by Brenda Joyce
“You want the first dance?” she gasped.
He tore his gaze away, shaken by the possessive desire that had arisen. “I do. In fact, I will make certain to be in London for your first ball—if you promise me that dance.”
She turned away, incredulous, but the rope between them went taut. “Of course,” she said breathlessly. Then she faced him, still surprised. “But why?”
“Are you not my protégée?” he asked, trying to sound casual. But he knew that she would be too beautiful to resist in a ball gown, whirling about the floor in a gentleman’s arms. It flashed through his mind that he might not be that pleased when she was introduced into society, because no gentleman would be immune to her beauty. And suddenly he wanted that first dance very badly—suddenly he ached for it.
He glanced at her through his lashes. “Is it not my right to dance with you before all others?” he asked softly, unable to help himself.
He could not control himself. They were standing near the helm in gale winds, the deck rocking heavily beneath their feet, and he was thinking of this woman, her beauty, her allure and his passion, not the storm. He knew he would feel as intensely passionate dancing with her as he would if he allowed himself to take her to his bed.
She began to smile. “I am clumsy,” she warned.
He laughed, relieved by her absurd comment. “Impossible! You are light on your feet—we locked swords, remember? I know you will excel at dancing, just as you will excel at all of your current studies.”
She suddenly lowered her dark lashes. “Very well. I will allow you the first dance—if you allow me to ride the storm here with you.”
“Absolutely not!” he shouted, aghast. “I do not need you going overboard, either!”
She pulled on the rope binding them, then gave him a sidelong, seductive look. “I can hardly fall overboard now.”
He shook his head, furious with her for daring to use that dance against him, and glanced again at the high, white foam of the seas. The horizon ahead was now pitch-black, a sight he did not care for. He turned back to her. “I will not barter for that dance,” he warned. He was going to have it, no matter what she now intended.
She gave him a look—one far too womanly for his comfort—as if she knew she had triumphed, but she suddenly cried out. He whirled to follow her gaze. One of the topmen was dangling from the topsail yardarm. And from the corner of his eye he saw Amanda’s dagger flash as she cut the rope binding them together.
Instinctively he moved to seize her, but she adeptly dodged his grasp, ducking beneath his arm and leaping to the deck below. “Amanda!” he shouted, leaping after her.
She jumped up into the main shrouds; his heart stopped. Was she thinking to save the sailor?
He ran forward, intending to seize her before she got too high up in the shrouds. But she was very agile and was rapidly outdistancing him.
She was already close to the topmast shrouds. Amanda was dangerously high up—high enough that a fall would kill her. He was torn. He could try to chase her up the rigging and force her back down, or he could return to the decks to catch her if she fell. Cliff leaped back to the decks.
He was instantly joined by midshipman Clark. “Catch her if she falls,” he said tersely.
He watched Amanda fight the winds, which were stronger so far above the deck. The gale could easily blow her from the rigging. She had stepped into the topmast shrouds but the lad was dangling from the main topsail yard above her, twirling like a puppet on a string. Cliff did not think the boy could hold on for much longer.
Amanda had paused, clearly fighting for strength.
The dangling sailor shouted to her.
Then Amanda began to fight the winds, climbing higher. Slowly she approached the sailor, her small body beginning to twist in the shrouds as the wind played her. She extended one hand toward the lad and Cliff froze. He was expecting her slender body to be torn free from the rigging and blown viciously away at any moment.
The sailor refused to let go of the yard.
Amanda was shouting at him, her words lost in the storm.
She had that dagger, Cliff thought fiercely. “Amanda!” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Cut the line—send him a rope! Cut the line!”
Suddenly Amanda went for her dagger and cut one of the shroud lines. She flung it at the sailor. He reached for it, and when he caught it, Cliff knew it was a miracle. The sailor let go of the yard, and holding to the line, he soared toward the deck. Cliff let the men seize his legs and bring him down, his attention intensely riveted to Amanda as she started down the shrouds. When she was finally close enough that a fall might break bones but not kill her, he leaped into the shrouds, climbing quickly up to her. She saw him and smiled, not just triumphant, but smug.
