Kestrel would not make an easy rival. Sweet and demure in one moment, sleek and siren-like the next, a predator, a courtesan, a lady all in one. Mira smiled wryly in the darkness, her hand still folded in Brendan’s as he pushed open his cabin door. I can be sweet and demure, too, she thought, silently transmitting her thoughts to the listening bulkheads, the gently rocking deck, the creaking masts that sounded unnaturally loud down here in the still quiet. And I will fight you for him as long as I live.
I met him first, the schooner seemed to whisper, and I will no more give him up than you will.
“We shall see,” Mira said aloud.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said hastily as Brendan turned, his face pale in the darkness. Around her, the bulkheads seemed to shake with frivolous laughter.
She wondered if she was coming unhinged.
She waited silently, shivering, as Brendan rooted in the gloom for a flint. Moments later, a lantern’s soft glow warmed the little cabin. It was the first time that Mira had been in here since Brendan had taken up residence, and she was pleased, very pleased, with what he had done.
A table, carefully rubbed down with oil, was snugged up against the bulkhead. A mahogany lap desk, an inkwell, a goose quill, a set of brass navigational instruments, and the schooner’s leather-bound log were neatly arranged atop it. A braided rug covered the deck planking, and a pile of wood was carefully stacked beside a tiny stove. A sword hung on the bulkhead, and the neatly made bunk was spread with a thick blue-and-white checkered quilt whose workmanship looked suspiciously like Abigail’s—and probably was, given the housekeeper’s fondness for “Captain Brendan.” Above it, a small cabinet was built into the bulkhead, and beneath it were several drawers, all neatly closed with no clothing hanging out of them, as was the case in Matt’s cabin aboard Proud Mistress. And unlike that other cabin, there was no liquor cabinet, no decanter of brandy on the table, no assortment of glasses scattered about in various stages of emptiness—nothing but a porcelain bowl and pitcher that probably contained water, no doubt frozen solid by now.
“You’ve done a fine decorating job,” she said earnestly, as he took off his tricorne and placed it on the table.
“Think so?”
“I do.”
The silence hung between them, heavy and awkward. Mira wondered if he, too, was thinking about kissing. Kissing . . . and other things. He was fidgeting again. She watched him for a moment, cursing his shyness, loving it. Finally she looked at the tiny wood stove and said, “I think you should light a fire.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s cold. It would take the chill out.”
He stared at her, frustrated, confused, and defenseless.
“Good heavens, Brendan. You did say you’re going to sleep here tonight, didn’t you? You might as well make yourself comfortable.” She picked up a piece of kindling and tossed it to him. “Here. What are you waiting for?”
He looked trapped. “Don’t you want a tour of the ship?”
She groaned silently. “Later. Just get the stove going, Brendan. I’m freezing.”
She watched as he piled kindling and a pair of logs into the tiny stove and lit it from the tinderbox. With his back toward her, he couldn’t see her impish, triumphant grin. Of course, once the fire was burning, he couldn’t leave the ship to escort her back home. He would be staying aboard Kestrel tonight.
And so, she vowed to herself with sudden recklessness, would she.
Now he was squatting down on his heels and feeding more kindling to the crackling flames, the scent of burning wood mingling with that of tallow, melted snow, oil, and new varnish. His hands were spread toward the heat; snow melted from his boots and puddled beneath them. From behind the little glass door the flames glowed against his face, making him look like a sun god. Adonis, Father had called him.
She stood there drinking in the sight of him. Wanting him but not very sure how to go about getting him. She was bold, but terrified. Determined, but worried about crossing the line between playfulness and offense. She chewed her lip, her gaze roving over his artist’s hands with their long, tapered fingers, his boyishly tousled hair, now coming free of its queue and curling damply over his forehead, his ears, his collar. She had a sudden urge to loosen it from the black ribbon at his nape and run her fingers through it.
She noticed then that he was shivering, too.
