She stood up again, and smiled at the astonished look on Pierre’s handsome face.
“You…you know so much,” he said, shaking his head. “I will have to learn not to underestimate you in future.”
Future? Helena wanted to ask, but could not bring herself to. Does that mean you will stay here? Stay with me?
Instead, she said, “The damage is not too severe inside, though there is little of it, I suppose, to even be damaged.”
Though it was tilted slightly to one side, it only took a hefty push from Helena to right it, nestled as it was by the sand and stones on each side. She stepped into it, and turned to smile at Pierre.
“We will have you shipshape in no time.”
But Pierre was not smiling. He was looking at her with such seriousness, such a fierceness, that she gasped.
“I would happily live every day with you,” he said in a low voice, heavy with emotion, “if it meant I could see you smile like that each of those days.”
Helena’s heart swelled: so captivated by his words, and his meaning – he wanted to stay with her, he was going to stay – that her foot slipped on the hull of the boat.
Strong arms caught her, and she gasped at the intensity of his hold. She nestled into that strength, her footing found but her heart cast off and lost in the swirling gale of emotions.
The desire to kiss him was starting to overwhelm her, and she stared up into Pierre’s eyes that were staring down at her with equally matched passion.
“I will not,” he whispered in a heavy tone, “do anything that you do not want me to do, Helene.”
Helena smiled, pushed up on her toes, and kissed him full on the mouth.
And she almost cried out against his lips at the hot sensations that ran through her body as she made contact with him, so immediate was the response to his touch. Perhaps it was because he kissed her back with even more ardour; perhaps it was because she was barely aware of where she was standing, how she was standing, if she was standing.
The arms that had just recently been holding her upright were now tightening their grip on her, as though she was the only anchor in a storm, and Pierre’s lips were forceful on hers but with passion.
Helena opened her lips and allowed him entrance into her mouth, and almost cried out again as his tongue gently caressed her own. Her hands were clutching his chest and she could feel his hastily beating heart through the thin shirt he was wearing.
“Oh, Helene,” Pierre murmured in a dark voice as he broke away from her, staring at her with such fiery eyes that something deep within her melted.
“Pierre,” she gasped, breathless, heart racing, giddy with lust, ready to give her all to him but unsure what that even meant. “I-I want – Pierre, I want – ”
“I know,” he said with a smile, and it was filled with such passion that Helena felt a warmth creep between her legs. “Come here.”
The remains of the sail were pooled at the bottom of the little boat, and in one swift movement Pierre removed his shirt and laid it down as a pillow.
Helena barely noticed what he was doing: the sight of his bare chest made her breasts ache, and she wanted to touch him, for him to touch her, to caress her, to kiss her – she had never felt this wanton, never wanted a man like this in her life.
“Lie here,” Pierre said jaggedly, as though struggling for breath.
Helena obeyed, lying on the sail with her head resting on his shirt. It smelt of his musky smell, and the ache in her stomach clenched tighter.
“I want you,” she said simply, reaching out for him, lips aquiver and eyes pooled with desire.
If she had expected him to try and resist her, she was wrong. Uttering a low groan and her name, Pierre descended to her, covering her body with his own, kissing her frantically as his hurried hands clutched at her hips. She did gasp in his mouth this time as the heat building between her legs caused her unconsciously to spread them, allowing him closer to her as he became entangled with her.
There seemed to be too many clothes in the way, Helena thought wildly as he began to kiss her neck, and there was a tug at the ribbon at the front of her gown, and it was open, and her breasts, swollen with lust and the fever of love, fell out.
There was no time for shame or embarrassment: the moment that she was aware of being exposed, Pierre dipped his head and took a nipple in his mouth.
Her whole body convulsed at the pleasure that shot through her body and she whimpered, “Pierre!”
This only seemed to drive on onwards, as his hand reached her other breast and caressed it, as his left hand remained on her hip, squeezing it, lifting it up so that the hardness she could feel between her legs rubbed against her.
Pierre groaned into her, and releasing her nipple poured an ocean of kisses onto her mouth, light at first, and then deeper and deeper until Helena thought she would lose herself in him, and she was glad, because this joy and heat rising in her had to go somewhere.
Her hands, nervously at first, now explored his chest, his hand, and when she accidently scratched him in her own passion, Pierre cried out in barely controlled ecstasy.
“God, Helene, what are you doing to me?” He muttered darkly, smiling down at her as he took a moment from worshipping her lips.
“Pierre,” she moaned, the heat building in her. “I need you – I want you, I want – ”
He stopped her mouth with his own, but his hands left her and struggled with his britches, and in a short moment Helena gasped to see the nakedness of the man she now knew she loved, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Those quick fingers grabbed at her shirt, pushing them up as her breasts moved in the hurried movement. The sight of them seemed to transfix Pierre, and for a moment Helena glorified in her power. To think that her body should have such an effect on a man like Pierre.
