Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  turned back to rain her forehead and cheeks with kisses. Cautiously he began to move within her, but seconds later he again lost his composure. Trying to check his speed, he pulled out. It was agony to leave her. He thrust deeply. She let out a small whimper.

  "There now, my flower. It will hurt a bit this second time, but if you are patient, I will help you forget the soreness."

  God in heaven, he was the one who needed patience. The incredible sweetness of her, the fluttering of her heart whispering in the vein at her neck, threatened to over­whelm him. He wanted to unleash his passion, to dive into her body like a mindless animal. He wanted to ride her with one thrust after another until he lost himself in com­pletion. But he would not. Control, he urged himself sternly. He would keep control.

  She moved unexpectedly beneath him, spreading her legs wider to take more of him. Without warning, he found him­self besieged by emotion. As she rose to meet him, unconsciously twisting her hips to work him deeper, he probed her softness, searching for something. Her hands on his shoulders clutched so tightly, he could feel her fingernails make little crescent dents in his skin, hear the delicious moans she made deep in her throat.

  It drove him to a frenzy of wanting, and suddenly he was hungry for everything she could give him. "Say you love me," he rasped eagerly, straining against her. He needed to hear those words.

  But she only twisted beneath him. Raising his upper body, he braced himself with his hands so he could watch her face. Her brown eyes met his, full of love and deep with promises. If only he could believe in that emotion again. He moved faster inside her, the friction of his strokes Baking bursts of feeling cannon through his body. In re­sponse she cried out in pleasure, tossed her head back against the pillows, her glorious crown of hair spread around her like a halo. She had to say those words.

  It made him feel guilty, his wanting. How badly he required her to say she loved him. Yet could she deny it each move of his body was met by hers. She wanted him, despite her words to the contrary. Deliberately he placed one hand between them, seeking the place between her thighs with his fingertips.

  At his touch, Rozalinde thought she would take leave of her senses. Like the rare fireworks she had once seen, star­ing explosions of sensation surged to her brain, making her dizzy with pleasure. Shifting her legs experimentally, he sought more of him, eager for each drop of liquid flame he poured into her. Kit's answering groan, the famished look in his eyes, fueled her excitement. She could give him excruciating pleasure. New bursts of pleasure swept through her as Kit's fingertips rotated between her legs, and she found herself rising to unbelievable heights. Pulling away his hand, she clutched his torso against her, wanting only the slick heat of him deep inside her, the pumping of his hips as he delivered one exquisite torment after another. He controlled her utterly, and willingly she let him. It was unsolved mystery she could not fathom, only submit while her body burned. Fiery flames teased at her core, whispering dark images in her thoughts. Kit commanded her body, Kit released her passion. With one hand he took. With the other he set her free. She would follow him willingly, if only he would do this to her forever. "This is madness," she heard herself sob in his ear, sure he would melt from the heat he aroused within her. "'No," he growled back, determined to hear what he wanted. "Tell me what it really is."

  "It's love," she cried, "I love you, Christopher Howard. I don't want to, but I can't help it. Ohhhh...." With a cry she clasped her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. Deep inside her a deluge broke loose. A storm of delicious convulsions swept through her, whirling her away to the heights of rapture. Acutely she was aware of Kit straining against her, his reaction as her muscles clenched and convulsed around him.

  Feeling Roz's body tighten in fulfillment, Kit rushed to follow. With a last stroke, he arched to a climax, his body shaken by a succession of trembling spasms. Buoyed inex­plicably by her words, he poured forth his passion, wanting it to go on indefinitely.

  In the aftermath, he leaned on his elbow and watched her sleep. He had forced the confession from her, and would do so again. Over and over she would say the words. Willing or unwilling, she loved him. And willing, or unwilling, he found she was something he required, just as he required air to live.

  Their third morning at sea dawned brisk and sunny. The wind blew steadily from the northwest, pushing the ship through the lapping waves. Rozalinde sat in the charthouse, her gaze fastened to the shaft of sunlight slanting through the wide windows, striking the map before her on the table. She was ruminating. This morning, she felt less confused. At least it had been settled last night—she would wed with Kit. Reluctantly, perhaps, but she would do it.

