by Tina Donahue
He’d never been as exhausted, pleased, happy, frustrated, angry, and damned tired of her blasted civility. He wanted her fire, passion, even her rage. At least, she’d give him something to work with.
This had to end now.
He opened his eyes and froze, a razor inches from his face. The steel glinted murderously in the morning light. Alarmed, he grabbed Canela’s wrist.
She gasped.
He squeezed, forcing her to release the weapon. The moment the blade hit the mattress, he was on his feet and pushed her against the wall. “What do you think you’re doing? Answer me.”
She blinked wildly. “I came to shave you as I always have.”
Tristan opened his mouth, then shut it. Since Diana’s arrival, he’d forgotten about his and Canela’s morning ritual. Diana hadn’t known about it. She wasn’t in their bed or anywhere in the chamber.
He shook Canela. “Where’s Diana? Tell me.”
“I do not know. I found the door open and came inside.”
He tore through the room for his robe but couldn’t find the blasted thing. Finally, he tied a silk sheet around his hips.
If his sudden modesty surprised Canela, she hid her feelings well. Her provocative smile said she’d also forgotten these last seconds, the gowns, and his marriage, again.
“I will shave you now.” She padded to the razor.
He stood in her way. “There’s no need to.”
“It has been so long since I have.” She stroked his bristly cheek.
He pulled away.
Anger flashed in her eyes, but she recovered effortlessly and gestured to a chair. “Please sit so I can begin.”
“No. You’ll not shave—wait, the gown you have on.” She wore the rose-colored one he’d loved so much on Diana.
Canela ran her palms over her breasts barely contained by the silk. “You gave it to me with the others.”
“I did not. It belongs to my wife, and I want it returned to her.”
Fury flickered across Canela’s face, followed by seduction. “Then I will remove it.”
“Not here.”
She undid the laces.
He clenched his jaw. “Go to your own room.”
“It is so far away. Too far.” She bared her breasts.
He tore the sheet from his hips, yanked on his breeches, and left the room before Diana saw this. That is, if she came back.
She wasn’t in the dining area.
He bolted to the stables, praying she hadn’t taken a mare in a futile attempt to ride to the beach and the skiff to escape.
No horses were missing.
Mist hovered over parts of the island where the sun hadn’t burned it away. She wasn’t racing through the filmy whiteness or darting around trees.
She had to be in the mansion.
Short of it, island children spotted him.
“Capitaine!” Three-year-old Henri ran into Tristan’s legs.
Tristan staggered, pretending he might fall.
The child shrieked in delight and wrapped his chubby arms around Tristan’s legs. “Donnez-moi un tour.” Give me a ride.
The other children squealed the same request.
Tristan loved the little ones but wanted to find Diana so he could rail at her for worrying him, after which she’d probably nod politely, give him nothing else, and behave as a stranger, not his besotted wife. He had to settle this to his satisfaction today. Tempering his eagerness to leave, he swung each child over his head and in a full circle, then returned to the mansion.
Diana wasn’t in their bedchamber, but at least Canela had left. The rose-colored gown lay crumpled next to the razor. He tossed both into the armoire, padded to Peter’s room, and rapped hard on the door.
“Whu?” Sleep thickened Peter’s voice.
“Is your sister in there?”
“Uh… I don’t know. Let me check under the bed.”
“Never mind.”
She wasn’t in the other rooms. Finally, he stopped in the doorway to the library.
Diana was inside, wearing his robe, her back to him. She struggled to reach a volume on an upper shelf.
He closed the door gently and came up behind her.
She flinched.
“Easy, it’s only me.” Lightheaded at her sweet-musky scent, he pressed his length into her and reached for the book she wanted. After reading the spine, he slipped his hand beneath the silk robe and cradled her naked breast. Its weight and warmth stole coherent thought. His cock stiffened and his lids slipped down. “Is this the book you wanted?” He lowered his mouth to her ear. “It’s in French.”
“Yes, I know, but thank you for pointing that out.”
Her good manners were going to kill him. He leaned over to see her face. She turned away. Disappointed, he straightened. “Then you’re also aware you aren’t skilled in reading it.”
“Thank you, I know that too.” She took the volume and tried to sidle away.
Tristan stepped back. When she reached the door, he couldn’t let her go. “Diana, wait. Please.”
She stopped lowering the handle, but she didn’t face him.
Never had he met such a willful woman, one he couldn’t live without. “I only meant to remedy the situation with Canela, not anger or humiliate you. I know you’re concerned about Peter being around bare-breasted women. However, I haven’t the right to tell them what to wear. The only reason I tried with Canela was because of our past. And it is in the past. But you must understand, what the women do is up to them and their husbands or lovers. Not me. Not you.”
She looked over. “I do understand the situation you were in, which was of my own making. I take full responsibility, and you have my sincerest apology.”
