Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  Ten cables off, Kit and Phillipe watched the Spaniard maneuver. Kit indicated the blackening sky. "How bad do you think it will be when the storm breaks?"

  Phillipe studied the cloud formation for several minutes before answering. "It could be intense," he said finally. "But it also seems far enough away to risk it. We might have an hour or more."

  Kit grimaced. "The timing is not to my liking. We should

  not follow the Spaniard, but clearly that is what they wish, we're to have the communique ..." The Spanish ship shifted its sails and headed in a northerly direction as they spoke, Phillipe studied their adversary again, then the black clouds piled in a tall, ominous stack to the south. The devil with it," he said finally. "Let us follow. The cowards will not fight as long as we remain here, near my fleet. We will take the chance."

  "Aye," Kit agreed. "We can ride out any storm that strikes. But we'll not have another chance at this communique."

  "How much food and water do you have," Phillipe asked, "in case we are blown off course."

  "Enough for several days," Kit assured him. "You don't mind leaving your ship?"

  "I mind." Phillipe took one last glance at The Hope, nestled among the other ships of the Beggar Fleet. "But I mind more letting you follow this treacherous ship on your own. The Spanish fight viciously."

  Kit grinned at him, then strode off to give orders to move north.

  Huddled in the bunk of the main cabin, Rozalinde lis­tened as the storm rose. Wind roared. Every timber of the ship groaned. As she waited, her fury rose also. She was furious with Kit for bringing her here, and furious she could not see what was taking place.

  At first the ship moved rapidly, obviously chasing the Spanish. Then it seemed to slow. Outside she could hear rain batter the deck above her head. Then she heard the dull roar of cannon fire. Not this ship, she prayed, don't let us sink. Please.

  The vessel lurched and she gripped the bunk where she sat and whimpered. Locked in belowdecks, she couldn't help defeat Trenchard. It made her feel helpless, a feeling she detested. To her shame, she began to weep.

  That made her angrier still. Brushing away the tears, she groped her way across the heaving floor. One porthole stood on each side of the cabin. She looked out the portside one first.

  Cannon boomed again, making the floor quiver. They would be the stern guns, a level or two below her. Several more boomed from the gun decks below and behind her. But she saw nothing on this side. The Spanish must be to their lee.

  Weaving and swaying, she hurried to the other porthole.

  Just as she put her nose to the glass, lightning lit up the darkened sky, illuminating the ship opposite. Its name stood out clearly on its hull—the Gran Grifon, looking just as she had when pursuing The Chalice, just as she had in Lulworth Cove. With one important difference. Now her great guns blazed. Balling her fists, Roz prayed Kit would sink it. Lord, he must, else they were all dead.

  The wind screamed like the Furies. The ship lurched. Roz heard an ugly cracking, the splintering of timbers. Lord in heaven, one of their masts? Struck by lightning or can­non? She couldn't tell, for the storm chose that moment to hit with full force.

  Grasping a desk that was bolted to the floor, Roz held on for dear life as the ship rocked to port side. Thunder rolled in the sky and rain rattled like stones against every surface of the ship. As she watched through the porthole, Roz saw the Gran Grifon disappear into the storm.

  The cabin door burst open. Kit entered, followed by a driving sheet of rain and a whirl of wind. He banged the door shut and stood, water sluicing off his cloak and hat. A puddle formed around his feet.

  Roz scowled at him. With his expression every bit as grim as hers, he slowly let his eyes travel up and down her form, lingering on her waist, then stopping deliberately at her bosom.

  A shudder racked Rozalinde as she realized her gown was in shambles. Her hair hung lopsided, and she had lost her forepart, which completely exposed her neck and the swell of her breasts. Her kirtle skirt was rent in two places, and what that exposed she was afraid to know. What she did know was that Kit's eyes had a monstrous look in them that could mean only one thing. Slowly his handsome mouth curved in a grin.

  Worm," Rozalinde cursed Kit irately, backing away. "You have the audacity to betray my trust. You knew I planned to sail with my father's ship, but you have no respect for an honest trader's endeavors. No, you must come cavorting after me and take my ship. I'm disgusted by you. I would like to spit upon you. I truly should." She stamped her foot, fury gripping her. "I will never trust you. Never, never again."

