by Lara Temple
He went slowly, watching the lather slide down as he worked, over her buttocks and down her legs. He let his fingers and knuckles graze her warm, slippery skin. It was addictive, this touch. He wanted to spread her out on the cold floor and do the same to every inch of her—look, touch, taste...
He swallowed and kept to his agenda, ignoring the howling need that pulsed in every cell and gathered into a ravenous demand in his loins. He didn’t want this to end, not even in satisfaction. He knew what would follow then—regret and reckoning. No, he wanted to stay like this, his hands on her skin, standing so close to her he could see the wet spikes of her short hair clinging to her nape, a pulse just at the side of her neck, the curved line of her cheek between that determined jaw and the uncompromising cheekbones.
He didn’t want to ruin this moment, not even with pleasure.
She turned her head, her eyes gleaming. She looked the way she had in the temple—shadowed, whisky-coloured eyes that were absolutely honest in their need.
She leaned her hand against his chest and he realised he’d let his own towel drop. He didn’t have time to think before she moved, her arms around his back, pressing her full length against him. His body blazed like a molten sun against her cool skin, his erection pressing hard against her, their skin slick.
‘Our lives could end in a flash and I don’t want to regret not taking this. When we leave this room, we leave this behind if you wish.’
He shook his head at the absurdity of that, but it was such a seductive fiction. And at least one thing she’d said was true. Their lives could end in a flash. This was honest, this burning wish—it was just now. It, too, would pass, but right now...
He let his hands finally settle honestly on her skin, without the lie of washing her. He let them slip from her shoulders down to her thighs, fitting her to him as he went so he could feel the full pressure of her breasts, the tension of her abdomen on his erection, her legs shifting gently on his, so much softer and smoother. He slipped his knee between her legs and she hummed, letting her leg rub the length of his.
‘Yes,’ she murmured, rising to touch her mouth to his neck. He arched it to give her better access, urging her on with words while his hands talked to her as well. For a long while he explored her, watching every expression that flitted across her face as his hands travelled over her, tracing her lines gently as he felt her body relax into his touch. Her mouth moved along his neck, his chest, not quite kisses, just breathy answers that heated and cooled his damp skin.
He kissed her, teasingly light at first, drawing her to him until she rose into the embrace, her body moving with his as if to music, and she was humming gently, almost purring. His whole body reverberated with that sound, like the lasting shimmer of a bell.
Her eyes were half closed, gleaming amber and gold as she explored him as well, her hands shaping themselves over him, stopping to rest gently against his damaged skin in a way that made him clench hard around something he didn’t want to open.
He slid a hand down the curve of her back, cupping her behind as he leaned back, tracing his fingers gently over the curve of her breasts. They were beautiful, round and warm in his hand, her nipples rose-coloured like her lips, but darkening as they hardened at his touch. He brushed his lips over them and she gave a little mewl, deep in her throat, her fingers threading through his hair and tightening painfully.
‘Yes, I want that...’ she whispered in her gravel and honey voice and he shuddered, resisting the beating rush of need that was demanding he act now. End it now.
He didn’t want it to end. He wanted this to go on for ever. He kissed the tightening crown of her breast, flicking it with his tongue and revelling in the answering clenching of her body against his, in her soft encouraging murmurings. Her hands mirrored his, caressing his back, slipping lower to sweep tentatively over his behind in a way that nearly felled him, gaining in confidence and only faltering when he shifted to touch the soft skin on the inside of her thigh.
She tensed, reminding him that his desert queen might be devastatingly passionate and not an innocent in society’s terms, but one lover years ago did not mean she was comfortable with the intimacies he took for granted. He slowed, taking his time until that hum returned. Then he brushed his hand very gently down her abdomen and over her wet curls.
‘May I touch you here?’
She breathed in sharply, pressing her face into the curve of his shoulder, her arms tightening about his nape.
‘Yes.’ Her voice wobbled but her legs parted further as he trailed his fingers up and down her thighs. ‘I like that, just like that...’
He pressed his eyes shut, hard. Every word she spoke was like a hand stroking him. Her skin was already slick with steam and it was so beautifully simple to slip his fingers over the silky skin of her parting.
He anchored his hand in her short hair, kissing her deeply, hungrily, as he touched her. She kissed him back with the same hunger, her breath catching in little helpless gasps, her hips moving now against his hand, searching, reaching... She’d dropped all her defences and he saw everything, every confusion and pleasure and that soft secretive smile that knocked his heart on its side. He pressed her against the tiled wall and her head fell back, baring her breasts to his mouth as she clung to him until she cried out her release in a series of long shudders.
They stayed like that for a long moment, surrounded in milky swathes of steam, his arm hard around her back, his mouth pressed to the thudding pulse in her temple, his palm warm against her. Then she gave a long sigh, her muscles relaxing.
‘I’m so glad I came here.’
He gave a choked laugh against her hair, but he was in too much pleasurable agony to make the obvious glib remark. He drew away a little, but her arms tightened on him, her hips moving, rubbing herself against his erection.
‘Cleo, perhaps we shouldn’t...’
