“Why?”
“Because as much as I admire her, I have told you—I am not marrying sweet Cassandra!”
“Why not?” she asked. “The letter written promising ransom…it was written with love and admiration.”
“She deserves far better than anything I can offer. It would not be fair.”
“Because you are not as rich as some men? Logan…you would bring many fine qualities to a marriage.”
“It would not be fair to her because I do not love her. I mean, I do love her, but I have realized I am not in love with her.”
He sighed. “My dear, you can take two perfectly proper people, and they may like and admire and respect one another very much—the very feelings most people believe are exactly what is needed for a marriage—and perhaps they may even believe that they love each other, until…something shows them otherwise. Cassandra and I are those two people. Should I have my own pocket again, there will be a coin or two in it, and certainly we do care for one another. We could well grow to old age together as friends, but she deserves much more.”
She was staring at him, stunned.
“But…”
“But what?” he demanded irritably.
“My God, you are a romantic!” she exclaimed.
“No. I intend only to be a…a noble man.”
Noble? Not really. Why didn’t he want to marry Cassandra now? Because she deserved the best, a man who prized her above all else.
Not a man who looked at another woman and burned.
Who longed to be a bad man, indeed, and drag her passionately into his arms with no room for quarter.
Holding on to the palm tree, she turned to stare again at the spot where the ocean met the sky, where the shadows caught the night and the white foam of the waves caught the light of the moon.
“Look,” she said, after a moment. “The sun is just starting to rise.”
And it was. He could see a tiny line where the day struggled to be born. It was soft yellow with a streak of pink. Even as he watched, the line broadened, a riot of maroon and gold. And slowly the yellow streaks of the sun began to dispel the darkness.
“What a beautiful day,” she said, and walked toward the shore. He was tempted to follow her.
But she made such a strong and solitary figure, silhouetted against the colors of the dawn, that he let her be.
“LAND HO!”
The cry came from the crow’s nest, and the minute he heard the words, Brendan jumped up from the bed in the captain’s quarters.
Racing out, he saw Silent Sam in the crow’s nest and Peg-leg at the wheel.
“Island?” he called.
Silent Sam looked down at him with a nod.
Twenty minutes later, their sails were furled and they were at anchor. A crew of six took the small boats in to the beach.
Brendan stood on the sand. There was some flotsam and jetsam on the beach, but not much, and it had all been there for a long time. He didn’t need to wait for the others to return from farther inland to know they had not found Red and Logan. He felt his heart sinking, yet, he could not allow himself to give up.
Peg-leg came over to him a few minutes later and said, “I’m sorry, Brendan.”
“I believe we’re searching in the wrong direction,” Brendan said, refusing to let the man see his fears. “We need to recalculate the wind from the storm and its effect on the tides. I believe we need to sail in a more westerly direction.”
Peg-leg was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Aye, Brendan. Westerly. And good that it was not this sad shoal. Not a drop of water did we find.”
Water. Brendan prayed there was fresh water wherever they had washed ashore.
Washed ashore alive.
“My friends,” he said to the assembled crew. “We sail again.”
As soon as they returned to the ship, he cried out the order to raise anchor and sail. As he stood near the helm, staring out bleakly at the expanse of the ocean, Jimmy O’Hara joined him.
“Brendan,” he said hesitantly.
“Aye?”
The skinny little man whose life they had spared looked at him with frightened eyes.
“I believe he’s out there.”
For a moment, Brendan was confused.
“Who?”
“Blair. Blair Colm.”
“What?”
“I was in the crow’s nest, on guard, as ye’ checked out the isle. There was a ship in the distance. My eyes are good. I could have sworn I saw the British flag—with his beneath it—on a ship headed west.”
Brendan looked at him, his heart turning to lead.
“Then we must sail with all speed,” he said.
ANOTHER DAY. Another bout of exploring their surprise bounty of resources. Red had been quite pleased to brew tea and nibble on plain, unadorned biscuit that morning, and it seemed that, after talking—arguing—through the night, they were both content to avoid conversation.
Midday, Red disappeared, heading inland with her book and towel. She said nothing as she left; her destination was obvious.
By mid-afternoon he had finished creating platforms to lift their beds off the ground, built up walls to meet the canvas roof of their shelter and, he thought, performed a fine feat of engineering, remaking their home so that it would both protect them and allow for the passage of the cooling sea breezes. He had rolling sheets of canvas to act as doors, because it was inevitable that they would find themselves beset by storms.
Then he went fishing and was once again successful, though he didn’t think it had much to do with his prowess as a fisherman but more to do with the fact that fish were plentiful in the mangrove shallows.
By late afternoon he was weary, dirty and tired. Taking one of the linen towels, he headed inland.
As he neared the pool, he saw her clothing strewn on the embankment.
She was standing with her back to him on one of the rocky outcroppings in the middle of the spring, sluicing water from her hair. The sun glistened on the droplets that beaded her back. The sleek skin of her back alone was enough to remind him in painfully physical ways that he was a man who had been at sea a long time.
