“They must have gone elsewhere, perhaps to one of the churches,” Malcolm opined, echoing her thoughts. He spoke in a more normal tone now, for the wind's steady howl was subdued by the thick stucco walls around them.
She nodded in reply, watching as he doubtfully took in the puddles rapidly forming on the wooden floor where rain filtered through the shuttered windows. A series of steady drips where the thatched roof above had worn thin added a rhythmic undertone to the muffled howling of the wind outside.
Not that there was much inside the neat little room that a few leaks could damage. A pair of brightly patterned blankets hung from the ceiling, dividing the cottage in half. One side apparently served as a joint parlor, larder, and dining room. Its furnishings were sparse—a long table, four chairs, and a tall open cupboard. The opposite side, she saw, was used for sleeping and boasted a bed, crude washstand, and a large wooden chest. Conch shells and fishing gear served as decorations of sorts, in addition to the collection of skillfully woven baskets in all sizes scattered about the place.
“Home, sweet home,” Malcolm muttered, then gave a wry grin as his gaze returned to her. “Here now, luv, you look like something the cat dragged in.”
“You don't look much better, yourself,” she retorted, allowing herself a smile as she took in his appearance.
Wet leaves adorned his equally wet dark hair like a laurel wreath torn asunder, while his white linen shirt and his trousers were plastered to his torso. A growing pool of rainwater not unlike the puddles at the windows was forming at his feet, and a glance at his expensive boots showed them all but ruined.
He followed her gaze and ruefully tugged off the offending footwear, spilling still more water around him. He tossed the boots into the far corner, and then cocked an ear in the direction of the gale without, his expression growing sober.
“I suppose we'd best start searching for supplies…matches, candles, blankets—”
“Water,” Halia interjected.
He raised a brow and indicated the growing pool around him. “I'd say we already have enough of that, already,” came his ironic reply.
She shook her head. “That's the worst danger of these storms here on the island,” she explained. “Fresh water is already in short supply, and if the flooding is too bad, the few wells and springs can all become contaminated. That brings the danger of contracting typhoid or cholera... or of simply dying from thirst.”
“Good point,” he conceded with a shrug. “And we'll want food, as well.”
A few moments later, they had searched the humble dwelling and gathered what they needed. Malcolm proceeded to light the tiny lamp that hung from the center of the ceiling, turning up its wick as far as was practical. It gave out a feeble circle of yellow light, yet Halia took more than a little comfort in that glow.
Malcolm, meanwhile, plucked a blanket from the stack he'd accumulated, and he tossed it in Halia's direction. “You'd best dry off, while I make things snug.”
Gratefully, she stripped off the sodden jacket and tossed it alongside Malcolm's boots, then began briskly toweling her wet hair. The weave of her borrowed coat had been such that her undergarments had escaped much of the damp, though the legs of her pantalets were soaked to her knees. She wrung out what water she could from the latter, then wrapped the blanket around her like a shawl and turned a curious look on Malcolm.
He had stripped off his wet shirt and had draped a blanket about his shoulders. Now, he dragged the table from its spot beneath one shuttered window and turned it on its side, then shoved it over to the opposite wall. He positioned it so that all four wooden legs butted up against that whitewashed surface and the scarred tabletop faced outward. That accomplished, he crossed to the far side of the room to snatch the blankets and thin mattress from the narrow cot there. He bundled the bedding and carried it back to the upended table, then spread the blankets and ticking in a neat pallet against the wall.
“There we are,” he said with pride as he stood back to survey his handiwork. “Just in case these shutters don't hold, we'll have an extra bit of shelter against the wind and rain.”
Halia bit her lip as she eyed the makeshift billet. Indeed, they would practically have to pile atop one another just to fit behind the table! But rather than dismay her, the idea of climbing back there with him sent a pleasant shiver through her. But would he think her too bold if she agreed to this plan?