‘Yes, we should. I want you to be glad I came here, too,’ she murmured against his skin, her hands moving down his back with purpose. His heart, already beating far too fast, stumbled.
‘It felt so, so good,’ she continued. ‘I don’t remember it at all like that. William didn’t...’
Rafe nipped gently on the lobe of her ear and she shuddered and mercifully fell silent.
‘A piece of advice, Cleo. When making love to one man, never discuss another.’
He felt her smile against his skin. He took her hand, his fingers sliding between hers, and guided it to his erection. She gave a little sigh and wrapped her hand around it and he couldn’t hold back a groan of sheer pleasure.
‘It’s so soft,’ she murmured, sweeping her palm over its length.
‘Soft?’ he demanded in a choked voice.
‘The skin.’ She half laughed, her gaze on her hand as she explored. ‘Underneath it’s hard as stone, but here...soft...’ Her voice was almost as much a torture as her hand. ‘Like this? Do you like it?’
‘I love it,’ he answered, not caring about anything but that she not stop. He wanted to stay right there, in this pitch of agonised pleasure, with her body and mouth torturing him and her hand wringing his soul into ecstatic oblivion.
He guided her until she caught the rhythm, kissing her, stroking her head and back as she kissed his neck, his chest. When her mouth stroked past his nipple he felt an explosion of joy and she paused.
‘You like this as much as I did,’ she murmured against him and he nodded helplessly, his mind pleading—don’t stop.
She held him as he came and they stood afterwards in a hard embrace, the steam still rising in fluffy billows, but weakening. He could feel the cooler air snake about his legs. Everywhere she was not pressed against him felt bare, exposed. He detached himself carefully and went to fetch a bucket of the cooling water. He rinsed her off gently and dried her with a cotton towel and she stood there and let him.
They dressed in silence an
d left, passing the guard who was nodding at his post. Rafe placed another coin on his tray and followed Cleo out into the darkening evening.
At the bottom of the stairs to their rooms Cleo turned and smiled.
‘Thank you, Rafe. I won’t forget that.’
A burst of pain radiated through him and he didn’t even know why.
‘I don’t think I will either.’
She hurried up the stairs and slipped into her room. He could hear Birdie moving around the kitchen-cum-dining room and he went to his own room and lay down to stare at the ceiling, torn between ebbing bliss and rising guilt. His conscience had already been flaying him about what was in store for her the next day; he hadn’t thought he could feel any more culpable.
Apparently he could.
Chapter Thirteen
They walked along the stone jetty towards the rowboat rising and falling on the waves. Beyond it was the deep blue of the Mediterranean, blooming with sails. She slowed, her cracked heart lightening at the sight despite her sorrow. She remembered the salted breeze and the sound of the waves so well from those years in Acre—it was like listening to a heartbeat under a blanket.
Rafe had told her his friend might be able to shed light on Dash’s whereabouts, but she knew the chances were slim. In a matter of days, she would probably have to leave for London and this wondrous sea would lie between her and her past, between her and her new friends.
She didn’t want to leave. She was not ready.
Rafe stopped by the rowboat, holding out his hand peremptorily.
‘Come.’
His voice was clipped, his eyes cold and distant, and her old instincts came to the fore. ‘Why could this Captain not meet us on shore?’
‘Because he’s the Captain and he has other matters to attend to, Prudent Pat.’
‘Stop calling me that,’ she snapped. ‘You called me Cleo easily enough in the hammam.’ For a second before he withdrew his gaze she knew he was back there as well, steam wrapping around them, his body hard and hot against hers, his mouth...
She’d wanted a memory and now she had it...branded on to every inch of her.
A trickle of sweat ran down her neck and between her breasts and she was grateful for the sea breeze that cooled her as she stepped into the rowboat. It rocked and tipped as Rafe entered and she grabbed at the side.
‘Careful. You’ll tip it.’
‘Now that is unkind. I’ve all but starved myself of decent food seeing you through the devil’s desert and now you’re complaining I’m fat?’
‘I did not say that. You are merely big...’ Her cheeks flamed in sudden embarrassment.
‘You do look like you could use a cooling dip, Pat.’ His hand rose and settled back on his thigh, but her cheek tingled as if he’d brushed his fingers across it.
‘In these clothes I’d likely sink to the bottom like a rock.’
‘I’d save you. Again.’
‘I seem to remember saving you the last time we had a brush with danger,’ she replied. Possibly it was the wrong thing to say for he fell silent, his almost-smile flattening out. She felt he was gathering himself for something and for a moment wondered what history he and this mysterious Captain had together.
They did not speak again as they cut through the waves to draw alongside a large two-masted brigantine. The sailor called up their arrival in French and there was a clacking and a series of thuds as the Jacob’s ladder was unrolled for them. Rafe stood, his feet apart for balance, and helped her to her feet. But again his gaze seemed to slip away from her.
Once on board he moved swiftly and she had no more than a brief impression of a wide and impressively uncluttered deck before they entered the quarterdeck and proceeded down a corridor. He opened a cabin door and as she stepped inside she couldn’t hold back a gasp of surprised pleasure.
