by Barbara Dan
Lydia, sensing that he meant to take her and, indeed, tingling with the proud hot prod of his manhood between her legs, hastened to correct any misunderstanding as to her own intentions and desires. Her fingers tugging at his long black locks, she raised her lips to his.
"Yes, yes, yes!" she cried and slipped her tongue in his mouth, thrilling to the textures and heat of his kiss. She was still busily persuading him of her willing submission when he broke through her maidenhead.
With a gasp of surprise, Lydia tried to twist away. Bruce held steady within her, keenly aware of every provocative move she made, trying to escape the invasive fullness. He gathered her close, stroking her hair, while she sobbed for joy against his neck.
"Easy, lass. Relax and breathe," he said. His hand stroked lightly over her trembling flesh as gently as a handler working an untamed young mare for the first time.
Tears flowing, Lydia kissed him hungrily. "I want you, Bruce. I want you so badly, I think I shall die, if you do not . . . oh, Bruce, love me, please . . ."
Deliciously impaled on his throbing member, Lydia reveled in the delicious teasing of his lips and teeth on her skin. Loving the way he arched into her, hard and deep and long, she moved experimentally against him, forcing him deeper, and felt Bruce's breath catch in ragged excitement.
He suckled her aroused nipple and felt her quiver inside, tightening and drawing him deeper, as she matched his deep rocking thrusts, reaching and aching for him with her whole being. Soon she was dancing a sensual fandango, whirling out of control. Faster and faster she moved beneath him. Everything blurred, except Bruce's face in ecstasy above her.
In a dizzy primal spin, Lydia cried out in wonder, as wave after wave of exquisite splendor swept through her. Caught in the throes of her passion, she felt the most incredible joy spill forth in soft incoherent sighs. "Bruce . . . oh, Bruce!" She heard a voice cry out, so full of awe that surely it could not be her own.
She felt as if the wind had kissed her soul and set her soaring. She drifted in a state of suspended euphoria, never wanting the music of their bodies to stop. Wanting the music and the dance to go on and on . . . How can this be? she marveled. She could feel again! What a precious gift Bruce had given her. More than a new beginning. It was a chance for fulfillment; possibly even love.
With a soft laugh, she stirred in Bruce's arms and bathed his face with the voracious kisses of a woman starved for love. At Bruce's low chuckle, she opened her eyes to find him grinning down at her. "Ah, lass, you're full of surprises," he whispered and kissed her.
Meeting the laughter in his eyes, she groaned and ducked her head against his shoulder, her face hot with embarrassment. Though scarcely more than strangers, they had shared the most intimate of acts. His finger tilted up her chin, and Bruce laughed at her sudden shyness. "I think you enjoyed yourself," he said, a trifle smug, loving the look of fulfillment on her shining face.
"I have no complaints," she smirked, and a secret smile played around her rosy lips.
"No complaints?" His voice boomed through his brawny chest against her ear. "In that case, perhaps we should see if we can't inspire a bit more enthusiasm."
Startled to feel him come alive once more within her, she pulled his mouth down to hers with a gasp. "Oh, Bruce! I have so much to learn," she said eagerly.
"So have I, sweet wife. So have I!"
And with that, Bruce set about her education with admirable results. Before dawn she discovered one of life's finest mysteries, that to give was to receive blessings untold. She had also proven the axiom that a teacher often learns more than his pupil, especially when creativity and inspiration are allowed to flourish in an atmosphere of uninhibited, gentle encouragement.
When the first rays of the sun came peeping in upon the lovers the next morning, they lay asleep in the most astounding tangle of arms and legs.
* * *
"Vai alta a noite vem ver a lua,
como fluctua no verde mar. . ."
Lydia stretched drowsily, comparing her husband's baritone to last night's bagpipe serenade. She definitely preferred his singing this morning. His boisterous Scottish songs were better suited to summon faint hearts to battle than to a wedding, she thought with a suppressed giggle.
Sighing, she rolled onto her belly, liquid and relaxed. She wriggled against the slightly damp sheets, feeling gloriously sated. For the first time, she felt truly at peace. All the years of anger and pretense were gone. She was free, a woman at last.
