The pain she’d smothered while nursing her husband now slammed against her ribs, taking her breath away. She still heard her father’s plaintive voice in her mind: Holly, trust me. I will make things right. And she still heard her cold rebuff: No, I do not trust you anymore, Papa.
She trembled at the memory and tears filled her eyes.
Quincy wiped the drops from her cheeks, smearing the briny moisture. “What happened to your family?”
She turned her head and observed the fiery sunrise reflecting across the Thames. “I had a happy childhood. Mama and Papa were always joyful, full of life. They hosted parties almost every week.” She smiled in nostalgia, but her lips soon slipped, and her frown returned. “Papa, like every other lord, enjoyed a good card game, winning a few hands, losing others. But his pastime turned obsessive when he lost too many hands in a row. He was determined to regain every shilling. He couldn’t, though. With each attempt, he lost more. And more. He grew desperate.” She sucked in a frantic breath. “He wouldn’t stop.”
The set of arms around her tightened, squeezing the panic from her heart.
“He lost everything, I assume,” said Quincy.
She nodded. “Even his life.”
“His life?”
Her throat constricted as she resumed the tale. “He took his life with a pistol.”
“I’m sorry, Holly.”
“I am even sorrier.” Her watery eyes lifted. “We argued the night before his suicide. I pleaded with him to stop gambling. He pleaded with me to trust him, that he would restore all that he’d taken from us.” Her voice ragged, she stuttered, “I didn’t trust him anymore, though. And I turned away from him. He died the next day. Because of me.”
He furrowed his brow. “How is it your fault?”
Her tears fell quick. “When I lost faith in Papa, I took away his hope. He had no reason to live after that.”
Holly sensed the moment her husband’s posture toward her changed, shifted with an uncertain tightness.
“Is that why you came to me?” he asked, voice guarded.
“I came to help you.”
He stepped back, releasing her, and that familiar panic surged in her breast, the same panic she’d battled as a young woman, when she’d realized her father had squandered the family’s fortune.
“What’s wrong, Quincy?”
“I just thought . . . No, it doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. Tell me.”
An unexpected melancholy entered his beautiful eyes. “I thought you’d come aboard ship because you cared for me.”
There was a rawness in his voice that smacked of hurt, starling her. “I do care for you. How can you think otherwise?”
“No, you care about your guilt. You came aboard the Nemesis looking for absolution. But I am not your father, Holly.”
Her thoughts reeled. Her blood raced. Wavering, she reached for the ship’s rail. “I don’t understand.”
“Let it be, Holly.”
He turned and sauntered away.
“Wait!” she cried, feeling dizzy, strapped for breath. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going home.”
“What’s happened, Quincy?” Her lungs ached for air. “Why are you walking away? I—I love you!”
He hardened in his tracks.
She heaved under the incredible weight of those words. As she stood there, alone, watching her husband leave, imagining a life without him, the load intensified, and a fierce need possessed her.
“You are my husband. And I love you, Quincy Hawkins.” She moved away from the rail and circled him, glaring right into his confused eyes. “Don’t you dare push me away with that infernal excuse. I’m not here looking for absolution. I’m here because I love you, and I don’t want to lose you.”
“Like you lost your father?”
“Yes! Yes, like I lost my father. I should have helped him all those years ago. But I didn’t. And that is my pain. But I can help you. I can be here for you.”
He raked an unsteady hand through his hair, still perturbed, unbelieving.
“Why are you so afraid of me?” she demanded.
He reared his head. “What?”
“Trust me. Touch me. Be with me.” Her voice faltered. “We can be happy together, I know it.”
At the turmoil still swirling in his eyes, she knew she hadn’t convinced him of the truth—and that sparked a flash of anger in her.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Be alone. I will still love you, you damn pirate.”
And she stalked away.
CHAPTER 20
Slumped in an armchair, a glass of brandy in his hand, Quincy stared at the unfinished self-portrait of Holly. He’d wandered into her art studio, unable to sleep, and had found the charcoal sketch still perched on the easel. And still mesmerizing.
A burst of lightning filled the room, followed by roaring thunder. He rubbed his burning eyes and turned away from his wife’s haunting likeness, downing the remaining brandy.
When he’d arrived home earlier that day, a cheerful Emma had received him, followed by a proud Mirabelle, and for the first time in a long time, he’d felt grateful to be alive, that he had been there to help the girl.
His wife had not been there to welcome him, though. According to his sister, Holly had returned to the house, escorted by one of his shipmates, and after greeting her kin, had gone straight to her room where she was still secured. His sister had left thereafter, sensing the discord between the newlyweds. But Quincy had not approached his wife’s room. It was after midnight, and he still had not neared her chamber door. In truth, he also felt like a canon ball had rammed him in the gut.
He pushed out of the armchair. Surrounded by shrouded canvases, he had an overwhelming urge to unmask them and stripped away the drapings, revealing painting after brilliant painting. Still, the need to unveil his wife consumed him. He ransacked her paper sketches, sifting through portraits and stills and abstract designs. Her talent was boundless, undeniable, but his need to expose her went unsatisfied. He’d already recognized her scope as an artist. What was he really searching for?
