Nicole Jordan

by Wicked Fantasy

  “As you wish, your highness,” he muttered, his tone more truculent than meek.

  When he complied, stretching out his naked, bronzed body to recline on his back on the yellow counterpane, Antonia moved to stand over him.

  “Now what?” Deverill demanded.

  “You are being insolent, captive. I did not give you permission to address me.”

  After another hesitation, he answered more meekly. “Forgive me, your highness.”

  Pulling off her eye patch and laying aside the knife, she drew out a pair of satin ribbons from her sash.

  Deverill’s eyes sparked when he realized her intent was to shackle him to the bedposts, but he silently gritted his teeth. Climbing up to kneel on the bed, Antonia secured the ribbons to the mahogany frame, then raised both his arms above his head and looped the satin loosely around his wrists.

  Deverill only had eyes for her, however, possibly because she was deliberately distracting him, her breasts dangling like lush, ripe fruit above him. When she bent low enough to allow him a brief taste, brushing a taut peak against his mouth, he couldn’t help but groan. But just as quickly, she drew away to survey her handiwork and his body.

  She let her fingers tease his arousal briefly before sliding off the bed to remove her gown. When she was naked, she stood before him challengingly, legs spread slightly, hands on hips, her proud, thrusting breasts taunting him, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper and more mysterious.

  Deverill found himself transfixed; he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He had never seen Antonia like this. She was all wanton siren, all seductive temptress, clearly reveling in her newfound abandon.

  It made him wild with desire and longing—just as she undoubtedly intended.

  “My dear queen,” he said more huskily than he would have liked, “I don’t suppose you would consider putting me out of my misery by taking me now?”

  “Not yet. I intend to make you beg for mercy. So what kind of torture will be the most arousing, do you think?”

  “You obviously don’t need any instruction from me, your highness.”

  When she laughed lightly, he savored the sound of it. Then she reached down to stroke his erection, and he clenched his teeth. She was taunting, daring, and determined to make him plead.

  “Devil take you,” he ground out. “I will never beg.”

  “Take care, captive,” Antonia warned. “If you are not obedient, I will leave you here and find one of my crew to pleasure me instead.”

  “Your crew is a scurvy lot,” Deverill drawled with derision. “I’ll wager you prefer to be ridden by a real man.”

  “In truth, I prefer not to be ridden at all. I wish to do the riding.”

  With that, Antonia climbed up on the bed again and straddled him, her hands planted firmly on his chest, her cleft nestled against his shaft.

  “I like a demanding lover,” Deverill said in a strangled voice.

  “Good, since I intend to be very demanding.”

  Pulling off her pirate scarf, she threw it aside and shook her head, making her hair tumble silken wild around her shoulders. Then bending down, she deliberately let the flaming tresses pool across his body.

  Deverill sucked in a sharp breath. Yet her purpose for the moment apparently was not to arouse him.

  Instead, she kissed each and every one of his scars tenderly, lingeringly, deliberately soothing.

  Deverill squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the soft press of her lips, the quiet swirl of her tongue. How in God’s name had he let himself be lured into this vulnerable position? It showed the measure of his trust in Antonia that he would let her expose this dark, defenseless part of him. He wanted to escape, wanted to close off the fierce emotion she was arousing inside him with her gentle, burning kisses, yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

  And Antonia obviously was not about to stop. She succored him with light nips, comforted him with tender, healing kisses and wet swirls of her tongue. She paused only long enough to lift her head, gazing down at Deverill to judge his reaction.

  Her blue eyes were bright and raw with feeling. The sight brought a sudden tightness to Deverill’s throat, but with effort, he forced the ache away and tried to focus only on the pleasure she was giving him.

  Her hands slid along the bare skin of his arms, over his tensed shoulders, making the muscles coil and quiver involuntarily. Yet she clearly was determined to make him quiver elsewhere. Shifting her position, she knelt between his parted legs, looking down at the expanse of his chest, his belly, the sprawl of his thighs, the swollen, jutting erection that reached almost to his navel.

