by Kim Bowman
~~~~
Percy tired of Constance’s games. For many nights since the Octavia sank, he’d stayed away from her for one reason and one reason only — her protection. After the debacle with Frink and now with a traitor aboard, he couldn’t afford to leave her alone. But being close to the tempestuous woman excited him beyond reason. Devil take him, when he was with Constance, he forgot about Frink, Whistler, the Fox, Celeste, and Josiah Cane. His heart took a perilous leap. What he felt now, with her, was something he dared not explore, but desired to more than anything else. He’d never before experienced need that strong. God in heaven, he wanted her. He wanted what she represented — purity, strength, goodness. Damn him!
Crossing the distance between them, he knelt on one knee. She bit her lip to stifle a cry and implored him with her eyes not to harm her. A hot ache hardened his cock. He raised his hand to gently caress the side of her face. “Does this appeal to you?”
“No,” she answered, turning her face aside, denying him access to her eyes.
Liar.
“Does this appeal to you?” He leaned her head back in his hands and bent down to brush his lips against hers.
“No,” she whimpered, her half-lidded green eyes sparking with untried passion.
“How about this?” he asked, kissing her wine-laced lips with feather light kisses. She responded by putting her hands on his shoulders. Her pulse thudded, and a shiver coursed down her spine.
That was all the encouragement he needed.
~~~~
Thomas raised her off the chair and Constance allowed him to clasp her body tightly to his, so he could envelope her in a kiss. This is your chance. Distract him. Snatch the key to the cabin. But soon all thoughts of the key dissipated as Constance was swiftly swept away, drowning again.
Was it possible to drown in a kiss? Whatever the outcome, she wasn’t afraid. Her knees weakened beneath her as she reveled in the feel of Thomas’ lips against hers, his touch sending a warming shiver through her.
Effortlessly, his tongue parted her lips and slipped into her mouth. The gentle caress combined with his tender touch, turned inescapable, unforgettable. Why wasn’t she fighting him? What had possessed her to accept the pirate’s sensual embrace? Whatever the reason, she now couldn’t recall. All thought vanished.
She clung to him, responding to the velvet sensation of his tongue. He seemed to enjoy her reaction to his kisses, and emboldened, his adventurous hands roamed down her back, to her hips, pulling her closer than ever to the bold reminder that he was a man in his prime. What they were doing was wrong, wasn’t it? Was she a wanton to be so enraptured by his touch? Why did the sensations he aroused feel so delicious, wicked? And why did the newness of it take her by storm? Hadn’t she experienced that euphoria one other time? Sensation of their limbs intertwined assailed her. Yes. She wanted to feel him against her skin again.
Cautious and feeling completely scandalous, Constance yielded to his exploring hands. She’d been through unconscionable horror. She wanted — no needed — to be comforted. She wanted to feel loved. She ached to understand what her body craved, and she gave herself freely, embracing him with a restless fire, moaning, leaning into him, wanting to savor everything about him, wanting to remember what it felt like to be in a real man’s arms. Without this, without experiencing firsthand where passion could take her, she might never know. He was taking her back to London, to her father — to Burton, to a world in which she would never truly live.
She made no move to resist Thomas as he lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the bunk. In one fluid motion, he deposited her on the bed and lowered over her, covering her, kissing her, delving his tongue into her mouth over and over again, siphoning her resistance. Swept away, she pulled him close, blood coursing through her veins like a roiling sea. Her heart hammered in her chest. She was playing with fire, tempting the hands of fate.
Images flashed before her eyes, her torn shift lying on the floor, waking up in a pirate’s bed — naked. Thomas’ own admission led her to believe that she was no longer virginal and therefore had nothing to lose. It served no purpose to deny her curiosity when every fiber of her being wanted to draw him in.
His touch was like an opiate, almost unbearable in its tenderness as he teased her, weaving his fingers through her hair, palming her body with his hands, increasing her agony with every stroke. Then he drew back.
“No,” she cried, her body tingling with desire.