He was also a man who had built a shelter for them and patiently fished to provide for their well-being.
He was not going to allow her, or any form of wicked temptation, to steer him from the fresh pleasure of the bath he so richly deserved.
She heard him as he was shedding his clothing and turned.
“Pardon, Laird Haggerty. I am here now,” she informed him.
He ignored her but kept his back to her as he folded his clothing.
“If my presence is objectionable, you will have to leave.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are not hard of hearing. I have worked all afternoon for the betterment of our survival, Captain Robert, while you have played. This is my time.”
“Did I ask you to become a master builder?”
“Out or not, I’m coming in.”
She had turned away. He was glad. He hadn’t felt like entering the water with his arousal so obvious to her eyes. He hurried in. Surely the cool spring water would help.
Damn, it did not.
And still he ignored her, swimming out, thinking exertion could be of some assistance.
It was not.
He swam harder, to no avail. Diving deep beneath the surface, he felt his muscles plow through the water. At last he headed to sure footing and hoped she had thought to bring soap.
“Captain Robert?” he called.
Now just her head was showing above water.
“Laird Haggerty?” she returned.
“Soap?”
“Catch!”
She threw it. He caught it deftly and nodded his thanks. Once again, sadly, he would smell faintly like a harem girl.
Better that than…
She was coming toward him.
Stunned, he spun around. She was only steps away. Perhaps she had intended to pass him and head fo
r shore.
Then she stopped. He turned and met her eyes. Where they had wandered before, he did not know.
“You say you are a free man,” she whispered.
He frowned. She was far too close. Within arm’s reach. The sun dappled the water, and she was like elegance made flesh, fire so tempting as to be unbearable. She stood tall and without apology. Her skin was as sleek as the finest porcelain, the fullness of her breasts tapering to the hand span of her waist.
“A free man?” he echoed, frozen to his spot, afraid to move lest madness consume him. “You have made me so,” he reminded her softly.
“No,” she replied, her voice but a whisper. “I do not speak of that kind of freedom. I mean free as…in you are not…committed to another.” He barely heard the last; he read the words in the movement of her lips.
It is madness, but I am committed to you, he thought.
He longed to speak the words, but they would not come, so he merely kept his eyes upon hers and shook his head.
She stepped closer then, and he cared not what was said or not said, because all the necessary information had been exchanged between them.
Life was a facade…
But she had stripped away that facade, and now they stood before each other naked not only in body, but in soul. He didn’t know if she took the last step, or if he was the one who closed the last inches between them, but she was suddenly in his arms. The cool water should have turned to steam, he thought, given the fire that erupted within him. She was there, a tease, a touch, that satin flesh pressing against his own. And then his arms tightened, forcing her against him, muscle vibrant against muscle, her breasts crushed against his chest, sex to sex. His lips met hers like a whisper at first, savoring the feel of her mouth, and then with the kiss deepened, the pressure of his tongue insistent and thrusting deeply.
Wet and hot, she echoed the foreplay of his tongue, lips parting, tongue taking part in the same slow and then fevered duel. Unbearable heat seemed to sweep through him as surely as if he were standing too close to a forge, and carnal need became his driving force. Somewhere in the far regions of his mind, a voice of sanity spoke, then grew faint. His hands explored the length of her body. She was perfection, every sleek inch pure seduction.
Her fingers brushed over his shoulders, and yet each feathered touch was like lightning within. Madness seized him. It had been so long. And it had never been like this, such a desperate desire, such all-consuming need. Hunger. He lifted her high, then drove her hard down upon him. The air was cool, the water rushing deliciously around their naked flesh.
In seconds he realized he was the first lover of the fabled pirate queen. He froze in stunned surprise, and it was only her whisper that brought him back to life.
“Please…”
Not a protest.
A plea.
At first he was careful, but then the thirst, the hunger, raced out of control. It had been so long. He had lusted after her since he had first known what she was, he had craved her for long days and longer nights….
Somewhere along the way, he lost his soul. Lost the slim thread of sanity. It was gone, all gone, and they were moving like the wind, like the storm that had marooned them there together, like the crashing waves that beat against the shore when the elements raged. He heard her breathing, short and rapid, felt her fingers, hard and strong now, as they dug into his shoulders, felt the fine muscle of her thighs, wrapped around him. And most of all he felt the tightness of her flesh sheathing him as he thrust feverishly within her, felt an agony so sweet that he trembled in its thrall.
He climaxed with a violence as strong as any storm he had ever weathered, his arms still tight around her, her thighs still locked around his hips. Her cry had been as desperate as his, and now she continued to hold him tightly, the warmth of their passion just beginning to fade. Her face was wedged into the junction of his neck and shoulder, and as he stood there, holding her, he could feel the massive pounding of his own heart, the echo of hers. He smoothed her hair back and whispered softly, “I didn’t know.”
He felt her. Warily, he allowed her to straighten, to disentangle herself, to stand on her own. She ran a hand through the wet strands of her hair and gave herself away, for her fingers trembled.
