Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “Give it to me, please?” she managed to ask.

  “Come and get it.”

  She mistrusted his smile. “Really, we don’t have much time.”

  “We don’t, do we?” he agreed pleasantly. “But, then, I don’t think this will be wasted.” His gaze flicked to her face, then traveled deliberately lower, as if assessing her points one by one.

  Irritated beyond bearing by his manner, she shot her hand out to grab the towel. He caught her wrist and hauled her from the tub, so that she stumbled, failling against him. He accepted her full weight, cradling her, wrapping the towel around her. She pushed away, coming erect, but could not evade his grasp. With soothing gentleness, he began to dry her back. He swept his hands up and down along her spine, dropping lower with each stroke. As he reached her hips, lingering on their curves, she squirmed, protesting, in his grasp. He allowed her to turn, and, as she did so, proceeded to dry her side, sliding his hand beneath her arm and up to her collarbone, drawing it caressingly down over her breasts. She tried to turn back, but he would not let her. His hand dropped to her waist, massaging, skimming over the flat surface of her abdomen, pressing the small, triangular mat of fine gold to dry it, and sliding quickly between her thighs.

  She stiffened, lifting her lashes to glare at him. He smiled, his movements slowing, becoming exquisitely gentle. Any sudden attempt to free herself could be painful. She was still, her muscles slowly losing their tension, her breasts rising and falling with the increasing depth of her breathing, their nipples hardening as they pressed into his bare chest.

  Abruptly, he released her, bending to swirl the towel around first one leg, then the other. Lorna swayed, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady herself, incensed with herself for that spreading weakness. He raised up, flinging the big damp square over his shoulder. With a tight grin, he said, “We should hurry. We don’t want the others having to wait on us.”

  She turned from him tight-lipped, though she felt more than a little dazed as she went about her dressing. From her trunk, she brought out a fresh camisole and slipped into it, then took the time to dab on a little perfume before turning back to look for her pantaloons. Though she turned the contents of the trunk upside down, she could find none. Turning away, resigned to wearing the same ones she had pulled off, she found Ramon already out of the tub, standing on the other side as he briskly dried himself. As she moved toward her discarded undergarments, he picked up the pantaloons, holding them wadded in his hand.

  “Is this what you need?”

  For an answer, she stepped toward him, hand outstretched. Just as the pantaloons were within her grasp, he let them go. She made a grab for them, but so did he, knocking her hand aside. The leg casings of white linen fell into the copper tub and sank beneath the soap-scummed gray water.

  Lorna watched them for a moment, then slowly lifted her gray gaze to his face. “You did that on purpose!”

  “How can you say so? It was an accident.”

  “Where are my others?”

  “I haven’t the least idea. Maybe Cupid decided to wash for you too, while we are in port; he came this afternoon for my shirts. Anyway, what does it matter? You don’t need such things. Go without them.”

  “It … it wouldn’t be decent.”

  “It would be cooler.”

  That much was true. “I couldn’t.”

  “No one will know — except me.”

  “And me!”

  “You wouldn’t want to miss the play, not for such a reason.” His tone was persuasive, only faintly shaded with amusement, and something more that she couldn’t identify.

  “N — No.”

  “It won’t matter, believe me. Who could possibly find out under those haystack mounds of skirts you women wear.”

  That much was true. By degrees, Lorna allowed herself to be persuaded; still, it felt peculiar, unbelievably lascivious, to put on her corset and petticoats while she was bare below the waist, to walk in the dome of her crinoline with nothing between the nakedness of her legs as she moved. Even fully dressed in her gown of soft lavender blue tulle, with her purse and fan in her hand and her cloak over her arm, she was aware of her nakedness underneath, so much so that she felt the heat of a flush rise to her cheekbones as she met Ramon’s quizzical gaze just before they left the cabin.