  Kit said nothing. He stalked toward her, still wearing that maddening grin. "What are you doing? What do you want?" Roz lunged away from him and squeezed around the small table. It was really a moderate-size cabin; his muscular form dominated it. And he was pursuing her relentlessly. Troth, she gasped silently, pressing herself against the wall. A tingle of panic raced down her spine. What did he intend to do? "Don't touch me," she cried, putting up both hands as he lowered over her. A flutter rose in her throat, threatened to choke off her breath. Bracing both arms against him, she pushed, but she only encountered the hard muscles of his chest, which loomed so close.

  "Oh, what do you want of me!" she wailed abysmally, shrinking against the wall.

  "You have disobeyed me, Rozalinde." Kit found himself breathing heavily as he leaned over her, overcome by a rising sensation he could not name. "I told you to stay at home in West Lulworth, but you insisted on putting your­self in peril. Think what could have happened to you if Trenchard had prevailed. For once your perfect logic has failed you."

  "Trenchard did not prevail," Rozalinde insisted, feeling his powerful hands close over her shoulders. The now fa­miliar excitement surged in her belly, excitement only he could arouse. "If not for you, I would be safely in Antwerp by now. Take me back to my ship," she pleaded. "You can still let me sail on."

  "Too late, sweetling." He chuckled deep in his throat, knowing he'd planned to have her like this ever since he'd missed her ship at West Lulworth. "I intend to teach you two lessons tonight—one about obeying me when I tell you, the other about your passion. You think you don't have any, but I intend to prove otherwise. The lesson begins like this."

  His lips descended, came to rest just above her bodice, arousing an uncontrollable thrill that swept through Rozalinde. Why did he make her want to touch him so badly? His hands unfastened her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. Then he twined his hands in it and put his lips against her throat.

  Rozalinde twisted against him, feeling his thighs pressed to hers, feeling his manhood outlined beneath his trunk hose. It made her tense inside with some undefined need. The sound of the storm had risen to full intensity outside, and also within her. The wind shrilled and the ship ca­reened out of control. Suddenly she was out of control with it, torn by a storm of wanting. As it overwhelmed her, she gave in to it, burying her own face in his hair that was stiff and salty with sea spray. Lacing her arms around his neck, she arched her back and let her response pour forth. Oh, how desperately she wanted him.

  With a groan Kit tore at her kirtle bodice, scattering half the buttons on the floor. Engaging her lips with his own, he kissed her fiercely, with an urgency he wouldn't define. Her mouth was tender and yielding and he found himself demanding, wanting more from her. When she responded instinctively, gripping his shoulders, he kissed her harder. "Tonight," he breathed heavily against her cheek, "you will throw aside your logic, stop letting it rule you. Show me your true self, Rozalinde." Gathering her yielding form in his arms, he carried her to the cabin bunk. "Tell me you love me, Rozalinde. Give your passion to me."

  "Why?" Roz moved on the bunk, trying to make room so their bodies weren't touching. "Why do you do this, when you know I cannot resist?"

  "You love me willingly, or you would not feel passion for me: That part of you is logical, Rozalinde. Say you love me. Say it." Kit knelt over her, his legs splayed on either fide of her th
ighs, his hands burning her shoulders. "I do not love—"

  "You do. You are a free woman. Your heart is free to love where it will. And you have chosen to love me."

  "No, please. I only love—"

  "—yourself? No, you are not a selfish woman. Admit you love me. We are bound together, and the path we travel is one. I am your other self, whether you wish it or no."

  "I don't know what you mean." Roz tossed with confu­sion. "I don't."

  "You do. You love me, and because you love me, you long for my touch."

  She could feel him undressing her, removing her busk, unlacing her kirtle skirts. Though she shut her eyes tightly, she could feel the strength of his gaze feasting on her body. The expression on his face. When she dared look, made her shiver. In his eyes she saw a man famished, starving for her. Never had she felt herself the focus of such appetite, and it filled her with fascination. He deftly removed her garments one by one.

