by Shana Galen
Now this last glance in the mirror convinced her she ought to wear Cutlass’s clothing after all. One look at her and he would think she meant to seduce him. Even her hair did not help matters. It dried curly and wanton, falling in tousled waves over her shoulders. Her cheeks were red from embarrassment and the earlier exertions of the night. Indeed, she looked like a wench newly climbed from bed.
She was reaching for one of Cutlass’s shirts when the cabin door opened and he stepped inside. She whirled to face him, his shirt in front of her chest like a barrier.
He raised a brow. “Having difficulty deciding on your wardrobe?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. If you’d wait outside, I’ll be finished in a moment.”
He gave her a long perusal then reached over and plucked his shirt from her hands. “I don’t think so. You look quite presentable as it is.” He reached for the goblet of wine he’d left on the desk. “More than presentable, considering your evening activities. Mr. Williams enlightened me, you see. Don’t frown so. He wanted only to secure your release. He worries for your father’s health.”
Raeven’s stomach roiled as she thought of her poor father waking in the morning and finding her missing again. He would indeed worry, possibly becoming so anxious his health was further compromised. Oh, why hadn’t she considered the possibility of capture before?
Because, she told herself, you think you’re indestructible. But you’re not.
“I assured him both you and he would be sent back to the Regal before the night’s end.”
“That’s still several hours away,” she pointed out.
He grinned and lifted the goblet to his lips. “Did you poison this while I was away, or is it safe to drink the contents?” He took a long swallow, and she fisted her hands. She wished she’d thought to bring some poison. He would be writhing in agony right now, and she would be the one smiling smugly.
He set the goblet back on the desk and filled it again. He filled hers as well, crossed to the berth, sat, and began removing his boots.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He dropped one on the floor beside the berth. “What does it look like?”
Undressing. But she didn’t want to say it. “Why are you—er, doing that?”
He glanced up at her. “Come now, Raeven. You can stop pretending this”—he gestured to the bed—“isn’t what you came for.”
“Is that what you think? Well, you’re wrong. I came for my sword, and now that I have it, I’d like to leave.”
“Fine. But this may be your last opportunity. We’re leaving Gibraltar very soon.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, watched as his eyes followed the action, then realizing her actions pushed her breasts farther out of the dress, lowered her arms quickly. “And good riddance to you. I’d rather kill you than kiss you.”
He nodded, dropped the other boot on the floor, and putting his hands behind his head, lay flat on the berth. Raeven couldn’t help but notice it was large enough to comfortably fit two. “If that’s what you want, go ahead.”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
He indicated the open collar and the bronze skin of his neck. “Go ahead. Slit my throat.”
He’d called her bluff, but she wasn’t about to admit it. Besides, she was annoyed enough with his arrogance to consider killing him. “And if I slit your throat, then what happens?”
“I’m dead, and you’ve avenged your murdered lover.”
“He was my fiancé.” And thinking about him had her reaching for her sword. The hilt felt comfortable in her hands, like an old glove.
“Even worse for me. Go ahead then. Kill me.”
She clutched the hilt tighter, thought about plunging the blade through his heart. She could do it, she thought, even as she lifted the sword. She could do it for Timothy. She took a step forward and paused. “And what happens after I kill you? Your men…”
“You didn’t worry about your welfare in Brest or the last time you were in this cabin. Why worry now?”
He was right. She didn’t care what happened to her. She’d vowed to kill Timothy’s murderer, no matter what it took. “But what about Percy—Mr. Williams? He hasn’t done anything.”
“Fair enough.” Cutlass stood, walked to the door, opened it, and signaled to the guard. “Jean, no matter what happens to me tonight, the prisoner, Mr. Williams, is to be freed. Tell Mr. Maine.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Cutlass closed the door again and walked back to the bed. She found herself admiring his easy gait, the way he managed to swagger even without boots. “How do I know he’ll do as you say? How do I know your men won’t turn on us once you’re gone?”
He gave her a hard look. “Because my men follow my orders whether I’m dead or alive. You can be assured no harm will come to your precious Mr. Williams.” He lay back on the bed, adjusted the collar of his shirt so his throat was bare once again, and motioned to her. “Let’s get this over with.” He tucked his hands behind his head, moving a little stiffly. At first she thought his hesitation was out of fear; then she remembered he’d been shot, and his shoulder most certainly still pained him. And yet, she never would have known he was in any discomfort at all from his actions. He really didn’t seem to worry she’d kill him. But she’d show him…
Her heart was thudding in her chest now, and her palms were sweaty. She hefted the sword, and it felt suddenly heavy and slippery against her damp skin. But she held on and walked to the berth. He squinted up at her. “Not with the sword.”
She’d been staring at that swath of bronze skin, at the corded muscles of his neck. “What?”
“If you’re going to do this, it’s personal. Make it personal. Use your dagger.”
She had the dagger strapped to her thigh under the thin dress, and she knew it would feel even more familiar in her hand than the sword. She looked at his neck, could almost see the pulse beating steadily there. With one flick of her dagger, she could end that pulse, that life, just as Cutlass had ended Timothy’s life.