An abrupt crash, followed by a harsh metallic squeal that was the sound of a window shutter being torn from its moorings decided her. She spared a look at the narrow opening, where the missing shutter's mate unsuccessfully tried to hold back the storm. Then, sudden fear gripping her, she made for the shelter...Malcolm at her heels.
A moment later, the pair of them sat cross-legged atop a tangle of blankets behind the table. Somehow, she had ended up with his arms snugly about her and her head pressed to his partially bared chest. But rather than pull away, she clung more tightly to him.
“Comfortable, luv?” he murmured against her hair.
She nodded. True, the wind was howling all around them like a pack of angry hounds, and she could feel a misting of rain from the open window even behind the barrier of the table. Still, an odd sort of contentment had settled over her despite her growing anxiety.
“I still cannot believe that Captain O'Neill is your brother,” she spoke up a moment later, and then slanted him a guilty glance. “I said I would not mention this, but Wilkie told me a bit about your past. Did you also first meet Seamus in the streets of London?”
“We met quite by accident about five years ago, in a charming little tavern on the London docks known as the Shark's Tooth,” he replied, seemingly unconcerned about her confession. “Seamus didn't have a ship of his own, then, but was a mate on another vessel that had just put into port. We'd both been drinking, and we got into a bit of a brawl over a comely little serving wench that we both fancied.”
Halia suppressed an irrational flicker of jealousy at the thought of his battling for some other woman. “And which of you ended up with the barmaid?”
“Neither,” he replied with a wry grin. “By the time we had beaten each other half-senseless, the chit had made off with another gent. We sat back down and had another ale to drown our sorrows, and he noticed the Sherebrooke coat-of-arms on my timepiece. We discovered then that we were half-brothers...each with a different mother but the bastard son of the same father. As you might guess, it came as something of a shock to us both.”
“But I would think that would bring the two of you together, when it seems you don't harbor much brotherly affection for each other.”
Malcolm shrugged. “We're too much alike to get along for more than a short time. I have sailed a time or two with him on the Golden Wolf, which is where I learned what little I know about seamanship.”
He shifted closer to her then, and something hard-edged pressed into the side of her leg.
“Ouch,” she inelegantly declared, forgetting for the moment Malcolm's checkered lineage as she pulled free of his embrace. “Whatever do you have in your pocket?”
In the dim light, his face took on a look of smug triumph as he rose to his knees; and reached a hand into the offending pocket. He pulled forth the bundle that was his handkerchief and began unwrapping whatever it was that he'd secured within it.
She scrambled to her own knees to look, only to give a gasp of disbelief when she realized what he held. For nestled in his palm was a familiar lump of icy green fire that gleamed with an almost unearthly light under the lantern's yellow glow.
“Poseidon's Tear,” she exclaimed and stared up at him. “But I saw you give it to your brother, so how—”
“A simple bit of legerdemain, luv.”
Grinning, he wrapped the handkerchief over the emerald again, and then whipped away the cloth to reveal his palm now empty. Even as Halia watched wide-eyed, he opened his other hand to show the gem neatly palmed. It was the same sort of sleight-of-hand he'd performed with young W
illis Rolle and the coin, she realized.
”A handy little trick I picked up when I was a lad,” he went on by way of explanation. “With Seamus, I merely showed him the real emerald and then substituted a chunk of limestone that I'd picked up beforehand and stashed in my handkerchief. As I suspect he won't have time to inspect his prize until after the gale blows over, he'll never know the trick I pulled on him until he is well out to sea.”
“No, I suppose he shan't,” she agreed, her gaze fixed on the emerald in outward calm.
Inside, however, a cold little fist of anger tightened beneath her ribs, so that for the moment she ignored the storm around them. He'd not cared enough for her to give up his precious stone...not even knowing that it could have meant her life.
Her reaction to that bitter realization was instinctive. She reached up and slapped his face, hard.
