Her Master and Commander

by Karen Hawkins

  Had there been no line down the center of the seat, she might well have disrobed, slid to his side, and pulled him to her. But this was no longer a moment of sharing, but of winning.

  And she refused to do anything else.

  Forcing herself to appear calm, Prudence smiled ever so slightly, hoping her lips weren’t trembling as much as her legs. “Well…” She let her breath smooth the word and linger in the smoky darkness of the rocking carriage.

  She traced the neckline of her gown with her fingers, noting how his gaze seemed locked on her hands. She slid one hand down her front, over the curve of her breast, to her stomach, and lower.

  His expression tightened. “What are you doing?”

  She smiled. “Undressing.” This was power, she realized. Real power. He was watching her every move, unable to look away.

  Prudence lifted her foot and placed it on the opposite seat. She pulled off her slipper and let it fall to the carriage floor. Then she gathered the hem of her dress in one hand.

  She never once looked away from Tristan’s face, from the flash of heat that darkened his eyes when she pulled the hem across her knee and exposed her calf and foot. “My stockings must come off.”

  She slid the gown a bit higher, exposing now her thigh all the way to the top. Her chemise hid the top of her stocking ties, but she pulled it aside and began to slowly unlace the satin strings.

  Tristan’s gaze never left her leg. Indeed, he seemed mesmerized, his gaze captured by the movement of her hands, his breathing harsh in the silence.

  She undid the ties and then began to slowly roll her stocking down her leg. As she did so, she allowed her hands to linger on her own skin, brushing here, touching there.

  The sound of his breathing filled the narrow space. Prudence watched Tristan from under her lashes, her own body heating at the sight of his obvious arousal, at the tension that marked his expression, at the desire that burned in his gaze.

  She removed the stocking and then took off her other shoe, careful to keep the hem of her skirt on her thigh, high but not too high. Not yet, anyway.

  She took her time taking this stocking off as well, lingering on her own curves, using Tristan’s expression to gauge her movements. He seemed particularly heated when she touched her skin, and so she cupped her calf and trailed her fingers up it to the hollow behind her knee.

  Tristan leaned forward, his hands touching the cloak line but not moving it. His eyes burned tightly, his body taut. “If you will cross the line, I will kiss you where your fingers touch.”

  Prudence found that her own breath was unsteady, her own body burning beneath her fingers. “Everywhere?”

  “Everywhere.”

  She threw the stocking to the floor and pulled her gown back to her ankles. His gaze was riveted to her. “Tristan, if you cross the line, I will allow you to do more than merely kiss me.”

  A white line appeared beside his mouth.

  Smiling, Prudence undid the ribbon at her neck. It opened and released her gown. She loosened the shoulders, and pushed it down, off her arms, past her waist. She lifted her hips from the seat and pushed the gown to the floor, where it lay, a puddle of satin and lace.

  Tristan had never seen anything so beautiful. She was brazen and yet of a rare and beautiful quality. A respectable woman, and yet a woman of passion and longing that made him want her all the more.

  He’d never met anyone who so completely tantalized him, challenged him. Watching her undress was torture and pleasure, both.

  She sat now in nothing but her chemise. The thin material clung to the tops of her breasts, casting curious shadows between and beneath them. Pert bows rested at the crest of each breast, begging to be untied.

  Tristan was so aroused he ached. Yet still he did not move. He grasped the edge of the seat, totally engaged in watching the woman before him. He regretted the challenge he’d made in drawing a line down the seat.

  She undid one of the ties of her chemise. The top draped down over one breast, clinging to the delectable slope. She reached up for the other tie, her fingers hovering.

  Her rich brown eyes met his. “What if you invite me to cross the line?”

  He set his jaw. “I would lose.”

  “I see.”

  Tristan heard the desire in her voice, her fascination with her own longing. He felt the same way. But he could not allow her to win this contretemps. He could not.

