by Sara Orwig
Hastily she said, “You were saying, sir?”
One corner of his mouth lifted a fraction, as if taunting her, but to her relief, he continued. “In London, I met Francisco Miranda, a man who is a great believer in human rights. He is concerned with tyranny in the New World. Miranda led a group to liberate Venezuela, but the Spanish governors learned of this movement and were able to combat it successfully.” The lazy smile vanished as his thoughts drifted back to his subject. Fascinated, she watched the transformation, the rise of anger that was unmistakable. “That will not happen a second time.”
What had the Spanish done to Captain Raven to cause him to fight in such a faraway cause? He must know she was Spanish. Quita Bencaria could only be a Spanish name.
Pouring more wine into both flagons, he said, “There is a man in Chile, Bernardo O’Higgins, who is gathering forces to fight.”
“I recall reading that O’Higgins was governor of Chile.”
“That was Bernardo’s father you read about. Quita, you’re one delight after another!”
His praise embarrassed her. Remembering their conversation, she prompted, “O’Higgins?”
“Bernardo was educated in Europe and he believes firmly in freedom from the Spanish throne. While he was in Europe, a man named Carrera led a group in an attempt to overthrow the Spanish, to set up a dictatorship.”
“Did they succeed?”
He shook his head. Flickering candlelight, an orange glow from the swaying lantern, danced over his features, casting burnished highlights on his prominent cheekbones, his firm jawline. Deep golden glints showed in the brown waves of his thick hair, and she watched him intently.
He answered gruffly, “No. Spain quickly sent a large army to combat the rebels. Bernardo had joined Carrera. When the Spanish army arrived, Carrera, Bernardo, and a force of two thousand met them in Rancagua. From a church tower Bernardo watched as the Spanish routed Carrera and his men. O’Higgins fled with the others, breaking through the Spanish lines to retreat over the Andes.”
“You’re an Englishman. Why is this your concern?”
His eyes leveled like cannon ready to fire; she drew her breath. She hoped she never had to face him in anger. “I want revenge. I want what should be mine.”
The words were said quietly, yet they chilled her, and she wondered if his hatred was for all Spaniards. “You know I’m Spanish.”
A fleeting smile raised one corner of his mouth. “Ah, my quarrel is with one particular noble Spanish family and one particular noble Englishman,” he said so bitterly that she was afraid to pursue the conversation. “You’re loyal to the English. That was an absolute requirement. Mr. Summers did not misjudge, did he, little Quita?”
She felt as if her life hung in the balance. How softly, without passion, he asked, but she felt the blade beneath the words, and realized this was a man who could be as hard as the timbers beneath her feet. Ignoring her own heritage, thinking only of the Count of Marcheno, she raised her chin to reply, “My allegiance is to England.”
She met his eyes unflinchingly.
When his dark lashes dropped, she knew he had found satisfaction in her answer. She wondered how long she could deceive him about her identity, for he seemed to be able to discern every thought in her mind. “This O’Higgins hopes to try again?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation back to something more impersonal, because his direct stares and questions made her nervous.
“Indeed, he does. After the patriots’ defeat, Spain installed the present governor, Francisco Marcheno.”
“Marcheno!” she gasped. Instantly his full attention fastened on her.
“The name means something to you?”
Her thoughts were spinning wildly, searching for a suitable explanation, because she realized she had just made a mistake. “There may be many Marchenos in Spain. There is a Spanish nobleman, the Count of Marcheno…”
The flush that crept up his cheeks was a warning to her. Carefully, as if stepping through a bog, searching for firm footing with each stride, she said, “The count has inflicted cruelty on my family. I was startled at the name, but the man I speak of resides in Madrid.”
“Aye, that he does. They are cousins. Close enough.” He leaned across the table and again she felt as if he had drawn a dagger. “Little Quita, your family will be revenged for whatever wrongs Marcheno has committed.”