  Not that she was giving in, she told herself adamantly, smoothing the page before her, tracing the path she ex­pected to take, over to Denmark and down along the coast to Germany, then to the Netherlands. But some things were inevitable. This was one of them.

  She accepted it. But not him—not the way he was. Domi­neering, arrogant and irritating. He was all these things in every part of life, especially in bed.

  She felt herself blush as she thought of bed. Last night, had changed something within her. At last Kit had made, love to her and not retreated after. She had known the--satisfaction of lying in his arms until they both fell asleep. True, he'd been an arrogant knave about their lovemaking, insisting on controlling her every feeling as well as his own. Deliberately he'd given her pleasure, then sought his, not for an instant letting down his guard or losing himself in her love.

  No, he didn't trust her, because he'd never trusted any­one, not growing up with a father like his. But she could teach him. Though it might take time, she was sure she could.

  Why she felt so confident of this, she wasn't certain. It wasn't sensible to believe she could change him. But such a feeling suffused her this morning, made her feel glowing!

  and radiant inside. The only way she could describe it was to liken it to a picture she'd once seen by an Italian artist whose name she couldn't remember. She'd been with her father, having dinner with one of his acquaintances in Am­sterdam. The name of the burgher also escaped her mem­ory, but he'd been rich and his house well appointed. His wife and three daughters had taken her to see this picture— a madonna and child. A mere sketch with charcoal. Yet she could see the glow of the holy figures, feel their radiant love. How ridiculous to think she and Kit were the least bit like them. Yet she felt a deep reverence for last night— reverence for what she and Kit shared.

  "Is this correct, mistress? I have tallied the numbers as you directed."

  Rozalinde jerked out of her reverie, surprised to find Wrightman seated across from her. He'd been sitting there all along, but she'd forgotten him. Kit had insisted she give him lessons each day. Today she must direct him in calcu­lating how far they'd sailed during the night, then show him how to determine their present position and correct their course for the day. More importantly, they must deter­mine how soon they would make landfall.

  She was still furious with Kit for making her tutor Wrightman. She could do the calculations more quickly and efficiently herself, but Kit had decided otherwise.

  Wrightman pushed the paper across the table toward her, an anxious expression on his face. He was in awe of her, she realized. He hadn't seemed so initially, but once she'd proven her skill, once Kit had decreed she would be his tutor, he'd changed considerably.

  With a nod, she took the paper and scanned the figures he'd written in his clumsy handwriting.

  "This is not right." She frowned at the numbers. Couldn't the idiot see he'd added wrong? All he need do was figure distance traveled, determined each morning from the numbers on the helmsman's slate. Each day Wrightman made a similar error.

  A stricken look crossed Wrightman's face. Once she would have scowled at him, slapped the paper down and ordered him to find the mistake. Now, for some reason, her heart softened. "There now, 'tis not so bad. You are trying so hard, you make an error each time. Let
me show you." Turning the paper back to face him, she patiently pointed out his problem and bade him try again.

  Kit, listening from beyond the half-open cabin door, grinned and moved on about his business. His plan was proceeding admirably. Wrightman was a good pupil; Roza­linde, a competent tutor. If she kept her temper in check. It was good for her to teach another. Instinctively he knew it, having found great comfort in sharing his own knowl­edge with Courte and others like him. Once she gave Wrightman a chance, she would see the rewards to be had from sharing her gift. For it was a gift she had—no doubt about that. The lass ate, drank, and dreamed numbers. He'd heard her last night, mumbling in her sleep, reciting the most recent distances from the helmsman's slate.

  Swinging down a ladder, he went to check their water supply. It was dangerously low, and he was concerned about when they would see land.

