Oh, that was lovely. She sighed in satisfaction, and then she parted her legs. It seemed natural. She wrapped them around him, through her skirts. Even so, even with his trousers as well, she could feel him against her inner thighs, and she had never felt anything quite so nice.
He gasped, opening his eyes. “Miss Bennet, we can’t do this.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling very disappointed. She liked this. This felt so good, better than anything she’d ever felt. And it all seemed to be flowing, happening just as it should.
He propped himself up over her, so that their chests were no longer touching.
She missed his weight. His heat.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “You don’t know what it is that you’re doing to me. You don’t know how you tempt me.”
“Tempt you to do what?”
He shut his eyes.
She kissed him again.
He kissed her back, and they were lost to that for some time again, a tangle of limbs and lips. It was lovely, and she clung to him, running her hands over his back, and lower to brush his buttocks, which were round and firm and quite nice. She was shocked at her wantonness, but happy with it as well. She didn’t mind what she had done. Nothing mattered now. Everything was bliss.
He pulled away, removing her hands. He was out of breath. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not?” she said, feeling bold. “I think you liked it. I rather liked it. You feel quite nice under my hands. I like how… hard you are.”
He groaned again, and his hips ground against her, and there was something else there that was very, very hard, and it was sticking out of him…
What had he told her before? That conversation about what was between men’s legs? He’d said a word.
He heaved. “Don’t say things like that. You will drive me absolutely to the brink, and I shall not be able to stop myself.”
What was the word? “Cock,” she said, remembering, feeling proud of herself.
“Miss Bennet?” His voice was strangled.
“That’s what’s between your legs,” she said. “You told me that men had them, and that they used them to… to…” She put her hands on his face again, tucking his hair behind his ears. “If I want you to do it, then it isn’t rape, is it?”
“No,” he said, shutting his eyes. “But you don’t know what you want. You couldn’t possibly know.”
“I do want it,” she said. “I won’t have any chance of doing it ever, I don’t think. I’m not to have a husband.” She remembered her anger towards him earlier, but she couldn’t manage anger anymore. All she remembered of that emotion was the yearning underneath it all. That she had wanted to be his wife, and this was what wives did with their husbands, wasn’t it?
“No,” he said. “I couldn’t possibly. You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”
“I’m asking for your cock.” She said the word again. “I want it.”
He groaned again, driving that hard part of himself against her belly. He claimed her mouth again, and there was a harshness to his kiss, as if he was desperately fighting some internal battle and losing.
“Please?” she whispered.
“No,” he said again, but his voice wasn’t strong.
She put her hand between their bodies, questing, feeling for him. There. That was it. The hard part. It was… long and round, like a… sausage or something. She smiled. She squeezed it.
“Stop that.” He gritted his teeth. “Let go.”
She threw her head back. “Oh, I’ve never felt anything this good. I want everything. I want the whole world. You must give it to me, Fitzwilliam, or I shall go running through the ship and throw myself at the entire crew.”
His eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
She giggled.
“I should never have let you smoke that. I should never have allowed you. I have corrupted you—”
“Use your cock on me.”
He laughed a little at that. “That is not what you say.”
“It’s not? How would I know? What should I say then?”
“Say…” He sat back, and he put his hands under her skirts, pushing them up, baring her thighs. His voice was hoarse. “Say, ‘Put your cock inside me.’” His hands slid over the inside of her thighs.
She moaned. She trembled. “Put your cock inside me,” she gasped. The way he was touching her, it was…
His fingers moved higher, to the lips of her most secret spot, and that was—
She let out a little cry.
He rubbed her, the heel of his hand against some sensitive part of her while his fingers pushed into her body.
She gasped.
He winced. “It might hurt you.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” she whispered. “It feels very, very good.”
“You’re wet,” he muttered. “You’re so wet.”
“What does that—”
“Shh.” His mouth on hers again, and now his hands were behind her, loosening her bodice, pulling it over her shoulders and baring her breasts.
The air was cold. She shivered.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful…” And his mouth was on her breasts, on her nipples, kissing them, sucking them, making them stiff, and sending quakes through her body, making her clench between her legs.
She writhed against him.
He was fumbling at his trousers, freeing his cock, and she strained to look, to see it, but he was touching her again, stroking her between her thighs, and she cried out at the sheer sweetness of all of it and then…
It was happening.
She bit her lip.
It did hurt.
It was big and thick and it was filling her up and she was frightened of it, worried. She tensed.
But he was driving himself in and out of her, his face burrowed in her neck, and he was gasping.
She shut her eyes, cringing.
And then the drug found her again, numbing the pain almost immediately, as if it had never been there. She was floating in the dark warmth of wonder again, and now he was here with her. He was inside her body. They were joined. Connected. Like one flesh.
Like the bible, she thought idly as her hips began to find his rhythm and move against him. Pleasure began to kindle within her, something warm and sweet and good. She moaned.