The impact of her blow, combined with the fact that she had taken him completely unawares, sent him reeling. He pitched over backwards and landed on his rump. His expression reflected astonishment as he gingerly rubbed his bruised jaw with one hand, while the other clutched his emerald.
Then his dark brows twisted into a frown, and he demanded, “What in the bloody hell was that for?”
“What if he had looked?” she challenged him with equal heat. “What if your brother had opened the pouch before he left and discovered that you had tricked him again? Why, he might have killed me right then and there.”
Malcolm scowled and gave his head a disgusted shake.
“He wouldn't have killed you. Hell, if he'd killed anyone, it would have been me. The worst he might have done to you was take you back with him to the ship so he could sell you to the highest bidder in some Mediterranean port.”
“And that's not a fate as bad as death?”
The planking on the flimsy cottage rattled in swift echo of her anger. She paid the sound no heed but scrambled to her feet, planting her fists on her hips as she stared down at him.
He promptly stood so that he again had the advantage of height over her. “Don't worry, I wouldn't have let him carry you off.” His tone implied, however, that he might be reconsidering the matter for future reference. “But the point is, Seamus didn't look, you're safely away from him, and I still have the stone. I don't see what's so bloody awful about that.”
“What's so bloody awful about it,” she hotly echoed, emphasizing each word with a poke of her forefinger at his bare chest, “is the fact that you care more about your silly emerald than you do me.”
“Do I, now? Well, we'll just bloody see about that!”
With those words, he let the blanket slide off his shoulders as he climbed over the table and stalked toward the same window where the shutter had earlier torn loose. He spun about to face her, ignoring the rain that gusted over him as he thrust out his palm to display the gem in question.
Then he clenched his fingers around it and wordlessly turned. Barely did she realize what he was about than she glimpsed a final flash of green fire as he flung the emerald through the open window to join the wind and rain.
Open-mouthed, she watched as he stalked back over to where she waited. He climbed over the table edge and halted before her, displaying both hands in the exaggerated manner of a stage magician.
“It's gone for bloody good now,” he clipped out. “And since I'm not wearing a shirt, you can be certain it's not up one of my sleeves. So., does that settle the question of which I want more, you or the emerald?”
She simply stared, not quite trusting herself to speak.
With an impatient sound, he caught her by the shoulders and roughly pulled her to him. “All right, so tossing away a bloody fortune didn't convince you. Maybe this will.”
Then his mouth was on hers—entreating, demanding. She eagerly responded, splaying her hands across his bare chest as she pressed herself to him and opened her lips to him.
Remembering her previous lessons at his hands, she flicked her tongue across his, tasting him. He answered with a low growl of satisfaction, his fingers tangled in her wet locks as he pulled her closer still.
Then, abruptly, he pushed her away. His voice ragged with emotion, he told her, “If you want me to stop, luv, tell me now. Otherwise ...”
He trailed off, but his meaning was all too clear. She hesitated only a moment, then softly answered, “I don't want you to stop, not this time. But you must tell me what to do.”
“Just follow my lead,” he told her and then claimed her lips once more.
This time, however, he did more than kiss her. Pulling aside the blanket still thrown over her shoulders, he began to pluck at the tiny ribbons of her chemise, untying each one in swift succession. She made no protest as he eased the fine spun cotton off her shoulders and let it drift to the ground. Then, that barrier gone, he moved his hands down her hips, lightly gripped her buttocks, and pulled her to him.
Once more, she felt the hot, throbbing bulge of his manhood as it strained against the thin cotton of his trousers. The now-familiar heat began to build low in her belly, the sensation only heightened by the feel of her breasts pressed to his chest. The silken hairs caressed her nipples that had tightened into tiny buds of pleasure. Instinctively, she rubbed herself against him like a spoiled feline wanting attention.
He gave a muffled groan and broke free of their kiss. Before she could protest this loss, his fingers caught at the waistband of her drawers. With practiced efficiency, he untied the ribbon that held them and swiftly slid that last garment down her hips. Now, she wore nothing at all save for the gold coin necklace about her throat.