The words fell like a death knell. Once, on a journey when she was a child, her father had driven past Newgate Prison, and she had looked out the carriage window as a man had been hanged. Immediately her father had dropped the leather over the window to hide the view, but she remembered the terrible sight, the body falling. For nights afterward she slept fitfully, with dreadful dreams. The vision returned now.
Captain Raven’s voice lowered. “The other Marcheno, Francisco, rules with a fist of iron. He is a tyrant whose cruelty is legend throughout the land of Chile.”
“Where is O’Higgins now?”
“When they fled, Jose de San Martín, who liberated Argentina, gave the patriots refuge.” He studied her solemnly. “I shall be in contact with them, and when the time comes, I’ll fight with them.”
Through lowered lashes she gazed at him, longing to ask more questions. Why his anger? What had Francisco Marcheno done to Captain Raven? Did his hatred confirm her fears of the Count of Marcheno? Was he as cruel as she had been told? And who was the Englishman he hated?
“Will the voyage be dangerous?”
A lazy smile drifted over his features. “We have talked sufficiently long of somber events.”
Frightened he might launch into more questions about her, Lianna asked, “When did you begin to sail?”
“When I was fifteen.”
“Fifteen!” she repeated, startled by his reply. She ran her fingers across her brow; the cabin had grown uncomfortably warm and the ship’s movement had become more noticeable to her.
“Aye, many lads turn to seafaring early in life. Their families have ships, they are runaways, they are impressed—one reason or another.”
Curious as to which of the reasons had caused him to turn to the sea, she studied him.
“I was a runaway and I was impressed.”
His answer to her unasked question startled her. “How did you know I wondered about it?”
He leaned forward to trail his forefinger along her jaw. “Big blue eyes reveal a great deal,” he said in a husky rasp that trailed its own touch across her nerves. With his words, his warm wine-filled breath assailed her, his eyes seemed to draw her very soul to him. Heat flooded her cheeks and she lowered her lashes lest he discern the disturbing effect he had on her. He had been a runaway—the same as she. Momentarily she felt a bond and wished circumstances had been different so that she could tell him.
When she raised her head, the whole cabin spun, revolving slowly, and she gripped the table. Too late, Lianna regretted the amount of wine she had consumed. Never before had she partaken of a drink stronger than ratafia. She struggled to focus on Captain Raven, to hear what he was saying.
“Do you feel ill?”
Did he look amused—or was that her imagination? “I am quite fine, thank you,” she whispered.
“More wine?” Josh asked, knowing full well she had had too much already. She was so lovely, it took his breath. She was educated, something he hungered for—a woman he could actually talk to about world affairs, about his life. Her wide blue eyes looked as if she had never known a man in her life, and he shut his mind to the realization that she had.
“No!” she blurted to his offer of more wine, another blush making her cheeks enticingly pink. As he stood, she looked up at him. “Am I to remove the dishes?”
“No, Quita, love.” This time there was no question of laughter in his eyes. The word “love” floated through Lianna with a dim shock, a note of warning which registered dully in her wine-befuddled mind. He moved around the table and reached down to help her to her feet.
With an effort
she stood, swaying dizzily. Firm fingers closed gently around her arm, and he turned her to face him.
“It must be the sea,” she said, pressing her fingers to her temple.
“Did the voyage to England disturb you?”
“What? Oh, no.” For a moment she almost asked what he meant. She felt compelled to add more to her answer and invented from her imagination. “It was stormy and cold, but I wasn’t bothered by it.”
Captain Raven stood facing her, and she could see a blue vein throbbing steadily in his neck. She watched each beat as he talked. His voice was low, weaving through her senses like strands of woolen yarn.
“Mr. Summer said you fled Spain because of an unhappy love.”
“Aye,” she replied, listening to her voice as if it came from a great distance. “He wed another.”
“Then a great fool he was,” Captain Raven murmured. His breath, carrying a hint of wine, brushed her temple with the softness of a dove’s wingtip. His fingers drifted higher to her bare shoulders. One hand rested on her shoulder, his thumb drawing small circles over her collarbone, sending golden rivulets of heat cascading down her limbs. Never had a man touched her in such a manner, yet she didn’t want him to stop.