She squatted beside him and poked another piece of kindling into the growing flames. “You should’ve told me you were so cold.”
“I’m not c-cold.” He looked over at her with a helpless grin, his teeth chattering. “I’m freezing.”
A trickle of melted snow ran down his temple.
Wickedly, she had a sudden desire to lean forward and catch it on her tongue.
The snow might be melting on him, but the ice that lay between them had a long way to go before it was thawed. And suddenly Mira knew what she had to do. They were here, alone, in this cozy little cabin with a warm fire, a safe harbor, and the snow swirling just outside the stern windows. She had cleverly manipulated him into bringing her here. She sensed his desire for her, and her own for him surged and pounded through her blood like a fever left unchecked. And it would stay unchecked if she didn’t take the initiative.
Taking a deep breath, she picked up one of the furs and tossed it down before the stove. He stiffened and a muscle tensed in his jaw. Kicking off her boots, Mira removed her cloak, tossed it over a chair, and stretched out beside him.
He edged away, warily. “What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable.”
He turned back to the stove, pointedly refusing to look at her. Mira sidled closer to him. “Take your coat off,” she said.
“I’d rather not.”
“Look, it’s soaked. No wonder you’re freezing! Here, I’ll help you.”
He didn’t move. The silence, punctuated by the snapping hiss of burning wood, waited, as though Kestrel herself were testing her. That challenge did it. Without further deliberation Mira sat up, found the buttons of his lapel, and one by one, undid them. He endured her touch, his shoulders stiff as she drew off the heavy coat and tossed it over the chair back to dry, but made no move to stop her.
“For being Newburyport’s newest hero, you’re more jittery than a schoolboy with his first girl,” she said, softly.
He shut his eyes. “This is wrong.”
She sat back down beside him. Another drop of water, reflecting the firelight, trickled down his temple. Impulsively, Mira pressed her lips there, and put her tongue against his skin.
He groaned, his eyes opened, and her heart melted beneath that mellifluous stare.
“Why are you doing this, Moyrrra?” he said, in an agonized whisper.
“Doing what?”
“Driving me insane. I can’t take much more of this and still behave like a gentleman.”
“I do wish you’d stop behaving like a gentleman. I’m beginning to find it quite boring.”
“Faith.” He shut his eyes once more.
“The world is full of gentlemen and rakes. You’ve already proven to me that you can be a gentleman. Prove to me now that you can be a rake.”
“A rake?”
“Well, you are an Irishman, aren’t you?”
“Only half.”
“Well, then start acting like one. I want you to kiss me again.”
“No, Moyrrra.”
“Yes, Brendan.”
“’Tisn’t safe, lass!”
“What, do I have some sort of disease or something?”
“You know very well what I mean!”
She slid her hand beneath his shirt and touched his chest. The muscle there was tough and hard and sinewy, just as she’d known it would be. Softly, she ran her palm over the skin with its soft, wiry hair, over and over until he sighed and began to relax. His breathing quickened. Her fingers found an odd, puckered scar, small and round, but before she had time to wonder at it, his hand
had caught hers.
“I missed you, Brendan,” she murmured.
She buried her face against his neck, sidling closer to him, thankful for Kestrel’s slight rocking motion. And then, in defeat, his arm came up to wind around her back, holding her tightly against himself
“I missed you, too, Moyrrra. I couldn’t wait to get back.”
Slowly, and ever so gently, he eased her down to the thick furs. She shut her eyes, feeling her bones turn to butter as he swept her throat with hot kisses and his hand roved out over her hip, exploring its gentle rise. At last, she thought, all but purring as a delicious warmth bloomed somewhere deep in the pit of her belly and spread out through her blood. His lips found hers, and there was nothing shy about them, nothing jittery, and nothing hesitant. She reached up to embrace him, feeling drops of melted snow trickling from his queued hair down the back of her hands as she wound her arms behind his neck. The kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her own, and she groaned in delight as his hand roved up the curve of her ribs to cup and caress one breast, making her all the more grateful that she hadn't bothered to wear stays.
