these emotions she felt for him. But like the sudden fury of a summer storm, they overwhelmed her reason, demanding that she deny her heart no longer.
“Darach,” she whispered, a soft cry of longing. She threaded her hands into his hair and drew him closer.
Groaning, he kissed her again, tugging her tunic upward until his fingers met bare skin. She made the smallest whimper of uncertainty as his hand cupped the softness of one breast. His fingers caressed the curves with such tenderness that she trembled in response. He brushed his thumb across the peak and it tightened, the sensation shocking, little sparks of pleasure cascading to her belly.
Then he bent his head and kissed her, just there, a more intimate kiss than she had ever imagined, his tongue teasing the sensitive tip, his lips drawing her into the velvet heat of his mouth. Her whimper deepened into a moan.
His han
ds slipped her tunic over her head.
Laurien lay half naked beneath him in the flickering lantern light, but she felt no shame, only a tingling heat that suffused her skin. He placed a lingering kiss at the hollow of her throat, then traced lower. Never had she felt so many sensations at once—the warmth of the furs beneath her back, the roughness of Darach’s tunic against the delicate skin of her breasts, the spicy tang of his masculine scent, the sound of his breathing, now ragged with desire. Too many feelings coursed through her, like hunger and thirst and longing all at once, all centered on this man.
She gave in to it, sliding her hands beneath his tunic, tugging at the fabric until he pulled it off and threw it aside. She ran her hands over his ribs, through the mat of hair on his chest, marveling at his hard-muscled body—so different from hers, so angular and solid. Unfamiliar and intriguing. Her fingers encountered the bandage on his chest and she pulled away, pained by the memory that she had caused him to be hurt.
Darach caught her wrist.
He turned her palm upward, kissed it slowly, and placed it in the center of his chest, covering her hand with his own.
She could feel his heart beating, strong and fast. Their eyes met and held in the glimmering light.
Then his mouth claimed hers in another ravishing kiss. He thrust his tongue inside, slow and deep, and she hesitantly, tentatively suckled it. He groaned, his hand skimming downward. His fingers made quick work of the laces on her leggings.
Laurien gasped as his hand slipped inside the waist of her garment. He went more slowly now, lingering over every inch of skin, touching her where she had never been touched before. She moved her hips, feeling an impatient, desperate yearning she could not understand.
He lifted his mouth from hers, looking down at her as he caressed the soft, sensitive place between her thighs. He moistened his fingertips in her dampness, and she squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lower lip to hold back the pleading, brazen words that leaped to her tongue. The tension that curled inside her belly was almost beyond bearing.
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 16