Smiling, she kissed the moist sheet beneath her and laid her cheek upon the spot, reveling in the unmistakable scent of their earthy lovemaking.
"Don't waste your kisses, my love," came a rumbling laugh behind her.
Blushing through a wild tangle of flaxen tresses, Lydia hastily clutched the sheet and peeked over her shoulder at him. Bruce stood unabashedly naked near the foot of the bed, his jaw still sporting shaving soap. He grinned down at her, eyes full of mischief, and tugged at the sheet she held around her firm high breasts.
"Don't go shy on me now, Mrs. MacGregor." He sat down next to her on the bed, openly aroused by the sight of her.
Suddenly aware that the sun was long up, Lydia sprang out of bed, knowing her duty. "I shall go downstairs at once and make your breakfast," she declared.
Laughing, he caught her around the waist and drew her close. "Hungry? So am I, love, but we've food and drink right here." He gestured to the tray of tidbits. "Besides, you're such a delicious morsel, I may nibble a bit on these as well." So saying, he lowered his head to sample her beautifully sculpted twin peaks.
"Are you making light of me?" Lydia asked, mustering as much dignity as she could with him busily sucking and tonguing his way past her feeble attempts to resist. "Have you forgotten that I, too, might be hungry, sir?"
"'Tis glad I am to hear it from your own luscious lips." He planted a soapy kiss on her mouth. "Back to bed, woman," he ordered, his voice rumbling with seduction. "I'll be with you as soon as I finish shaving." And he retreated quickly to the dressing room.
Instead of obeying, Lydia backhanded his shaving soap from her lips and sauntered over to watch him apply his razor to his left sideburn. She stepped forward, irresistibly drawn. "Here, let me do that for you," she offered, completely fascinated by this masculine task.
"Don't tell me the world's most efficient housekeeper—and hot blooded wench!—is also a barber?" he joked, taking a menacing swipe at her nose with his shaving brush.
Lydia dodged, admitting, "No, I want to touch your face."
"Touch whatever takes your fancy, saucy vixen." A final stroke along his sun-tanned jaw finished the job. He wiped his face with a damp towel, tossed it aside, and came a-menacing.
Seeing a slight nick on the underside of his chin, Lydia impulsively wrapped her arms around him, and licked a tiny droplet of blood.
"Now we share everything, even the same blood," he said with a strange tenderness that made her glance up quickly. His warm gaze seemed to promise more than passion, and Lydia was about to ask what he was thinking when he swept her up in his arms.
"Off to bed we go," he said brusquely. "We've a bit more loving to do before I leave."
"Leave?" His words came like a cold slap, rudely dashing her new-found happiness.
"I sail on the afternoon tide, Lydia." His voice softened at her downcast look. "Here, now, you do remember there's a war going on, don't you?"
"But to go so soon!" Lydia bit her lip and clung to him, as he deposited her on the bed.
He set the tray of cold meat pies and cheeses on the bed, along with a bottle of Canary wine. "Ready for breakfast?"
She looked away. "I just lost my appetite," she said sullenly.
"At least share a toast with me." He poured a small portion of the wine and offered her a glass. "Here's to my beautiful wife, whose lovemaking makes me tremble more than all the guns on that British frigate that's waitin' for me in Long Island Sound."
"How can you joke at a time like this?" L
ydia stared dejectedly down at the golden fluid in her glass. "If only there was no war to take you away from me."
Sitting beside her, Bruce put his arm around her, and she laid her cheek against his brawny shoulder. He stroked her hair and asked teasingly, "Have ye fallen in love with me so soon, lass?"
Lydia ducked her head guiltily. What a question! She needed time to sort out her true feelings. Besides, if she were to admit to love, would it not seem false to him, if not an outright lie? She searched his eyes and felt a rush of something strong and pure, like the heat of passion, only deeper. "Surely 'tis too soon to be sure," she prevaricated.
At her hesitation, Bruce's eyes lost some of their eager fire. "You're an honest lass, and you're right. We haven't spent nearly enough time together, have we?"
"Not nearly enough," she agreed.