The warmth in her blood centered itself between her thighs and she writhed in need.
He broke the kiss, dragging his mouth down the side of her jaw, into the curve of her neck, and she moaned as his thumb brushed across her nipple, the sensation exquisite through the thin layers of fabric.
“Ohhh,” she sighed. She’d never known that anything could feel so good.
“You were all I thought of when I was away,” he murmured, his lips now grazing the quickening pulse at her throat, brushing over the rise of her breast. “Faith, lass, you make me mad for wanting you.”
And still, that rhythmic, delicious rubbing of his thumb over her nipple, over and over again, until it began to ache and harden. She pressed herself down against the decking, solid beneath the fur on which she lay. It was getting difficult to breathe. More difficult, still, to think, especially when he unbuttoned and parted her short jacket, loosened and pulled down the neckline of her chemise, and she felt the scratchy bristle of his jaw against the tender flesh there.
Against her breast.
And against the nipple, his breath warm and moist upon her skin.
The burning ache between her thighs intensified, and as though sensing it, he slowly pushed her skirts up, running his palm up the inside of her leg, and gently began stroking her in that hot, damp area that had become the center of her existence. She gasped and clamped her legs together, unsure, her eyes suddenly wide; he looked up, then, and she saw the golden starbursts in his honey-colored eyes, the desire—and yes, maybe even love mirrored in their gentle depths. He gave her a slow, teasing smile—and then he bent his head once more, his rich chestnut locks tumbling over his brow and his tongue swirling around the engorged nipple with a lazy, teasing motion that made the breath catch in her throat.
And then he drew it into his mouth.
She gasped and dug her elbows into the deck beneath her.
“Oh . . . oh, Brendan—”
Soft suckling noises. Exquisite sensation. She shut her eyes, burying her fingers in his soft, loosely curling locks and dragging them free from the ribbon that queued them, until his damp hair spilled over her hand. His tongue was circling her nipple now, flicking over it, drawing it tautly into the hot cavern of his mouth. She whimpered deep in her throat. Her heels dug into the deck, and she arched her body upward, trying, needing, desperate to get closer to him. Again, she felt the blade of his hand parting the damp folds of her legs, coaxing them gently apart, felt his hard, callused palm massaging her, his fingers delving into the soft triangle of damp curls between her thighs, until the sweet ache there began to build into something fierce and delicious and strange.
“Kiss me, Mira,” he said raggedly, and as he drove his mouth against hers, hard, he slid his fingers deep inside her and pushed his thumb against a part of her she hadn’t known existed. She cried out with the sheer, sweet agony of it, and as he gently massaged her there, still kissing her, she felt the unbearable ache peak and explode within her, her cries lost to his mouth and her fingers anchoring, knotting, in the damp hair at the base of his skull as her body bucked and writhed beneath his.
He broke the kiss, his brow bent, his hair hanging over his forehead and tickling her breast. “Damn you, Mira Ashton . . . d’anam don diabhal, grá mo chroí ...”
It was the furthest thing from damnation for either of them, yet it was all that, and more. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, then unbuttoned his breeches and peeled them off while she gazed up at him through a strand of damp hair with dazed eyes. Boldly, she let her gaze drift down—down his chest, down the arrow of chestnut hair below his navel, down to his arousal, rearing up from its bed of chestnut hair.
There was nothing shy about him now, nothing at all.
“See what you’ve brought me to, lass,” he murmured softly.
She gave him her impish grin. “It’s about time.”
With a curse, he drove an arm beneath her back and lifted her up, freeing her from the short jacket, its buttons briefly tangling in her thick hair. He pulled the tapes at her hips until her petticoats lay open, then dragged her shift over her head until she was as naked as he.
A log popped in the little stove, and beneath them, the schooner rolled a bit as the tide began to turn.
