by Sabrina York
“Too much?” A squawk.
“It really doesn’t seem like so very much to ask.”
“You ask for my life.”
“Nonsense.”
“Your brother will take it. In a very unpleasant way.”
“I already told you, he will never know. Honestly, Ned, why are you always so intransigent?”
“Intransigent?”
“I’m asking for a kiss. A touch. A taste of what I gave you. Unless…” She tipped her head and studied him.
“Unless what?”
She patted his chest. “I understand, Ned. Never mind.” And then she rolled over and fitted herself against the wall once more.
“Understand what? What do you understand?”
She sent him a pitying glance over her shoulder. “I understand if you don’t…” She lowered her voice and whispered, “Know how.”
He blanched. “I know how.”
“You do?” She looked him up and down. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Because you kissed me once and it was a very nice kiss. But I didn’t get the sense you knew what you were doing.”
“I know damn well what I’m doing.” His hand was heavy on her arm as he whipped her back over.
“If you say so.”
“Damn right, I say so.”
“Because I’ve heard tales of men who, well, cannot please a woman. I’m not sure if it’s because they are unable, or unwilling, or if they simply don’t have the—”
He silenced her. With a kiss.
Not a sweet kiss, like the one they’d shared so long ago. A wild kiss. A mad kiss. A hungry, raging, scorching kiss. It was everything she’d dreamed a kiss could be. As his lips ravaged hers, his hand clenched her hip, holding her still, but then it raked upward beneath the linen of the shirt. Her skin skittered at the feel of his warm palm. It was delicious, delightful. Dizzying. She reached for him, held him close, and when her arm lifted, he claimed her breast.
Never before in her life had she known such pleasure as when he scraped over her hard nipple. She groaned into his mouth and he groaned back. He circled that turgid nub, teased it, then plucked at it until she was writhing. His mouth moved from hers and he nibbled his way across her cheek to nest in her neck. She’d never expected such incredible sensations there either. It was as though, at his touch, every nerve awoke and sang.
“Ned,” she gasped, clutching him closer, her nails scoring his scalp. She wailed in desolation when he wandered away from that delight, but she soon discovered he had something else in mind. He kissed his way over her breastbone and down, unbuttoning as he went. Then he opened the lapel of the shirt and stared at her.
“Oh God.” A garbled moan. He took her breasts, one in each hand, pressed them together and buried his face, breathing deep. “God.”
His mouth, hot and insistent, closing on her nipple, sent a rage of hunger through her. As he feasted, first on one tight point and then the other, she thrashed. Pleasure built and built; a bundled knot at her core swelled.
He must have known. Somehow, he must have known. Because his hand drifted lower, toward that tumult, and brushed over her nest of curls. She quaked. Then his finger slipped between her folds and he touched her. Touched her. There. On that screaming spot. A shudder took her. Her breath escaped in a rush.
“Ned,” she tried to say but couldn’t. Her throat locked. Delight danced through her veins, stealing her senses.
He was ruthless, intent, circling that tiny nub, enraging it, teasing it until it became the focus of her entire existence.
“Ned,” she gasped. She clutched his wrist as though to guide him but she knew not what she needed.
He did.
Thank God, he did.
He moved faster and faster. She felt as though she were on a wild carriage ride with a great chasm waiting down the road. Her body shook. Her heart raced. That ball inside her constricted until the tension was unbearable, terrible, wonderful.
“Sophia,” he breathed, staring down at her as she dissolved into a delightful pudding, shivering and shaking and flooded with the most agonizing pleasure she’d ever known.
And then she knew nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing but the white-hot scream of absolute bliss.
He held her as she shook. Held her as she gasped. Held her as she recovered her mind and body and spirit.
At long last, he asked, “How was that, Sophia? Does that answer your questions?”
“Yes.”
Yes. Now she understood the true power of passion.
And yes. Now she knew life was utterly unfair if men got to experience this whenever they wished.
