Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  There was a moment of sharp pain, so that she cried out and reflexively scored his arms with her fingernails. She shut her eyes and pressed her forehead to his shoulder, waiting for the burning sensation to fade. It did so swiftly, to be replaced by an unfamiliar fullness that seemed to stretch her woman's sheath to its limits.

  Uncertain what to do next, she opened her eyes. Her face was on a level with his now, and she could see the beading of perspiration that dampened his taut features.

  “I'm sorry I had to hurt you,” he murmured and brushed a kiss against her lips. “If you think you can stand it, we'll go on now.”

  That last was more of a question than a statement, so that she could not help but smile. Even had she been in mortal agony, she could not have refused the very masculine desperation in his tone.

  By way of reply, she wrapped her legs more tightly around him so that she drew him even more deeply inside her. He groaned. “Hold on, then, and I'll make us both more comfortable.”

  With his manhood still sheathed deep within her, he lowered her down to the tangle of clothing and blankets beneath their feet. Now, he was poised atop her, resting his weight on his forearms as he settled himself between her spread thighs.

  “Now, move with me, luv,” he urged as he began a slow rhythm, easing his shaft from the tight core of her, only to plunge more deeply within her again.

  She needed no further encouragement. Her arms wrapped around his waist, she followed his lead as he pumped into her, each stroke a delicious agony. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to sensation.

  Then, abruptly, he went still.

  She gave a small cry of protest and her eyes flew open. Her questioning gaze met his as he stared down at her, his features taut with desire. He managed, however, to sound quite nonchalant as he murmured, “I believe there is still one small matter to be settled before we finish. I was trying to convince you that you matter more to me than the emerald. Have I managed, yet?”

  “Must we speak of that now?” she gasped out. Indeed, she felt hardly capable of rational thought, let alone conversation.

  He nodded, then clarified, “That is, if you wish things to continue.”

  Dear Lord, the man was quite insane. But then, perhaps she was, as well, since right now she would gladly admit to anything short of murder if only he would keep doing these wonderful things to her body.

  “You have managed. I believe you,” she said in a rush. “And now, can't we go on?”

  “As you wish, luv,” he replied and promptly obliged her.

  Within moments, all sensation flared into a single burning need that continued to build with every thrust. And then, unexpectedly, she exploded in a fiery climax of sensation.

  Even as she gave a breathless cry of pleasure, she heard Malcolm's harsh groan of completion as he thrust into her a final, shuddering time and found his own climax.

  Afterwards, they lay tangled together in the shadows for several minutes, the only sounds besides the twin beating of their hearts that of the relentless wind and the driving rain. Finally, Malcolm eased off and settled alongside her.

  “I believe I took unfair advantage of you a few moments ago,” he conceded with a wry grin as he idly toyed with a stray lock of her damp, tangled hair. “I made you answer a question while in the throes of uncontrollable passion.”

  “Uncontrollable?” she squeaked out, feeling herself blush scarlet. Shy now, she tugged one of the blankets over her nakedness.

  “What question?” she asked, though she knew full well to what he referred. The trouble was, she had not quite decided if she believed her own earlier answer or not.

  He quirked a wry brow, his expression telling her that he knew she deliberately was dithering. “Perhaps I should be asking another question,” came his casual reply. “Maybe I should find out instead what your feelings are for me.”

  Oddly enough, this was the easier query to answer. Taking a deep breath, she said, “But that is quite simple. I love you.”

  There. She had said it. But what if he laughed…or worse?

  He did neither. Instead, he shook his head a little, as if her words were not quite the ones he had expected. Then he gathered her closer and arranged the blanket so that it covered them both.

  “Maybe we should stop talking and save our strength for other things,” he suggested as his manhood stirred against her.

  “Do you mean that you would like to make love again?” she asked, striving for a diffident tone, though the prospect sent a wanton shiver through her.

  She must have sounded far too eager, she realized, for he grinned. “Again...and yet, again. That is, if you are agreeable.”

  By way of answer, she kissed him. And together, they once more countered the gale beyond with a tempest of their own making.

  ~ Chapter 22 ~

  It was the silence that awakened Halia.

  Groggily, she opened her eyes to find herself lying on an unfamiliar floor behind an upturned table and wrapped in a tangle of blankets. It was morning. That much, she judged from the gray light spilling in from the open windows and unshuttered entry. But whose house was this, and what was she doing here alone and quite as naked as a sea sprite?

  Then memory came rushing back, and she sat up, clutching a worn cotton blanket to her breasts as she gazed about the empty cottage.

  She and Malcolm had taken refuge here from yesterday's storm. Indeed, puddles of rainwater remained on the uneven wooden floor beneath each window. Frightening though it had been, however, the storm turned out to be something less than the predicted gale.

  Neither had they encountered the storm's eye, that period of calm when the winds and rain abruptly died for a time before resuming with equal fury. Still, the heavy rains had continued through the afternoon and into the night, so that they both had agreed it made more sense to wait until daylight to make their way back to the guest house. To that end, they had passed what would have been tedious if fearful hours occupied in a most enjoyable activity, finally falling asleep to the frantic accompaniment of wind and rain.

