by Zoë Archer
He rubbed at his face. “You should be asleep. Just a moment. I’ll light the lantern.”
“No, don’t,” she said. “What I have to say…I need the darkness.”
He tensed. This could be when she told him to stay the hell away from her, that she loathed the sight of him, she despised his touch. A swift, sharp pain lanced through him. He didn’t think he could stand it, if she hated him.
At last, her voice came from the darkness. “When they told me Lawrence was dead,” she began, “it was awful.”
God, how could he lie here and listen to this? It was like having his heart slowly torn out of his body.
“London—”
“Let me finish.” She ran her hands down her skirt, smoothing the fabric, but it was a gesture of momentary deferment. She drew air into her lungs. “It was awful because I had to hide from them how I truly felt. I had to pretend. For two years I had to mourn Lawrence, keep myself shut away, and playact that I was a grieving widow.” She was silent for a moment. “I didn’t want him dead, but…I was…glad.” She sucked in a breath at her own admission, but seemed to gain strength from it. “Glad I was free of him. He hated it whenever I asserted myself. I had to keep my study of languages a secret from him, because he would have burned all my books if he had known.” Her voice turned corrosive. “He wanted only a pretty ornament for his home, and I could never be that.”
Emotion clogged her throat, and she paused to collect herself. He wanted to go to her, hold her, but kept himself on the bed, knowing it was too soon. There was more.
She continued, “I wasn’t supposed to be relieved that he’d died, yet I couldn’t help myself, and then I would just feel even worse. That makes me a terrible person.”
It took some time for what she said to penetrate Bennett’s brain. He wasn’t a religious man, but any part of him that held an iota of spiritual feeling sent thankful benisons to the gods. She didn’t blame him. She didn’t miss her rotten bastard of a husband. He wanted to climb the mainsail and shout his relief.
“I think,” she continued, “that when I was so angry with you earlier, it was because I was angry with myself for how I felt. And I turned it on to you. It was easier. Not right, but easier.”
“London,” he said, and his voice in the dark of the cabin was a beast pulling at its chains, “when I found out who you were, it scared the bloody life out of me. Especially after I kissed you. Because I wanted you so goddamned much, and I thought you’d hate me.”
“I don’t hate you—”
“Now you let me finish.”
She fell silent.
“Then I came to know you, who you were—not Edgeworth’s daughter or Harcourt’s widow, but you, London. And what you just said…for the first time, I’m glad I’d killed someone. I’m sodding happy that Harcourt’s dead, and that I’m the one who’d ended his miserable life. Because of what he’d done to you. Because you’re free now.” He felt his heart slamming in his chest, the caged animal trying to free itself.
“Free,” she repeated. “That is what Athena said. That I’m free to do what I like, to please only myself.”
“That’s right. Only you.”
He could almost hear her thinking, the complex machine of her mind turning and processing. It was difficult to remember, sometimes, that women were held to different standards than men, that they were almost never in control of their own lives. Yet, here was London, liberated at last. What would she do, now that she had freed herself?
“If that is true,” she began, “then what would please me is…you.”
Exaltation and desire roared through him. Only ruthless control kept him from leaping toward her. He edged closer to the bulkhead, making room for her. “Come here.” He held out his hand.
She took a step, putting her hand into his, then froze. Her uncertainty vibrated in the tiny room. “I don’t…this is very new,” she said.
“I’m an excellent guide. London.” Just saying her name sent hot need shooting through him. He sat up and put his hands on her elbows, drawing her nearer. Her breath hitched. So did his. “I want you so much.” It frightened him a little. He couldn’t remember needing a woman as he needed her.
He slid his hands up her arms, feeling her shiver at his touch, then over her shoulders, until he cupped her head. His heart threatened to beat right out of his chest, her hair rough silk, the creamy skin of her jaw. He drowned in a thousand details—the rustle of her dress, its fabric brushing against his legs, the slight shift of her weight from foot to foot in time with the boat’s motion.