"God helping me, I shall soon return, so we can pick up where we left off." He clinked his glass against hers. "To peace, Lydia, and to lasting happiness."
Their eyes met, and Lydia joined in the toast with all her heart.
"Come home to me soon, Bruce," she whispered.
"Try and keep me away." He kissed her throat and Lydia melted beneath his touch. Frantic with longing, she squirmed, panting beneath him in anticipation. "Love me, Bruce," she pleaded, her limbs trembling as he moved swiftly to possess her. "I love what you do to me . . ."
"Aye, lass." And faint irony colored his voice. "You enjoy me putting it inside, don't you? You love me pushing it deep and making you quiver inside—"
Lydia's head thrashed slowly, as she arched beneath him, craving the powerful thrust and glide of his body on hers. "Bruce, don't talk so much. All I know is . . . I want . . . I need you . . ."
"I need this, too, Lydia, to remember while I'm out at sea." Bruce swept into her, amazed how ready she was; a sweet, hot haven.
"Don't leave me, Bruce," Lydia moaned, churning beneath him, her eyes half closed.
She wanted their lovemaking never to end, but he thrust deeply inside, planting his seed after a few powerful lunges. A shudder wracked his body, and he groaned deeply. Then, kissing her almost perfunctorily, he got up quickly, shaking loose from her fierce embrace.
"Let's hope I've given you something to remember me by, Mrs. MacGregor," he said with a roguish wink.
"You can't leave me, not like this," she protested, coming up on her knees.
He bent over her on the bed and planted a firm kiss on her mouth. "I'd like to stay, Lydia, but I can't. I must leave while the British fleet is drawn away from the harbor this afternoon."
"How do you know you'll get through the blockade?" she asked, secretly hoping he never got out of the harbor.
"A good friend of mine from Providence will be drawing 'em off. As soon as the British give chase, I must seize my opportunity." He looked down at her, his long fingers stroking lightly through her tousled hair. "Make me a son with what I've given you, lass. I promise to return to you as soon as I can."
Lydia's mind reeled. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Was this his idea of marriage? One night of passionate lovemaking, and then back to sea and the war?
Her temper flaring, Lydia scrambled up on all fours. How dare he? He couldn't just treat her like some plaything!
Just looking at her with the bloom of desire still on her softly pouting lips, sent a pang of regret to Bruce's heart. Her rumpled hair cascading over her softly curved breasts gave her the look of an untamed Circe—until she opened her slightly swollen lips in protest.
"I hate you for doing this to me, Bruce MacGregor!" she raged. "You knew you'd be going away, and still you married me. What if you get yourself killed, and I’m left to raise your child all alone?" She stood up, testing her balance on the mattress, and bounced once, lightly. "How can you be so heartless? To snatch away any chance of happiness the minute I find it?"
Without warning she flung herself into space, fists flying.
Startled, Bruce caught her. Squirming and throwing invectives, Lydia locked her arms and legs around his torso and held on tight. "I won't let you go," she said fiercely. "It's not fair."
"Life isn't always fair, Lydia." He freed himself from her embrace. "Happiness is something you seize when the moment presents itself." He frowned, using her anger to keep from showing how emotionally torn their abrupt parting made him feel.
"Please don't go, Bruce!"
He felt her breasts, her lovely breasts, press against him, and then her hands caressing his back. Damn! Did she think he was made of stone? Why must she make it so damned difficult? he thought with a fleeting stab of pain. Did she actually believe he planned it this way?
Knowing his duty, Bruce spun around and walked into the dressing room to avoid her reproachful looks. Dressing hurriedly, he swung his sea chest to his broad shoulder. Reentering the bedroom, he found Lydia burrowed beneath the covers, her back deliberately turned, and only the crown of her golden curls showing. How he wished he had time to jolly her out of her mood.
With a sigh, he set down his chest to say goodbye. But before he could address his wife's injured feelings, a timid knock came at the bedchamber door.
Bruce flung open the door. Patience Harms stood in the hall, twisting her apron nervously. "Captain, there's a man downstairs, asking to see Mrs. MacGregor."
Hearing her name, Lydia emerged from the covers. "Who is it, Patience?" she asked.
