"First of all, I want you to relax. We can't get anywhere if you're not. You have to promise to try."
"I am trying," Rozalinde snapped at him, piqued by his criticism. "What do you think I'm doing? I'm relaxing."
"I shall begin, then."
Kit didn't touch her. Not as she thought he would. He began speaking softly.
"I want you to imagine something... something you love."
"A ship," she said immediately.
"All right, then. Let it be a ship."
She closed her eyes reluctantly. Her body was tense with anxiety. If only she could relax, the way Kit obviously did.
"You are on a ship," his voice murmured in her ear, leading her. "Not as big as this one. A small ship, just the size for you to sail alone, with a single sail. You are drifting on calm, warm waters, in the midst of a pure blue sea."
"A warm sea?" Roz's eyes flew open. "That seems contradictory. There's no such thing around here."
"Imagine it's the Mediterranean," Kit soothed, drawing his broad palm over her eyes, forcing her to close them again. "Don't question everything. This is not your usual world, where you must understand everything and order it. This is your fantasy. I'm going to take you on a journey. Listen and let yourself feel."
"Oh, all right." Roz grudgingly resettled herself. She did not know why she listened to him, but perhaps there was no harm. And it did feel comfortable, lying here so close to him, without her passion threatening to sweep her away.
"Now then. Again. Imagine you are floating on water. Your ship is light and quick and responds to your commands easily. You feel completely in control and as weightless and buoyant as the ship you sail."
"Is it a square-rigged ship," interrupted Rozalinde, "or a Dutch rig?"
"It doesn't matter," Kit told her. "What matters is that we are floating calmly, and you have never felt happier, sun shines down on you. The water looks so pleasant, such a deep clear blue."
Roz relaxed. A feeling of lightness wrapped around her. She felt a deep calm invade her soul. "Now you are going to breathe deeply, fill your lungs with the calming air." Obediently Roz breathed and was surprised at how it brought with it a wave of relaxation. The muscles in her arms and back softened. The old air rushed from her lungs, making her eager for the next calming breath. It was strangely like her experience had been in the cave by Lulworth Creek. Her thoughts began to drift. Kit's voice droned in the background. Comfort enfolded her—so soothing. Roz found herself slipping away, to a realm somewhere between sleeping and waking. The only thing real was the vast comfort holding her, and the sound of Kit's voice.
"You have sailed the ship around the entire bay. Now you will explore the land. The boat obeys you and runs up into the shallows as you turn it."
Rozalinde leaned over the side of her boat, could see the sandy bottom through the clear waters. Raising her head, she sniffed the clean, earthy smell of land, so reassuring after the sharp tang of the sea. Easily she hopped over the side and swished through the warm water to dry ground.
"Before you is the gentle rise of a grass-covered hill." Kit's voice led her onward. "The sun is shining and you decide to sit in the warm, sweet grass, to think awhile. You can see little white flowers growing in the grass. Touch them, Rozalinde. Reach out."
"Umm." She lay completely still, immersed in the dream. She was sitting beside Kit on the hill, wind ruffling her hair. The sweet scents and sounds of August hung heavily on the air—newly mown hay drying in the sun, the drone of bees gathering nectar. Kit plucked one of the flowers and put it in her hands.
"It's the wind rose, Rozalinde." Kit's voice shimmered through the haze of the dream. "The wild poppy. You are like the wind rose. From your wild side, you take your true strength."
"How do you know?" Rozalinde's lips formed the question, moving with the barest trace of sound.
"Let yourself feel, Rozalinde."
She opened her eyes and held out her arms. "Show me."
"Are you sure you wish me to?"
"Oh, yes. I want you, Kit."
Her love surged inside her, sending tingles of anticipation through her limbs as he moved to obey her. She reached to help him untie and unbutton her clothing. Her kirtle, so many times wet and dried, dropped to the floor, followed by her bodice and busk. Away with her logic, away with her cerebral ponderings. She discarded them without shame as he removed her garters and stockings, sent them to join her other garments. Reverently he removed her smock.