He growled and lowered his head to nuzzle, kiss, and play with her breasts once more, and in the sheer pleasure that he was giving her, Helena arched her back and cried out his name.
The sound of his name made Pierre jerk up, but he did nothing but kiss her once more, raise her skirts, and plunge himself into her.
Helena did not know what was happening until it had happened, and then there was such sweet intimacy between them that she hardly knew what to do with herself. Squirming slightly at the odd sensation, she saw Pierre jerk at the feeling, and smiled as she gently moved her hips in a circle.
“Oh, Helene, mon dieu, what are you – ”
But Pierre hardly seemed able to speak, and Helena, losing her hesitancy in the giddiness of her power over him, moved her hands to tenderly caress, and then bitingly clutch at his buttocks as her hips moved in a rhythmic circle.
Leaning on his elbows, Pierre seemed barely able to control his own breathing, let alone speak, and Helena tipped her lips upwards to capture his own and tasted the heady heat on his tongue.
“I want more,” she moaned into his neck as he seemed unable to move. “Give me more, Pierre.”
That there was more, she was in no doubt; the rising heat, the tugging sensation of him inside her: it was all leading to something, though she knew not what. Her desperate words, however, seemed to spark him to life.
With a devilish grin, Pierre pulled back her hands from his body and pinned them above her head against the rough sail. She struggled against him for a moment, and she saw his eyes flutter at the sensation of her straining against him, and she arched her back to try and feel him deeper.
“More,” she cried, and catching his eye and tightening her legs around him, she moaned, “I am begging you, Pierre!”
That was it. With a shout of desperate longing, Pierre dipped his head to hers whilst keeping her arms pinned to the bottom of the boat, and began thrusting into her slowly, never quite leaving her, and never quite filling her.
“Yes, yes,” Helena cried, unable to stop herself. “Faster!”
“Slower,” came Pierre’s jerking voice, straining for control. “Trust me, Helena, trust me!”
“Helena,” he cried, and as though unable to ignore her trembling breasts any longer, he attacked one with kisses and then the other.
Helena thought that she would collapse with the sensations that were pouring through her body, and as her back tried to arch again but couldn’t with the weight of his passionate rhythm, she felt the heat boil up in her to a peak that she thought she could not endure.
“Pierre!” She screamed out as the ecstasy overwhelmed her, and he was shudderingly pounding into her and crying out her own name.
“Helena – my only, my one, my sweetest Helena!” As he poured himself into her, he poured out sweet nothings into her ear as her body shook with the waves of joy that washed over her, and then he collapsed across her, and nuzzled her neck.
It was the sun now caressing his face, but Pierre felt so happy he was almost drunk. The sunlight warmed his naked body, and under his arm, another naked body rested peacefully beside him.
Helena. What a woman. As the seagulls cried out mournfully overhead, there was nothing but joy in his heart, and pleasant fatigue in his limbs.
“What amazes me,” he whispered, raising his hand to stroke her hair, “is that no one heard us.”
A gentle chuckle vibrated against his chest. “Yes,” she agreed jestingly, “and you were hardly quiet!”
Pierre gasped in mock outrage, and brought his fingers down to tickle the sun warmed body nestled close to him, and she giggled. He kissed the top of her head, and prayed that this moment would never end.
“You know,” Helena murmured finally, “there is no one living for a mile around. I have told you that. This is essentially our own private beach.”
Pierre’s heart swelled. This was, after all, his own portion of paradise. Though a hellish storm had brought him here, it was to a true heaven.
“Perhaps you are the rich one after all,” he murmured with a smile, and raised her head to kiss his beloved full on the mouth.
7
It had taken them almost three hours to drag themselves away from the boat on the beach: the chance to explore each other’s bodies, completely alone with nature, was too great. But eventually, hunger of the stomach overrode hunger of the heart, and they dressed, and made their way back to the cottage.
“And I really must have my own things again,” Pierre chuckled as he opened the front door for Helena to walk through. “It does seem strange, wearing someone else’s clothes. Where are mine?”
Helena pointed to her pile of mending. “I washed and dried them as best I could, but they are sorely torn, so I wanted to – ”
He threw himself onto the sofa, no longer a prison so able to be enjoyed, and grinned. “You do far too much for me, mon ange. I do not deserve you.”
For a moment, he thought she was going to disagree with him, and then she laughed. “Perhaps you are right!”
Still laughing, she wandered through into the kitchen muttering something about tea, and Pierre smiled as he watched her go. What an incredible woman: to give herself to him so freely, to relish the chance to share such joy with him – and not to shy away from him now, now that he had seen all and touched all…
He shifted uncomfortably. If he was not careful, he would find himself growing hard again for her, and even he could not expect her to allow him that freedom here, in her home.
Moving across to one end of the sofa, Pierre picked up his jacket from the mending pile and smiled. All traces of his horrendous sea journey had been expunged; you would hardly know that it had even been wet, let alone doused in seawater.
His smile faded as he recalled the moment that his mother had given him the jacket, and he shook his head, as though to shake the memory away from him. There was no use dwelling on such things, no point at all.