His mouth found hers, and now they were so tangled together that it was exquisite. Waves of pleasantness rode in on the heels of the opium and she was lost, so lost. The only thing she could cling to was him, and he was inside her too. He was part of her.
Yes, this was really quite nice, actually. This was…
“You’re lovely,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”
Tears formed in her eyes, and she clutched him tighter.
Maybe this was heaven.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Darcy stirred awake, his limbs tangled with Miss Bennet’s. The opium lamp had long gone out, but the air still smelled cloyingly of old smoke.
He sat up. He looked down at her sleeping form, and a knot formed in his stomach.
What had he done?
Waking up after a night of opium smoking was never a pleasant proposition even in the best of times. It wasn’t as physically debilitating as the morning after drinking too much, but it was somehow… emotionally debilitating? He spent the entire day feeling strangely unattached, as if nothing was really real. He would have liked to have spent the entire day in bed, but that was nearly never possible, not when he was the captain of a ship. He had to get out and about or the men would get antsy.
Next to him, she stirred in her sleep, tugging the blanket they had slept with tighter against her body.
He rubbed his forehead. What the hell was he going to do?
What if she was with child?
“You’re very stupid, Darcy,” he whispered to himself. “Weak and stupid and horrid.” He shoved aside the blanket and got to his feet. He wasn’t wearing his trousers anymore, but
he spied them on the floor, and he stepped into them. He tidied his clothing, smoothed his hair.
Then he came back to look at her.
He had sworn to himself he would never put himself in this position, but he’d done it. He’d ruined everything.
And he couldn’t have given in to his lusts with a whore like all the other men. No, no, he had to go and take the virtue of a gentlewoman, a girl too innocent to even understand—
Ah, God, but the things she had said to him last night. He would have had to have been made of stone to resist her.
“Or just not been smoking opium,” he muttered.
The face of Georgiana swam in front of him. She was crying. I couldn’t have told you, Fitz. I didn’t know what he did would get me with child. He never said that it would.
Darcy felt like vomiting. Oh, Lord, what had he done?
She stirred again.
He needed to get her back to her own bed, away from him. He could put her in that room, and he could pretend that it had never happened. They weren’t that far from India, after all. He could leave her at the port as he said, find someone to take her to England, and then wash his hands of the matter.
But if she was carrying his child, by the time she got back home, she’d be so far gone, there would be no hiding it.
He pictured her, waddling around, a huge belly, and he was horrified at the thought that he could have done something so drastic because of a moment’s indiscretion.
Well, it had been more than a moment, but that hardly mattered. Dear Christ, if only he’d had the presence of mind to pull himself out before his climax. That wouldn’t have stopped the danger entirely, but it would have put his mind somewhat at ease.
He rubbed his temples. There was nothing he could do about it, though, was there? He couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t get the seed he’d spilled into her back. What was done was done. And if she was with child, well, that wasn’t necessarily his problem, now was it?
But the thought of that sent him reeling into agonies of guilt.
He thought of her now, belly huge and heavy with child, tears streaming down her face.
Or maybe it was Georgiana’s face.
He shivered.
No, no, no.
But he didn’t know what he could do to help her. He couldn’t marry her. He was floating on a ship in the ocean, and he was a pirate, and there was no question of having a wife.
He mustn’t think on this anymore. Perhaps she had escaped unharmed. Perhaps she was not with child. Perhaps all this worry on his part was for no reason.
Kneeling down, he slid his arm under her shoulder. Then he slid one under her knees. He lifted her and carried her out of his cabin, back to her own room, where he laid her gently on her bedroll.
She furrowed her brow in her sleep.
He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m very sorry,” he murmured.
Then he straightened, backed out of the room, and shut the door.
* * *
When Elizabeth woke up, she looked around her room and wondered if the previous night had been a dream.
But then she tried to move, and she felt dull aches and pain in muscles she rarely used, and she knew… She shut her eyes, and she could still feel his movement inside her, the rhythm of their coupling. They had been so close, so connected.
Her eyes snapped open and his absence was an arrow in her heart.
Where was he?
Why was she alone in her room?
She hurriedly dressed and left her room, heading up to the main deck of the ship. One of the men, Patrick Horn, was swabbing the deck.
“Have you seen the captain?” she asked him.
Horn looked up. “Will you be reading to us today, miss?”
“Of course,” she said. “But it’s morning—” She looked up at the sun in the sky. “Oh, I must have slept late. I didn’t realize what time it was. Has the time for reading passed?”
“We were waiting for you is all,” said Patrick.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Maybe… maybe we’ll have to wait until tomorrow. It’s important I find the captain. Do you know where he is?”
“Last I saw him, he was heading down to the hold with Mackie,” said Patrick.
“The hold?” She’d been right next to him, then. She needed to go back down into the belly of the ship. She turned to go, and then looked back at Patrick. “Do tell the men that I’m so sorry.”
He nodded. “It’s all right, miss. Only, I hope you’re feeling well if you’re sleeping so long.”
She gave him a wan smile.
