Color stained Angela’s cheeks, and her lower lip quivered slightly. “I admit that she was reluctant, but it is only until I reach—until I get to my destination. I promised I would send her home then.”
“And she was given that choice?”
Angela’s lashes lowered over her eyes, and after a moment, she said softly, “No. You are right. I allowed my needs to supersede Emily’s. It seemed my only solution at the time.”
“Yet Emily is now enjoying a fate similar to yours. How that must upset you.”
Her lashes flew up at his mockery, heated anger drying her tears. “I suppose you’ve never acted unwisely? I suppose your life has been one of perfect and blameless rectitude?”
“At least I’m honest enough to say outright that what I want matters most to me,” he shot back. “I don’t hide behind self-righteous pratings about morality.”
“Don’t you?” she mocked. “I seem to recall your condemning Captain Turnower when I’ve seen you commit acts of piracy that are even worse. I think you do exactly what you want, when you want, with no regard to right or wrong.”
“Do you.” His grip tightened. “Perhaps you’re right. What I want right now is to lay you back on my bed. Maybe I should, and to hell with everything else.”
He heard her soft gasp as he pulled her hard against him, and ignored the wordless whimper of protest she gave when he bent his head and kissed her. He drew one hand down over her back, spreading his fingers to hold her tightly against him. He could feel the thrust of her breasts through the thin silk, the nipples hard little points against the bare skin of his chest. God, he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be yielding to the heady temptation she presented. The lesson he’d intended to teach her was turning out to be more of a lesson for him. If he had any sense, he would let go, turn her around, and send her back to her own cabin before he went so far he couldn’t retreat.
But as Turk had noted more than once, there were moments when a man’s reason became clouded. This, apparently, was one of them.
Kit rapidly lost himself in the kiss, in the sweet, luscious taste of her mouth and the feel of her body beneath his palm. It was insane, and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop. Not now, not now . . .
“Angel,” he muttered in a groan, his mouth against her scented skin. Kissing her mouth and then her throat, his hand curled more tightly in the wealth of her hair and he coiled it around his fist to hold her still. It should have made little difference who she was or what she was, only that she was there and soft and warm and inviting. It was vaguely surprising to realize that it made a great deal of difference to him, and he wondered why.
Her struggles finally ceased and she leaned compliantly against him, her breath coming in shallow pants, her breasts pressing tantalizingly against him with each intake of air. He explored her soft curves through the robe, shaping her to him, stroking down the small of her back and over her hips, hands molding to her body in caresses that grew bold. She was moving against him, faint whimpers coming from her throat, and with a shock, he felt her hands move in a light caress over his back. Any thought of restraint he might have entertained vanished like smoke in a high wind. He groaned, and without pausing to think, swept her into his arms and carried her to his shadowed bunk.
Laying her down, he leaned over her, bracing himself on one arm. Her hair fanned out over his pillow in a golden stream and the jade dressing gown gapped open, revealing a marvel of cream and pink shadows. He put a hand atop hers when she instinctively moved to cover herself.
“No, don’t,” he said in a voice so hoarse he didn’t recognize it as his own. Her hand quivered under his. She looked up through a thick fan of lashes that shadowed her eyes, mouth trembling. He bent again, closing his eyes as he kissed her and reached for the ties of her dressing gown.
When he gave the silk tie a tug, it came free, and he felt the edges fall apart. With a groan, he bent lower, forearm pressing her back into the mattress of his bunk. His mouth teased her taut nipple through the silk, drawing it against his teeth and wetting the material until she was arching up against him with moans of pleasure.
Losing himself in the damp heat of her body, Kit slid his hand intimately between her legs. He wanted her so badly he ached all over, but he wanted her willing. He wanted her to ache for him, to plead for what he desperately wanted to give her. It was insane and he knew it, knew that he should run before it was too late, but at that moment, nothing could have dragged him away. Caressing her, he slid his hand upward until he touched her intimately, sliding his fingers over her alluring femininity in a leisurely glide. She gave a small cry but he did not remove his hand, even when her thighs closed around it.