Their last kiss was rushed, a bare glimpse of what could be. He would take his time. But he couldn’t seem to make himself take a leisurely pace.
Only the slightest urging, and her mouth met his in a kiss. Such a mouth she had, sweet and soft and meant for languid, thorough kisses. Slow, slow, he ordered himself. He needed that, for both of them. Yet the first soft brushes of their lips together burned away the control he desperately sought. He pulled her closer so she stood between his legs as he sat. He kissed her deeply, and her shyness melted across his tongue, turned to something altogether bold. She threaded her fingers into his hair, holding him as tightly as he held her.
He tore his mouth away long enough to breathe, “Your hands.”
“Athena,” she panted. “Made a poultice. Things from the galley.”
“Thought I smelled honey.” But it was she who carried the fragrance of woman and sea air and desire, so he consumed her, devoured her with his demanding mouth. Perhaps she had been uncertain moments earlier, but there was nothing uncertain in her now as she sighed and made soft noises of pleasure, pressing herself against him. He felt her loosening, freeing herself from the cage of society and decorum. She was so damned responsive it nearly made him burst into flames.
Bennett ran his hands down her, learning her. He traced the lines of her collarbone through the fabric of her dress, then went lower, stroking her breasts. Small and full, they just fit his hands, the tips hardening as he brushed his thumbs over them. She moaned, or maybe he did, or both of them. It didn’t matter because he was touching her, kissing her and that’s all he knew or cared to know.
One of his hands moved down to the curve of her waist—she still wore her corset, so some veneer of society clung to her, he’d have to do something about that—then circled to cup her bottom. Sweet, she was sweet all over, everywhere meant for his touch, and she knew this, too, the way she met him at every caress.
His jacket and waistcoat were gone, somewhere, and her hands left his hair to smooth their way along his shoulders. She shoved at his braces. He shrugged them down, reluctant to break contact with her for a moment; then she felt him everywhere with the small masterpieces of her hands. She discovered him, mapped him, the width of his shoulders, the tight muscles of his arms, the planes of his chest that heaved like the deck of a storm-tossed ship under her touch.
When her hand slid lower to caress him through his trousers, an animal growl clawed from his throat. She pulled away a little, suddenly unsure, but he pressed her back with his own hand. Together, they stroked him. His hips rose from where he sat on the bed as she explored. His cock pounded, ached, under her exquisite torture.
“Stop, stop,” he groaned, stilling her hand.
“Does it hurt?”
“No—too good. I’ll spend in my trousers like a boy.”
A warm puff of air tickled his face as she laughed. “Ah, too bad.”
“You like torturing me.” He brought their mouths together.
“Yes, but no,” she said between open, greedy kisses. “Do I torture you?”
“Painfully.”
“Good.” He felt her smile against his mouth. “You’re mine to torment.”
“I am.”
“Mm, what a wonderful feeling. So powerful.” A shy but proud admission.
“A witch.” He chuckled. “But a woman, all the same.” To prove his point, he gathered up her skirts until his hands met the sati
ny flesh of her legs. He nearly exploded. She wasn’t wearing stockings. He traveled up farther, past her knees, the fabric of her skirt falling around his arms. His fingertips brushed the delicate hem of her drawers, the cotton so light as to be almost nonexistent. Her legs trembled under his touch as he went yet higher, finding the delicious crease between her buttocks and thighs. He found the opening of her drawers. He let his fingers lightly brush her there, felt her radiating heat. His fingers slipped inside the opening of the fabric to touch her, her outer folds. She trembled. Then, only then, he let himself dip into her. Ah, God. She was slick and eager. She whimpered into his mouth.
“So beautiful,” he growled. He pressed in closer, tracing her inner lips. His fingers dripped. “Here.”
She dropped her head to his shoulder, then he grinned with feral satisfaction when he felt a hard pinch just behind his clavicle. She’d bitten him.