  "From me and me alone," he whispered, "you like it well. I told you some day I would acquaint you with certain facts. This is one of them. Come, admit the truth."

  "Heaven help me, I do ... want you." Roz moaned, un­able to escape those eyes, the way they devoured her. Sud­denly he shed his doublet, ripping it over his head with lightning swiftness, following it with his shirt. The sight of his muscle-taut chest, so near, filled her with trepidation. His huge biceps tensed and flexed as his fingers explored her body, stroking and rubbing.

  "Ah, perfection," he murmured as he touched her every­where, amazed by her beauty. His gaze was drawn to her high firm breasts, and he reached to fill his hands with their bounty, to stroke the full nipples surrounded by darker areolae. Her responding gasp made his body tighten with excitement. "I shall make you soar with pleasure," he muttered, concentrating on moving his thumbs rhythmically on her nipples. "You will want to say the words."

  Rozalinde gasped as his fingers massaged and smoothed with skilled care, finding new places of secret pleasure she had not even known existed. "Please, Kit," she cried, clos­ing her eyes against the rising feelings he kindled. "Do not do this. Do not make my body betray me."

  "It does not betray you. It reveals your true self. You have a wild, passionate nature."

  "No! I am careful and meticulous. I live by reason."

  "I can free you, Rose. Put aside your logic and let your­self feel."

  Deliberately Kit placed his hands on her, watched with satisfaction as she unconsciously clenched her thighs to­gether and squeezed spasmodically. He was succeeding in reaching her body. Now if only he could reach her mind. If he could force her to admit her feelings verbally, she might let her body rule.

  But to convince her she had feelings, he must control his own. And that was becoming damnably difficult. Gazing down at her face, he observed the rapid flutter of her breath, saw the quick leap of a vein in her throat, and recognized his own arousal. He was not known for his self-control. He'd told her so at Lulworth Cove. Unquestion­ably he had aroused her. Why should they not couple? That had been his plan.

  Slowly he trailed his fingers along her shoulder, tracing the rounded curves, the fragile sweep of her collarbone. Her quiver of response overwhelmed him with alien feeling of his own—the familiar lust was different from what he had experienced with other women.

  Shifting position, he gazed into her eyes, soft brown eyes awed at his sexual power. And he admitted he knew what was different. She was a pure woman, respectable and vir­gin. Unlike the other women he had possessed, this wom­an's entire financial and social future hung in the balance, ready to be swayed by his slightest move. Recognition of her vulnerability mingled with his awakening desire and emerged as a new desire—the desire to protect her. Her future must be his responsibility. Making this decision to control himself, despite the effort it cost him, he bent down, smoothed away a tumult of silken hair from her face and kissed her ripe, alluring mouth.

  "You have beautiful shoulders," he murmured, letting himself down by her side, pressing himself against her softness. "Have you ever looked?"

  "No," she whispered. "I couldn't do that."

  "You can, Rose. Let me be your mirror. Look into my eyes."

  Roz looked. Before, she hadn't dared face him. She had rued her eyes away while his hands demanded her, cup-jug her breasts, stroking and beguiling her body. Urgently he had tried to deny her feelings, but now he insisted she admit them. His thumbs, circling gently, teased her breasts with rhythmic motion while he insistently studied her face. "Look at me, Rose. What do you feel?" His hunger frightened her. Looking into the mirror of his eyes, she believed she would be overpowered by the strength of his personality. Valiantly she fought her instinc­tual response to him—the desire to return his touch, to explore his magnificent body the way she had begun to that night at the cove. The rush of terror and excitement deep in her belly made her give a small cry, cover her face with her hands, but he took them down and held her tightly. Once more she looked into his eyes. His breath had quickened, sounding harsh in his throat. His nostrils flared rap­idly each time he exhaled. "What do you feel, Rose? Answer."

  "I burn inside."

  "What else?" His hands taunted her willpower, glided low, molding her hipbones, rounding over her abdomen. Her eyelids flew wider than ever as his fingers tangled in the hair between her legs.

  "Yes, Rose, even there." He chuckled at her reaction.

  I want to touch you everywhere. Know everything about you."

