Wind and the Sea

by Canham, Marsha

  Ballantine's hands slid boldly between her thighs, pushing her legs apart, exposing her to the hard wedge of his thighs. His fingers slid into the soft, wet folds and found the throbbing heat of her core. As he stroked and probed, her legs buckled under one exquisite spasm after another until it was all she could do to keep from falling. His mouth on her breasts, his hands between her thighsnothing had prepared her for such an assault on her senses!

  She caught her breath, feeling his eyes upon her. His hunger was mirrored in their depths; his need was as brazen as the fiery ache that consumed her flesh. The floor dropped away, and she was in his arms being carried to the bed. His breeches were fumbled open and without preamble or protest, he was pressing between her thighs. His hands slid beneath her hips and lifted her to meet the first powerful thrust, shattering what remained of her innocence on a violent shudder that gripped her body and sent her arching up to meet him. The raw, rock-hard presence filled her again and again, searching, probing, tearing at her senses with each damp clash of their bodies. She groaned at the warm friction of his thighs chafing hers, at the bold, solid thrust of his flesh driving into hers, at the hoarsely panted breaths that echoed her own.

  Deep inside she felt the expanding heat of his passion, stretching her, ravaging her senses, and her whimpers shivered into cries. She strained upward without awaiting the commands of his hands. Her entire body tightened on his, sucked him deeper, demanding all that he could give.

  Adrian’s body clenched and shuddered into hers. The darkness flared with a million brilliant lights; hot, searing lights that sent a new flush of exhilaration thundering into her veins. Like a powder keg touched by a spark, she exploded. She writhed and cried out soundlessly. Waves of ecstasy flooded her, drenched her, drowned her in pleasure.

  The sweet, stunning odyssey ended with a sob as she gradually went limp on the tangle of bedding, her limbs quaking, drained of all strength. Her skin tingled in a thousand places. The blinding tension of moments before had been released and had melted into an equally exquisite sensation: that of their bodies being joined, of his flesh staying inside her still thick and thudding softly within the lush, buttery heat.

  It simply was not possible for such a thing to have happened to her. And yet it had. A single touch had obliterated her senses. His hand on her breast, the torment of passion in his eyes—the promise of passion in his eyes and in his hard, virile body. Ballantine was her sworn enemy, the man who had destroyed her home, her family. How could he also be the giver of such pleasure, such solace, such tender fury? It was wrong of her to have succumbed. They were both wrong to have surrendered to the weaknesses of their bodies.

  Courtney curled her lower lip between her teeth and pushed gingerly against Ballantine’s shoulder. With a reluctant sigh, he rolled beside her onto the mattress but kept an arm draped possessively across her breasts and shoulder. Courtney closed her eyes and fought against the continuing pleasure of feeling him so close, only opening them again when the deep, even breathing assured her he was asleep.

  She swallowed hard but the lump in her throat would not go away. They were enemies before this thing happened, and in the morning they would be enemies again. It could not possibly be any other way. It could not.

  ~~

  In another part of the ship, Otis Falworth hiked his breeches up over his buttocks, wincing as the fabric chafed the more tenderly abused parts of his body. He fumbled with the row of brass buttons at the waist and snapped the braces up onto his shoulders. An anxious glance into the mirror resulted in a wry smile. His face was flushed, although his skin was cool and clammy. His mouth looked as if it had been savaged—indeed, he swore it had been chewed to shreds in the throes of passion! He heard a deep, throaty laugh behind him and turned to look back at the berth.

  “We certainly do look like we have taken more than a casual stroll around the ship, my lieutenant.”

  Falworth grinned, and his sly brown eyes regarded the glorious curves and contours of the body that had nearly driven him mad with lust this past hour. Miranda's flesh seemed to glow, the shadowy valleys and sleek clefts luring his gaze like winking jewels.

  “More, my lieutenant?” she purred huskily.

  His eyes flicked up from the raven thatch of curls that still glistened from their expended energies. An uncertain laugh made his complexion turn a shade darker. “I doubt if there is any more in me, my love, much as I would like to believe there was.”