Blushing, Patience avoided eye contact with the Captain and his bride. "It's a Mr. Burton. Says he must speak with you, ma'am."
"Seth?" Lydia leapt out of bed, unmindful of her disheveled appearance, the comforter tucked around her. "Please tell him I'll be right down," she said, and disappeared into the dressing room.
Bruce called after her disappearing back. "Never mind, Lydia. I'll get rid of him."
Lydia poked her head around the door. "No, Bruce, it's imperative that I speak with him."
"I forbid it!"
Her jaw sagged in disbelief; then she threw him a furious look. "You forbid me? How dare you!" Her blue-violet eyes spat fire.
Bruce's protective instincts went full tilt to the fray. He would not permit ghosts from Lydia's first marriage to resurface, to keep past sorrows festering. Damn Frank Masters anyway!
"The man is a goddamn—! Trust me, madam. I'm going to nip this in the bud, once and for all." Bruce headed out the bedroom door.
Tugging her sash around her, Lydia ran after him, grabbing at his arm.
He swung around. "I'll handle it, Lydia. Otherwise, he’ll never leave you alone."
"Ooh!" Indignant, Lydia puffed herself up as tall as she could. With her nose no higher than the center of her husband's chest, she kicked his shin. "What makes you think you can order me about without considering my feelings?"
Bruce swore under his breath. With Patience Harms looking on, he decided not to engage Lydia in battle. "I don't relish getting into a heated discussion right now, madam," he informed his new bride through clenched teeth.
"Good! Because this doesn't concern you, Captain." Her chin at a defiant tilt, she sailed into the hallway and straight down the staircase.
Shocked that she would receive Masters' first mate in such a state of undress, Bruce followed close at her heels.
Seth Burton stood at the foot of the stairs, cap in hand. His eyes lit up with a steel blue intensity, as she descended.
"Seth!" She rushed forward, both hands extended. "How did you find me?"
"It's been a long time, Lydia," Burton said, nearly as choked with emotion as she.
Standing back with a narrow-eyed scowl on his face, Bruce watched the pair embrace. What the hell? Burton's fair head was nearly the same shade as Lydia's. But what bothered him most was the obvious familiarity that engulfed the pair. Somehow he couldn't reconcile the man's deep seated resentment of her and his close relationship with her first husband.
"It's been too long," Lydia told the thin young seaman. She lifted a slender hand to caress his cheek. "I've thought so often of you
."
Seth Burton cautiously kissed her on the forehead, and as Lydia slipped into his arms, a long shudder went through her. Disturbed by the pain these two obviously shared, Bruce moved quickly to separate them.
"Lydia, what is going on?" he thundered.
Lydia glanced around, and Bruce saw her tears—and the way she clung to the man he had pounded senseless on Morgan's Landing, only two days prior.
"Bruce," she said softly. "May I present my brother, Seth?"
Chapter Fourteen
A crushing silence followed her introduction. Still wrapped in her embrace, Seth watched her husband through nervous eyes, while Bruce struggled to digest this unexpected revelation into the affairs of Frank Masters.
"Your what?" Bruce's low snarl rose from his chest like the distant roll of thunder, signaling a storm's approach.
Puzzled by the hostile sparks flying between the two men, Lydia looked from Bruce's closed expression to her brother's, and back again.
"He's my brother," she repeated. "Why? What's wrong?"
"We've met before." Seth managed a faintly ironic smile. "At least, my jaw and his fist did."
"I warned you, Burton. You're not welcome here." Bruce looked for all the world like a great grizzly, awakened from a winter's nap and determined to protect his domain.
"I apologize, Captain. Didn't expect to run into you. I heard you were headin' back out to sea today."
"When did you two meet?" Lydia asked, twisting her hands nervously, as the two men eyed each other like sparring partners.
"The day before our wedding.” Bruce's eyes glittered, black as obsidian. “I visited him about a debt Frank Masters supposedly owes him."
Shocked by his ruthless scowl, she shivered involuntarily. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Bruce shrugged. "I didn't think it was important. I contacted a few of your late husband's creditors is all."
"Not important!" she exploded. "He's my brother!"