  Was it imagination, or was he affected as much as, if not more than, she by the state of her lower body? The question hovered about her for the rest of the evening. It seemed that he missed no opportunity to touch her, to brush the swell of her breasts with his sleeve or even a fingertip, on the pretense of banishing a mosquito; to spread his hand at the small of her back and lower, where the edge of her corset met bare flesh; to make double-edged remarks about the dress of the actors on stage, which included doublets and skintight hose. She could not concentrate on the play for the sensations that gripped her, for the feel of a draft beneath her skirts, the sensuous slide of the material around her, the warmth of Ramon’s breath against her ear as he turned to speak to her.

  When she could focus her attention on the stage, it was no better. Every word that Petruchio spoke was freighted with carnal meaning, if not downright lewd. His part was played with swagger and boastfulness and sensual dominance, a violent wooing that carried a hint of tender understanding. Katherina’s graceful capitulation in the end was expected, but still disturbing. In order to throw off its spell and forget her own state as they walked along the street afterward, Lorna instigated a running argument with Peter, Ramon, and the others. She laughed to scorn their idea that Kate had really been tamed. She had merely shifted tactics to suit the strength of her opponent, Lorna claimed, like any woman of intelligence. When they protested at the idea, she swore in laughing certainty that the erstwhile shrew had winked at the audience during her last tender speech of submission, indicating that her meekness was but a gentle way of ruling.

  Peter’s friends and compatriots, a boisterous crowd dressed in every kind of costume imaginable, from, correct frock coats to velvet smoking jackets and uniform coats from the Crimean campaign, greeted the suggestion with hooting disbelief. Simply because that was the way southern gentlewomen marshaled those around them did not mean an Englishman would be taken in by it. Kate had gotten no more than she deserved, what any man worth his salt would have given her.

  “Is that so?” Lorna inquired, half-serious, half-laughing. “I see nothing particularly worthy about starving a woman into submission.”

  “He was only attempting to bring her to recognize that she was fed by his efforts,” Peter remonstrated.

  “And at his discretion! In return for which she must tend his kitchen, see to his comfort, mend his clothes, and bear his children. It seems to me it would have been better if she had foregone marriage and bent her efforts toward feeding herself.”

  Peter shook his head. “Unlike Kate, my dear Lorna, your lances are made of steel instead of straw; but, regardless, you could never be a shrew.”

  “How little you know her,” Ramon said, his tone dry as he strolled at her side. Peter, sending him a sidelong glance, did not answer.

  Was she a shrew, impossible to please, wanting only her own way? The thought was disturbing, but she had no time to pursue it. The English officers, on half-pay, come to the islands and the war-torn states of North and South to gain the experience only conflict can bring, were in too high spirits to allow anyone time for introspection. They flung quips and insults at each other, using an assortment of nicknames, few flattering, that had nothing to do with either their real names or those they had chosen to sail under. Their manner toward Lorna was teasing, though deferential in respect for Ramon’s close guard and Peter’s hovering concern. Toward the two or three other women who clung to their party, they were less formal, treating them with amused, if rather lustful, contempt. They had reason, Lorna thought. These women were something less than ladies and had a distressing tendency to giggle and turn the conversation toward bonnets and silk dresses they would l
ike to have, and the cakes and wine they looked forward to eating.

  They were not disappointed. The fare served up at the house rented by the Englishmen was sumptuous. There was seafood chowder, leg of lamb, roast beef, and fried chicken; vegetables swimming in cream sauces; cakes and custard made with plenty of butter, eggs, and milk. To wash it down were champagne and ale; and, for those not yet interested in alcoholic beverages, ginger beer and soda water. The cook, renown for the lightness of her biscuits, was a freedwoman who had been lured away from a plantation family and sent to one of the best eating places in Charleston for training. As they sat around the board, eating and drinking with a will, all considered she had been worth the expenditure.

  Such bounty was not unusual, it was claimed, at least not in the coastal towns. In those centers, people with money still were able to command the luxuries of life. Farther inland, it was different. No one was starving, but imported goods were snapped up before they reached the interior. In many places, women were making do with cakes made of bolted cornmeal; experimenting with roasting corn, rye, and dried okra seeds for coffee; using dried blackberry and raspberry leaves for tea; boiling anything sweet to make sugar syrup; picking out the seams of old gowns to be made over; and making leather out of mule and hog hides tanned and dyed with red oak bark. Medicine was in short supply, and anyone with knowledge of herbal remedies suddenly became popular.