  Rising to her knees, like a sea nymph beckoning to a bewitched sailor, Miranda crooked a finger and, dutifully, Falworth crossed to stand by the berth. The seductive amber eyes lifted to his; her hands slid up his shoulders and twined together at the nape of his neck. She leaned forward so her voluptuously large breasts swayed hypnotically as she angled her mouth up to his.

  “Miranda can always finds more,” she purred. “She can coax and tease. She has the patience of a thousand courtesans when it comes to treating her man with care. And such a man! Such a bull, my lieutenant! Never," she moaned, “never have I felt this full of love before.”

  Falworth surrendered to the plundering lips. It was a dream come true! The most beautiful, most sensitive, most sensual woman in the world—and she wanted him! Damn Adrian Ballantine and his sly innuendoes; the righteous sod was jealous. Yes, that was it—Ballantine was jealous that he had not won Miranda’s attention first!

  A groan sent Falworth’s hands to his waist, to reluctantly stop Miranda’s efforts to unfasten his clothes again.

  “We have been here too long as it is,” he muttered. “Jennings has probably sent someone out to look for us.”

  “Let them look,” she declared fiercely and shrugged off his restraint. “Or do you not think I am worth a tiny risk, my lieutenant?”

  Falworth’s fists clenched in the flowing raven tresses, and he held her head firmly tipped up to him. “I am willing to risk far more than you know, but not just for a few stolen moments here and there. I mean to have you, Miranda. All day, every day. And every night.”

  His mouth descended in a bruising kiss, one which nudged Miranda’s estimation of Falworth’s value up yet another notch. Winning his cooperation had been child’s play and had actually helped alleviate some of the boredom of captivity; but she hoped she had beguiled him enough to remove another glaring obstacle to her future happiness.

  “Oh how I wish I did not have to return to that great sweating pig,” she cried. “How I wish I could remain here with you!”

  Tears spilled from the huge amber eyes and smeared wetly on Falworth’s shoulder. His jaw tensed, and his nostrils flared until they were rimmed white.

  “Soon, my love, soon,” he soothed. “You must be patient.”

  “How can I be patient when I know there is no hope? We will be in Gibraltar in two days. Even if I am sent on to America, it will be as the slave of thatthat monster!”

  “No,” Falworth insisted, and the temptation to reveal his plans was almost more than he could bear. “Everything will change in Gibraltar; you must believe me. Jennings will be gone, the Eagle will be mine; and no one, nothing will stand between us.”

  “But—" her lip trembled convincingly, and the tears continued to splash down her cheeks— “how can that be? Forgive me, my lieutenant, but how can you say with such surety that the ship will be yours? How?”

  “Hush,” he commanded and laid a finger across her lips. “It will be as I say; that is all you need to know.”

  “Never,” she whispered frantically. “It will never happen. Not as long as she is still alive to torture me with her lies and threats.”

  “She? Who?”

  Miranda lowered her head quickly. “No,” she gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, whispering through her fingers. “I must not. They will find out andand no matter where I hide, they will find meand kill me.”

  “Who will find you? Why will they kill you?” Falworth tightened his fists in her hair and forced her to look up at him. “Who are you so afraid of
? Someone on this ship? You said sheis it one of the prisoners?”

  “Prisoner?” Miranda laughed sardonically. “She is no prisoner. She sits clean and well fed in a fine cabin. She has no fat animal crawling on top of her day and night."

  “Miranda!” Falworth’s harsh snarl broke through her hysteria. “What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”

  “I am talking about her,” Miranda rasped. “Courtney Farrow. Duncan’s daughter. Your fine Lieutenant Ballantine’s new cabin boy!”

  Falworth’s eyes widened and he jerked back, registering his shock. "Ballantine’s cabin boy is a...girl? She is Duncan Farrow’s daughter?”

  Miranda’s heart thudded so loudly she feared it might be heard in the sudden silence. “Yes,” she cried. “Farrow’s daughter. And she hates me. She hates me and will stop at nothing to see me dead!”