Lianna felt as if she had split into two persons; one stood observing, drinking in the sweet wine-filled breath that wafted lightly over her skin, relishing each tiny stroke of callused fingertips, while a counterpart tried to protest, to step back, to stop the insidious fires kindling within her, to tell Captain Raven that his improper attention must cease. Each part warred silently with the other while she closed her eyes and tipped her head back. The room became a furnace, a whirling pit of suffocating heat as scarlet fires raced along her veins, their flames ignited by gentle fingers.
His fingers slipped along her slender neck. Sensuous tugs, gentle and languid, pulled a pin from her hair, then another and another.
She should protest. If only the cabin would stop spinning! She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak.
“Quita, how lovely you are,” he whispered huskily. She quivered as the baritone voice wrapped around her, closing her into its own tempting warmth.
A coil of black tresses tumbled over her shoulder. His fingers continued withdrawing pins. Lianna felt trapped by a will greater than her own. “Sir, the cabin…it spins. I am unsteady.”
He laughed softly. A strong arm banded her waist. “I shan’t allow you to fall.”
His head lowered. She guessed what he intended, knew she should stop him. Raising her hands, she pushed against a chest as unyielding as the bulkhead. She turned her face and his lips grazed her cheek, leaving a flaming trail. His fingers held her chin, forcing her to face him.
Firmly, lips like velvet pressed against hers, and she felt the pressure to open her lips. She resisted, trying to summon her wits, yet his hands were everywhere, and feelings she had never known engulfed her, and somewhere deep in her heart she realized she had a more violent reaction to this man’s kisses than she’d had to Edwin’s.
He raised his head, studying her so intently, yet she couldn’t think or reason why he would look at her in such a manner. She wondered what thoughts ran through his mind, but she couldn’t ask.
“You play the game damned well,” Josh said, seeing a puzzled frown on her face. If he hadn’t paid Renfrow Summers such a tidy sum for a wench, he would swear he held an innocent who had never been kissed!
“Sir, please…” She opened her eyes as if it were with a great effort, and Josh felt something tug at his heart. He had never gotten involved with the women in his life. They were hard and experienced, sometimes widowed and wealthy in ports away from England, but he yearned for something else and he didn’t want to get entangled with this wench who looked so beguiling that his senses felt drugged, yet how sweet she was!
He told himself he was an addled fool and perhaps he’d had too much wine, but deep down, he knew what he felt wasn’t caused by wine. He looked at her mouth and heard the quick intake of her breath, watched her tongue flick out to touch her lips, then her mouth closed. He lowered his head. She did play the game damnably well! And he would give himself over to it. He brushed his lips over hers, teasing, coaxing her to open her lips.
His tongue touched the corner of her mouth, and he had to fight the urge to crush her tightly in his arms. He heard his voice as if from a distance and realized he had groaned. He wanted her so badly he hurt, yet he wouldn’t rush her. Not this time. Game or not, he felt as if he were holding someone precious and fragile despite a sensuality that flickered to life with the slightest of his touches. He knew he was being a fool, but for this night he would amuse her because it was what he wanted, and she held a breathtaking promise for him.
His hand drifted to her breast, feeling the soft fullness, the taut nipple as he sought her lips more urgently. She gasped and his tongue slid deep into her mouth. He felt her tremble and his arms tightened while he kissed her now as he had wanted to all evening long.
He watched her with half-closed eyes but he saw that her eyes opened and her body stiffened as he kissed her more deeply. She seemed so innocent, yet he knew she couldn’t be! Still, she seemed not to know what to expect or do. He bent over her, pressing her to his long length, relishing her softness while he continued to kiss her passionately. Her eyelids dropped, the thick lashes a fringe above her pink cheeks, and she clung to him, her hips moving against him for the first time. This woman was special—so very special, he thought as he kissed her wildly.