  Listening to the recital of such hardships, involved in the flashing repartee that flashed back and forth across the table, Lorna had very nearly forgotten her undressed state under the bell of her skirts. She was reminded as the dancing began, when Ramon took her in his arms. His eyes, as they circled the floor, held a wicked glint. She could not have felt more voluptuous, more piercingly aware of herself as a woman, if she had been completely naked. Her fingers trembled in his hold, and she was aware of heat circulating through her veins. Her gray eyes were dark as she sustained the smiling intensity of his gaze while they whirled to the music.

  It was with both relief and annoyance that she was torn from him by the corps of Englishmen, passed in a twirling of skirts from one to the other until she was breathless. Peter rescued her finally, signaling for a slow gavotte and leading her through it. His blonde hair gleamed in the light of the candles that burned in the chandeliers overhead, his smile was easy, the look in his eyes warmly admiring. She asked him about the cargo he would be loading to return to Nassau, and he told her of the cotton, tobacco, and naval stores of resin and turpentine, tar and pitch that he and Ramon were vying for at the moment.

  “You could always split it between you,” she suggested.

  “What would be the fun in that?”

  “This is war; must it be fun?”

  He shrugged, his smile wry. “Why not? Not everybody wants to have a staring contest with danger. I had as soon be looking the other way in some tomfoolery. Chances are, it will pass me by without a second glance.”

  He had used the word danger, but he meant death. She managed a light laugh. “It’s as good a philosophy as any, I suppose.”

  The music died away. He turned with her from the floor. “You are enchanting, do you know that? One of the most natural and unaffected women I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet. Have I told you that—?”

  “Has she told you that, for all her enchanting ways, she has been the death of a man?”

  Peter looked at Ramon, frowning, as the Creole moved to join them with his smile affable in spite of his cutting words. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I assure you it’s true. Isn’t it, Lorna?”

  The blood had drained from her face as she realized what he had said. Her gray eyes were dazed as she stared at the bronze mask of his face. She thought she had put that terrible night at Beau Repose behind her, but now it rose up before her, and once more Franklin lay dead at her hand, sprawled on the floral carpet. Finally she spoke. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Fascinating,” Peter drawled, his dark blue gaze mirroring concern as he watched her. “I have always had a weakness for adventuresses.”

  “Oh, the man deserved killing, twice over, but it was a convenient way to be rid of a husband.”

  Peter stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he looked to Ramon. “Husband? That must have caused … repercussions.”

  “Unfortunately, and they have followed her to Nassau in the person of Nathaniel Bacon, whom you may have met.”

  “I would like to hear the full story, I think.”

  “Lorna will tell you, I’m sure, if you are really interested. But, not now.” He took her hand, tucking it under his arm, covering her cold fingers where they lay on his sleeve. “I think, chérie, it is time we returned to the ship.”

  She allowed him to guide her from the room, to wrap her cloak around her and escort her from the house. She walked beside him without speaking until they had reached the Lorelei and were safe inside the cabin. She pulled away from him then, standing in the middle of the floor, clasping her hands in front of her.

  “Why?” she whispered, then said louder, “Why?”

  “It seemed something it would be best if he knew.”

  “As a warning? Before he became too involved with a murderess?” She was becoming distraught, but she could not help it.

  “As a precaution. You apparently had said nothing.” He began to remove his jacket, having difficulty with the top button.

  “It isn’t something I use to enliven idle conversation!”

  “But, it is something a man overly interested in you should know.” He stripped off the jacket, kicked off his boots, and began to remove his shirt.

  “You have no right to interfere.” She followed his movements without taking them in, so acute was her distress.

  “If he cares for you, it won’t matter, and it seemed that he might be able to help.”

  “Help? Help what, convict me of Franklin’s murder by my own admission?”

  “To prevent you from being harassed by Bacon when I am not, cannot, be there.”