  Falworth’s mind reeled with this new information. It was a weapon far more powerful than any he had held thus far. Fired correctly, it could not only remove Jennings, but also discredit Ballantine. Concealing an enemy, aiding and abetting the girl's escape was tantamount to treason!

  “But does he know who she is?” he wondered aloud, the excitement stirring his blood again. “He may not even know, and if that is the case...oh, how delicious the irony would be!"

  Miranda restrained the urge to smile. “Have I said something to help you, my lieutenant?”

  “Help?” Falworth’s eyes focused on hers again and she could read the malevolent gleam of triumph. She could also feel his exuberance rising hard and lusty against her belly. “You have just stamped the articles of my captaincy, my love. Nothing can stop me now.”

  “Nothing can stop us,” she softly corrected him, and her hands caressed the bulge in his breeches.

  “Us,” he agreed, forcing her down onto the bed. “Two more days, and it will all be ours.”

  Chapter Nine

  Courtney opened her eyes slowly. The high narrow slit in the wall that provided ventilation allowed just enough light to filter into the cabin for her to see where her clothing and Ballantine’s littered the floor, the desktop, the overturned chair. The smell of extinguished whale oil and energetic bodies clung heavily to the stale air, and she wished desperately for somewhere to hide, some way to avoid the confrontation she knew must come. Would he remember? Would he blame it on the amount of rum he had consumed? Would he blame what happened on her?

  She was lying on her side. One of Ballantine’s arms was draped with familiarity around her waist; the other was beneath her head and served as a pillow. She could feel the feathering of his breath at the back of her neck and the accompanying rise and fall of his chest where the coppery fur brushed against her back.

  Carefully, moving fractions of inches at a time so as not to disturb him, Courtney extricated herself from his arms and slipped out of the berth. The cramps and stiffness she half expected did not come about, and she straightened, slowly flexing her arms and legs to loosen the slight, lingering tightness. Her slender body had borne the weight of a man roughly double her size—it was a wonder she should be able to stand at all, let alone feel lighter, less edgy for the experience. The juncture of her thighs ached with newfound sensitivity. Her breasts had been kissed and nuzzled and fondled so much she imagined them to be black and blue. And her mouth! It was impossible to believe anything of its original shape and color remained.

  Afraid of what she might see, she crept over to stand in front of the square mirror he used for shaving. Expecting to see the reflection of a puffed, distorted face, she was mildly astonished to see a dewy-eyed, radiant young woman she scarcely recognized. Her eyes were luminous, the green centers as clear and sparkling as gemstones; her skin seemed to glow warm and rosy without a hint of strain or sleeplessness. Her gaze dropped lower, searching out the source of the intriguing tingle in her chest, and she saw that her breasts were not swollen or bruised or grossly misshapen. Rather, they were round and firm, the nipples flushed a soft pink.

  Bewildered, she touched her fingertips to her lips, wondering why they too felt different. More sensitive—as if they could never again be used to form a harsh word. She could almost feel them pressed to his, parted and eager, hungering for unknown pleasures.

  Courtney stared past the shoulder of her reflection to the sprawled, sleeping form of Adrian Ballantine. The cover was askew, and his body was boldly displayed. She had seen naked men before, dozens of them, accidentally and intentionally, yet none had made her blush. None had slowed the blood in her veins, or brought her heart to a sluggish standstill. Certainly none had caused her to stare long and hard at that part of him which lay limp and flaccid now, yet which, when roused, could wreak such havoc on her confidence...and her body.

  As she watched, an arm shifted, a hand skimmed absently over the chest to scratch diffidently in the cloud of copper hair. A yawn was begun but ended on a sharp, strangled groan as the sudden movement startled the drums awake in his head.

  Courtney did not wait for the bleary eyes to open and seek her out. She collected her breeches and belt from the floor and hastily pulled them on. She held up the torn halves of her shirt and studied them with some dismay before she turned her attention to the sounds emanating from the bunk.

  “Good God,” Adrian bit off a further curse as he struggled to sit upright. “How much did I drink? How long have I been asleep?”

  “What is wrong, Yankee? Do they not teach you golden-haired bastards how to hold your rum?”