Proof.
He slumped his shoulders at the dismal revelation. He was searching for proof that she loved him. He hadn’t found it, though. There were no moonstruck images of him amongst the piles of papers, no dewy-eyed oils. The one nude she’d produced of him had been for profit, and not a sentiment of her true affection for him.
There was nothing in the studio to support her declaration of love.
“Damn it.”
He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Fear filled him. A fear of what, though? And how had that fear just sprouted in his breast?
Quincy stalked toward the door—then stilled. At a certain angle, the charcoal portrait of Holly stared straight at him. Before, it’d appeared as if she was looking sidelong to some distant, unnamed point, but standing where he was now, he met her eyes dead-on.
His heart capered, and that unnamed fear revealed itself: what if she didn’t truly love him?
What if she was using him to make peace with her past? What if he was just a substitute for her father, a means of reparation and reconciliation? Once, such a thought would not have troubled him. But now . . .
Quincy inhaled a desperate breath. As he gazed into her sooty eyes, filled with myriad emotions, he longed for her love because . . . because he loved her.
He shuddered under the force of those words; they permeated his soul until he pulsed with an insatiable desire for Holly. But that fear still gripped him. What if her professed love for him wasn’t real? He couldn’t imagine a greater hell than to be in love with his wife and not have her love in return. Or what if she rejected him after their morning quarrel? What if he was too late, and she’d hardened her heart against him?
Quincy steadied his irregular breathing. He couldn’t remember a more critical battle than the one raging in his heart right now. And he realized there was no winning the battle by
scouring the art studio or torturing himself with endless questions of doubt. There was really only one thing he could do—surrender to his love for Holly, consequences be damned.
~ * ~
Holly wrapped her arms around her bare shoulders, a light breeze in the humid air. She stood on the balcony in her night rail, watching the moon-washed garden below. Soon the celestial light faded as storm clouds encroached. She listened to the angry thunder still miles off and travelled away in her thoughts, escaping the dull ache in her breast.
Her husband’s accusation still rattled in her head: you care about your guilt . . . absolution . . . I am not your father. No, he was not. And she wasn’t striving to change the past. Her father was dead, and she was left with two disjointed sentiments: asking his forgiveness for her weakness and forgiving him for his. She’d not known about the power of hope or encouragement, that a lost soul could be guided home with a loving hand. But she understood the lesson now. And she’d no regrets helping her husband. Her only regret was growing attached to the man.
Quincy had told her time and again he wanted a marriage in name alone. She should have believed him. She should have helped him overcome his obsession without wishing for more.
She was a fool for dreaming. And now she was a fool in love.
“Damn.”
The sting of bitter tears blurred her vision, and she wiped away the annoying droplets, vowing never to weep over the pirate again.
A gentle rain fell, a mist really, and she closed her eyes, allowing the spray to bathe her, perhaps wash away her sorrow.
Holly tensed.
A draft stirred at her backside. Her languid heart jumped. And a shiver skittered along her spine.
She grabbed the iron rail for support. She was confused. And ravenous. Fearful. And hoping. Always foolishly hoping.
He stepped through the balcony doors, silent, and the fine hairs on her arms spiked. She flexed her fingers, then grasped the rail again. Tight. So tight. She waited for him to speak, but he remained still—earth-shatteringly still.
The longer he stood behind her, his primal gaze burrowing into her, the more her senses roared with life. But she would not confront him. He had come to her. In the dead of night. Why?
“W-why are you here?” she stammered.
Quincy took another step toward her.
Her breath hitched.
“I saw the light under your door,” he murmured.
“That’s not an answer.” In a strangled voice, she asked again, “Why are you here?”
She strengthened her hold on the rail, her knees weakening. The rain now poured. And the pressure in her chest ballooned until she was sure her heart might fail her. She had never waited with such anticipation, such dread, such miserable hope. She almost whirled around and smacked him for making her stand there in agony.
Again, he moved toward her with heady intent. Oh, heavens! She couldn’t feel her fingers anymore, she was holding the iron barrier so hard. Her heart pounded in her ears. She trembled. Her lungs throbbed for air. A powerful yearning coursed through her veins.
Please, don’t be a dream.
When his hips brushed hers, she gasped. An almost electric shock passed through her. In the storm, she might’ve believed lightning had pierced her soul, but she knew it wasn’t the turbulent sky that’d ravaged her—it was her husband.
Holly remained taut as he nestled more firmly against her backside. At last she relaxed into him, consuming the strength, the warmth, the intimacy he offered her in that moment. But he had not confessed his intentions. Aye, his body whispered his sensual desires, but his lips had yet to reveal the true workings of his heart. Had he come for a mere tussle? Or had he come searching for something more?
His broad hands slipped between their heated bodies and he unraveled the stays of his shirt, pulling the garment over his head and tossing it to the ground.
She took in a ragged breath. “What are you doing?”
And if he stated the obvious, she would turn around and clout him.
He next unfastened the flaps of his trousers, the subtle movements whisking across her lower spine, making her quiver.
“I’m giving you my body.”
Her heart seized. In a near inaudible voice, she whispered, “Why?”