Pierre moved the jacket to reach into the pockets, and found…nothing.
He fought the disappointment as he reminded himself that he was lucky to be alive, let alone with the jacket still after that riot in Whiteridge. But to have come so far with his mother and sister’s jewels, and to lose them in the depths of the Channel…
Throwing the jacket down in disgust, Pierre watched a button break off its meagre thread, and roll under the sofa. He sighed, reached down, and drew out not just the button, but a small wooden box.
It was curiously hidden, and Pierre’s curiosity was not something he had ever learned to control. He pulled the box out, placed it on his knee, and opened it.
His mouth fell open. Lying on top of what looked like a series of letters were his family jewels.
A quick scrabble was enough to tell him that they were all there. It was unaccountable: how had they been rescued from the depths of the sea to rest in this small box.
“The tea will be ready shortly!” Helena’s voice called out from the kitchen.
Pierre slowly raised his head. Helena. She was the only one who could have done it: gone through his pockets when she was about to wash the jacket, and realised that he would not want such jewels to be mangled.
But then, why place them in this box?
Pierre looked around the room. There were few other places, it was true, where such jewellery could be placed in safety. That must be it, he told himself. They had been placed here for safekeeping. What other explanation could there be?
But his heart sank as he looked around the room more carefully: the fading wallpaper, torn in some places. The frequently scrubbed but never truly clean floor, the mending pile that never ended.
It would be very tempting to take these jewels and trade them for a better life.
As soon as the thought had entered his head, he felt ashamed of himself. Did he really think that little of Helena? Had she given him any reason to think that she was a thief?
No. Everything she did was from elegance and kindness, and he would be a brute to suspect anything ill of her.
Pierre bit his lip, and wished to God that he had not found the box which he soon placed back underneath the sofa.
And yet with the box out of sight, it could not be put out of Pierre’s mind. That evening he could feel the coldness in his voice and he tried to pour the affection that he felt for Helena over it, masking the suspicion.
“You are very quiet,” she said with a look that he could not understand.
She was seated on the sofa, curled up at one end while he sat at the other.
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“I do not think that there is any perhaps about it,” Helena continued, nudging him with her foot with a smile. “Is anything amiss?”
Pierre did not know what to say. ‘Did you try and steal my family’s inheritance’ was quite a bold statement to make, and not one that he felt he could do with any justice. The closeness that he had felt, that utter nakedness that he had experienced with her, seemed gone, and it was his own doing. She still looked at him with the eyes of a lover.
“I am afraid the little food available to me is a little repetitive,” she said quietly, gazing into his face as though attempting to read his mind. “Does it fatigue you, to have the same meal over and over again?”
Wild horses would not drag the truth from him, which was a very certain yes; Pierre knew too much of her relative poverty now to make such an assertion.
“Not at all,” he assured her, with what he hoped was a winning smile. But he drifted back into silence once more as the thought of his possessions, hidden in a small wooden box out of his sight, returned to his mind.
She looked at him, curiously. Her hair was unpinned, flowing down her shoulders and back, ever-present earrings dangling down, and her face was so open and vulnerable that Pierre could not help but smile, albeit gently. Helena was not a woman to do such a thing, surely.
But what if he was wrong? T
he temptation, he knew, would be very great – and while he could not imagine living like this, in these circumstances, for long, he had experienced enough of hunger during his time on that godforsaken boat: enough fear of safety, longing for water, and hope of warm shelter, to know that he would probably have robbed anyone who had come in his path to attain such securities.
“You are a thousand miles away,” Helena cut into his thoughts as she poked him with her foot again. “France?”
Pierre forced a smile, and lied. “Yes. I know that it is not so far away, but it feels a great distance now that I know the boat is essentially irreparable.”
“Oh, I would not say so,” she said warmly, but with a smile that appeared sad rather than joyful. “A little coin will be required, of course, to get it back on an even keel, but I suppose that will not be…you have said before how wealthy you are, so…”
That was the moment, Pierre often said when he looked back at that evening, that he should have asked her. It was a natural statement, to explain that he had lost his jewels, his fortune, in the ocean during the crossing: he could then wait and see whether she revealed that she had kept them for safekeeping – or hide the fact that she had stolen them for her own use.
But it was not to be. Just as he opened his mouth, half desperately hoping that something would occur to interrupt them for he knew not how to approach such a delicate matter, there was a knock at the door.
Helena jumped up, startled. “Hide!”
Pierre stared at his hissing host. “Hide?”
She gestured at him to ascend the stairs and nodded. “Do you think my reputation will be able to withstand the discovery of a strange man – and a Frenchman, to boot! – in my home, without my father there?”
She spoke in a low hurried tone, but Pierre quickly understood her. Rising from the sofa he threw himself across the room, and only managed to climb up to the fourth step when the door was opened.
Shipwrecked with a Suitor (Ravishing Regencies Book 3) Page 6