  She undid the other tie and the chemise fell from her breasts, exposing the creamy mounds to his hungry gaze. They were beautiful, full, with rose-kissed nipples that drew his attention and made him even more painfully aware of her.

  With a graceful lift of her hips, the chemise went the way of her gown and she was completely nude, her eyes shining, her lips curled in a secret smile, as if she knew very well what she was doing to him.

  It was the most arousing, sensual moment of his life.

  She lifted her arms and began pulling pins from her hair. “What if we should change the rule?”

  Tristan found he could not look away from her breasts. “Yes?”

  “It is not crossing the line unless your hips touch the cloak. But hands and else…” Her eyes sparkled. “Hands and else may roam wherever they will go.”

  Tristan’s blood roared anew. “Hands and else?”

  “Anything but hips.”

  “I accept the change in rules.”

  Her lips curled into a small smile. “I thought you might.” She withdrew two last pins. Her deep brown hair fell to her shoulders in a silky swath.

  Tristan caught his breath. She was glorious.

  She leaned back, her legs slightly parting as she did so, the dim light touching her body with intriguing shades. Her hair streamed over her shoulders, covering one breast and leaving the other for his hungry gaze. “What now?”

  He reached over the line and placed his hands on her knees, his fingers lingering on her delicate skin. “What now, indeed?”

  Her bare skin burned him through the pads of his fingers. His body reacted immediately. Already hard, his erection leaped with the touch.

  His mind and imagination was already inflamed, fanned by her tempting disrobing. Now, his skin tingled with delicious sensation, and his body yearned for more. “May I kiss you?”

  Her eyes darkened, her chest rising and falling in a way that let him know she was as affected as he. “I suppose we could meet at the line.”

  “Indeed we could.”

  Prudence leaned forward. Tristan found himself watching her full breasts as she leaned, the sight enrapturing.

  And then…she was there. And he was kissing her, his mouth covering hers, his tongue gently slipping through her lips.

  The kiss heated, expanded, exploded. Suddenly, kissing was not enough. His hands were everywhere, as were hers.

  This was madness. Lovely, sweet, joy-inspired madness. Tomorrow he’d think about the consequences. For right now, he just wanted to get lost in her loveliness.

  It seemed to him that Prudence felt the same. He could feel the tumultuous pounding of her heart, smell the clove-scented passion of her breath. She was his. All he had to do was slide forward, pull her into his lap, make her his and—

  Something caught at his leg. Tristan looked down at the cloak bundled against his hip.

  She moaned and tugged at him.

  With the most incredible control he’d ever exhibited, Tristan put a bit more space between himself and the line. “I can’t, sweetheart. I can’t cross the line. Not unless you invite me…” He waited, praying she’d give in, hoping she’d allow him to—

  “No.” She leaned toward him, sliding her fingers through his hair, and pulling him forward until his lips were against hers. Her lashes lifted, and her eyes met his as she said against his lips, “Take me.”

  He trembled with the need to plunge into her, to bury himself to his loins, and take her over and over and over. But every time he slid in her direction, the cloak stopped him. Reminded him of their game.
If she was too proud to lose, he was too stubborn.

  He placed his hands on her arms and pushed her from him. “I will not forfeit myself.”

  A slow smile curled her lips and she leaned back against the squab, the red velvet making her skin milky white, her breasts begging for his touch. She stretched her arms over her head and shrugged. “Then do not.”

  Tristan realized she was being deliberately provocative. And doing a damned fine job of it, too. As if she could read his thoughts, she reached down and cupped her breasts, her lashes low over her eyes, her lips pursed invitingly.

  God, but she was delicious. He could not hold out much longer. This called for extreme measures. He reached over the line of battle and placed his hand on her knee.

  Her lashes lifted, her eyes such a warm, cinnamon brown. He leaned over the cloak line and placed a kiss on her cheek, the corner of her mouth, her neck…With each progressive kiss, he slid his hand higher. Higher still. When his lips found her shoulder, his hand rested on her thigh. He lightly brushed his fingers over her skin, trailing them up…up…He allowed his fingertips to trace the tight curls that enticed him beyond measure.

