The boat's hull ground against sand as they approached the bank. Kit leaped over the side of the craft and drew it ashore.
Wordless, he held out his hand for hers.
Her feet met with sand. She watched him secure the boat, then turned away. The shore, so barren during the day, had become a landscape of magic by night. Night animals and insects crept through the lush deciduous growth. The contrast of moonlight and black shadowed forest lured her, and she strayed along the stream bank, taking in the welcome sights and sounds of land. Sitting on a log, she drew off her shoes and stocks so she might enjoy the grainy touch of sand against her bare feet. A clump of marsh grass rose in silhouette against the pale sand. Something on wings, a night bird or perhaps a bat, flapped across the moonlit sky. After too many days at sea, she inhaled the rich smell of moist land.
A splash sounded behind her. She whirled, wary. Darkness closed around her and for a second she was frightened, alone. Anxiously she sought Kit, her protection. He was knee deep in the water, and by the grace of heaven, he was entirely without clothing.
Rozalinde stifled a cry as she stared at his body, sleek and muscled like that of Neptune rising from the sea. The spirit of the water god seemed to possess him, making her want to commit rash acts. Greedily she drank in the sight of him, just as she'd drunk her first water some hours ago. His form spoke of magic—the proud set of his head supported by wide, strong shoulders, the tapering, muscled torso, the juncture of his thighs where his masculinity lay at rest.
"Come here," he called softly. His hand moved through the water, causing ripples to flow toward her. She watched the sweeping rings widen, one after another emanating from his hand until they broke against the sleeping shore.
The water felt cold and fresh to her skin as she waded in, let it lap over her feet. The moon shone overhead, and slowly she shed her clothes, gazing down at herself pensively, avoiding eye contact with Christopher. Wadding her garments together in her kirtle skirt, she flung the bundle so it landed on the shore, then turned to face him. There was no going back. Loosing both braids, she tossed them over her shoulders and took the plunge.
The rush of cold liquid shocked her senses, made her skin tingle. She burst through the surface, laughing and spluttering. "Thank the good heavens for water. I'll never take it for granted again," she cried, splashing great handfuls of it in silvery arcs toward the moon.
Kit came up behind her, his shadow dark on the surface of the stream. "I've seen men die for lack of water."
"Where?" Roz stepped back to find him unexpectedly close. Her body brushed his.
Paying no heed, he sedately lowered himself into the water. Unlike her brash assault on the water, he took it slowly, in no hurry to wet himself.
"The Mediterranean," he said, his voice dismissive, as if he would not speak of it further. Stretching out his body, he floated, as easily as if born to it. "Can you swim, Rozalinde?"
"No. Can you?"
"Aye, I can. You should learn, you know. Sailing so much. How is it your father failed to teach you?"
"It wasn't seemly," she said, gesturing the idea away with one hand. "Where would we have done it? Down on the Thames, near Whitehall? Near London Bridge, so everyone could watch? No, he never taught me, though I know he could swim himself. I remember his talking about it, swimming with his brother when he was young."
"Come here," Kit ordered. He rose out of the water, dripping.
For once it seemed natural to obey him. Roz came and stood before him. She was borne up by some exuberant emotion, something she couldn't name that burned within her—an aching wish to give him the joy he'd never known. His life was made of searing loss and sorrow. Putting her hands in his, she beseeched whatever gods ruled the night on that isolated stretch of Jutland for the miracle of change.
As Kit's fingers closed around Rozalinde's, his gaze took in her beauty, the way the light of the moon gilded her skin, turning it to purest ivory. His pulse quickened. He wanted to possess her, to make her his in every sense of the word. He knew she was but a woman, bound to betray him. But at that moment he didn't care. He wanted her with a fierceness that defied caution. He could only pray that when the pain came, it would be brief.
That thought of pain forestalled the kiss he had been tempted to give her. No, he would teach her to swim first. It would give him such pleasure that no betrayal on her part could steal away, either now or later. Guiding her arms, he showed her the strokes.