She reached for the dagger, aware he watched as she lifted her skirt and unsheathed the blade.
“If I’m going to die, at least my last view was pleasant,” he drawled.
If he was trying to enrage her, it worked. She clutched the dagger tightly and looked down at him. He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch as she raised it. She could see her hand waver, see the dagger shake, but she gripped it tighter. She could throw it now. He’d seen her skill and aim. He must have known he was in danger, and yet he didn’t move. Didn’t try to block her.
She moved closer, rested one knee on the edge of the berth. Through the thin material of the gown, she could feel his heat, feel his comfortable warmth against her cold leg. Gaze never leaving his, she bent and pressed the dagger to his throat. She thought perhaps his pulse jumped, but she couldn’t be certain. She waited, dagger ready, hand still shaking but steady enough to do what needed to be done.
And then he turned his head slightly—toward the dagger. He didn’t dislodge it, didn’t move his hands from where they rested behind his neck, but he turned into the blade. Raeven frowned, certain the sharp tip must cause him some discomfort. He glanced up at her, and she could feel his breath on her wrist. Very slowly, he pressed his lips against her skin.
She gasped, shocked at the feel of his mouth on her and even more at his audacity. She was about to kill him, and he was kissing her.
“What are you doing?”
He nuzzled her wrist with his cheek, and she could feel the prickly stubble on her sensitive skin. A shiver ran up her back, but she battened it down before it could spread farther. She gripped the dagger tighter, tried to muster the effort to dig the blade into his flesh, but it was difficult to think when his warm breath tickled her. It was difficult to think when he touched the tip of his tongue to her pulse—once, twice, no, three times.
“Stop it,” she whispered.
“Make me.” He lifted his head
slightly and kissed the skin above her wrist. She inadvertently pulled the dagger back slightly, not wanting to stab him.
Not wanting to stab him? What was she doing? She was supposed to stab him!
“If you’re trying to save yourself, it won’t work.”
“I’m not trying to save myself,” he murmured, soft lips pressing against her skin, warm breath tickling her. “I haven’t moved my hands. Go ahead and do it. But I deserve one last moment of pleasure.”
He slipped back, moved his lips away from her wrist, and she let out a pent-up breath, only to draw it in again as he drew her last and smallest finger into his mouth.
“Stop.” But her words were a whisper. The feel of that moist mouth on her finger, the gentle suction as he drew it inside, the rasp of his soft tongue on her skin… she couldn’t think. She didn’t want to think. Didn’t want him to stop.
He released her finger, looked up at her, his eyes smoky and full of sultry promises. “Kiss me, ma belle.”
“You’re trying to trick me.” Her voice wavered, shook.
He feigned innocence. At least she thought it was feigned. “Have I moved my hands? Have I dislodged your weapon? Kiss me or kill me. It’s your decision.”
She was unable to move. His body seemed to burn her wherever they touched. She was too warm. She could feel a trickle of perspiration roll down her back, could feel another meander between her breasts.
“Or perhaps kiss me then kill me,” he suggested. “There’s time for both.”
And still she didn’t move, didn’t dare.
“You needn’t even move the blade to do it,” he whispered. “Perhaps I’ll die with your lips on mine.”
She almost rolled her eyes. “I told you flowery words don’t affect me.”
“Then what does?” He raised his brows. “You can tell me your secrets. I’ll take them to the grave.”
“Your—” She paused and swallowed. Her lips felt dry. They tingled where she could imagine his mouth on hers. “Your breath on my skin,” she whispered. “Your tongue when it touched me…”
He nodded. “Let me touch you more.” But he didn’t move his hands, and she knew how he wanted to touch her. She need only lean forward. Indeed, her mouth was already so close to his. On an oath, she bent and touched her lips to his. She didn’t move the dagger, kept it pressed firmly against his throat. And he didn’t protest, but his tongue darted out and dragged a path of fire across her lips.
She moaned, feeling heat pulse throughout her entire body. The room swayed, and it was more than the gentle lap of the water. It was her mind and her body waging war.
Her body won for the moment, and she crushed her lips to his, taking him completely, mating her tongue with his. He allowed her to control the kiss, to explore his mouth, his tongue, his lips. And then he gently gave all the pleasure back to her, slanting his mouth over hers, showing her how a flick here or the press of his lips there could make her shiver, could make her whole body feel as though it would explode.
At some point, she was aware she’d released the dagger. Her hand was fisted in his hair, pulling his mouth harder against her own, demanding he give her more, take more. And he was responding. One of his hands snaked behind her, wrapped around her back, and drew her body flush against his. Again she was amazed at how warm he was, how solid. And the smell of him—fresh and inviting, like a sandy beach in the morning. She wanted to burrow into his shoulder, his chest, inhale deeply. She wanted to taste his skin to see if he tasted as good as he smelled.
His lips moved from her mouth to her neck, and she arched it to give him better access, glanced up at the mahogany paneling above the berth. And, unbidden, the thought came to her: Timothy’s cabin had been fashioned of oak.
She stiffened suddenly and drew away. Cutlass’s hands tightened on her for a moment, but only a moment. She looked at his face—his too-handsome pirate face—and could see his resignation.