Still stroking her, he shifted slightly so that the silk robe slipped away from her breast. The nipple was tightly beaded and damp, and he took it gently between his teeth, teasing it until she began to gasp and tremble beneath him. He tugged at her nipple, one hand moving to her other breast and the other between her thighs. He slid his fingers into her, into the tight, moist heat of her, exploring deeply. When he came to the unbroken barrier of her virginity, he felt a moment’s shock. Somehow, he’d not quite expected that. He didn’t know why, except that the English gentlewomen he’d known had usually been much more experienced.
He groaned, feeling as if he would explode at any moment. Damn, he had to exhibit some restraint.
Damn restraint, he thought in the next instant when she arched against him. He had to have her, had to feel her lovely body tight around him. His hand moved inside her again, long glides that made the edges of his reason grow dim and hazy. His blood was pounding, drowning out common sense and the tiny whispers of whatever conscience he had left. Suddenly, he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but Angela, the sweet curves of her body and the release she could give him.
Angela cried out, body quivering, and he started to withdraw and reach for the buttons of his breeches. Almost convulsively, she grasped at him, holding him still as her hips arched upward.
“Kit, please,” she breathed in a strangled moan, and he wasn’t certain if she wanted him to stop or continue. He moved his hand again in a slow glide and felt her quiver. Schooling his raging body into patience, he focused on giving her pleasure, his fingers stroking in and out. Her hands raked the bare skin of his arms and shoulders where the leather vest had fallen away, but he barely felt the sting. Then she was shuddering against him in release, awkward in her inexperience, crying out wordlessly.
For a long moment, Kit hung there, braced on one arm, fighting the impulse to take her. He should. She would yield gladly. But somewhere in the midst of her response to him, he had discovered that he couldn’t do that to her. Some small spark of the man he had once been—should have been—would not allow him to take advantage of her innocence.
Lifting his head, he stared down at her small face. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted. She made him think of a tiger cub, all hiss and curiosity, and he fought a wave of unexpected affection mixed with resentment. He sighed, and held her for a long moment while she tucked her head into the billowing softness of a pillow as if trying to hide from him.
Finally, into the silence still thick with remnants of passion, she said softly, “Is that what you did to the woman who threw herself overboard rather than face her family?”
Kit went still. He felt as if he’d been doused with icy water. Damn her. How did she hear that old story? Of course. Emily would know. She read all the accounts, true and untrue, of his exploits. He should have expected this, but somehow he hadn’t.
He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked at her for a moment before saying deliberately, “Yes.”
Angela’s head turned away on the pillow, and she drew together the edges of her dressing gown. He caught her hands.
“A little late for that, isn’t it? No, don’t say anything else. I think you’ve said quite enough for now.”
He got up and stalked toward h
is desk, eyeing the damp spots on his carpet with a scowl. Keys jangled as he unlocked a drawer and removed the small wood and iron cask that held the letters of marque giving the Sea Tiger permission to sail certain waters. When he glanced up, he saw that Angela had gathered up her clothes and started for the door.
“Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he demanded, and when she didn’t pause, he strode after her. He caught her by one arm as she was about to exit and yanked her back into the cabin. Tears streaked her cheeks and trembled on the length of her lashes, but her mouth was set in a taut line. She shot him a nervous glance and her small chin rose defiantly.
“Let go of me.”
“And let you trot up on deck where the wind will whip that thin robe right off you? Fine.” He let go of her. “By all means, my lady, gallivant along the decks wearing next to nothing. And when the crew is done with you, I’ll toss what’s left over the taffrail.”
Angela paled. “I could dress first.”
“Yes. That would be the intelligent thing to do. Jolly good thing you thought of it, tardy though you may be.”
His acid tone seemed to seep into her brain at last, and she pressed her lips tightly together. After a moment, she said, “I cannot dress with you still in here, Captain Saber.”