"Like this with your hands." He demonstrated how to push the water away with cupped fingers. "Like this with your legs." He stood on one foot, lifted his opposite leg high out of the water to show her, making her giggle at the froglike motion. "You try. Each separately at first."
Rozalinde experimented with the motions, splashing in the shallow water. She began to get the idea of it. First arms, then legs, then both together. In water that came barely to her waist she managed to lift her feet off the sandy stream bed and swim a dozen feet to Kit. He caught her and pressed her tightly against his chest, and she could feel his need, urgent against her thighs.
She laughed, wriggled out of his grasp, her skin slick with water. Gaining her feet, she backed away from him, smiling in a way that reminded her of the night at Lulworth Cove.
He came after her, strides firm and unwavering. "Come here, Rozalinde."
"You come to me," she teased, retreating steadily, her back to the shore, her face to him.
He followed relentlessly.
Rozalinde was in deep water, backing toward an overhanging bank, when she bumped her leg. An old tree lay half in the water, thick with water weeds, captured debris, and rotting vegetation. Its branches probably extended under water, which explained what she'd bumped.
But the water felt strangely thick and slimy here. Roz recoiled at the texture, took a step away. But it was too late. Something sleeping in the mud awoke.
A massive weight collided with Roz's body. She screamed and staggered backward as her footing gave way. Panic struck as she felt herself falling, water closing over her head.
This descent was different from her earlier, exhilarating plunge in the water. This time she felt the water's death grip as it invaded her unprepared air passages. A searing pain slashed into the calf of her right leg.
Frenzied, she fought both water and attacker, made contact with a thin, snaking body. Then Kit was beside her, thrashing in the water, working to protect her. Fear for his safety tore through her, as painful as the wound in her leg.
A second later she found her footing, broke through the surface of the water, coughing and choking. Whatever her attacker might be, Kit fought it. She could hear water churning nearby while she struggled for breath. If only the thing would stop. Staggering from the wound to her leg, she flung herself away from the log, still coughing water from her throat and nostrils. The liquid miracle had become a curse, threatening to choke off her breath.
Kit stood more than a boat's length away with dagger drawn. He plunged it again and again into the water. Her eyes widened with horror as she made out the form of some sea creature, trailing clouds of blood in the water as it swam away.
Her breath came in a jagged sob.
Each gasp of air drawn into her raw throat and nasal passages burned, white hot like the tear in her leg. Then Kit was gathering her into his arms, carrying her from the water.
"Troth," she whispered as he put her down and checked her over. "I hate the dark."
"Eel," he said shortly, his breath coming in shallow rasps. "Grown large and daring, living were there are no men. It wanted you to feed on. Sweet heaven, it's torn your leg."
She moaned when he touched the spot.
"I must bind it. I'll use my shirt."
"Don't!" She sat up, though the movement made her dizzy. "Don't ruin your shirt. My leg is fine," she insisted, sinking back again.
"It's not," he scolded. "Sit still and let me bind it. Enough of your stubborn arguments." The shirt tore with a raw, crackling
sound.
He was gentle as he bound her leg. But Rozalinde chafed under his ministrations. She hated being cared for, being at someone else's mercy. In the Cavandish household she was the one who gave the care. When he finished, she pulled herself to her feet and reached for her smock.
"Let me dress you."
"I can do it myself, Kit!"
He got to the smock first, though, and if she wanted it, she would have to wrestle him for it. Which was beneath her dignity. "I prefer to dress myself," she insisted. "I hate being coddled."
He looked at her strangely. "Is that what I'm doing? Coddling you?"
He held out the smock and she snatched it, pulled it over her head while he watched. He didn't say a word as she stepped into her one petticoat, arranged her kirtle skirt, and buttoned her bodice. Gathering up her shoes and stocks, she headed for the boat.
At the water's edge, he started to hold out his hand, then lowered it to his side. "Am I permitted to help you into the boat?"