He curled his naked form around her, and she opened her mouth in silent ecstasy, unable to utter a sound. His every muscle throbbed with indisputable want—for her—and she raked her teeth over her bottom lip, resisting complete surrender. She just had to know . . .
“Why?” she demanded, still waiting to hear words that might mend—or further tear—her heart.
His fingers trailed up her rigid arms, slick with rain and peppered with gooseflesh. He caressed her shoulders, pressed his thumbs deep into her shoulder blades, forcing her to arch backward. At the unexpected pleasure of his manipulating touch, she cried out.
He then dropped his wet brow and rested it on the crown of her head, his rough voice rumbling, “Because I love you.”
A sob of joy welled in her throat. Hope sprouted anew. Still, she was unsure about his admission. “I thought you didn’t want—?”
“I was wrong,” he said hoarsely. “I want you, Holly. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”
As tremors pulsed through his hands, vibrating down her arms, she sensed his misgiving. After all they had been through, would she accept his love?
Tears filled her eyes again. She appreciated all the more his sincerity, his bravery in the face of uncertain rejection.
He belonged to her, she accepted in that moment. Truly, he belonged to her. And she belonged to him. Forever. And not because of a scandalous painting or a forced marriage, but because he loved her, as she loved him.
“Sweet Holly,” he seduced in a hushed tone. “Be my wife.”
And she sighed between falling tears to finally hear him call her “sweet” again. “I should wallop you but good for taking so long to give in.”
A chuckle resounded in his chest, making her smile, too. “I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, I promise.”
The energy between them changed, shifted from wavering doubt and hope to cardinal desire. Without hesitation, he hooked the straps of her night rail around his thumbs, dragging them off her shoulders. “Starting tonight,” he breathed into her ear. “Our wedding night.”
Our wedding night.
She shut her eyes at the cherished, long sought after words. An anxious want filled her belly and spread throughout her essence as her breathing grew swift and shallow.
Since her garment clinched her body like a second skin, he peeled away the soaked linen until it dropped to the ground, leaving her naked in the stormy night. Water pelted her skin. She shivered under the stimulating taction.
“You’re so beautiful,” he rasped.
Her blood swelled. Her lips, her breasts felt fuller, more sensitive. She wasn’t even abashed at the admiration in his gruff voice; it offered her nothing but delight.
“You’re beautiful, too,” she returned softly, perhaps a little wickedly. “I’ve already had the pleasure of seeing you in the buff.”
He grunted at her impudence. “Wench.”
But her grin faltered when he brushed aside her damp hair and nuzzled the crook between her neck and shoulder, bussing the tender flesh while circling her waist . . . and kneading her breasts.
Holly moaned. Her heart rammed against her breastbone in arousal, such wanton arousal. She had never experienced more rapture or beauty. As her husband stroked her aching nipples, sucked at her supple throat, undulated at her bare back, she nigh dropped from the assailing sensations.
“Hold the rail, Holly. Tight.”
A violent shudder wracked her limbs. She obeyed, squeezing the iron bar. His knuckles traced the knobs of her spine. Water sluiced her body. And then his robust fingers slipped between her buttocks.
She arced on pointe at the man’s probing thrusts, at the intense titill
ation. An exquisite tension gathered between her thighs, and her quim—oh, heavens—her quim wetted with fierce need.
In instinct, she spread her legs apart, wanting more.
So much more.
With a feral longing that matched her own, Quincy grabbed her hips, pulled her arse closer toward him, and penetrated her core in one hot, hard stroke.
Sweet heavens!
CHAPTER 21
Quincy dropped his head back and groaned. His wife’s tight, wet quim gripped him with insatiable need. He’d never experienced such profound pleasure. As the rain battered him and her carnal cries filled his ears, he surrendered to the madness: the sweet, sweet madness.
He thrust into her, again and again, flexing his muscles, maintaining control of his depth and rhythm so as not to cause her too much pain. Soon her body softened with every sensual undulation. And her unbound passion disarmed him. As always.
Whatever had possessed him to resist her? Whatever had possessed him to think he could resist her? From the moment he’d met her at the gaming hell, from the moment he’d kissed her in his carriage, he’d known—intuitively—he belonged to her.
And she belonged to him.
Holly opened for him without resistance. She opened every part of herself. Her heart. Her soul. Her womb. She took his breath away. And he anchored her hips in a firm hold, rocking her faster and faster.
As her cries strengthened, as her quim clenched and pulsed, he sensed her approaching climax and quickened his penetration, pumping her even harder.
His heart raged. His hips bucked. And then she shouted in pure ecstasy, her muscles throbbing around his erection. She came so fast. Her warm fluids streaked his thighs. And he blessedly released his own orgasm, pouring his seed into her, grinding her arse in one final, desperate stroke of lust.
Quincy captured the iron rail, gasping for breath. He buried his brow in Holly’s tangled hair and covered her with his fevered flesh.
Soon she turned in his embrace, her eyes smoldering, her lips flushed with blood. “Kiss me,” she whispered, ransacking his soul with the impassioned entreaty. “Kiss me as your wife.”
How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) Page 12