She shrugged. “What is there to know? I make my own choices.”
He was staring at her hard, he realized, searching for something in her eyes, though he didn’t know what.
But apparently whatever she saw in his eyes disarmed her, for she continued. “Good God, Laird Haggerty, I am a pirate. I have killed men. I am…ruthless. This…this is…of no great concern.”
He tried very hard to keep a smile from his features. He didn’t intend to force her to reveal any further weakness, for she had trusted him with her greatest vulnerability already.
“Bobbie,” he said very softly, “you have killed men in self-defense and you have stood strong against injustice. That hardly makes you ruthless.”
She tossed her head. “I make my own choices, and unlike most women, who are seeking a future, I live in the present.” For a moment confusion was visible in the beautiful blue eternity of her eyes. Then her lashes fell, quickly shielding her thoughts. “You are well-built, you bathe…and I did not want to die without…knowing…We may perish on this island, and I would not want to die knowing only blood and death…and what I’ve seen of life as a servant and in taverns…”
He could not help himself. He laughed aloud.
“I pray I was a far better candidate than those men you have met in the taverns of New Providence and elsewhere.”
Her face suffused with color. She was angry.
“I beg pardon. I am simply glad that I was found…appropriate to serve my captain in all ways,” he assured her.
She turned away, her anger growing.
He reached out and caught her by the arm. “Don’t deceive yourself, Red. Never deceive yourself. We are all, by nature, animals, and what you have seen in taverns is merely the result of a man’s physical need and usually a woman’s financial one. What you were seeking was much more. What I pray I can give soars far higher. I care about you. It should be most obvious that I care about you deeply.”
“Well, don’t,” she snapped. “You are Laird Haggerty. There is a union between Scotland and England, but there is no such thing where Ireland is concerned. You are, in fact, as much my enemy as any Englishman.”
He took her by the shoulders, as stiff as she was, and drew her back into his arms, amazed that her show of temper could arouse him again with such a vengeance so quickly. He tilted her chin, forcing her eyes to his. “We are in a new world. And I am not your enemy.”
This time, he did not hesitate, did not offer gentleness. He set his mouth on hers with sheer demand, giving no hint of quarter. He lifted her from the water, his mouth on hers the entire time. He laid her down in the shallows, with the cool water just rushing over them, and she curved against him and gave way to the depth of his kiss, then began to respond with a greater urgency. And it seemed, he thought, that she’d learned the pleasures of lovemaking swiftly, for it was as if her every twist and turn was calculated to drive him to madness. And so they made love.
Slowly.
Excruciatingly slowly.
Taking their time…
Tortured and torturing. His fingers tracked the silken curves of her breasts, his lips following with feathery caresses. He explored her flesh with the touch of his hands and the wet caress of his tongue, savoring, tasting…dying…
She moved with fluid beauty, and her hands grew bolder upon him, knuckles against the taut muscle of his chest, arms, back, thighs…and then her fingers, so light at first, grew bold upon his sex, as well. He neared total insanity, explosive, volatile insanity. But he relished the agony, the sweet feeling of desperation, the end no longer a whisper but a shriek in his mind that led him ever onward….
No quarter asked.
No quarter given.
The scent
of her was something he knew would be emblazoned forever in his mind. The feel of her flesh. The look in her eyes. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget. He would never cease to cherish this time. Because suddenly, the taunting was gone, pride was lost, and it was simply the two of them, no longer driven by curiosity or raw hunger, but by something more.
Something deeper.
She felt it, too. He could see it in her eyes…
And therein lay the difference between needing a woman—and needing a woman to live, to breathe, to go on….
He continued to kiss and caress. He made love to her with his tongue, intimately, desperate that she should know the excruciating pleasure. His own pleasure did not even matter. The whispers and cries that escaped her were like the music of paradise, a match for the beat that pulsed in his body and mind. Her hands on him…that alone was worth dying for.
And finally, when the passion in him threatened to explode, they came together, and again he was sheathed inside her in a way that seemed more thrilling than anything he had ever known before, more than any promise, any dream.
He tried, oh, God, he tried, for something slower and gentler….
But it wasn’t to be. They were frenzied, clinging, thrusting, arching, slick, the slap of flesh against flesh faintly audible beneath the incoherent sounds they made. He relished her cry of wonder and the earth-shattering climax that seized him, ripped through him. His eyes wide, he stared at the trees, the sky…and her.
Afterward they lay together, soaked and spent, gasping, for long moments. The sun dappled them as its rays passed through the trees. The sounds of the waterfall and the rustling palm fronds made themselves evident once again. The world returned.
Holding her was so sweet that he didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. He idly moved his fingers gently over her flesh while they regained their breath….
As time passed, the breeze grew chill upon their naked, cooling flesh.
At last, her sense of self returning, she drew away from him, no false modesty now, but proud in her naked glory. She got nimbly to her feet and looked down on him with a knowing smile.
“Actually,” she said, “I do believe that was quite a bit…nicer than anything I’ve ever seen in a tavern.”
The Pirate Bride Page 15