  Careful not to touch that prominent masculine part of him, she bent again and lightly kissed his abdomen, nipping at him with her lips, then soothing with her tongue.

  Deverill stirred restlessly, helplessly aroused. As if intending to increase his helplessness further, Antonia cupped the heavy sacs of his testicles, slowly brushing the soft skin. Then reaching higher, she curled her fingers around his thrusting erection, molding her palm to his hardness. The thick length surged in her hand when she gently squeezed.

  All the muscles in Deverill’s body tensed, yet he remained silent, struggling for control. It was a challenge Antonia apparently couldn’t resist. She bent low between his legs and nuzzled the soft sacs. Her caress made his breath catch, then rush out in a harsh hiss as she settled her lips at the base of his shaft and began to nibble.

  Moments later she deliberately let her tongue trail slowly upward, laving his rigid flesh. Impossibly aroused now, Deverill made a low, tortured sound deep in his throat and tilted his head back in surrender, an invitation for Antonia to have her way with him.

  Holding his swollen member in a light grasp, she closed her mouth around him fully. He shuddered, his hips instinctively rising off the bed, his spine arching against the sweet torture she was inflicting. When he started to slide himself slowly between her lips, however, Antonia would have none of it.

  “Be still,” she commanded in a husky voice, “or I will stop.”

  He obeyed, yet it required a herculean effort for him to maintain control. His fingers clutched at the ribbons loosely binding his wrists as she went on stimulating him, her hands a continuation of her mouth as she tormented him slowly, maddeningly. When he groaned aloud at the aching pleasure of it, she suckled harder, as if relishing her sense of power, her feeling of delight at how he was responding to her touch.

  Deverill nearly bucked, knowing she was causing him to lose control. His pulse pounded as she urged him on, arousing and tantalizing and inflaming. . . .

  Finally he let out a hoarse curse. “God . . . enough, wench. Come here.” He tore free of his satin bonds and reached for her, drawing her up to straddle his thighs.

  “Queen,” she countered huskily. “I am a queen.”

  “No, you’re a damned witch—and you are driving me mad.”

  “You are driving me mad as well,” Antonia whispered.

  He could tell she meant it, for the folds of her sex were already drenched and pulsing as she poised herself over his erection. Deverill’s fingers tightened convulsively on her hips. With every breath he took, he wanted her more intensely.

  “Slowly, love,” he urged, as much for his own benefit as hers as she lowered herself upon him.

  “Perhaps I can’t go slowly,” Antonia rasped, sheathing him fully.

  It was a tantalizing act of possession. Deverill felt her glide lusciously around him and nearly erupted.

  “You are so damned hot and wet,” he groaned as he thrust upward hard.

  His impalement made her gasp, made her hips writhe. He began to move urgently in answer, giving her the rhythm she wanted, but it was the ragged whimpering sound Antonia uttered that was the breaking point for Deverill. He growled her name again as the hunger in his body swelled into something huge, turning deep and desperate and driving.

  Her response was just as desperate. She rode him with a fierce and beautiful savager
y, losing herself in the surging tempo of his body. When she peaked, his sanity fled and together they ignited in explosive passion.

  Their climax seemed to go on forever. Deverill shook from the force of her body’s response and from his own. When Antonia finally collapsed upon him, he wrapped his arms around her and sank his face in her hair.

  It was a long while before the tremors stopped, longer still before he could find the breath to speak in a feeble rasp. “It appears I am insatiable when it comes to you, vixen. You fire my blood.”

  “Queen,” she murmured just as hoarsely. “I am still your pirate queen.”

  His strained smile was hidden in her hair. When Antonia would have eased off him, Deverill tightened his hold and kept his now flaccid manhood buried inside her. He could spend hours lying joined to her like this, savoring her warmth, her special brand of passion. Her compassion.