As she headed back down into the ship, the weight of what had happened the night before settled on her.
She had smoked opium! Of all the shocking, unladylike…
Of course, that paled in comparison to the fact that she had given up her virtue. She couldn’t even say that she’d been seduced either. She distinctly remembered that she’d had to talk him into it.
Talk Fitzwilliam into it.
He’d asked her to call him Fitzwilliam.
She had to stop on the steps, grab onto something to steady herself as a shudder of pleasure went through her.
Oh, she didn’t care if she had been scandalous and improper the night before. It had been wonderful, and she had no reason to regret any of it.
She just wanted to see him again. She wanted to be close to him, to touch him. It seemed a crime that they had been so, so close and now they were utterly separate. Knowing that closeness with him, now she felt as if she wasn’t quite whole on her own.
She skipped down the steps and hurried into the hold.
There.
He was there.
She saw him and her insides froze and turned over. He was heart-stoppingly beautiful, and she was assailed by the memories of their kisses, of their embraces, of their caresses.
She wanted to go to him and touch him right then, but she felt a little shy in front of Mackie.
Instead, she slowly made her way into the area. It was stacked full of bags of provisions—grain and tea and the like. Mackie was scribbling something on a sheet of paper while Darcy spoke to him.
Darcy looked up and saw her. “Oh,” he said. “Miss Bennet.”
Why hadn’t she told him to call her Elizabeth? Of course, even if she had, he probably wouldn’t have done it in public. Still, she wished she had a memory of him saying her first name, whispering it in her ear as he stroked her skin.
She shuddered again, and she felt shy, looking at him.
He raised his eyebrows. “Something I can do for you?”
“Oh,” she said. “I, um, I just, I suppose I wondered if we could… talk.” Now, face to face with him, she felt frightfully silly running all over the ship looking for him. She didn’t know what she had expected. That they would be in each other’s presence and it would somehow be as it had been the night before? That they would be connected, one flesh? She realized that was ridiculous. There was no reason that things should feel different now, not unless they were to do it again.
He surveyed the bags of grain. “I don’t think so. I’m rather busy today.” He sounded distracted.
“Oh,” she said again. Of course he was busy. He was the captain of the ship. What was she thinking, bothering him with this business, which was really no business at all? She wasn’t even sure why she’d come to see him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know…” She blushed and backed out of the room, feeling mortified.
She rushed back to her room. This was silly. She’d see him tonight at dinner, anyway. They could speak then of whatever it was she wanted to speak of, and she didn’t even know what that was. She had only thought that he would be glad to see her, that was all.
She bit down on her lip, and she felt like crying, which was stupid, because there was no reason to be sad. He was busy with the ship. That was all.
* * *
Darcy watched her go, the guilt rising up like bile in his throat. He clenched his hands into fists.
“Something wrong, Cap’n?” asked Mackie.
“You bring her rags, yes? If she asks you for them? For her bleeding?”
Mackie curled his lip. “So, you are tupping her, then.”
Darcy shook his head. “You’ll tell me if she asks for them again.” He wasn’t sure if there was time before they arrived in India, because they were getting quite close, but maybe she would bleed, and maybe he wouldn’t have anything to worry about. Maybe he’d escape out of this nightmare unscathed, although God knew he didn’t deserve it.
“All those grand speeches you made,” said Mackie, “about how men could control their urges, because we weren’t animals. Really, you just wanted to keep us lot away from her, then, so that you could have her all to yourself.”
Darcy didn’t look at Mackie. “My count is seventeen for this area. You?”
“I’m not surprised. It’s the kind of thing that men like you do, but I had thought better of you, I must say, Cap’n. I suppose it’s the whole reason you brought her on board in the first place.”
“How many do you count?” Darcy spoke slowly and evenly.
“I told you to kill her, but you wouldn’t, and now we all know why. If you think the men aren’t going to find out, then you’re blind and stupid, because they will know, and they’ll be angry about what happened to Brown and the others.”
Darcy rounded on him. “You’re going to wag your tongue, I suppose?”
Mackie shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe we can negotiate a higher cut for me of the next sale of opium we make.”
Darcy shut his eyes. “I need that money.”
“Do you? Do you really? Why’s she always calling you Mr. Darcy, hmm? Who are you?”
Darcy chuckled under his breath. “I wish I’d never brought that chit on board. She’s going to be the ruin of me.”
“That’s what I said. I said you should’ve killed her.”
Darcy put his finger in the other man’s face. “Stop talking about killing her, do you understand me?”
Mackie got a different look in his eyes. “Oh ho. So, it’s like that, is it?”
Darcy sighed heavily.
“You’re sweet on her.”
“I am nothing of the kind. I feel responsible for having put her in a bad place. None of this is her fault, it’s all mine, and I wish that I’d acted differently.” He dragged a hand over his face. “I do believe what I said about men not being animals, about being able to control ourselves. I just had a moment of weakness…”
The Dread Mr. Darcy Page 8