She felt her body was lovely. His eyes told her it was. Raising his arms, he pulled off his shirt, let her take it from him and toss it away. His trunk hose and netherstocks followed. He was every bit as magnificent without his clothes as with them. No, more so without them, Roz decided, trying to be objective. As he rejoined her on the bunk, she reached eagerly to explore him. With careful concentration she touched his bare chest, allowing her hands to experience the smoothness of his rippling pectorals, to curve along the muscles of his sides, narrowing to the taut strength of his waist and stomach. Fascinated, she stared down at his massive manhood thrusting upward from a mound of dark, curling hair. She had never seen a man naked and sexually inflamed. Her right hand moved lower, closed around the thick shaft. Amazing, but his flesh was smooth and velvety here, the tip especially. She rubbed it experimentally, then let her fingers encircle. Now she could feel the hardness that held it erect. In a state of wonder, she stared and touched, letting her hand slide down, noticing as she did so that Kit's breath had grown rapid, rough. With a growl, he attacked her, captured her wrist and jerked her hand away. "Keep your teasing, tantalizing little hand to yourself, Rose. Unless you want everything to end this instant. Is that what you want?"
"Would it end? Why?" Her surprised, innocent expression irritated him. "You'll understand later." Pulling her close with urgent arms, Kit reached for a small pouch under his pillow. Damn her, he was in control here. He would sway each of her senses— touch and taste, scent and sight. And he, not she, would decide when he would spill his seed and when he would not. Opening the pouch, he sprinkled a brown trail of spice across her breasts, bent to lick it away.
For an instant Roz was surprised again, then dared to let the pleasure enthrall her. The feel of his hands smoothing the flesh of her stomach was firm and comforting, the thrill of his tongue came to tantalize her nipples. Waves of heady pleasure surged through her skin.
When he sought her mouth, she was overwhelmed by the rich taste of his tongue, girded with clove. The crisp odor burrowed deeply into her mind and lodged there. Cherished, these feelings he aroused within her.
He sprinkled the trail of spice lower. She could feel his heart throbbing where his chest leaned against her side. Slowly he licked the cloves from her belly, the texture of his tongue rough and dazzling against her flesh. The trail ended just below her naval, yet lower he traveled. Shifting his position, he took her thighs gently in both hands and parted them. Dropping down, he sought the source of all her dreams. Finding it with his tongue, he made her soar.
"Kit," she cried, momentarily shocked at the intimacy of their act. She had not known a man could pleasure a woman thus. But his tongue was more sensitive than his fingers had been the night before, and infinitely more clever at awakening the bud. In fact, it was more than awakened. As his slick tongue glided and teased, she felt the rising heat of the fire within her. "Please ..." Her hands reached for him, pulled him into her embrace so that they lay skin to skin, his length cradled against hers.
Without fear, she parted her legs and looked into his eyes. They were full of that same intense appetite she had witnessed last night, but now she wanted it. She wanted to believe he needed her desperately. Reassured, she nodded, closed her eyes and let herself go.
Kit saw that blind trust burning in her eyes before she lowered her fluttering lids, and he hesitated. Oh, he had done everything to prepare her, but did she know for what? Beyond agreeing to the act of love, would she agree to become his wife and therefore his chatte
l, as was necessary and proper. Well he knew her opinion of such status. But there was no going back. He had put their fate in the hands of Dame Fortune long ago, when he first brought her aboard the Swiftsure. Now his control crumbled, and he eased himself into position over her.
Urgency mounted within him. To have her, to possess this beauty and make it his—he wanted the love she exuded so deeply it throbbed like a wound within him. Eagerly he sought the place between her legs, which made her moan and tighten her grip on his shoulders. The sweetness of her touch unnerved him, even as the tight membrane that, formed her maidenhead resisted. It reminded him of every thing about her that resisted his wooing and drove him frantic with need. With impatient fingers he kneaded the flesh of her breasts, her hardened nipples, raised himself up to feast his eyes on this lovely possession. Her hair, loose and tangled on the pillow, made him want to loosen his feelings. Her skin, white and soft beneath his fingers, gleamed as pure and urgent as a prayer.