And yes. Ned Wyeth absolutely knew how to please a woman.
Chapter Six
How he slept after that, he never knew. But he did sleep. Miraculous, that, because when he finished pleasing her and tucked her into his embrace and held her, he was hard as a stone. He figured he would just lie there with her, holding her, feeling her soft breath as she slept. But somehow he slept as well.
A jarring lurch awakened him. That the jarring lurch was the ship hawing with a force that dumped him on the floor was mortifying enough, but Sophia tumbled on top of him. And gored him in the apples.
Ah, well. His erection was no longer at issue. Possibly ever again.
Her eyes widened at his howl. “Ned, are you all right?”
The boat pitched again. His heavy trunk slid ominously across the floor toward them. He scrambled up and tossed her onto the berth, clambering in on top of her just as the trunk crashed against it. The beams of the boat shuddered and groaned. Ned knew it wasn’t the impact. It was something far worse.
“Stay here,” he said to Sophia as he grappled for his boots and tugged them on.
“Where are you going?”
“On deck. I want to see what’s happening.”
“I want to come too—”
“Absolutely not!” He glowered at her. “Stay. Here.” And when she moved to follow him, “Stay!”
“I am not a hound.”
“Please, Sophia.” He leaned down and kissed her, perhaps a bit desperately. “Please stay here where it’s safe.” If what he thought was happening was, indeed, happening, the deck could be perilous now.
Mercifully, she put out a lip and hunkered under the covers.
He made his way through the narrow hall, lunging from side to side as the boat rolled. He nearly didn’t make it up the stairs when a sudden pitch made him lose his footing.
When he opened the door to the outer deck, the wind slammed into him with a force that stole his breath. Sheets of rain lashed at his face, making it hard to see, but through the torrent he spotted MacDougal amidships, calling commands to his men. Unfortunately, as soon as the words passed his lips, the wind snatched them away.
Ned made his way across the heaving deck, clutching at thick coils of rope and lashed barrels to steady himself. MacDougal caught sight of him and bristled. “What the hell are you doing out here?” he hollered above the squall. “Go down below.”
“I thought I could help.”
MacDougal’s assessment was not complimentary. “Doing what? You aren’t a sailor. You have no clue what to do. It’s dangerous for you to be out here—”
Just then a screaming gust caught the full mainsail. It plumed. The ship tipped frighteningly to the side and an enormous wave washed aboard.
MacDougal grabbed for Ned as he slid toward the churning sea. He held him by the collar of his shirt until the ship righted itself. Shaking, Ned found his feet.
“See what I mean?” the captain barked. “Get the fuck below.”
“Aye, aye.” Ned sketched a mocking salute but he knew it didn’t stem from MacDougal’s set-down so much as the fact that everything he’d said was true. He was fairly useless, all things considered. He had nothing, with the exception of his dubious skill at faro, to offer the world.
He knew this to be true. But the reminder was irksome.
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He made his unsteady way back toward the foredeck, tipping and lunging with the pitch of the boat. Another gust hit, this one greater than the last. It caught the luffing mainsail; it billowed out with a sharp snap. The ship surged forward with force, nearly digging into the oncoming waves, which raged over the bow in a torrent.
Behind him, MacDougal hollered, “Bring her down!” He underscored his command with a series of sharp gestures.
A flurry of shouts echoed off the beams.
Ned fisted his hands, wishing he could help. Wishing he knew how. Men scurried all over the boat, their frantic activity giving weight to the desperation in the captain’s voice.
But there was nothing he could do. He resumed his trek toward the door to belowdecks just as it opened. Just as a small figure, dressed in too-large clothes and sporting a ragged haircut, emerged.
His heart clenched. Fuck! “Sophia!” he howled, but the wind whisked the sound away. He increased his pace. Hell and damnation. What was she thinking, venturing out during a squall like this? She could be killed. Swept overboard in a trice.