His gaze captured hers. “Are you certain?”
She nodded and he began to ease her breeches down her hips one agonizing leg at a time, fingers lightly grazing her inner thighs, sending heated sparks to her core. Embarrassed, she moved her hands to cover the juncture between her legs, unsure how to react. His touch heady, his beautiful brown gaze hypnotic, he grabbed her arms and placed them over her head as his other hand edged the hem of her shirt up and over her ribs, teasing the sides of her breasts with his fingers, creating flickers of pleasure until the shirt was easily discarded and she was naked beneath him.
“You’re beautiful.” His gaze devoured her hungrily. He moved off the bed and disrobed, his gaze never abandoning hers.
“You’re—”
“Magnificent,” he teased.
Yes, she thought, trembling, half-fear, half-anticipation, desiring to feel his body against hers once more.
He eased down on her, trailing feather-soft kisses along her jaw to the nape of her neck until she shivered with delight. The sleek caress of his body against hers drove her to distraction, as his fingers eased down her sides then back up to cup a breast, kneading, tweaking her nipple until she moaned and arched into him, wanting, needing more. Her body was a kindling flame. And just when she thought she might succumb to the heat, his probing fingers found the juncture between her thighs and teased, slipping inside, stroking, creating a throbbing need that crescendoed until she quaked with unrestrained desire.
“You’re almost ready, Constance.”
“Almost?” she gasped, fearing she couldn’t withstand anything more.
“Almost,” he promised, slipping his knee between her thighs. “I promise to be gentle.”
Her mind reeled. Could she trust him to be gentle? He was a pirate. She had no time to think as he kissed her fears away, eased inside her and then stopped. Pain knifed through her core. She cried out.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “It’ll subside, little blossom.” He stroked her hair, kissed her lips, her cheek, her lips again. Flesh against flesh, man against woman, her body relaxed, taking in the pleasurable sensations he gave her as he filled her completely. He moved slowly at first and then teased with varying thrusts, until a mounting inferno blazed within her and she bucked up to meet him, breathing in soul-drenching gasps.
“Hang on to me,” he said, his voice husky and ragged. “Don’t let go.”
He moved in rhythm, stroking her inside and out. A part of her died beneath his touch, and the ramifications of her actions hit her full force. She’d thrown away her innocence, an innocence she’d already thought lost.
“Look at me, Constance,” he urged her. When she refused, he placed feather-light kisses along her forehead and cheek, until she turned her mouth to meet his. Ever so slowly, she found her hips mimicking his thrusts, forging a natural rhythm that surprised her.
“Look at me,” he ordered on a ragged breath. His raw, urgent plea tugged her heart. She opened her eyes, and their gazes locked. Obeying him came easily as her hands clawed his flesh, reveling in the contours of his muscular arms, sliding down his skin toward his hips before he stopped her and moved her hands over her head.
He labored to speak. “Let me show you… how good a pirate can be.”
He’d lied to her. He was her enemy and yet also her savior. And now she was no longer a victim but his willing accomplice. “Show me,” she panted. “Show… me.”
Thomas deepened his soul-searching kisses, pressing her into the bed with his weight, demanding her
all. Constance wanted to absorb every inch of him, to climb the summit of desire with him until nothing else mattered and she fell off the edge of the precipice, uncaring where that leap took her.
“Thomas!”
At the sound of his name, Thomas plunged deeper, his movements faster and faster until she reached the pinnacle and her body exploded one rapturous moment after another. Almost simultaneously, he stiffened above her and groaned. He lay over her for a time, and not wanting to be parted, Constance wrapped her legs about his waist to hold him close. Finally, when their forceful breathing eased, he rose up on his elbows and gazed down at her. She smiled shyly.
In one swift movement, the euphoria she’d experienced fled as he rolled off of her to sprawl on his back. Befuddled, not knowing what a man and woman did after coupling, Constance turned and cuddled against his side, placing her head on his shoulder. She knew the truth. He wasn’t what she needed. He was a pirate. Men like him didn’t make attachments. Men like him didn’t need or want commitments to women.