He pressed harder between her legs, demanding entrance. She moved beneath him and moaned low in her throat, which made him swell and grow harder, if that was possible. He was so swollen with lust he thought he would burst with it. Desperately he wanted to be inside her, to pierce her so deeply he would find her rich core, that secret she hid. Straining to control his violent desire, he pressed against her until, with a shock, he fell forward, entering her tight, hot depths.
Rozalinde shuddered as she felt the pain. Squeezing her eyelids shut, she held on as if she were drowning in the midst of this storm. It wasn't her maidenhead tearing, it was her restraint giving way. All her life she had ruled this secret side of her nature. Temptation to indulge in physical passion had been unknown to her. Now, as Kit moved slowly within her, a light flared inside her that was utterly primeval. She gave in to it, letting her hands rove where they would—to clutch his back, his shoulders, to feel the taut muscles from his neck to waist.
He groaned deeply at her touch, a response that delighted her. It urged her to further daring. Her fingers strayed to his hard, rounded buttocks, his tight, straining thighs, exploring the foreign regions of his maleness. And all the while that vision of light and heat mounted, growing within her as he filled her with his shaft. She trembled in the grasp of excitement, thrills of it tingling through her limbs and deep in her vitals. She was almost there—where she had been the other night, that first night on the Swiftsure.
"Rozalinde." Kit whispered her name, pressed his lips against her throat. She felt his teeth nipping, the tiny pain awaking her body until it was alert and quivering. "Rozalinde," his voice rasped, "hold me tight."
She squeezed spasmodically, holding him as tightly as her womanly muscles permitted, and he gave a hoarse cry, seemed to grow and swell within her. His response fueled her own, pushing her excitement to fever pitch. With a shudder, she gave in to it and entered the fire.
Fulfillment swirled her into its giddy grasp. Abruptly she arched her back and cried out, the beauty of it encircling her. She would never escape from it, never want to, this blaze of fervent feeling—each step in the flame with Kit burned her clean—the healing, cleansing fire. Exultation coursed through her body, making her feel free and wild. This was the enchantment Kit had promised her—this, his treasured gift.
When at last the beauty began to dim, the throbbing pleasure between her legs subsided, she stepped from the experience feeling renewed. With a small sigh of contentment, she opened her eyes. Kit was still buried deeply inside her and holding her in his arms, a grave expression on his face. And something deep in his eyes. She wasn't quite sure what it was, but it touched a chord of sorrow within her.
"I love you," she whispered, stroking his cheek. "And you love me in return. You will say it, won't you?"
The words were wrong. She knew the minute they were spoken, yet she couldn't help it. His lovemaking had given her the freedom not just to feel, but to say what lay in her heart. His expression grew remote. He withdrew from her, pulled away and left the bunk.
"Christopher?" Fear rose within Roz as he deserted her. Sitting up, she drew her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs for protection. "Why should I be the one to confess my love but you do not?"
"I've never loved anyone." His voice floated back over his shoulder as he stood examining the map as if he'd never seen it before.
"But you cheat me," she tried to argue reasonably. "You withhold something you need to share."
His silence hurt her. He paced to the porthole with restless feet, interest in the map gone. On his way back, he paused to confront her. "I would have your answer, Rozalinde. I would know that you agree to teach Wrightman."
Roz regarded him in dismay. Their intimacy should have brought them closer, but clearly it had not. A pained look lingered in his eyes. Now here was his demand. Had it been his goal all along—the sole intent of his lovemaking?
She unfolded herself from the bunk and padded to his side, her bare feet rasped by the roughness of the floor-boards. "Please be reasonable, Kit. I'm not one of your men, to order about. If you would only share yourself with me, you would see the difference." She could tell he was intensely aware of her nakedness. Reaching out, she touched his arm.