She swayed her way to the bow without his aid and sat down.
Giving her a last moody glance, he pushed the craft off from shore and hopped in. "When we return to the ship, you're to wash that leg and bind it with fresh linen. I have some in my trunk. My shirt is none too clean after hunting today. Then I'd see you eat once more and straight to bed."
His words, his mood, made Roz's fears well up. They threatened to suffocate her like the dark water.
Without looking over his shoulder, Kit rowed them back o the Swiftsure.
Roz had trouble falling asleep that night. She finally drifted off, but woke later, tears streaming down her cheeks from a bad dream.
Dark. The interminable dark from her childhood had rushed over her. Shifting waters closed over her head. Suffocating, she had struggled for breath.
"No!" she cried, sitting up so suddenly she struck her head on the top of the bunk. Her leg throbbed dimly and, realizing where she was, she leaned against the wall of the bunk and sobbed brokenly. She was safe from the eel, but she was not out of danger. It followed her relentlessly in many forms.
One of them lay beside her on the bed. Kit shifted as he came out of sleep and turned toward her. One hand sought her on the pillow. When he did not find her, he sat up.
"What's wrong?" He groped for her groggily, still half asleep. "Does your leg pain you?"
"No." She huddled against the wall, letting the familiar creak of the moving vessel soothe her. Then she remembered. Kit had ordered the anchor hoisted when they returned to the ship that evening. The sails were unfurled and they moved south. It was all her fault their sojourn was ended. They hadn't even finished stocking the ship with food.
"Lie down. You must rest if you're to heal." Kit's hands swept the bunk, searching for her.
He didn't reproach her, she thought guiltily. He was capable of kindness, it seemed. He did not remind her of how she'd ruined their stop for provisions, of how stupid she was, blundering into an eel's lying place. She'd only meant to tease Kit. But foolishness did such things to you. It got you in trouble. It always had Jonathan. It certainly did her sisters, Angelica and Lucina. But Kit's kindness didn't help now. It twined confusingly with her fears, augmenting them. She didn't want to belong to a man. She slid away from him farther, toward the foot of the bed.
"Rozalinde, come back and lie down. You have no reason to resist me except your own irascible temper."
He was angry now. She'd made him angry. They would argue, and she couldn't bear it. "I am perfectly well," she snapped, trying to keep her voice from trembling as she crouched against the far wall. "You can go back to sleep."
His fist hit the wall. "Damn you, Rozalinde, you make me furious. Whenever I offer you help or comfort, things most women would be glad of, you act as if I'm trying to poison you." He struck the wall again, venting his ire. "I'm tired of it! Do you hear?"
His voice rose to a shout, and she cringed against the wall, knowing she shouldn't provoke him. But the dream hovered within her, enveloping her in its horrifying em- brace. She stumbled up on shaky legs, moved across the cabin, as far away from him as possible.
The blackness of the cabin's interior increased around Rozalinde. Each gasp for air brought her nothing. The dark, Kit—they merged synonymously in her thoughts, both threatening to overwhelm her. She didn't want to be possessed. "If you're tired of it, then leave me alone," she lashed out at him. "You always want what you want, when you want it, and nothing I want matters. For once would you leave me be?"
"I can't," he raged back at her. "God knows I would like to. I swore I wanted no woman in my life, at least none beyond casual alliances in bed."
"And that's exactly how you treat me," she cried, stricken by his revelation. "When you require stimulation, you come to me. When you're done, off you go, forgetting me along with the rest of the women you've had."
Roz chew a long, shaky breath after her speech. She'd accused him of something terrible, something she didn't even realize she believed. But if Kit didn't love her, wasn't that all she meant to him? She was no more than a physical pleasure, which was passing and temporal.