  He bent to clasp her nipple in his mouth the same moment his fingers found her secret folds. Prudence gasped and arched, bringing herself even more within his reach.

  “Say it,” Tristan murmured as she writhed against the seat. “Say you want me to join you.”

  “No,” she gasped. “I—Oh, God!”

  “Say it,” he ground out. He slipped a finger deep into her wetness, curling it just so. “Say you want me to cross the line.”

  “No,” she repeated, shaking her head vehemently, her dark hair spilling over the back of the velvet seat.

  Damn, but the woman was determined. She was also intriguing and erotic, and he ached with the desperate need to taste her. He couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman this badly. Ever working this hard to win his way into any woman’s graces. But there was something about Prudence that was just…different. She was more than most women—more caring, more honest, more sensual.

  She moaned as his fingers moved in her. She reached down and clutched his wrist, writhing against him.

  He could feel the moisture that slipped from her, the fullness of her causing him an agony of need. “Prudence, let me—”

  “No,” she gasped and then squirmed, her want growing, the finger tormenting but not satisfying. “Tristan, I want—” She bit her lip, twisting her head this way and that.

  He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Indeed I can, my love. But you have to ask first. Ask me to cross the line and you will stop wanting, stop needing.”

  His entire body was taut with the effort to control his responses. He wanted her, badly. So badly. But he would not be the one to give in. He increased his ministrations, now brushing the pad of his thumb over her most sensitive spot.

  She arched almost instantly, growing hotter, more insistent. “Tristan!” It was a cry and a plea.

  “Damn it, Prudence,” he said through gritted teeth. “I can’t—” He tried to pull his hand away from her, but she grabbed his wrist and held him fast.

  Damn it all. She could neither stop nor leave her pride behind, and neither could he. What in the hell had he been thinking, to suggest the damn line to begin with?

  Prudence placed her hands on either side of his face, drawing him near. “Tristan, move with me.”

  “What?”

  “Move with me. We’ll cross the line at the same time. We’ll make love on top of it.”

  He just looked at her. Then, ever so slowly, a smile broke through his lust-clouded mind. “We will both win,” he heard his astonished voice say aloud.

  He had to laugh. His Prudence was always the most practical of all women, even in the heat of passion. He reached over and cupped her bottom in his hands and in one smooth movement, slid her beneath him even as he moved over her. She helped, too, her legs splaying to engulf him, welcome him, her feet on the edge of the opposite seat.

  The cloak line ran directly beneath her back. “Will this bother you—” He got no further. With a blissful smile, Prudence clasped her legs about his waist and impaled herself on him.

  All thought left Tristan’s mind. All he could do was feel. Feel her heat and tightness, feel the warm band that encircled him like a hot, wet glove. He was enthralled, engrossed, and enrapt, all by a woman whose head did not even reach his shoulder.

  She wiggled slightly, her breathing as harsh as his. “Tristan,” she managed to say through panting gasps. “More.”

  More. What a powerful word. And if it was more she wanted it, it was more she would get. Tristan obligingly began to move, pressing into her, increasing the pressure, the rhythm.

  The feelings increased, multiplied. The rocking motion of the carriage pushed them further, adding to the moment. Tristan twisted slightly in an effort to get even better angle, but his bad leg hit the seat behind him.

  He winced, gasping in pain.

  “What is it?” Prudence asked.

  “My leg,” he groaned. “This damned carriage.”

  Prudence’s gaze met his, a wicked smile playing about her lush mouth. “Tristan, let me on top.”

  For a moment, he could just look into the warm brown of her eyes. Then an answering smile tickled his mouth. “Very well, sweetheart. Hold on to me.”

  She clasped her arms about his neck. Tristan put his hands on her waist and then, with a smooth movement, he rolled to one side.