He’d lied to her. She’d still been a virgin. Angry with herself for allowing such a lapse in judgment, Constance welcomed a stabilizing breath. When she returned home, she would be forced to deal with reality and a gilded cage of her father’s making. Until then, she would enjoy the freedom of being in Thomas’ arms, the glorious wonder of newfound passion. Twirling her fingers across his chest, she let her adventurous digits trail down his rippled abdomen. Bolder now, her eyes followed her fingers until she caught sight of his arousal.
He grabbed her errant fingers, raised them to his lips, kissed them, and then turned her over onto her back.
“You can’t mean to—”
“Aye, Constance. I do.” His tone made her flush with welcome heat.
Chapter Eight
Montgomery Burton descended from his phaeton, tapped his cane on the ground, and looked up at the Duke of Throckmorton’s manor house with a frown of contempt. Perusing the property with a skeptical eye, he appraised the Georgian architecture; eaves, masonry, and tall imposing fluted columns at the end of a small, whimsical garden. The home had its merits, and it was his deepest desire to make it a glorious addition to his portfolio when the time presented itself.
Byron Danbury, Duke of Throckmorton, was nothing more than a means to an end. A gentleman of good breeding, it was pitiful he had to ruin the man in order to get what he wanted — land and the dutiful daughter who’d fallen into his conniving hands. Her mother’s death educed public sympathy. Now the little victim, the darling of the ton, would bring him accelerated acclaim.
Indeed, he had plans for Lady Constance. No matter her complaints, she would become his wife in every sense of the word — in every sense — whether she liked it or not. He’d school her on accepting his unorthodox methods or break her, whichever came first, but have her he would.
His mouth salivated, and he cleared his throat roughly as he tapped on the large copper knocker. Answering his summons, the household butler, Cooper, opened the door and offered to show him into the parlor while Throckmorton was alerted to his presence. Led into a blue room plastered with floral wallpaper and lace, he strode to the fireplace, opened a box, and helped himself to one of the duke’s cigars. Striking a match, he inhaled the sweet aroma of his vice of choice and produced a circle of smoke, watching it rise playfully toward the portrait of a dark-haired woman hanging above the mantle. The portrait was the spitting image of his intended. Burton reconciled the woman to be the duchess and cackled mischievously. Throckmorton still had no idea the lengths Burton had been willing to go to undermine him.
He gazed about the room, casting lots on Throckmorton’s possessions, eager for all of it to be his. To compensate for his size, he’d made it his life’s work to become larger than life in temperament and purse. He’d succeeded. His plan to debauch Constance Danbury, ruin her father, and take everything Throckmorton owned had been materializing nicely.
A slight popping of glass caught his attention. Suddenly, the double glass doors opened and Throckmorton appeared, tall, lean, his complete opposite in every way, wielding uncanny snobbery; a character trait Burton admired and abhorred. Gone, however, was the rigid set of jaw and sense of entitlement one could hardly miss in a man of his station. Burton smirked, satisfied he’d been the cause.
“Burton,” Throckmorton said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Twirling his cigar between his fingers, Burton stepped away from the hearth. “This is not a social call, Throckmorton. I’m here to find out what’s happened to my intended.”
Throckmorton’s hawkish eyes revealed nothing. Bravo. “What gives you the idea there is anything wrong?”
“I have it on good authority the lady has run off.”
“Run off? I assure you nothing could be further from the truth.”
“Produce her for me to ease my concerns if you would then. I needn’t remind you how unwise it would be to fall from my good graces. I have a limited attention span.”
Throckmorton walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a healthy libation, then turned and offered Burton a drink.
Accepting the tumbler, Burton didn’t hesitate to swallow a healthy swig. The duke’s liquor never ceased to appease his tastes. “I intend to announce my engagement to your daughter at the ball you’re giving in two weeks. Once our announcement is publicly known, you will profit nicely from our little agreement.”