He wanted to plunge into her, his fingers, his cock, his entire being, but he was ruthless with himself, holding so fast to his control that he shook. Instead, he stroked her, touched her, softly at first, but then she began to move, rocking into him, meeting his hand with growing desperation, and he let slip his control by a fraction. His fingers claimed her, touching deeper, delving inside where she was molten and tight. The heel of his hand rubbed at her clit, and it seemed she would climb onto him, wrap her legs around him so he might take everything.
“Bennett,” she gasped. “I’m—” Then her teeth clamped down on his shoulder as she stiffened and cried out, sending a glistening, golden thread of pain through him, straight to his cock. He’d never come without being touched, but he was so close, his breath burned in his throat and chest and his body was tight everywhere.
Barely had her tremors begun to subside before she was tugging at his shirt, fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. He was all too happy to assist. If he wasn’t inside of her, now, he’d burn the boat down around them.
The cabin door opened.
“Your shift, Day,” said Kallas, then, “Hell!” The captain quickly shut the door. From outside, Kallas said, “I need you on deck.”
“Now?” Bennett would kill him.
“Now. The wind’s shifted. I need you to run the rigging.” Then his footsteps, retreating.
The cabin filled with the sound of Bennett and London panting, each of them motionless. Jesus, he hadn’t even heard Kallas approaching, and his hearing was excellent. He’d been lost, lost in her, lost in his own desire that still clung to him like a fiery web.
Bennett gently moved London away from him. Even in the darkness, he saw the glaze of passion in her eyes, in the fullness of her mouth. They stared at each other for some time.
As much as he hated to, Bennett stood and began to adjust her skirts before righting his own clothing. He seldom had a valet and knew how to dress himself, but suddenly all clothes were alien and he couldn’t remember how to button his shirt. “I have to go.” He didn’t recognize his voice. He sounded like a bear about to slip his tether and maul his trainer.
Having conquered the mystery of his shirt, Bennett pulled up his braces, then began to hunt for his boots.
“But you didn’t—”
“I’ll live,” he growled, though he doubted at that moment if he would. Could a man die from sexual frustration? Very likely. All blood gone from one head and into the other. He found his boots, pulled them on, then shrugged into his jacket. It felt abominably tight, a vise.
Dressed, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her savagely. She clung to him, her mouth hungry and bold, and he knew that if he didn’t leave the cabin in the next minute, he would throw her onto the bunk, toss up her skirts, and plow into her with all the finesse of a sailor on leave. But Kallas was waiting and the boat needed tending.
“Get some sleep.” He opened the door. “Tomorrow is going to be very…full.”
Then he left her, and he’d never felt a pain like it in his life. Not just in his cock, which begged for release, but everywhere. His hands shook as he climbed the stairs to the top deck. The faint fragrance of her lingered on his fingertips. He licked them clean.
“Give a man some warning.” Kallas laughed as Bennett joined him at the wheel. “Go sweat up the halyard.”
Bennett considered ripping Kallas apart and feeding him to the gulls. The ship needed its captain, though.
“Next time,” he said darkly, before heading off to perform his task, “I’ll hang an anchor from the doorknob.” There would be a next time. If he could trade having a single, entire night with London Harcourt in his bed for a lifetime of celibacy, he’d choose her, and never regret his choice.
Chapter 8
Natives, Both Friendly and Hostile
London awoke from fevered dreams of Bennett’s mouth and hands to hear Kallas shouting orders above deck, boots moving over the wooden planks. Sitting up, she stretched, her back a mass of knots after sharing a one-man bunk.
The small porthole showed the approach of a rocky coastline, but it was difficult to see much through the narrow window.
She glanced over at Athena, busy rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“If I was more conventional,” Athena said, “I would say you must marry me now.” When London blinked in confusion, the witch explained, “While you slept, you attempted liberties with my person. You called me ‘Bennett,’ and commanded that I make love to you.”
“Oh, dear God!” London gasped, mortified. “I’m so sorry!”