He released her. “You’re thinking of him.”
She pushed away so she was once again kneeling on the side of the berth. “This is wrong. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She began to rise, but he grasped her hand.
“Perhaps you need to stop thinking so much.” He looked about the cabin. “Look where all your thinking and planning has landed you.”
“In the arms of the enemy.”
He raised a brow. “How very dramatic, ma belle.” He rose on his elbows. “What if I told you I’m not the enemy? What if I suggested we could be friends? We’re too alike not to be friends.”
“We’ll never be friends.” She spotted the fallen dagger below the pillow near his head and reached for it. But he was too fast and had it in his hands while she groped the sheets. He sat, eyed the dagger, and then her. “So we’ll be lovers, but not friends.”
“We’ll be nothing, pirate. I was wrong to allow you to kiss me, wr—”
He laughed. “Allow? Mademoiselle, you kissed me.” He touched the tip of her chin with the point of the dagger. “And I think you want to do it again. I think something draws you to me. Whatever you felt for this Bowers, he didn’t make you feel the way you feel with me.”
She slapped him. Hard. She did it without thinking, angry he dared speak of something so private.
Even angrier because what he said was true. She had cared for Timothy, adored him, loved him. Their love had been perfect in every way but one.
His kisses didn’t fire her blood. His caresses didn’t inflame her body. She had thought something lacked in her. She had thought she was incapable of passion. It was no matter because she loved Timothy.
But she was not incapable of passion.
And she had another realization. She was far weaker than she had ever imagined. Even the thought of Cutlass made her lips tingle, her breasts feel heavy, her cheeks grow warm. He was Timothy’s murderer, and she couldn’t stay away from him. She wanted to be here in his bed. She’d known it would end this way the first time he’d kissed her.
And he must have known it too.
He put a hand to his cheek briefly where her hand had left a red print. “I must have hit pretty close to the mark to earn that.”
“Shut up,” she hissed. “Give me my dagger. I’m leaving.”
He held out the dagger, tip pointing toward her. “I don’t think you’re leaving. Neither of us is yet satisfied.”
“I’m satisfied I never want to see you again. I have my sword.” She spared a brief glance about the cabin. Where had she dropped it? “That was what I came for.”
“So you keep telling me.” He lowered the dagger so the point was aimed at her heart. “But I think there’s more. Perhaps you like the adventure.” He touched the dagger to her skin, and she felt the cool, sharp blade at the juncture of her breasts. He pressed lightly, almost tickling her. “Perhaps you enjoy the danger.”
He slid the dagger point over the exposed curve of her breasts—first one, then the other. He traced their contours, and God help her, she couldn’t stop from shivering.
“Oui, ma belle. You like the danger.” He slid the dagger back to her cleavage, lowering it until it touched the thin, rose-colored material of the gown. “But more than that, you like this.” With a flick of his wrist, he slid the sharp blade down, neatly slicing open the material. It gaped, and she caught it to stop her breasts from spilling out.
“You like”—he used the dagger to coax first one hand then the other away—“me.”
The material split open, but he was there to catch her flesh. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the valley between her breasts. She could feel the stubble there, and she liked its roughness against the softness of her skin. His lips were cool against her flesh, teasing her until she was warm—warm and writhing against the ministrations of his tongue, his teeth, his so-very-skilled lips.
He took one nipple inside his mouth, twirled it about with his tongue, and she could not stop her head from lolling back. One hand caught her at the waist and held her to him, held her so the s
weet torment could continue.
And she didn’t want it to stop. She wanted him to rip the dress from her body and take her hard and fast. She wanted him to do it now so she wouldn’t have time to think about what she was doing. She didn’t want to think about who she was with.
But Cutlass was not so obliging. He moved slowly, seemingly in no hurry to explore farther than her neck or her shoulders. Gradually, he peeled away the material of the gown and eased her back on the berth. He rose over her, and she looked up at him.
A piece of his long, dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and it enhanced his already roguish look. His blue eyes were hooded, dark with desire. His hands were everywhere—on her body, in her hair, his fingers in her mouth. When he looked at her, she felt a jolt of need and arched to kiss him.
But he looked away, bending to her breasts again. She felt the cool blade of the dagger and the whisper of satin as he slit the dress to her waist. He pressed a cool, stubbled cheek to the flesh of her belly, and she moaned. He turned the cheek slightly, pressing his lips against her. Her hands fisted in his hair, and she whispered, “Yes.”
And then his teeth scraped against flesh, lightly, teasingly, and she couldn’t stop a small laugh. Instantly, he was on his elbows, staring down at her. “Do that again, ma belle.”
She squinted at the decadent angel looking down at her with undisguised need. “Do what?” she murmured.
“Laugh.” He touched a finger to her mouth, and she could not help but wonder where he’d dropped her dagger and how quickly she could reach it. “I do not think I have ever heard you truly laugh.”
She smiled, brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I think you might find more ways to make me laugh.”
“Oui, je suis—”
The sound of drums had both of them stiffening. He was the first on his feet, but she was right behind him, gathering her dress closed and darting her gaze about the cabin for dagger and sword.