  “I’ll warrant,” he acknowledged truthfully, “that I will never again think of pirates in quite the same way.”

  “That was my intent,” she replied, her weary voice holding a hint of smugness.

  Deverill felt a strange ache in his chest. She hadn’t offered him pity, but understanding and sympathy. And he had accepted it without struggling, when he had never before allowed anyone or anything to comfort him.

  It was remarkable what Antonia did to him. Remarkable and troubling. She was so astonishingly sensual, so bewitching, that she kept him in a constant state of arousal and anticipation. But his hunger was more profound than carnal desire. What happened every time he touched her was outside his experience. She made him feverish with want, with need, with feeling.

  He hadn’t expected her to stir his emotions so powerfully, so deeply. For so long he hadn’t allowed himself any deep emotions at all. After the torment of losing half his crew, he’d cut off any feeling simply to save his sanity.

  He needed to continue doing so, Deverill told himself. Antonia made him feel far too much.

  Disturbed, he toyed absently with a strand of her hair. It had been a grave mistake to give in to her request to teach her pleasure, he admitted. He was in deep water now, and if he didn’t take care, he would find himself drowning.

  There was peril in too much closeness. Already it was an effort for him to ignore how right this felt . . . this intimacy, this sense of possession, of being possessed. Already he regretted having to set sail in a few hours.

  Deverill scowled up at the timbered ceiling. He couldn’t recall ever regretting having to leave a woman behind before. It was a first for him, he realized, remembering how often he had politely discarded a lover who became too amorous or clinging.

  Mentally, he shook his head. In truth, he was glad to be leaving Antonia this afternoon. He needed to put a significant distance between them, since his craving for her was becoming uncontrollable.

  Just then he felt the lazy, rhythmic stroke of her hand along his thigh, suggestive and arousing. Deverill felt his body tense with unmistakable desire.

  He hadn’t intended on taking her again, but evidently Antonia had other ideas in mind.

  She raised her head to gaze down into his eyes

  seductively. “You are still my captive for the rest of the morning, you know.”

  He didn’t want to deny her; he couldn’t deny her. His response was entirely out of his control. Amazingly he could feel himself swelling inside her.

  And when she kissed him, her mouth so wet and soft, her touch cauterizing his mind with need, he could do nothing but surrender.

  Ignoring the warnings of danger clamoring in his head, Deverill pulled Antonia against him and sighed into her mouth, wondering if a man could die of the tormenting pleasure his glorious pirate queen was forcing upon him.

  Fifteen

  “So what do you know about Deverill’s occupation, my dear?” Sir Gawain asked Antonia pleasantly.

  The question surprised her as much as had the baronet’s invitation to accompany him fishing. She and Sir Gawain were now sitting on a riverbank on the castle grounds, dangling their lines in the lazily moving water, shaded from the bright morning sunshine by the branches of a willow tree. Isabella was currently visiting her sister-in-law, who had been delivered of a strapping baby boy, and both mother and infant son were reportedly faring extremely well.

  Antonia had presumed that when Sir Gawain offered to expand her horizons and teach her how to fish, he would reminisce about his friendship with her late father. But the question about Deverill’s occupation caught her off guard.

  “I gather Deverill spends much of his time ridding the seas of pirates,” she answered. “And Isabella mentioned that he works for a small department of the Foreign Office. For you, in fact.”

  Sir Gawain nodded. “Our department is headquartered on Cyrene, true, yet there is much more to our organization than a governmental bureaucracy. The details are normally a well-guarded secret, but in this instance, my dear, I intend to break our code of silence, for I want you to understand the enormity of what we deal with. But you must promise that you will hold what I am about to tell you in strictest confidence.”

  The sudden intent look on the baronet’s face disquieted Antonia. “Yes, of course. I promise.”

  “Our department is not actually a branch of government.”

  Her eyes widened with curiosity. “Then what is it?”