  She swung from him then, clasping her arms around her body, moving to stand before the porthole that was open to the river breeze. She breathed deep, feeling as if she had been running, chased by a devil, and found it was only a figment of some vanished nightmare. Vaguely, as if from a great distance, she heard the rustle of Ramon’s trousers as he stepped from them, the pad of his bare feet as he moved in behind her. He took the cloak from her shoulders, throwing it to one side, then closed his arms around her, cupping her breasts.

  “Berate me in the morning,” he said, the timbre of his voice husky, the warmth of his breath against the tender curve of her neck. “Claw my eyes out in the morning. But, for right now, come to bed. I have watched you tonight, thinking of you without your pantaloons until I am half-crazed with wanting you. The look and feel and scent of you is in my blood like wine. The more you throw up obstacles before me, the more maddened I become. Come love, and let me love you, or I will take you on the floor with your skirts about your waist, and never regret it.”

  She swung in his arm, staring at him with the vestiges of pain and anger clouding her mind. Then, she flung herself at him, twining her arms about his neck, meeting his mouth with ferocity, driven by the passion that leaped inside her as she ground her lips into his. He caught her to him in a crushing embrace, his breath stopped in his chest. Slanting, bruising, probing, his triumphant kiss fed her desire. His hands roved over her, tearing at the hooks of her gown, jerking them free, so that it fell open down her back. He slipped the knots in the tapes of corset and petticoats, breaking those that resisted as he strove to release her from the cocoon of the clothing that held her bound. She aided him, writhing, swaying, stepping from the billowing mound, pressing herself against him from breast to ankle.

  The hardness of his body was a sensuous delight, the strength of his arms a refuge. She was aflame inside, trembling with the force of a raging fire. She clenched her fingers on the hair growing low on his neck, kneading his shoulders, an
d closed her eyes in dizziness as he swung her from her feet and placed her on the low bunk.

  He knelt beside it, bending over her, his hands marauding. She arched her back, turning toward him, offering her breasts to the warmth of his mouth. He took one, worrying the nipple with his teeth, flicking it with his tongue, closing his lips upon it. The muscles of her stomach quivered, tightening convulsively as his hand smoothed downward. Her breathing grew ragged, and she made a soft, imploring sound as his mouth followed, pausing at her navel and the gentle mound below it, seeking and finding that most sensitive, most sensual part of her body.

  Her muscles tensed. Reality receded and she drifted into sharp ecstasy. Across her mind flitted the image, soft and shimmering, of Ramon coming to her once more through the French doors of her hotel in Nassau, silent, god-like, bringer of joy. She cried out in wanton release, twisting, drawing him up beside her on the bunk, hovering over him, her loosened hair trailing over his chest. In her fervent gratitude and the tide race of pleasure in her veins, she tried with lips and hands to incite him to that same fury of desire. He accepted it, with his hands locked in the silk of her hair, testing the limits of control until he could bear it no more.

  “God, mon coeur,” he whispered hoarsely, “let me—”

  Drawing her down beside him, he pressed into her, plunging deep as he drew her against him with his fingers digging into her hips. Unsatisfied by the depth of penetration, he heaved aside, pulling her beneath him. She clung to him, drawing him deeper and deeper, her breath gathering in her throat. He lay for a moment, resting his weight on his elbows, finding her mouth, drinking in its sweetness. Then, he began to move, fitting her to his rhythm with tender insistence. She rose against him, eyes tightly closed, hands spread wide and flat on the bunk. She soared, weightless, unbound, transfigured. She had no identity and needed none. He was a part of her, and she of him, linked, inseparable.

  It burst upon her with the hot moistness of her own release, mingling with his. It was dark mystery, ancient and consuming, a thing to create life or destroy it, to bring surfeit or gnawing hunger, evil, or joy. It beat in her blood and vibrated through her body, a violent repletion that left exhaustion in its wake. She burrowed her face into the hollow of Ramon’s throat, kissing the firm, salt-tasting skin, murmuring wordlessly in the excess of love she felt at that moment. His arms tightened and his mouth brushed her forehead. He held her, staring into the night. Before her heartbeat had slowed, she slept.