Then Athena laughed. “A joke.” She sat up and swung her legs around. Even just waking, the witch’s aristocratic beauty shone. London had a feeling that she herself did not look nearly as regal upon rising from bed. “You did groan a little and say his name, though. Your encounter with him last night must not have been altogether satisfying.”
London’s face flamed. Both Athena and Kallas were quite aware of what was transpiring between her and Bennett. Even when married, London never discussed what went on in the bedchamber, though she had longed to ask someone, anyone, if carnal relations were often so uncomfortably formal. Now she and Bennett had crossed over into physical intimacy, and on the tiny planet of the caique, this was global news.
“It was satisfying,” she said, intent on smoothing out her wrinkled skirts. “But, ah, incomplete. We were…interrupted.”
“That explains it.” Athena nodded sagely. “The restless sleep, it is the body demanding more.”
It wasn’t only London’s body that wanted more. Having shared such intimacy with Bennett, it felt wrong and painful to separate. She thought of all the ancient love poetry she had read. Those antique words had planted needs within her. Those needs were never met by Lawrence, and she had shut them away into a locked cabinet within her, believing she was to endure a lifetime of cold solitude. But now, with Bennett, those needs broke the cabinet door and, in the wreckage, demanded to be satisfied. She wanted to sleep beside him, wake up in his arms and have him look warmly down at her with drowsy eyes while they spoke softly to one another about trifles. Yet, she did not even know if he was willing to do such things.
Rather than answer Athena or face the uncertainty of her feelings for Bennett, London got to her feet. “We should join the men on deck.” She went to the cabin door and added, without turning around, “You might want to consider what your own body demands, rather than mine. I recall you mumbling ‘Nikos’ a time or two last night.” As Athena sputtered a denial, London went out into the passageway, hiding her smile.
On deck, the day glowed. Light poured over the world, an exultation of clarity and brilliance. London’s eyes adjusted to the crystalline perfection. The sky, the blue of dreams, held not a cloud, and the sea lapped at the hull, content and irreproachable. The water shifted from cobalt to aquamarine and then to pale blue so clear, the gold of rocky sea floor shimmered underneath.
The approaching island was white rock and green pine, its narrow sand beaches weaving down to the sea in small arced bays that gathered the waves. From their
approach, it was difficult to see whether the island resembled a dolphin, but she trusted Kallas’s assessment. The sharp smell of pine threaded through the saline breeze. London stood at the rail, inhaling deeply and feeling the caress of sunlight on her face.
But she could not idly enjoy the pleasures of an Aegean morning. She turned to help bring the caique in. She lost her breath watching Bennett move with masculine grace and confidence around the boat. The lean muscles of his arms flexed as he trimmed the mainsail, his shoulders bunching and moving beneath the fine linen of his shirt. Bracing himself on the deck, his legs were long and powerful, the work of a master sculptor celebrating the male form. The sea wind ruffled his dark hair, and he smiled with the joy of movement.
Aware of her presence, he stared at her as she approached, his bright blue gaze hot and hungry. She pressed a hand to her belly, feeling the pull and demand of that gaze within her innermost self. And this man, this beautiful man, shared a bed with her last night?
Not entirely. There was still the matter of actually making love, having him inside her, beyond those skilled, blunt-tipped fingers. She desperately wanted that. Not once had she experienced a climax as potent or intoxicating as the one Bennett had given her through touch alone. Yet rather than feeling sated, as she thought she might, her release only triggered the need for more. More of Bennett. He was Bennett to her now, not Day, after all they’d done and shared.
“I hope you slept well,” she said, coming closer so that only a foot separated them. An inane thing to say, but how did one greet a lover the morning after an abortive tryst?
“Terrible,” he said.
“Perhaps tonight you’ll sleep better.”
“I hope not.” Searing heat from his gaze burned her, and she felt a leap of excitement and need.
“Then the night cannot come too soon.” To hear her speak! The proper and decorous London Harcourt of English society would never dare to say such things. But she was far away from English society, and might never return.