  An hour later Rozalinde finished with Wrightman, having worked him to the point of mental exhaustion. Dismissing him, she went on deck for air. Lord, but she was thirsty, it was Phillipe's turn as helmsman—that she knew. Since their sailing, Kit and Phillipe each took one watch a day at the helm. The rest of the time it was manned by Kit's officers. After a brisk walk around the deck, she made her way to the helm.

  "Good morrow, Mistress Rozalinde. I trust you are well."

  Phillipe was always proper with her. For that, and for' many other reasons, she gave him her smile in return. "I would be better," she said, "if I had something to drink."

  "We all would." He ran his tongue over his own dry lips. "I find it better to think and speak of other things. How go your lessons with the young seaman?"

  Roz pulled a face that reminded her of Jon as she did it. "He's actually not too bad with the logic," she admitted grudgingly. "But he's had so little experience. Holding the pencil straight sometimes seems too great an expectation. And he knows next to nothing about calculations. I have to tell him every little thing."

  Phillipe cast her a sympathetic glance. "Tis a hard task, to be the lesson giver, m'n lieveling. Almost as hard as learning the task yourself the first time over. Sometimes you search in vain for the proper way to convey your meaning. And even then, when you have tried your honest best, the pupil still comes up lacking. I have had my share of such discouraging encounters. It can wear you out as much as a day of physical labor. But it also has its rewards. You will know them when you see the look of respect in your pupil's eyes."

  Roz nodded, thinking he was right. Phillipe, it seemed, understood her—unlike Kit, who hastened her for her quick temper, her bad attitude about her pupil. It made her chafe when he did it, and she turned her temper on him. What pleasant diversion to speak of the subject with Phillipe, who soothed her about the difficulties and offered encouragement.

  "Do you miss your ship?" she asked, changing the subject. "You are a captain in your own right. Nay, an admiral of your prince's fleet."

  Phillipe shrugged. "We must school ourselves to accept the things life hands us."

  Rozalinde shivered involuntarily. "I find that difficult."

  "Then you are not alone. What do you find difficult to accept?"

  Rozalinde paused, a deep sense of guilt consuming her. "Being a wife," she whispered, desperately wanting that guilt to leave her.

  "Why?" he asked gently. "Kit loves you."

  She turned to stare at him. He seemed younger this morning, carefree. He'd put away his black cloak and mask, and without them, in his white linen shirt, black trunkhose and netherstocks, his white hair curling crisply around his shoulders, he seemed familiar and comfortable to her. "You're saying that to console me—and to protect him. Don't. He doesn't know how to love, and he can't change."

  "Life changes people."

  "As it has changed you?" She saw him search his pocket for something. The heady odor of cloves drifted to her. Drawn irresistibly by the scent, she stepped near, touched his cheek gently, drinking in the aroma she associated with lovemaking. "I am sorry."

  ' "Why are you sorry?" He turned to look into her face, surprise lighting his eyes.

  They were wonderful eyes—a clear blue, inviting her confidences. "I'm sorry for all the things your life should have been...."

  "I have much that makes my life worth living. For one thing, my prince needs me."

  "I wish I could be so accepting. I wish I could be like you." Her eyes honored him.

  "And I ... I wish I were thirty years younger."

  The longing in his voice took her off guard, making tears leap to her eyes. Despite his courage, Phillipe was a man in mourning. And only she knew why, because of his beloved Anne. Her tears multiplied, and one spilled over, rolled down her cheek. He put out his hand to catch it the drop falling on the glove he always wore at the helm to handle the heavy whipstaff. The stain spread, forming a dark blot on the leather as another tear joined it. This man had the power to move her deeply with few words. Wrapping his arm around the upright post that guided the ship, Phillipe drew off the glove and wiped her eyes gently with his handkerchief. First the right, then the left.

  "Why cannot Christopher be like you?" she said softly. "Like father, like son." She saw him start.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "I found the secret chamber beneath Lulworth Castle. I-I saw your letter to Anne. It's still there, you know. Along with the cross twined by the rose." She waited, wondering if he would be angry at her intrusion. But his eyes reflected only sorrow.