  But where was Malcolm now, and why had he left her like this?

  She tamped down an inner flicker of alarm and swiftly searched the rumpled blankets for her discarded clothes. His, she noted, were missing, which probably meant he had left of his own accord. Chances were he had just stepped outside to survey the storm's damage, or else to take care of his physical needs.

  She attended to that last need, herself, her steps ginger as she abandoned her makeshift pallet and availed herself of the tin bowl she saw tucked away beneath the cot for that purpose.

  Perhaps Malcolm was merely being considerate of her feelings, she told herself a few moments later as she began pulling on her camisole. Indeed, now that she thought about it, she was rather relieved not to have awakened with him beside her. It was one thing to have passed a stormy night with him in such wanton abandon, and quite another to find herself lying naked in the bright light of morning in the arms of that same man.

  A blush warmed her cheeks as she glanced down at herself to see the lingering juices of their lovemaking that had dried upon her thighs. She would have to wait until later to bathe, she told herself as she reached for her pantalets. Until she knew how much damage the storm had wreaked, she did not dare waste precious fresh water.

  But putting on that last garment proved a bit harder than she had expected, given her battered feet. She bit back a pained cry as she balanced her weight on first one injured sole, and then the other, leaving faint smears of blood on the wooden floor where she'd stood.

  During their frantic flight yesterday, she had paid little heed to the abuse that her bare feet had taken. Now, she was rather too squeamish to check for damage, despite the fact that it seemed the more she stepped about, the greater her pain.

  Ruefully, she also acknowledged that her feet were not all that was sore this morning. The lingering ache between her thighs and the stiffness of her limbs were the price of her most enjoyable i
ntroduction to the physical side of love. To be sure, she did not regret it. But for the first time now, it occurred to her that something other than sore muscles might come of last night.

  Indeed, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that she might have conceived as a result of their coupling.

  The idea sent a shiver of mingled trepidation and wonder rushing through her. She had always hoped to have children of her own, one day, though she had always assumed that a husband would have been part of the bargain. Now, the first part of that wistful dream might be within reach. As for the second, however, she could not picture Malcolm in the role of either father or spouse.

  Not that he had asked her to marry him, she hurried to remind herself.

  With a sigh, she returned her thoughts to other, more immediate concerns. After she located Malcolm, they would have to make their swift way back to the guest house to let everyone there know they were well. Once she was assured that all the household had safely weathered the storm, she would then wait for word of the Golden Wolf’s fate. But before she began any sort of search, she would first have to find something to wear over her undergarments.

  Gritting her teeth against the pain of her feet, Halia tiptoed to search her unknown hosts' belongings. The wooden chest near the cot produced two simple if clean calico shifts—one yellow, one blue. She caught up the latter.

  The dress proved to be cut for someone far more round of figure than she. Its neckline gaped alarmingly to expose most of her camisole, while its waist was large enough so that she could grab a large fistful of cloth on either side and have dress to spare. Still, it was better than walking the streets of Alice Town in her unmentionables.

  To her relief, she also discovered a wooden hair comb, which she promptly put to use in unsnarling her hair. By the time she managed to smooth the worst of the tangles, she heard through the open windows the bright sound of a man whistling. Recognizing the cheery notes as belonging to Malcolm, she hurried to greet him as he appeared in the open doorway.

  He halted there abruptly, an expression rather like guilt flickered across his features. He reminded her of a schoolboy caught at some mischief, that image strengthened by the fact he was dressed in yesterday's clothes that looked far worse for wear than hers. Then he grinned and started toward her, and her heart gave a giddy little lurch.

  “Nice gown, luv,” he lightly declared as he halted before her and brushed a kiss over her lips, “but just a bit unfashionable. I think that when we finally return to New York, we should see about finding you a proper dressmaker.”

  Was he hinting that he saw a future for them together? She dared not press the issue now, but merely echoed his careless air as she replied, “I will be happy if I can just manage to keep my own clothes on my back.”

  He slanted her a wicked glance. “I'm disappointed, luv. I'd rather hoped I’d see you with them off on a regular basis,” he said and pulled her into his embrace.

  This time, his kiss was one of sensual demand, and she eagerly complied. When they finally broke apart a few long moments later, her entire body was aquiver with need. She saw the same desire etched upon his face, as well, and the regret in his tone echoed her own.

  “Much as I'd prefer to spend the rest of the morning making love to you, we'd best be going,” he said and lightly put her from him. “It looks like we only got the edge of the storm, but there is damage enough, all the same.” He paused, and then added, “There's something else I must tell you.”

  “If you wish—but first, I have something for you.”

  So saying, she caught the narrow chain around her neck and pulled off the makeshift necklace. Even as he stared at her, puzzled, she pressed the Poseidon head coin into his hand.

  “A gift,” she explained with a shy smile. “It's a small thing, I know, and hardly worth the price of your lost emerald, but I want you to have it.”

  He stared down at the rough gold disk, and she wondered if her impulsive gesture had perhaps been a mistake. Then, with an odd sort of smile, he tucked the coin into his pocket. “You're wrong, luv,” he softly replied. “It's worth far more...at least, to me.”