  "Everywhere?" she cried, watching his eyes, seeing his satiable hunger. He would consume her utterly. She clutched again at her willpower, forced herself to proceed calmly. "I don't think this is a good idea. I think you'd probably better stop."

  Kit's hands never faltered. "You think I should stop. But that's your problem, Rozalinde—you think too much. Let your feelings decide and you'll realize I'm right. I'm helping you experience desire for the first time in your life." He laughed, exhilarated by his power over her. His own excite­ment heightened as he watched her react to him. It rushed inside him to fever pitch, making him feel alive, vibrant. His plan was cemented. He would prove he could control himself by postponing their lovemaking. Tonight, he would teach her about sexual fulfillment and take great pleasure in doing so.

  He rubbed and fondled her luscious breasts, her curving shoulders and tiny waist, her flaring hips. Her flesh was like satin, only much better—alive and glowing. His hands reached for her slim, white thighs, so tender, so inviting. With a gentle touch he parted her legs. "Let me pleasure you, Rozalinde. Give me your trust."

  "Oh, troth. I don't want to feel this," Roz moaned. "I truly don't."

  His fingers made a liar of her. They came to rest on a spot between her legs and rotated, creating a ripple of heat inside her, a burning, magic fire. She could feel a wetness against her thighs as his other hand reached for her bare breasts. Carefully, like an experienced craftsman, he stroked the fire inside her.

  It was beyond her ability to do anything by purpose now. Her skin tingled as he touched her all over: her breasts, between her legs, especially between her legs. The rising sensations he created in her body took over, and she reached out to steady herself by his shoulders and gripped him tightly. On and on he went, his hands speaking magic between her legs, imparting exquisite pleasure that took her to greater and greater heights. Arching her back, she helped him, unable to restrain herself. Soon he was bent over her, putting his lips to her breasts, laving them with his tongue, his breath scorching her skin until she thought she could stand no more of this raw exhilaration, these surges of pure ... what was it?

  The fire gave her its answer. What she had felt until now was nothing in comparison. Flame ignited with savage intensity, carrying her to a dizzying altitude so that she was borne aloft by it, swept by its pulsating power.

  "Say the words," he urged her. "You know what I want you to say."

  "I love you," she cried, as she soared into release. Still he did not stop. On and on he led her, drawing her through


  a fiery storm of feeling, the seconds stretching out one after another before he gently began to lead her down. And throughout, his touch sent his message, making it pulse insistently to her brain—she loved him, this man, above all others....

  She lay in his arms afterward. He bent over her, soothed her cheeks with kisses, whispered words she could not decipher while she twined her hands about his neck and drought his face near so she might taste his lips. For no reason she could comprehend, she gazed at him and smiled.

  In the semidark of the tossing cabin, he saw it and thought it well won, that smile. Of course, he thought, shift­ing his position to hold her more comfortably, he still hadn't reprimanded her for disobeying him and putting herself in danger. With one hand he smoothed her thick tangles of hair, which had loosened while he pleasured her, untwisting from her neat braids. He longed to protect her, and he had no intention of letting her out of his sight.

  He was puzzled, though, at how pleased he had felt to win her smile, at his ecstasy in hearing those three words I love you. As she said them, he had found himself moved so profoundly, he couldn't understand it. Holding her close against him, marveling at her sweetness, he puzzled over why they meant so much.

  It seemed they lay together forever, she sated and lan­guid, reveling in his arms; he triumphant, caressing the magical textures of her face and hair. For the first time he let himself admit he was jealous that George Trenchard had been betrothed to her. Though he knew she didn't love the alderman, he still craved reassurance. He wanted the satisfaction of hearing exactly how she would reject Tren­chard from her life.

  "I need to know something," he whispered against her hair, trying to hide his anxiety by asking indirectly. "Why did the Spanish pursue you? What was their chief reason?" He bent to trace the curve of her ear with his tongue.

  He expected her answer to focus on Trenchard. Instead, Rozalinde's smile faded. She sat up and pushed him away, struggled to pull up her smock. "I see," she said icily, jerk­ing at her trailing laces. "This all had a purpose. No, don't touch me." She rose as he reached for her and began to