He pulled away as if scorched, and she searched his face, trying to understand. He averted his eyes, reached for his clothes and began to dress.
"You refuse to answer," he said as he pulled on the last boot and caught up his cloak.
"I don't see why I should answer such a question, asked at such a moment. Why are you angry?"
"You," he said tersely. "You make me angry. So sweet and seductive, yet you expect to have your own way. Regardless of what is right."
"I don't," she cried, wounded by the barb he flung at her. "You're the one who wants your way with me. And you are so moody, I can't predict what you'll do from one minute to the next. First you seduce me, then you order me around."
"I wasn't seducing you. I was trying to help you."
"You did help me. You helped me see I love you. But instead of returning the feeling, you make me pay an ugly price for offering it. Maybe I don't love you after all. Maybe I was being maudlin and stupid."
"Stop it, Rozalinde." Kit drew himself up straight and towered at her from across the cabin. "I'll not ask again for your consent. You will let Wrightman navigate and that's an order. If you want any involvement in this at all, you will tutor him as I've instructed. Otherwise, you are to have nothing to do with running this ship. I will confiscate your tools and maps to prevent it. Is that understood?" And before she could answer, before she could do more than gasp in shock, he headed for the door. "It's damnably close in here. I'm going out for air."
He left, slamming the door viciously behind him. Rozalinde sat down heavily in a chair, holding her astrolabe in one hand. Without bothering to dress, she pressed the other hand to her cheek while the tears gathered in her eyes.
Kit left his cabin and flung himself up the ratlines, one after another, seeking the highest point of the ship. Damn Rose and damn her again. He was so angry with her. When he finally arrived at the lookout's perch on the main mast, he was still disgusted. The man assigned to duty was there as usual. Blast, but he couldn't be alone anywhere on his own ship. That was the way of things at sea, but just now he wanted to be solitary. There was only one place to find that in the middle of the day, and that was somewhere out of the sun.
With a sigh Kit headed back down. Making for the bread room where they keep foodstuffs, he examined their rations. Might as well do something useful while he puzzled. Entering the dim, windowless cabin, he steeled himself against the usual smells of dampness and mold. It smelled like that despite the fact that they stored food in this upper cabin. A ship was no more than a floating body of decay, which the crew must work at frantically until the next port could be reached.
As he sorted through the few remaining bags and kegs, Kit let the complicated feelings aroused by Rozalinde twist and turn through his mind. He'd wanted to
liberate her passion, set her free to trust her own emotions. 'Twas his own idea and one he'd enjoyed thoroughly the first time he'd done it. This second time was different. When he'd finally made love to her, when he'd seen her face change to one of radiant joy, he'd felt pained beyond imagining, aged. That's how he felt—caged like the pigeons they kept for fresh meat on long voyages.
Anger swirled through his thoughts, lacing with his desire, leaving him defenseless and defensive. She could feel love and passion. The two feelings could coexist within the same person. But not in him. No, he could only feel passion. Never love. It was a bitter, ugly realization. Heightened by the fact that he had made her whole, taught her to be a complete person, while he remained an emotional cripple.
Violently Kit heaved a sack of meal to one side, slamming it against the floorboards in retaliation. He wasn't happy about anything he discovered here - with regard to himself or the foodstuffs. They were both bad news. Turning on his heel, he went to do what he would about each of them.
Eventually Rozalinde dressed and left the cabin. She couldn't sit there forever, despite the fact that Kit preferred she stay below. But it was well past time for supper and no one had come to offer her any. She was hungry, and her stomach growled irritably. Dressed in her usual serviceable kirtle, wrapped in her own cloak for a change, she walked along the deck, looking for Kit or Phillipe.
Neither one was visible, and she finally had to ask. She found them both in the bread room, discussing the food stores. As she approached, Kit gave her a dark look.
"Mistress Rozalinde." Phillipe came to greet her, eminently correct, his expression betraying no hidden conflict. Rozalinde found it a relief to talk to him.
Pirate's Rose Page 29