“Lie with me, Brendan,” she whispered, and reaching up, she pulled him down atop her and sought his mouth. They lay there together, skin to skin, hot despite the chill of the air around them. The fullness of his erection stabbed against her belly, and Mira felt the burn between her thighs, wet now with her own passion, beginning to build once more.
She reached down, seeking him, wanting to see what he felt like.
“Easy, Moyrrra. ...”
“I want to touch you, Brendan—”
“You are welcome to, but slow down, lass. Slow down.”
She did as he asked, and her questing fingers found him, hard, rigid, steel beneath velvet, pulsing and jumping with the feathery touch of her fingers.
He sucked in his breath and raised himself on his arms, looking down at her. “I would like to make love to you, Moyrrra.”
“I want you to make love to me, Brendan.”
“Will you marry me, lass?”
“Marry you?”
“Marry me. You have bewitched me. I think I’m in love with you . . . I’m done for.”
Her heart sang. “I will marry you, Brendan. But first . . . make love to me.”
He eased himself down, burying his lips against the curve of her neck, his breath stirring the hair there, warming her flesh.
“We don’t have to do this, you know . . . just say the word and I’ll stop.”
“You stop, and I’ll send you back to sea with a black eye and a broken nose to go with it.”
He might have laughed, she wasn’t sure, for his lips were drifting toward hers again. “’Twill hurt, though, mo stóirín....”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“But only for a wee moment.”
“For God’s sake, Brendan, just do it! Nothing could hurt as much as what you’re putting me through right now.”
“I’ll do my best to be gentle with you, Moyrrra.” His hands cradled her face, and he looked down at her, then kissed her fluttering lashes, her dewy cheeks. She felt pressure between her thighs, felt their slick, subtle protest as he gently eased himself down, down—and into her.
Sweet, sliding, stretching fullness.
Wet heat.
She moaned, sobbed, and drove herself recklessly upward.
Pain exploded deep inside her and she thrust herself higher, into it, into him, welcoming it. He lay still within her for a moment, poised on his forearms and letting her get used to the feel of him inside her; then, the pain faded and a sweet languor washed in to replace it, surging over her like a rising tide, leaving her helpless to do anything but merely drift
upon it, with it, in it. And then she realized that he was causing that tide, he was the tide, his powerful, hard thrusts beginning to rock her body, building that sweet languor into a fiery agony between her thighs that was threatening to carry her away once more.
“Brendan. . . .”
He silenced her with his mouth, his hot breath fanning her cheeks, his hands moving down her sides once more to lift her up to him. The fur pelt slid beneath her back, against the decking, bunching up beneath her with each strong thrust. And now the rhythm built, his movements coming faster and faster, harder and harder, and Mira hooked her legs around his hips and began to meet him with every one.
With a hoarse cry, he exploded into her, his hot seed pulsing against the walls of her very being and the flood of warmth within sending her own senses spinning out of control. Sobbing, she drove herself against him and clung there, convulsing, her damp hair pinned between their chests, his mouth, her lips. She held on long after the spasms passed, unwilling to let him go, unwilling to end this euphoric, blissful thing that they’d shared.
Kestrel moved gently beneath them, rocking them like a lullaby.
At last, reality returned. Mira saw the firelight dancing against Brendan’s bare shoulder, his richly colored hair. She felt its warm, drugging heat against her skin. Reaching out, she groped along the floor until she found one of the quilts. With her other arm still locked around Brendan’s back, she pulled the quilt over his shoulders, cuddling him, nuzzling him, loving him.
“Faith,” he mumbled, into the damp, hot curve of her neck.
She merely smiled and tightened her arms around his shoulders. “Still cold?” she teased.
He pushed himself up on his forearms and gazed down at her, and the depth of love in his eyes was of such a magnitude that Mira suddenly couldn’t breathe. Tears gathered behind her eyelids. He reached down to touch her face, one finger smoothing the little cat-wrinkles at the side of her nose.
Captain Of My Heart Page 22