His brow shot up. “How formal we’re being now. After what we’ve just shared, you could relax a bit, you know. It’s not as if I haven’t already seen all of you there is to see.”
With flaming cheeks, Angela glared up at him. “That was not my choice, either. And I refuse to dress for your entertainment . . .”
He put up a hand to stop her. “Spare me the self-righteous mewling. Perhaps the best thing is for me to fetch your chaperon to take you to your cabin.”
“How kind of you,” Angela said tartly. “I see why you’re so popular a captain.”
Kit didn’t reply. He stuck his head out the door and bellowed, “Dylan!” until he heard the rapid pounding of feet in the companionway. In moments, Dylan appeared at the door, his face carefully settling into a blank expression as he surveyed the scene. Amber eyes moved from the tub and scattered cloths to the bed, and then to Angela’s disheveled figure and damp robe. Kit could imagine his thoughts.
“Do you need me?” Dylan asked, and Kit wasn’t certain which one of them he was addressing.
Angela was thrust forward. “No,” Saber said curtly, “but I want her out of here. Now.”
Dylan didn’t ask questions, only took Angela by one arm and escorted her from the cabin. Kit slammed the door behind them; he wondered bitterly why he seemed to keep his brains between his legs since meeting Angela. He should have backed out of the cabin the moment he’d seen her. It would have been much simpler.
And when Turk stepped into his cabin several minutes later and glanced around with a brow lifted in mild surprise, Kit wished he’d done the sensible thing and stayed topside until it was clear.
“Mercy,” Turk said at last, eyeing the hip bath full of cold, perfumed water and the rumpled bunk, “I seem to have missed something.”
“Not much.” Kit held out the papers he’d retrieved. “These will do. With England and Portugal such enthusiastic allies against Napoleon, we should be well received.”
“I daresay.” Turk took the papers and slid them into the inner pocket of his tailored coat. Superfine breeches fit him snugly, and his knee-high Hessian leather boots had been fashioned by Hoby, the most famous bootmaker in London.
Kit regarded Turk with a lifted brow. “Dressed to the nines, I see. Expecting to impress someone?”
“One should invariably endeavor to impress those in a position to do harm or favor.”
“Really. I take it you mean to overwhelm Commissioner LaRosa with your tailor?”
“If possible. Should I wear ragged breeches and a leather vest? It would definitely make an impression, but not one I would recommend.” Turk studied him for a moment before saying softly, “Your irascible temper is even fouler than normal. I advise you to initiate steps to correct the cause.”
“And I suppose you know the cause,” Kit said irritably when Turk turned to leave. The quartermaster turned back.
“I am well aware of the motivation for your ill humor. As are you.”
“Bloody hell, Turk, leave it be,” Kit said savagely. “They’ll be gone tomorrow.”
“I fervently hope that you do not swerve in that enterprise, Kit. The consequences could be disastrous.”
“What makes you think I’ll change my mind? The girl gets on my nerves. I’m eager to be rid of the both of them.”
“As you say. Nevertheless, I wish to reiterate the importance of them being returned to their homes. It could initiate an incident that would be extremely detrimental to us if we were so foolish as to allow them to linger aboard the Sea Tiger much longer.”
Amazed, Kit said, “Do I look like I’m enjoying this? I’d rather eat a live toad than take her another league.”
A faint smile curved Turk’s mouth. “Live toads are not very appetizing. Nor are they healthy. If you insist upon meat in your diet, I suggest white fish or perhaps shellfish.”
Kit had learned long before not to take seriously every baiting comment Turk made, but it still rankled. “Thank you for another commentary on my diet when we’re discussing a completely different topic.”
“Not quite so dissimilar, if you consider all the aspects. You are remarkably intractable about recognizing facts whose existence you do not care to acknowledge. It can be both advantageous and calamitous.”