He seemed to be mulling over her last statement, for his silence was oppressive. At last he cleared his throat. "You are perhaps justified in accusing me, because I have said I am not capable of loving you the way you would like. Yet that does not mean you are just like the other women I've had, and I admit there were many since you seem to know all about my past. But I swear to you, I have considered you different from them. I am willing to make you my wife, and none of them—"
"Oh, I'm supposed to be gratified that you didn't want them. Just because you finally deign to wed with the woman you bed, I'm to be eternally grateful. I'd be better off a spinster. It was my plan. My life was complete without a man."
Just as she'd expected, his answering anger lashed back at her. "Then why did you agree to wed with me?"
"Would you let me disagree?"
"No," he ground out through clenched teeth, "I wouldn't. Because she left me. Don't you understand? I won't let you go."
His words had a stunning effect. Roz went still all over. She hadn't realized it. Not consciously, at least. But now that he said it aloud, it made perfect sense. Her own fear wilted as she took in the vastness of his pain. It was far deeper than hers. She struggled only to remain free, to retain her independence in the face of being swallowed up by another. But Kit, she realized, had been a prisoner for years, condemned to a loveless life. "I won't leave you," she said. The words sounded silly to her ears, but she meant them. As she crossed the room in the dark, she bumped against the desk, bruising her thigh. By the time she fumbled her way to the bunk, she couldn't find him.
"You will." His voice wafted to her out of the blackness of the cabin. It was like a raw wound. "Mayhap not physically. But eventually, this love you claim to feel will evaporate. It's quite clear from the way we quarrel. One day you'll withdraw it and it will be done."
Roz searched with both hands. Damn it, where was he? "I gave you my promise."
"Such a promise means nothing. I most assuredly wouldn't hold you to it. When you are done loving me, it won't matter. But I won't let you go."
She couldn't find him. The darkness was complete and she felt for him blindly. Then she realized he'd moved to the opposite end of the bunk, sat in her previous position, huddled against the wall. "I've given you my heart," she whispered.
He laughed harshly. "Empty words. They mean less than your promise."
"No." Tears started to her eyes. She extended her hands to him, seeking but not finding. "You don't believe that. Tell me you don't."
Seizing her suddenly out of the darkness, he crushed her tightly against his chest. They clung to each other for a long time, rocking to and fro, both suffering the pain of unshed tears.
Roz stirred first. Hesitantly, she cupped his face in her hands and kissed his cheek.
Kit responded before he could stop. He'd sworn to harden his heart agai
nst this woman. He didn't want the sorrow she would bring, but he couldn't help it. The lure of her body, the warmth of her spirit, the aching need he had for this abstract concept she called her love—all of them drew him undeniably. His fingertips feathered against her flesh, seeking her breasts. "It doesn't matter what 1 believe," he lied, weaving a pattern of kisses through her hair. Feeling her heart quicken beneath his hand, he dropped his kisses to her neck. Someday, when she stopped loving him, he would have no choice but to bear the pain.
Rozalinde tensed for only a second at his onslaught on her senses. Then she relaxed. For all her fear, it was nothing compared to his. She had feared the way he released her passion, because each time he did it, he claimed another part of her. Eventually, she had believed he would own her entirely, robbing her of the very freedom he offered to give.
Yet it was nothing compared to his fear. She knew what love was—had experienced its nurturing tenderness from her mother, knew its proud guidance and support from her father. But Kit did not. His pain sprang from the fact that he hungered desperately for something he believed ultimately didn't exist.
Their lips met, and she kissed him fiercely, arching her body against his with an urgency that was frightening. She would let him release her passion, let it fly free like a bird.
Their desire progressed rapidly. Within minutes Kit was parting her legs, feeling that she was wet and ready for him. He'd told himself to go slowly with her, but his own need was too great. Tonight he'd almost lost her. He'd seen her go down in the water, dragged by an unseen assailant, and his heart had threatened to break from his chest, he'd been so shaken with fear. He wouldn't lose her to an animal or an accident. No, she might some day destroy his faith in her, but until then, he would possess her utterly.
Pirate's Rose Page 36