  “Irish, I—" He ground his teeth together and squeezed his fingers against his temples. His head was being crushed by giant hammers, and his stomach was sending threatening messages up into his throat. The coating felt an inch thick on his tongue and tasted as sour as cheap wine; his eyes itched as if they contained the sands of the Sahara. “I am not in the mood for verbal jousting. If you will kindly hand me my—"

  He stopped and took two shallow breaths. Then his eyes widened, and he seemed to notice for the first time that he was naked, that the cabin looked as if it had housed a small tornado, and that Courtney was staring at him with her breasts bare and her eyes full of scorn.

  “I am afraid I shall need a new shirt,” she announced calmly. “You were in such a hurry yesterday to rid me of this one that I doubt it can be repaired.”

  Ballantine noted the remnants of the shirt, then his own nakedness, and his eyes seemed to drift momentarily out of focus.

  “Of course, I am assuming you have finished with me. After last night, I cannot imagine you wanting for more, but...?” She shrugged and left the sentence dangling.

  “Dear God,” he muttered in horror, cradling his head in his hands. “Did I—?”

  “Yes you did. Repeatedly. And with enough enthusiasm for me to pity your betrothed if she has a frail constitution.”

  Ballantine’s complexion deepened to a ruddy scarlet hue. The muscles in his jaw worked furiously, searching for some way to deny the obvious. He remembered leaving Matthew’s cabin, he remembered the bottle of rum, and he remembered listening to the girl’s voice as if it was coming through a long tunnelbut he could recall nothing after that.

  He looked up and saw the slim, delicate waist, the plump breasts and the rosy aureoles that his tongue seemed to recall intimately.

  “In the sea chest,” he croaked, “there are spare shirts. Find one, for God’s sake, and put it on.”

  Courtney arched a brow. “A pity you do not keep spare maidenheads there too, for situations like this.”

  Ballantine’s head jerked up at her words, and the blood drained from his face in a dizzying rush. What the devil was she saying now? What was she accusing him of doing?

  His hand bunched around the folds of the blanket, and he involuntarily followed her gaze to the smear of dried blood on the mattress cover.

  “You did it with such finesse,” she said quietly. “I can hardly wait for the next animal to rape me.”

  The wracking pain within his skull spread down to engulf the
rest of Adrian’s body. “II was drunk,” he began lamely.

  “You were blind, stinking drunk,” she countered evenly. “And you took it out on me, just as I said you would when you first suggested this arrangement.”

  Ballantine swallowed the sarcasm with a pointed lack of grace. He glared at her through a fog of self-disgust, followed her every move as she rummaged for a clean shirt, shook the folds out, and drew it over her head. It was several sizes too large and made her look younger and even more the hapless victim.

  Ballantine groaned and stumbled from the berth to the washstand. He slopped water from the pitcher into the basin then took a deep breath and plunged his face into the icy contents. When he came up, dripping and gasping from the shock, he saw Courtney perched on the side of the berth, casually studying his bare flanks.

  “Look out in the corridor,” he said, snatching at his breeches. “Tell me if the guard is still there.”

  Courtney sighed, but she did as she was told. She opened the door a crack and peered out into the darkened companionway, and when she turned back to Ballantine, he was in his breeches and bending over the sea chest for a shirt.

  “There is a guard, but he is near the stairwell.”

  Adrian avoided meeting her embarrassingly direct gaze and shrugged into the cambric shirt. He glanced in the mirror and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. A quick glance at the angle of the light streaming through the ventilation shaft told him it was well past dawn.

  Still avoiding Courtney’s mocking eyes, he fumbled with his keys and unlocked the cupboard that held his shaving gear.

  “Always the proper officer,” she mused sardonically. “How unfortunate your behavior as a gentleman is somewhat lacking.”

  Adrian’s hand shook visibly as he unfolded the blade from its sheath. He knew what she was doing and why she was doing it, but for the life of him he could not think of a retort to stop her. If he had truly done what she said he had done—and at this point, he had no reason to doubt her—then he deserved every bitter word she spat at him.