A shudder walked through him as a low growl resonated on the skeins of the air. The gust increased to a screaming howl. The bow of the ship dipped once more. A great groan shook the entire vessel.
“Down! Down! Now!” MacDougal screamed. “Cut it! Cut it!” The thread of panic in his tone made Ned glance back. The captain waved his arms in the air and screamed at the men up in the riggings.
An ear-splitting, bone-chilling crack caught his attention and he looked up. Ned watched in horror as the mast split and teetered toward the forecastle.
Toward Sophia.
He sprinted forward, dread clutching his heart. She was going to die. Going to die and he’d never told her—
He slammed into her and let the force of his momentum carry them both to the left. An enormous chunk of the mast landed with a heavy thud right where she’d been, missing them by mere inches.
He lay upon her, staring down at her wide eyes, shaking.
She could have died.
He loved her. He loved her. She was his reason for living and she could have died.
Utter elation raged through him. Elation and anger and fear and want.
The remains of the sail fluttered down, shielding them, but Ned would not have cared if it had not. Nothing would have stopped him.
He took her mouth with a blistering, raw need and showed her, told her, what he could never say in words.
He kissed her like a man possessed. Sophia reveled in it. It was what she’d dreamed of, ached for. But he was rather heavy, so when he lifted his head and opened his mouth as though he was about to yell at her for being so stupid, she pushed him off. He frowned at her.
“You’re heavy,” she complained. She so very much did not want to hear she’d been stupid. She knew it now. She’d almost perished. Her heart was still thrumming from the close call—but it could have been from the kiss. Hard to tell.
The sail covering them rippled and then was wrenched away by Captain MacDougal, who stared down at them aghast. “Thank the merciful Mother,” he said. “You’re all right.”
“Of course we’re all right,” Sophia said, struggling to her feet, though she slipped a bit on the slick deck. “Ned saved me.” She made it a point to flutter her lashes so he wouldn’t be cross.
It didn’t work. “I told you to stay below!”
The captain glared at him. “And I told you to go below. Now, both of you, get off my deck!” The wind was still whipping and the rain sluiced down in torrents. The ship pitched and heeled, though with the mainsail cut it wasn’t nearly so treacherous; the gusting wind didn’t hold as much sway. But they weren’t yet out of the woods. From the looks of the storm, there was still a great deal of danger.
Ned nodded and took Sophia’s arm and led her to the door. Before he reached it, it whipped open and Prudence Billingsly stormed out. “Captain! Oh, Captain!” she warbled.
MacDougal rolled his eyes. “Now what?”
“Do make the ship stop rolling so. It’s making poor Herbert ill.”
MacDougal gaped at her. “Make—make the ship stop rolling?”
She crossed her arms over her generous bosom and nodded. “Do. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Madam. We are in the middle of a storm. At sea.”
“Yes, yes. I know all that. But all this rocking back and forth is rather unsettling.”
“Unsettling?” He glanced at the splintered mast and collapsed sail cluttering the deck.
“Rather.”
“We’re a fucking cork, ma’am.”
“I say!”
“Until we pass through this fucking storm—if we pass through this fucking storm—we are helpless.”
“Such language. Why I—” Her words garbled. “What do you mean if?”
“I mean, madam, without the mast, we are virtually rudderless.”
“And?”
MacDougal blew out a breath. “We cannot steer.” He made a little steering motion with his hands to help her understand, though she likely missed the enormity of their situation. “So. I suggest you—all of you—go belowdecks and let me try to save this goddamn ship.”
“Yes. Right.” Ned herded them both back toward the door. “Off we go.”
Normally Sophia did not allow herself to be herded anywhere, but in this instance she was amenable. Reaction from her near disaster was beginning to set in and the rain had soaked her through again—although her trousers had already been damp when she slipped them on. And her teeth were chattering.
It was a relief when they stepped inside and Ned closed the door on the raging storm.