He nuzzled that silken flesh, and the warmth within her settled between her thighs in a hard, hot ache. Seeking relief but unsure how to gain it, she moaned in sheer need.
“You're ready for me, aren't you, luv?” he murmured and slid one hand between her thighs.
She shut her eyes and almost sobbed in relief as he gently caressed that slick flesh, stroking her until her whole body quivered in response. Then, before she realized what was happening, he lightly inserted one finger inside her.
The sensation made her cry out in wanton delight. She clutched at his arms, her breath coming from her now in tiny gasps of pleasure as he began moving his finger in and out of her tight core. Each stroke seemed to bring her closer to some sensual crescendo. Then, just as she feared she might swoon from the sensation, he pulled away his hand from between her legs.
She moaned and opened her eyes.
”I-Is it over, then?” she whispered, unable to keep the disappointment from her tone.
In the yellow glow of the lamp, she saw a look of strained amusement pass over his face. “Not 'ardly, luv. There's much more, I promise you.”
His hoarse voice recalled to her those other times when she had heard him lapse into a milder version of Wilkie's rough accent. Then, he'd been injured or under some other sort of stress. Perhaps what was happening now was unfamiliar to him, as well, she faintly thought.
He fumbled a moment with the fastenings of his trousers, cursing under his breath when his fingers proved clumsy. A moment later, he had tugged off his trousers and freed his swollen manhood to her stunned gaze.
“What's the matter, luv?” he asked with a crooked grin, stroking his erect, turgid length with obvious pride. “You've seen me without me pants on before.”
She blinked, knowing it was not proper to stare but unable to look away. “That is quite true,” she managed in a strangled whisper, “but somehow you looked quite...different then.”
His grin broadened. ” 'Tis your own fault. You've done this to me, with your kisses and sweet moans. And now, you'll 'ave to repair the damage.”
Gently, he caught her hands in his and guided her fingers around his stiff rod. “Run your fingers down me, luv,” he urged, moving her hand along his length. “Pleasure me like I did you.”
She hesitated, wondering if she dared do this. She could hear the wind beyond whipping across the tiny cottage with an urgency tha
t seemed to mirror both their needs. Now, the roaring in her ears was not so much the storm without but the tempest within that buffeted her with sudden desire. And if this was what they both wanted, surely there could be nothing wrong with touching him this way.
With light strokes, she did as he asked, reveling in the feel of velvety soft flesh wrapped around a veritable saber of hardness. But more compelling was his reaction to her tentative touch.
He'd caught her by the shoulders now and leaned back, his legs apart so that she could reach the whole of him. With every stroke she could feel his manhood quiver beneath her fingers. Emboldened, she lightly flicked her thumb across the swollen head of his shaft, and her fingers grew sticky with a few drops of warm fluid not unlike her own hot juices.
“You're fair to killin' me,” he hoarsely muttered, “but don't stop...not just yet.”
She was doing to him what he'd done to her, bringing him to the brink of some sensual peak. A surge of feminine triumph washed over her, and she felt a renewed heat flare between her thighs. Reveling in her power, she continued her exploration of this unfamiliar if delightful masculine landscape, her fingers roaming lower to the base of his staff. Lightly, she cupped the heavy, twin pouches of flesh that hung there.
He gave a muffled groan, and she felt his balls tighten in her grasp even as he pressed himself more urgently into her palms. With gentle strokes, she continued what she'd begun until, all at once, Malcolm eased himself from her grasp.
“Sorry, luv, but I can't wait any longer,” he choked out as he grasped her around the waist and lifted her.
“Now, wrap your legs around me,” he urged, his fingers cupping more securely beneath her bottom.
Clutching at his arms for support, she did as he asked. For a moment, she felt the hot pressure of his manhood as it throbbed against the warm, moist entrance to her body. Then, with a single thrust, he penetrated her.
Poseidon's Daughter Page 24