Kit ignored this. “While you are meeting with Commissioner LaRosa, I shall be making the arrangements for our . . . guests to embark on a return journey to England. With a generous payment for our services, of course.”
“Excellent. I have the suspicion that Miss Angela would generate industrious investigation if her whereabouts are not divulged in a reasonable length of time.”
“If one cares to believe her maid, she is extremely valuable as a hostage. Although I have my doubts that anyone would bother paying for her, the crew thinks otherwise.” Kit rose from behind his desk. “Although if I were to be fair, I suppose I would have to admit to a certain astonishment at the young lady’s choice of reading material. Despite all appearances to the contrary, it seems she at least possesses a brain.”
“If you would actually commence a discourse with her instead of an argument,” said Turk, “you would already know that.”
Kit shrugged. He was beginning to find the conversation tedious, which was rare when he was with Turk. No other man had ever been able to converse at length with him, matching wit and temper so neatly that it was almost as if he argued with his mirror image. Lately, his mirror image had begun to chafe.
“At any rate,” he said, “by this time tomorrow, the ladies will be someone else’s problem.”
“I certainly hope so.” Turk paused in the doorway. “I shall be glad when matters are back to normal.”
“Whatever that is.”
Turk nodded. “Yes. Whatever that is.”
After Turk had gone, Kit moved to stare through the gallery porthole at the water outside. A blur on the horizon grew sharper as he watched. The volcanic rock of Pico Island thrust up from the sea in elephantine folds, barren and desolate. Ponta Delgada on the south side of São Miguel had a decent harbor, and they would be putting into it before dark. It would be a relief to rid himself of the responsibility of Angela Whoever.
He just wished he could erase from his mind the image of her in his bunk, still damp from her bath, and the silk dressing robe barely clinging to her luscious curves, her eyes closed in ecstasy. He tamped down the surge of raw frustration that still gnawed at him. Bloody hell. He’d get rid of her at the first opportunity. He had to, or he’d find himself at her feet like some puling adolescent boy besotted with his first woman.
Kit looked down at his knotted hands, and realized that he’d broken in two a Chinese figurine from the fifth dynasty. He couldn’t re
call picking it up, but there it was in his hands, snapped as cleanly as a dry twig. Gently, he placed the ruined figurine on a table and reached for the decanter of brandy. He’d best dull the edges, or there would be hell to pay.
Rollo, flapped in through the opened door, perched on the edge of the brass tub and looked at him brightly. “Bloody hell,” he chirped cheerily, and Kit held up his brandy.
“A toast, Rollo. To women—if only we could fall into their arms, and not into their hands. Damn all women.”
Tilting back his head, he drained his brandy in a single swallow, while Rollo merrily crowed, “Damn all women. Damn all women . . .”
Eight
“Now?” Angela tried to hide the sudden tremor of her hands. “I had no idea that we were even near land.”
Dylan turned her around and began to button her dress with a brisk efficiency that would do any lady’s maid proud. “Well, we are. How d’ya think I was able to persuade Saber to let you bathe? Be still. I can’t fasten these tiny hooks and eyes if you keep turning around to look at me.”
She stood stiffly while Dylan fussed with the fastenings of her gown. She had not seen Saber since the episode in his cabin earlier, and prayed earnestly that she would not have to face him again. She couldn’t. Not with the memory of what had transpired between them still so raw and vivid in her mind. It made her burn with shame to recall it, and she quickly thrust it from her thoughts.
But like a cork, images bobbed to the surface despite her most vigorous efforts to drown them. Flashes of Kit’s face above her on the bunk, his arms around her, his hands moving so wickedly and wantonly, provoking reactions she’d never dreamed existed . . . she wondered what he thought of her now. That she was morally deficient, probably. She couldn’t argue with that, either. Why had she yielded so easily?
Maybe it was as he’d said—magic. Surrender to the magic, he’d told her, and she had not known then what he meant. Now she did. Oh yes. Now she did. She had never imagined anything would feel like that.
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