“Well, I never,” Lady Prudence grumbled as she made her way down the stairs. “Such impertinence. My husband is a baron. A baron, I tell you. To be spoken to with such a foul tongue…”
“Lady Billingsly,” Ned said in a calming tone. “I’m sure the good captain was just overset with worry for your safety. We are, indeed, in great peril.”
Her eyes bugged out. “Peril?” she squawked.
Had she not been paying attention?
“The ship is gravely damaged. We have no idea how long the storm will last and we are helpless.”
“This is unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable. I am supposed to be on holiday. When we get to Italy, I intend to complain.”
Both Ned and Sophia stared at her. He shook his head. “We are not going to Italy,” Lady Billingsly.”
She boggled. Her eyes bulged, making her look rather like a fish. “Whatever do you mean?”
“This ship is not going anywhere. Not until the mast is fixed. And even then, we’ll be lucky to limp back to London.”
“Back to London? Preposterous. Wait until I tell Billingsly. He’ll have something to say about that.” As though the baron could magically fix the ship. Or influence the captain to do so more quickly.
Ned’s friend poked his head out into the hall. He shot Sophia a grin, which made Ned bristle. “What’s all the hullabaloo?”
“The mast has snapped,” Ned said.
Unaccountably, Percy’s face broke into a grin. “Brilliant!” he cried, bounding into the hall. He shot an impish look at Sophia. “This is something of a grand adventure, isn’t it?”
She couldn’t help but smile at him because his enthusiasm was rather contagious. And yes, it was a grand adventure.
Prudence Billingsly whacked Percy with her shawl. “They say we’re not going to Italy,” she said in a peevish tone.
“Oh, you can still go,” Percy said. “But you’ll have to swim.”
His humor did not amuse Lady Billingsly. She attempted to skewer him with a glare. Sadly, she lacked the consequence to make a dent. So she turned her frown on Sophia. “Boy, come to my rooms and clean up the mess. Herbert has been retching everywhere.”
Something within Sophia roiled. It was probably revulsion. With a hint of rebellion. She did not want to clean up Herbert Billingsley’s accounts
. Fortunately, she didn’t have to defy the old bat.
Ned did it for her. “Sorry,” he said, catching Sophia’s arm and tugging her toward his cabin. “The boy has other pressing work. You’ll have to clean it up yourself.” He shot a wicked smile at his friend. “No doubt Percy would be delighted to help.”
With an eep, Percy ducked back into his cabin.
“But…but…but.” They left Lady Prudence sputtering in their wake. “But I’m a lady,” she wailed. Her cry twined with Percy’s muted laughter.
When the door to Ned’s cabin closed behind them, Sophia did what she’d been wanting to do for some time now. She threw herself into Ned’s arms and kissed him. “Oh Ned, you saved me.”
His arms closed around her and he kissed her back, which was wonderful.
“I’m sure you would have dodged the mast in time,” he said. It was an absolute lie. She hadn’t even seen it falling. All her horrified attention had been trained on him struggling across the pitching decks.
“Oh Ned, Ned,” she laughed. “I wasn’t talking about the mast.”
“You—you weren’t?”
“No, silly. I was talking about Lady Prudence.”
And then, when she kissed him again, he let her.
* * * * *
They really needed to stop with all the kissing, Ned thought as he kissed Sophia. They were cuddled in his bunk, holding fast to each other as the ship pitched. They had been closeted in there for two days, venturing out only for food and water from the stores. The ship still rolled and pitched alarmingly. Since the storm hit, there hadn’t been a moment of peace. Unless Sophia was in his arms. And then everything else, even their imminent danger, faded away.
They really should stop kissing but he kept forgetting to remind her they should.
It was hell. She was so soft, so tempting, so blasted innocent. That she wore his shirt—and nothing else—did not help. And while it hung past her knees, he knew—knew—she was naked beneath it.
Consequently, he was hard.
She’d noticed his discomfort and offered to help—precocious little vixen she was—but he’d demurred. It wasn’t proper, he’d said. We shouldn’t have done it the first time, he’d said.