“How do I know you won’t go back on your word?” Throckmorton asked, sniffing his tumbler. “Constance is my only child, and I will not sell her like useless chattel.”
“My dear, sir. You already have.” With that, Burton took his drink in hand and strutted to the fireplace to puff on his cigar. He’d set out to strip Throckmorton of life, bilk him out of his funds, leaving him with an empty title, further pressuring him to permit the marriage of his daughter for a stipend of thirty thousand pounds. Though it was customary for the bride’s family to produce a dowry, the irony? Burton was giving Throckmorton back the man’s own inheritance.
His own maniacal laughter surprised him and he quickly covered his mouth, to force a cough. Little conquest existed in secrecy, but there would be no triumph if his ruse was discovered before the deed was done. In the end, the deal he’d made would cost him nothing, but would yield a suitable wife.
“I’ve made you a very reasonable deal. I want your daughter and you, sir, have a daughter to wed. It’s fortunate indeed that I have the means to get you out of this scrape you and your brother created.” Puffing his cigar, he sat on the settee and spread his short arms across the back, making himself at home. “Don’t lose heart, sir. We are both very close to getting what we want.”
Throckmorton looked down his long aristocratic nose at Burton with disdain. He ambled closer, his added height dwarfing Burton easily.
“You’ll get what you want, Burton. But mark my words, if I find out you had anything to do with my circumstances, I’ll ensure you are rejected by the ton post haste.”
~~~~
Percy blinked, yawned groggily, and then opened his eyes, squinting against the early morning light. More rested than he’d ever been, he was instantly aware he was not alone. Since it wasn’t his habit to sleep with a wench, he was slightly taken aback — until his faculties returned.
Lady Constance.
He flexed his hand and found it full of golden spun hair. Tilting his chin, he gazed down at the woman sleeping peacefully in his arms, a woman he’d used well and long into the night, or rather these many nights. She’d given herself willingly, trusting him to pleasure her until sleep overtook them both. And when her nightmares returned, he’d been there to assure her she had nothing to fear but drowning in his kisses.
“You are wrong, brother.”
“Don’t let this happen to anyone else.”
Celeste’s dying words cut him to the quick. Was he just as abhorrent as the bastards who’d used his sister?
Unable to face her family after being ill-
used, his sister had turned to the streets of London to survive. Was that to be Constance’s lot? What would become of her now that he’d taken her virginity? How would the ton regard her returning on a pirate ship? Would she be able to marry? Was he just as guilty of ruining Constance’s chances at happiness as the man who’d kidnapped Celeste, used her, and then cast her aside?
He hated himself for being as much of a danger to Constance as she was to his soul. The trail he’d followed for the past year, the things he’d done in the name of revenge proved him undeserving of her love. Once they reached London, he had no choice. He’d have to hand Constance over to Simon. Thomas Sexton would disappear, as he always did, and Percival Avery would once more take center stage. He couldn’t afford attachments. Not with justice weighing in the balance.
Constance moved against him. And bloody hell, his damned cock immediately roused. Percy eased out of bed, going against his instincts to grind the woman into the mattress until he once again instinctively filled her with his seed.
Light reflected off the windowpanes, producing bright golden rays that illuminated the dark mahogany walls. What he’d done, giving in to his lust, weighted his shoulders like an anvil. He glanced back at the alluring tangle of sheets and silky limbs on his bunk. Constance lay in dishevel, her hair draped over her shoulder and arm, her tempting breasts jutting against the sheet. The juncture between her thighs, hot, moist, had become the home he could never rightfully own, though he desired to abide there more than anything else in the world.
Percy turned away in disgust. He wanted her again! And hated himself for what he had to do — make her hate him. It was the only way to end this. Before he was done, Constance was going to loathe him. But the heartbreak was necessary. He wasn’t worthy of her. She deserved far better than an imposter, a man devoted to espionage, revenge. It would be a mistake to pull her into his miserable life, no matter how much he wanted to. Loving him could get her killed. Loving him had been detrimental to everyone he’d ever loved — Celeste, his father.