  His look turned grave. “It is a centuries-old order dedicated to fighting tyranny and injustice and protecting the weak. A league of protectors, if you will.”

  Antonia found herself staring at Sir Gawain. His solemn declaration was not at all what she had expected to hear. “Protectors?” she said after a moment. “Please tell me more.”

  With an enigmatic smile, Sir Gawain obliged. “We are called Guardians, my dear. Guardians of the Sword—for reasons too complicated to go into just now. Suffice it to say that our alliance with the British Foreign Office proves mutually beneficial. We perform tasks too difficult and perilous for Whitehall to undertake, and the official connection helps us to protect our identities and to explain away our clandestine activities.”

  “What sort of clandestine activities?” Antonia quizzed, unable to hide her amazement.

  “They vary considerably. For the past several decades, we have endeavored to meet the challenges fomented by the French Revolution and Napoleon’s subsequent attempt to conquer the known world. Saving imprisoned aristocrats from the guillotine, for instance. Striving to bring about Bonaparte’s defeat in any manner possible. We even have several female members in our order, since there are some tasks better suited to women. But few people realize the vast extent of our organization or know the remarkable tale of our inception. Your father was one.”

  “My father knew about your order?” Antonia echoed in surprise.

  “Yes. Samuel was an invaluable ally to us. He supplied ships to the Guardians for many years.”

  A memory of her father unexpectedly welled in

  Antonia’s mind—his booming laughter, his bold, powerful personality, his ardent notions about class and gender and society.

  He had never mentioned a word to her about a secret league of protectors called the Guardians. But then, she was a mere female, and more crucially, a lady. Her father had always purposely shielded her from his business affairs. It wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t trusted her with the secret.

  Nor had Deverill, for that matter, Antonia realized suddenly. The reflection made her wonder why Sir Gawain was telling her now.

  “I suppose Deverill is a member of your order?” Antonia prodded.

  “He is indeed. But he would never divulge our existence because he swore an oath of secrecy.”

  “Then why are you telling me, Sir Gawain?”

  “Because I would like our special relationship with Maitland Shipping to continue. That was out of the question once Lord Heward became involved in the company’s business affairs. But if you find it necessary to replace your Director Trant, I hope to persuade you to hire someone
supportive of our order’s endeavors.”

  “I expect you could persuade me,” Antonia replied quite seriously, although her mouth curved in a smile.

  Sir Gawain’s return smile held gratification, before he pursed his lips thoughtfully, as if debating whether to continue. “There is a further reason for my divulgences, my dear—one perhaps even more important than desiring your patronage. I wish you to see that there is far more to Deverill than meets the eye.”

  Antonia’s brows drew together. “I never doubted it. I always suspected he was more than an adventurer.”

  “He is worth any ten noblemen, my dear.”

  It was a puzzling comment, but Antonia was thinking about her previous interactions with Deverill. Perhaps his being a Guardian also helped explain why he’d been so adamant about rescuing her from her betrothed’s clutches. And why he had always made her feel safe and cared for—at least when he wasn’t provoking her to distraction. He belonged to a league of protectors whose duty was to defend others.

  It certainly made sense now why Deverill had no desire to live in England and run her father’s shipping empire.

  “I wanted Deverill to become the company’s director,” she mused aloud, “but he declined. He claimed he cherished his freedom too much to settle down in such a routine role.”

  “That is partly true,” Sir Gawain replied. “He cherishes his freedom so he can devote his life to

  our cause. His work is not only his vocation but his passion—as it is for all of us who serve the order. Yet Deverill is even more driven than the rest of us. Not only because he believes fiercely in our noble ideals, but because he has made it his personal mission to save others.”

  Antonia’s eyes locked with Sir Gawain’s in understanding. “Because he couldn’t save his crew.”

  Sir Gawain raised an eyebrow. “You know of his captivity in a Turkish prison?”

  “He . . . mentioned it. I can only imagine what a terrible experience that must have been for him.”