He was beyond amazement. Cliff reached for her, seizing her with one arm. “Let go,” he shouted.
She obeyed and he pulled her against his body. And for one moment, they swung together in the shrouds, Amanda securely in his arms. “Jesus.” It was the only speech he was capable of.
“Jesus,” he said again. He didn’t think he would have ever recovered if she had been flung to her death.
With her cheek against his chest, Amanda cried, “The boy?”
“He’s fine,” he shouted. In that moment, he realized the winds had dangerously increased and they had to get out of the shrouds. “We need to descend,” he told her. “Just hold on to me and do not let go.”
She shouted, “I can descend by myself!”
Like hell, he thought. He started a careful descent, afraid to miss a step and mistakenly hurl her to the decks. His men appeared and he gave her over to their waiting arms. Then he leaped to the deck. “Someone take her below. Triple-reef the topsails,” he ordered.
Amanda faced him, seizing his arm. “Let me stay,” she said calmly. “I can help. I think I have proven it.”
“You are not staying on deck,” Cliff had said firmly.
“I saved that sailor’s life.”
“The act was beyond madness! You will go below with my children.”
“De Warenne. I swear to obey your every order. Please.”
What woman in her right mind, would wish to stand beside him and ride out the oncoming storm? Only the same woman who had risked her life to save a sailor she did not know. He was never going to forget Amanda scrambling up the rigging, risking her own life to rescue the lad. It had been the bravest act he had ever witnessed. She was, without a doubt, the most courageous woman he had ever known.
“You’ll be lashed to the foremast and it won’t be pleasant.”
She smiled widely at him.
THE SKIES HAD TURNED black a few hours after sunset. The winds had begun to rage at fifty-six knots and had not abated since; the frigate was only carrying her storm staysails. The high seas were completely white and there was no visibility; the air was filled with foam and spray. The frigate bucked wildly. MacIver was at the helm, but Cliff stood beside him, and all hands were on deck. It was well into the middle watch.
Amanda stood just ahead of them both, a rope securely tied around her waist and lashed to a bolt below the foremast shrouds so she could not be blown overboard.
A solid eight hours had passed since she had rescued the sailor. It was, he estimated, two or three in the morning. Amanda had stood beside him, riding out the storm as if she were a part of the wind and the sea. His admiration for her knew no bounds.
“Are we sailin’ into a hurricane, sir?” the officer shouted at him.
“No,” Cliff shouted back. “We are in her center, Mac. Another hour and we will be through the worst.”
“Aye, sir.”
Cliff fought the wind, moving to the starboard, glancing at her. She met his gaze with a smile, her eyes fierce and bright. He had not bothered to ask her even once if she was tired and wished to go below, for he knew what her answer would be. “We are in the heart of the storm,” he told her.
She nodded. “I know. I can feel it.”
She gestured at the bow. “There’s daylight ahead.”
He followed her gaze but saw no sign of the dawn.
An hour later, they both saw the shifting light. Cliff remained standing with Amanda. The winds abruptly began to ease. He scanned the white frothing seas and realized he was not mistaken—the cataclysm was ending. He glanced at her and she smiled, saying, “We have just dropped a good ten knots.”
Her ability to gauge the wind and the weather amazed him. “Yes, we have.” Then he sniffed the air. “But we are in for heavy rain.”
She shrugged.
He asked for a rating—the wind had dropped eleven knots. He barked orders to begin making sail. When he returned to her side, it was to lift his spyglass and stare toward the horizon. As he did so, instantly remarking the rising sun, a raindrop splattered on his hands, followed by another one, and then another one. Before he could utter a word, a torrential downpour engulfed them.
She laughed. “May I cut my stays?”