  Her gasp filled the air and for a moment, she held completely still, her head thrown back as she savored the feeling of him buried truly deeply in her. Tristan grasped her hips and helped her move, sliding her forward and then backward, rocking her against him. Prudence was soon setting the pace, a hand on each of his shoulders, her hair raking across his neck and chest. The sensations built and grew. Tristan had to fight for control, but fight he did. And he was amply rewarded when suddenly, she stiffened and gasped his name.

  Waves of pleasure tightened about his shaft as she fell forward across him. Tristan clasped Prudence to him, holding her tightly as his own desires exploded along with hers.

  Moments later, his arms still tight about her, their hearts still thundering loudly, Prudence pushed herself upright. She still encased him in her velvet sheath, the motion making him groan.

  She paused, pushed her hair from her eyes, a concerned expression on her face. “Are you—did that hurt?”

  He chuckled and pulled her back to his shoulder, then held her in his arms as he returned to his seat. “No, my sweet.” He tugged the cloak free from where it was partially pinned beneath them and spread it over her. “That did not hurt at all. In fact, it felt—” He kissed her nose. “—magnificent—” He kissed her cheek. “—and absolutely wondrous.”

  A shy smile touched her lips, her eyes sparkling gently. “I think I have a slight problem.”

  He twined a strand of her hair about his finger. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her, stroking her, exploring her softness. “What problem is that?”

  “I think I might like this too much.”

  He laughed softly. “There is no ‘too much’ where this is concerned.”

  “No?”

  “No. Indeed, that is the beauty of the thing; there are few limits.”

  “Hmmm.” She traced a finger along his jaw. “I suppose neither of us won the war.”

  He smiled, sleepily satisfied and content somehow. “We both won, sweetheart. We both won.”

  Prudence rested her cheek on his shoulder. Had they both won? She was not sorry they’d made love again—it was destined to happen. She knew that with every beat of her heart. This moment was meant to be. What she wasn’t so sure about was what would happen now. Some of the glow left at the thought. “We should get dressed.”

  He sighed. “Must we?”

  “Yes. As much as I love Stevens, if he came out to meet the carriage and found me like this, I don’t think I could bear to ever face
him again.”

  “That would be a problem. Very well, my sweet. Let us dress.”

  They gathered their clothes and began to dress, though Tristan slowed things down considerably by passionately kissing her while she was attempting to put on her stockings.

  It was as she was adjusting her dress and smoothing it back into place that the truth dawned on Prudence with the clarity of the ring of a church bell; she loved him.

  The thought sucked all of the strength from her legs and made her sink weakly to the seat. Surely not. Perhaps it was just a warm flicker of enjoyment from their passionate embrace. Or a response to being touched after such a long, long time. Surely it was nothing more…

  But it was true. She, Prudence Thistlewaite, loved Tristan Llevanth, the dangerously uncivilized earl of Rochester.

  She placed a hand over her mouth, more to still her trembling lips than any other reason. There had to be some mistake. Some lapse in judgment or consideration. Some…error.

  “Done,” Tristan said, his cravat once again about his throat, though only knotted this time. “That is much better. Now we will be able to maintain our dignity when Stevens opens the carriage door.”

  Prudence managed a faint smile. “That is very important.”

  “Keeping one’s dignity? At times, yes.” His teeth flashed in a smile. “And then there are times when it can be quite cumbersome.” Without any more warning than that, he reached over and picked up Prudence and set her back in his lap.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Staying warm.” He wrapped the cloak about them both and leaned back in the corner.

  Enclosed in his arms, Prudence pressed her cheek against his chest. Once the trustees gave their approval, he would be London-bound where the women of the ton would make it their business to match him with someone of his own station.

  And that would not be her. She never again wished to return to the heart-rending emptiness that she now felt was London. Never again did she want to walk the halls of the great houses and hear the stirrings of whispers, the cruel mocking laughter, or worse, the superior stares of those who never really cared.