  His answer gladdened her heart, and her smile grew wider. “I feared you might think me unduly sentimental. But now, tell me, what did you wish to say?”

  He gave a careless shrug. “It will keep. Right now, let's put this place in a bit of order before we're off.”

  “I'll fold the blankets.”

  She turned to match deed to word, only to break off with a muffled cry of pain as another step finally proved beyond her ability. Concern flashed over Malcolm's features, and he promptly caught her arm.

  “What's wrong, luv?”

  “I fear that I managed to cut my feet rather badly last night,” she conceded with a wavering smile.

  Swiftly, he scooped her up in his arms and deposited her in one of the chairs. The next moment, he had knelt to cradle one of her bare feet in his hands. He examined both soles and sat back with a scowl.

  “Is it bad, then?” she managed in a faint voice.

  He shook his head. “You'll not die,” came his ironic reply, “but why in the bloody hell didn't you say something last night?”

  Though his expression was accusatory, the mingled concern and admiration she heard in his tone served as a balm to her sore feet and uncertain heart. “I supposed I was too frightened to think of anything but the storm. Perhaps if you might find some rags to wrap around them, I might be able to walk a little easier.”

  “You're not taking a step. I'll carry you back...that is, as soon as I set things right here.”

  She watched as he righted the table and dragged it back to its spot along the wall, and then began folding the bedding. She would have argued against his plan, save that logic dictated she probably would not make it half-a-dozen steps before she would be begging his assistance, anyway.

  Moreover, the prospect of having him literally sweep her off her feet and carry her through the streets brought with it a small shiver of feminine appreciation.

  Still, it was with prim restraint that she looped her arm around his neck as he lightly hefted her. Then he glanced down at her, and the possessive glint in his dark gaze sent a sudden shyness through her, so that she felt her cheeks grow warm.

  To cover her confusion, she summoned a careless smile. “Don't worry, I'll not expect this of you again,” she assured him. “I am certain Lally has some sort of salve that should dull the pain and heal me quite quickly.”

  Barely had the words left her mouth than an expression she could not identify momentarily darkened his features. Then, blandly, he replied, “Yes, she does seem to have quite a way with settling matters, does she not?”

  With those words, she sensed a sudden withdrawal in him, a coolness that had not been there a moment before, but she was at a loss to understand it. Had they not just kissed, not just spent the night before making love?

  Then he carried her outside into the morning light, and she promptly forgot her concerns.

  It was as if some giant hand had wielded a scythe and lopped away at every treetop, leaving the island blanketed in tree limbs and torn leaves. As Halia stared, aghast, Malcolm picked his way through the tangle of battered greenery toward the road leading to the Queens Highway. Their progress was slow, however, and not only because of the fallen limbs. Though much of yesterday's rain had drained to the sea, water still stood in low spots and the sandy soil remained boggy, so that traveling by foot was treacherous.

  By the time they reached the road, she could see that the damage to the landscape was even greater. Uprooted trees had splintered wooden fences and tumbled stone walls. In some places, the debris was such that Malcolm had to set her down beside the road to clear a path, then scoop her up again and continue.

  Neither had the surrounding houses gone unscathed. As they drew closer to town, Halia saw that many humble little shacks and cottages had lost shutters or even whole sections of roof. An entire wall of one such home, she saw,
had collapsed entirely. She clutched at Malcolm's arm in concern, fearful that its inhabitants must surely have been injured, until she saw a man and woman with their brood of laughing children calmly clearing away the worst of the damage.

  For, with the rising of the sun, the islanders had left the safety of their homes to see what damage the winds and sea had wrought. To her surprise, the collective attitude was not despair but cheerful acceptance. Doubtless they were accustomed to such brushes with nature's fury and calmly shrugged off the inevitable backbreaking aftermath, at least, so long as there were no dead to bury.

  And from the bits of conversations she overheard, it did seem that no islander had been washed into the sea or even suffered any worse injury than a few bruises. Halia offered a silent prayer of thanks for that, even as she frantically wondered if the storm's benevolence had extended to the ships off the coast. If only she had some way of knowing whether or not her father was safe!

  By the time they were in sight of the guest house, Malcolm's face was flushed a dull red and his brow beaded with perspiration from the effort of negotiating the climb with her in his arms. He had ignored her repeated suggestions that she try to walk a part of the distance, or else wait beside the road while he brought additional help. The sun had risen enough so that the island seemed wrapped in a suffocating blanket of moisture, and yesterday's rains seemed almost preferable by comparison.

  As for making the trip cradled in his arms, it had turned out to be rather less than the romantic journey she had envisioned, given his unexplained silence. By the time he deposited her on the steps of the guest house veranda and collapsed beside her, her sigh of relief was as heartfelt as his had been.

  “‘Ere now, we were just goin' out to look for ye,” exclaimed a familiar rough voice from the door beyond.

  Halia turned with Malcolm to see Wilkie hurry out onto the porch, his pockmarked face split by a wide grin. “I thought we'd be buryin' ye both come mornin'. Twas un-nervin' enough, lettin' ye go off alone to meet that bleedin' pirate, but then we get a bloody 'urricane on top o' that...”