He smiled, as the winds had dropped to no more than twenty knots. His answer was to slice the bonds himself. He gave her a look, and understanding, she followed him to the helm. “Mac, I’ll take over. You did a fine job of sailing tonight. Go below and enjoy a good mug.”
MacIver grinned. “Aye, Cap.” He glanced at Amanda. Then he tipped his cap at her and hurried from the quarterdeck.
The deluge, impossibly, intensified. But Cliff caressed the huge wheel, the frigate now gliding easily through the waves, the seas frothing white over silver bands on gray. “You should go below,” he commented, sending her a glance.
“I like the rain,” she said.
He did not speak. She should have resembled a bedraggled child, but she appeared like a goddess from the sea. Her wet shirt clung to her, revealing her full breasts, tight nipples and small, narrow waist. Her clothing seemed to be opaque, indicating that she wore cheap material beneath, but he was not relieved. He told himself not to stare and pulled his gaze away. But the damage had been done. The crisis was over, and he had never wanted any woman as much as he wanted Amanda Carre.
The downpour ended a few moments later. The sky continued to fade and the winds dropped precipitously. And suddenly, the sun was rising before them, crimson streaking the sky and the sea, wisps of blue fighting the gray. The moment was powerful and he shared a glance with Amanda. They exchanged quiet, understanding smiles.
She stared at him, no longer smiling. He felt her heat then, her hunger. Whatever child he had rescued weeks ago in Spanishtown was long gone. A seductive woman remained. His tension thickened.
Cliff turned to order more sail hoisted. As he did so, Amanda muttered something and suddenly crossed to the deck below. The quarterdeck felt strangely empty with her gone. But it was better this way and he exhaled, trying to relax, fighting the blood in his loins. Amanda was right. There was no other experience in the world quite like riding out a raging storm, other than to ride it out with such a woman—or to ride that woman now.
An image flashed recklessly in his mind. He tensed again, seeing Amanda in his bed, beneath him, her face turned up to his, as frenzied and as passionate as the seas had so recently been. He saw himself ripping off her wet shirt and whatever lay beneath it, revealing her breasts, lowering his mouth there and going lower still….
It was better that she had left him, he thought. By now, she was probably in her berth, exhausted and asleep.
And suddenly she was there saying softly, “Permission, Captain?”
He started, then realized that she carried two of his crystal glasses. He began to smile with a different anticipation. “Granted.”
She returned his smile, hers far too soft, and hurried up. “Papa always liked a stiff drink after a storm,” she murmured.
“Ah,” he said, overcome with appreciation. “Thank you, Amanda.” He realized his voice was rough.
She handed him the glass, their eyes dancing together. She had recognized his tone, too. He turned away from her and drained the liquid, its warmth instantly filling him. He had thought the second glass was for her, but she switched his empty glass for her full one. As she did so, their gazes locked.
He had to look. Her shirt remained indecently molded to her breasts, her nipples were hard and tight, and her breeches revealed every plump curve between her thighs. He felt his cheeks flame. “Go below, Amanda,” he whispered. “Get some rest. You are a brave and fine sailor.” He almost choked on the word sailor.
“You are soaking wet, and I know you are exhausted, too.” Her stare was intense, brilliant. “I’ll go below when you retire.” But even as she spoke, she leaned against the helm, and her fatigue became terribly evident.
Exhaustion was claiming her. He was hardly surprised, and he realized she was right, he was terribly tired, too. “It has been a long night.” He glanced behind them. It was time for the morning watch anyway, and a midshipman was awaiting his turn at the helm. He signaled the officer.
“Very well,” he said.
As the officer took the helm, Amanda turned to go down to the main deck below. She stumbled, not with artifice, but with exhaustion, and he caught her. Instantly, he was concerned. “You will catch your death!” he exclaimed, suddenly afraid for her.