  "Anne told me Christopher was Henry's son."

  "She didn't want you to feel responsible for what happened to Kit." Roz put her hand on his arm. "She knew you would have no legal right to him, no access. And she knew her husband. Tell me about him—Kit's adopted father."

  The watch ended just then. The bosun blew his whistle. Phillipe turned the hourglass. A few minutes later the first mate arrived to take the helm. Rozalinde watched while Phillipe transferred information from the traverse board to the helmsman's slate and removed the pegs from the board.

  "Come." Duties finished, he gestured to her, led her up to the forecastle deck where they leaned against the rail and watched the waves.

  He talked in a low voice to her for some time, telling her many things—what he had learned about Henry Howard, Earl of Wynford, his growing love for Anne, the years they spent apart, their brief times together that made their lives bearable.

  "There was only one time when it might have been possible for Kit to be conceived. Many years after our first meeting, I came from the Netherlands to the court of Elizabeth, and there I saw her, my sweet Anne, so long after her father had torn us apart."

  His blue eyes were distant and Roz felt it only natural to slide her one arm around his shoulders. She wanted to ease his pain, to remind him that those days were now long past. But she sensed they were never so distant for him. That each day, his pain, as well as his love, lived fresh and vivid in his soul.

  "We had thought never to meet again, Anne and I. It was the shock, I think, of seeing each other. We both went a little mad. We made love that night, in the garden. It was the only time. After, she felt guilty—though I cannot think why. She had already borne her husband an heir." A shadow crossed Phillipe's face. "I wondered if Kit was my son, but Anne told me he was not. She would have known.

  "Yet whether he was or no, I should have forced them both to come away with me. Henry had an obsession with duty, and an attitude about raising children that was strict to the extreme. That, along with his rigid will, I believe made him dangerous. Yet he never went so far to the extreme that he could be accused of real violence. It might have been easier if he had. No, his worst fault was his lack of feeling. And for that alone, Anne could not justify leaving him. She said our lives would be chaos if she did, that Henry would destroy any hope for a relationship between us, either approved or disapproved by society. Henry was capable of everything she feared. Yet it was hard to hear that I was powerless against him. And now—now I believe, from what Christopher told me, that Henry separated him
from Anne when he was very young. Mayhap no more than five. A child needs his mother." He bent his head, looking at the water with tormented eyes. "Instead, I let myself believe what Anne told me—that Christopher did well enough. But now I know why she finally agreed to see me again, why she at last consented to our being lovers. It was around that time that Henry took Kit away ..." His voice choked slightly. "We began to meet in the secret chamber beneath Lulworth Castle that only Anne knew. I enjoyed her company and went away thinking all was well. I cannot forgive myself."

  Rozalinde tightened her hand on his shoulder and leaned against him, wanting to block the pain she saw in his eyes. She scarcely came to the top of those shoulders, she was so small compared to his height and breadth, yet she offered the comfort. Her throat had a lump in it, her eyes slurred with tears. "You believed what you had to believe in order to survive."

  "I took the coward's way out."

  "No coward could have borne what you id."

  Kit watched them, standing at the rail together, Phillipe and Rozalinde, and felt a rising anger. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he heard Rozalinde's tone of voice, saw her sympathetic gesture. She never talked to him in that way. Nor did she offer him comfort. She admitted she loved him, yet was brusk and angry about it. He turned away, filled with choler.

  It was because they were all thirsty, he told himself. There was a restlessness among the crew. He took himself off to see to his duties—anything to avoid the sight of Rozalinde lavishing her attention on Phillipe. She hadn't been sweet like that with him when they awoke that morning. True, when she'd first opened her eyes, she had smiled at him a lazy, sated smile. But he'd gone and called her his countess. He'd meant it as an endearment, but of course he didn't like it. She had thrown him an angry look, then left the cabin and refused to speak to him again. She made him furious. He hadn't given her orders or been domineering—he had called her what would have pleased most women. So he had been domineering later, when he perceived she had not begun her daily lesson with Wrightman.