She’d been on many ships in her short life, but she’d never seen such quarters. The bed was long enough to accommodate someone Rafe’s size, there was a gilded sofa with embroidered silk cushions, a large rolltop writing desk, and two substantial-looking chairs framing the door like sentinels. The floors were covered in multicoloured rugs and the walls in cupboards and shelves stacked with books, crockery and rolled charts.
‘What a beautiful room. It looks as though a sultan should be reclining on that bed eating sweetmeats,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘That’s because there is nothing like it. Chris is unique.’
‘That sounds ominous. Are you certain he might know something of Dash’s whereabouts?’
‘He knows a great many things, the scoundrel,’ Rafe replied and went to open one of the cupboards, taking out a bottle and two glasses. He unstoppered the bottle and sniffed at it, then poured himself a measure and took a deep swallow from his cup. His eyes closed and he expelled his breath on a groan that made her legs tense. ‘Including where to find the finest spirits in the Mediterranean, damn his black soul. Try this.’
She took the glass cautiously and sipped. Her mind filled with sunset colours—deep burnt orange to purple-black cherries.
‘It’s wonderful,’ she said hoarsely as it stopped exploding in her mouth and the fiery skies she’d swallowed settled into a soothing afternoon haze. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know, but I agree, it’s wonderful.’ His voice was muted and she risked a glance at him, but he turned away again, moving towards a painting on the wall.
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have drunk from it?’ she said, looking into the innocuous-looking liquid. The ship was swaying gently, adding to the soft sensation left by the spirits. She’d heard of drugging potions used in harems. ‘Are you certain it is wine?’
‘Of course it is wine. Chris knows the best vineyards in Europe. He sells most of it to the highest bidder, but if anything makes it to his private chambers, it is tried and tested and true. Drink up.’
‘If I drink up, I will likely fall down and I must still go search for Dash once we speak to your Captain.’
He took a deep breath and set his cup down. She tensed, setting her cup down as well.
‘Rafe. I know there is something you are not telling me. Please...have you word of Dash?’
He squared his shoulders.
‘Nothing yet. After I speak to Chris, I will continue with our enquiries. You will remain here.’
‘I most certainly will not. I agreed to wait while you made enquiries yesterday and I came with you to see this Captain of yours, but our agreement ends there.’
‘Boucheron is in Alexandria. I won’t risk him seeing you.’
‘Boucheron... You knew this yesterday.’
‘Yes. You will be safe here on the Hesperus.’
‘On a ship full of felons?’
‘They aren’t felons; they are...enterprising sailors. The point is they are loyal to their Captain and their Captain is loyal to me.’
‘You cannot place me here like a trunk and expect me to sit twiddling my thumbs. I am not your property, Mr Grey.’
‘You hired my services, Miss Osbourne. Now you are stuck with them. I’ve kept you safe so far and I have a distaste for watching my good work go to waste. So begin twiddling your thumbs. I will return soon. And don’t drink all the wine, I’ll want a glass when I return.’
‘What? No!’ She leapt for the door, but it closed with a thick thump before her hand even touched the knob. Then there was a click as the key turned.
He’d locked her in.
It was so obvious and yet her mind struggled to accept it. In all their long journey together he’d never yet done something like this.
She rattled the knob and gave the door a kick, cursing Rafe in every language she could summon.
How dare he. Like hell she would stay there. She turned and spotted another door and strode towards it, but it merely led to the Captain’s q
uarter gallery. It comprised a dressing room, then a room fitted with a large copper bath and finally a small latrine. They were all as pristine as the Captain’s quarters, as if they had only now been delivered from the shipyard. But since they offered no other exit other than the small windows that opened directly over the rolling waves, she was too furious to be impressed.
The waves were lazy and rhythmic, but large. She could hear their distant boom against the rocks. It would be possible to squeeze through the open quarter-gallery windows and try to swim ashore, but the ship was anchored well out of the bay—a long and dangerous swim with the current against her...or she might be taken up by one of the fishing boats and God only knew what they would do with her...
And when Rafe discovered her gone? He cared about the charges he took on. It wasn’t merely pride—protecting his charges was a measure of his worth, of who he was. He would search for her just as she had searched for Dash, possibly putting himself even further in harm’s way. Now she knew Boucheron was in Alexandria her foreboding escalated. Now she had not only Dash, but Rafe to fear for.
She returned to the cabin and sat down with a thump on the sybaritic bed and picked up a crimson cushion, hugging it to her. It was not natural—sitting here while they were out there.
If something happened to Rafe because of her...
At times like this she envied devout people. They would have their gods to pray to, to place their faith in, to blame if aught went wrong. All she could do was hug the tasselled cushion and wait.
* * *
She’d never expected to fall asleep. One moment she was seated, hugging her cushion, and the next she was lurching out of darkness into darkness.
For a moment she thought she’d been tied into a sack, but it was only a blanket. She twisted off the bed, misjudged its height and fell with a grunt on to her knees.
Hands brushed against her, closing on her arms and pulling her to her feet. She should have been scared, but she knew immediately who it was.
‘Are you all right?’ he whispered, his hands skimming down her arms. Rising to touch her face.