Her eyes closed, and in the darkness his tongue’s moist strokes were transformed into brilliant hues of color in her mind. Her heart thudded, while flames seemed to burn in her blood. Beneath her fingers she felt an expanse of muscled hardness—and Captain Raven’s own rapid heartbeat.
His kisses wreaked more havoc than wine, she thought, consumed by a tempest that stormed her senses. Each kiss drew her down into a whirlpool of new sensations. His arm around her waist tightened, drawing her closer.
His lips left hers momentarily, and she was bereft, befuddled by the onslaught of passion. He caught her earlobe between his teeth, nibbling so gently, yet the sensation made her gasp.
Releasing her lobe, he whispered, “Put your arms around me, Quita.”
Protest! Stop the man! An inner voice raged at her, but it was so dim, a faint cry overwhelmed by her desire for him.
Again, “Put your arms around my neck. I want to feel your softness against me.”
She couldn’t deny the delicious sensations she had only dreamt about, nor would she stop herself from feeling them. She longed to fling caution away, to close her eyes and let strong hands and a hungry mouth work their incredible sorcery. Slowly she slipped her hands up his smooth cotton shirt and spread her fingers across his broad, hard shoulders, exploring the firm muscles tentatively. Then she twined her arms around his neck. A steel band tightened around her waist, crushing her to his chest, molding her slender form to his.
She should move away, yet how could anything feel so marvelous? Her thoughts spun like dried winter leaves tossed in a blustery north wind. He should not kiss her throat. She hoped he would never stop.
His hand touched the fastenings of her dress. She closed her fingers around a hard, bony wrist and tugged, a useless protest.
The blue dress billowed to the floor in a silken whisper, floating around her ankles, leaving Lianna clad only in her shift. Cold air enveloped her, making her draw closer to his warmth. How good his body felt! Never had she clung to a man, let her fingers wind through silken curls, touch hard, solid muscles that made her tremble. With an effort she raised her lashes while he stepped back to view her.
Dark lashes shadowed his cheeks as he looked down at her slender feet, then raised his eyes slowly over her long pale legs to her hips, higher to the lush fullness of her heaving breasts, to her fever-inflamed face. The amber flecks darkened and she saw his purpose. He wanted her and he intended to have her.
As the realization penetrated wine-fogged
reason, she drew back. “You must stop!”
“Little Quita, you’re a delight! So responsive, yet there’s a shyness, almost as if—” He broke off abruptly, a lazy smile flitting over his features. “Now, come here, love.”
His smile widened, an indolent assertion. He reached out to place his fingers lightly on her throat, his thumb idly tracing the outline of her lips. When he touched her, tiny flickers of fire dazzled her, making her lips hunger for his kiss. He moved closer, leaned down, and his mouth replaced his thumb. Without haste, his lips parted hers, his tongue became a demand.
He kissed her relentlessly, weaving a spell of rapture through her body. Like spilling rays of the sun his fingertips grazed her bare shoulder, her breast, and then her smooth belly.
Her gasp was smothered by his kiss. A tautness filled her; an exquisite agony made her hips twist, seeking his hard frame.
“Ah, how sweet you smell,” he murmured against her arching neck. He pressed closer and prodded the softness between her thighs.
Her eyes opened to look down at his lowered head, the thick waves of brown with glints of russet in their softness. Her fingers touched the inviting strands while his lips discovered the rosy tip of her trembling breast and her shift fell to her feet.
He lifted her swiftly and lowered her to the bunk. Naked, trembling, she was pink and ivory-fleshed, her breasts soft and round. The spinning in her head continued as she watched him peel off his white shirt and cast it aside.
The bronzed body before her took her breath away and made her burn with embarrassment, momentarily protesting. He moved to the bed. His chest muscles rippled, coiling like tight springs in a tanned masculine body that was honed to perfection, and she couldn’t look away from him. A thick fur of black curls narrowed and then tapered to a dark line across his flat stomach. Candlelight flickered over his skin, a damp sheen giving glistening highlights on the curve of hard muscles.
She dropped her lashes, burning in an agony of need, and she moaned softly while her head reeled.