She sent him a soft, tired smile, clearly too worn-out now to speak. He had his arm around her, allowing her to lean even more heavily against him. He tried to ignore the feel of her soft breasts against his side as he guided her down to the main deck. It was fortunate, he thought, that she was falling asleep while on her feet. But knowing that changed nothing for him.
Instead of stumbling past his cabin, she pulled away from him, entering it.
He faltered, surprised, but he did not protest—he could not protest. Not when his manhood was raging, numbing his mind.
He followed her inside, staring after her like an idiot while she staggered to his bed, climbed onto it and fell back against the pillows. In spite of her exhaustion, she sent him the most seductive look he had ever received. He did not turn but kicked the door behind him closed, thinking, “Don’t.”
Her eyes were heavy-lidded. “A very good night,” she breathed, reaching for her wet shirt.
“Very,” he said, unsmiling. His loins had never been so full. “You need to get out of those clothes,” he said thickly, debating what he would do. Honor won. “I’ll go behind the screen and you may sleep here. I’ll sleep in my children’s cabin.”
“I do not want to ruin your fine sheets,” she murmured, sending him another glance through her lashes. She gripped the hem of her shirt and he tensed. She clearly intended to shrug off her shirt and he knew he must protest. But he didn’t move and he didn’t speak. He simply waited, wanting her to undress, wanting to see her in all of her naked beauty.
Lowering her eyes, she pulled shirt and chemise up her torso, over her breasts and over her head. Half-naked, she sent him another seductive smile, leaning back into the many red-and-gold velvet pillows against the headboard of the bed. Cliff did not move as she lay there, a Venus in repose, a Venus waiting for him.
No siren could be as fatal, he thought. He had wanted her for far too long and perhaps her courage was what had pushed him to this moment. Her long, curly platinum hair streamed over and around her breasts, framing each full globe, taut nipples jutting. He felt himself move forward. He sat slowly at her hip; he lifted her breasts in his hands. A still but savage excitement consumed him.
She gasped in pleasure.
Her weight was undoing his control. “You are more than brave and so terribly beautiful,” he said harshly. “How can I refuse this magnificent offer? I am only a man,” he said, but his mind was shrieking at him in protest. Some sanity, therefore, remained.
She laid her hand on his arm. “Please.”
And he struggled, conscience and honor battling his body, but it was too late. Her simple touch had a profound effect. Lust exploded, unleashed. He hadn’t wanted to kiss her, for it was far too intimate, but he caught her face in h
is hands and did just that, filling her with his tongue. He had wanted to taste her for so long, but his greed demanded instant gratification now. He forced his tongue deeper. When she began to weep in pleasure, he found her breasts, stroking them frantically, tearing his mouth from hers. He pulled her nipples into tighter, harder points and she gasped wildly. He began kissing her breasts, rubbing his face there, and finally he found her nipple with his tongue. Amanda moaned. His other hand crept between her thighs.
Palming her, he felt her spasm through her breeches.
He gulped in air. The pressure in his loins became impossibly painful, too, and the fabric there had become a vice, choking him.
And there was no more thought, no more reason; only lust, desire and emotions he dared not comprehend. Already he had her breeches open and his hand was stroking over hot, wet, throbbing flesh. Amanda cried out, spreading wide for him, arching for his touch, his taste, his manhood. He did as she demanded, stroking her until she sobbed in pleasure.
He was her first lover, he thought, somehow knowing it, and the savage excitement became a maelstrom of possession and need.
He tugged off her breeches, her drawers. She lay panting in the pillows, hardly recovered from her climax, but he could no longer wait. Cliff bent over her, sending his tongue against her distended flesh.
And as he licked her turgid body, his entire being filled with blood. It roared not just in his loins but in his head. She wept wildly, in more pleasure, in more ecstasy, and he reached between them to grip himself. As her cries eased he fought his need, bucking against her.
And then he gave in. He leaped from the bed, strode behind the screen and jerked on his breeches. They opened. He leaned his forehead against the wall and flicked his wrist. Release was instantaneous.