Stunned, he gestured helplessly. “Then why have you been so somber and polite with me like you are now? You’re not to leave the room until you tell me what’s on your mind.”
She gave him one of her sad looks.
“None of that, either. I can’t guess what you’re thinking. Out with it.”
“Very well.” She leaned against the door, the volume to her chest. “When you told me your mother was a doxy and your father was unknown, you said pity disgusted you.”
He tensed. “It does. I’ll not abide it, especially from you.”
“You honestly believe it’s pity I feel, and for you of all people? Are you completely unaware of what you’ve accomplished despite your humble beginnings? How many languages do you speak? Five?”
“What does it matter how many?”
“I want to know. Tell me.”
“Seven.”
She shook her head and regarded his volumes. The bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling. Other works were stacked on the long table and chairs. “From the looks of what you have in here, you also know history, geography, science, literature, so many subjects I can hardly remember them all. Can’t you see how brilliantly you’ve survived and how educated you are? Far more than most nobles.”
“But I’m hardly noble, am I?”
“How dare you make light of this. You live like a veritable king.”
That meant nothing. Although Diana’s hair was sleep-mussed and her attire just a shade away from wanton, she was the most elegant woman he’d ever known. If anyone had a claim to nobility, she did. Without meaning to, she’d made him feel so unworthy of her.
“I live this way because I won the island in a night of wagering, after which I had to kill the man who lost it before he put a bullet in my head. Now you know how truly noble I am. Have you forgotten I’m a pirate? A common criminal?”
Insults she’d once used.
Her face flushed. “Surely you had good cause to go on the account.”
Ah, now he understood her true intent. She wanted to learn the bleakest part of his past. However, they had a deal. He would only tell her everything when he had her respect and heart. “You speak as if we were friends. Are you saying you’
re finally prepared to give me your all?”
“You have that from Canela.”
“To hell with her, I want it from you.”
“She’s quite beautiful, and you’ve had relations with her.”
He crossed the room and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Is it impossible for you to believe the only reason I had relations with her is because I’d yet to come upon you?”
“You didn’t come upon me. I came upon you.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “So you did. With a kick to my leg and your first demand that I get to my feet. You seemed quite intent on it.” His smile faded. “And calling me coward.”
Embarrassment flooded her features. “At the time I thought you were.”
“No more?”
Her gaze softened briefly before she grew distant. “You’ve been brave enough to repeatedly request I give you my all.”
“Request?”
“No one, not even you, can demand such a thing. One can only hope. Most men in your position would have settled for a wife’s simple compliance in their bed.”
“I’ve already told you I’m not most men.” He ran his hands down her arms. “I demand all you have to give. Do I have that from you?”
She lowered her face. “I can’t offer so much as yet.”
“Why not? Do you expect me to say the words first? Very well, I shall.”
“No.” She rested her fingertips on his lips. “Remember, words have power, they should be used with great care, not simply parroted.”
He kissed her fingers. “What makes you think they would be?”
She sagged. “I can hardly keep up.”
“With what?”
“You, of course.”
“Me?” He shook his head, not understanding and then he did. “Well, dear girl, as a man, my hunger’s far greater when it comes to carnal desire.”
“I’m well aware of your sexual appetite, which isn’t any greater than mine.”
He leaned into her. “Are you quite certain?”
She pushed him back. “Quite. Lust is hardly what this is about.” She lifted the book, a history of France. “I must understand this.”
“Why? I hardly expect you to do so.”
“Your expectations aren’t what drive me. I require this. Diana, the woman. Not Diana your wife or mother of your children. You won’t leave me behind. I intend to learn French to keep up with you, to share your interests, and to communicate with the islanders. I’ll also learn their customs. If this is going to be my home, then—”
“Not if, this is your home. Your place will always be beside me till your last breath, understand?”
“Then I want to belong. I won’t have the islanders pitying me. Nor will you do such a thing, do you understand?”
“Pity you? Surely you can’t be serious.”
“At the moment you hardly consider me at all except for the pleasure I can bring you. I intend to change the situation.” She slapped the volume against his chest.
He caught the book before it fell to the floor.
“You’ll use these works to teach me French. After French we’ll tackle the other languages, then history, geography, and whatever else remains.”
Tristan shoved the volume under his arm fearing the lessons would take the remainder of their days. “And what’s my reward for this?”
“My gratitude. It’s what makes a friendship. Doing kind acts for each other.”
“I see.” He rested his palm on the door near her head. “Gratitude is hardly an act. So, what kind act do you intend to do for me?”
A smile played across her lush lips. “I’ll be as wanton as you want in our bed.”
If she were any wilder, she’d kill him. “I already have your passion. I need something else.”
She traced his nipple. His skin tingled. “Name whatever you want and it’s yours.”
What she did right now was nice, but he should choose something new. A task he’d definitely enjoy. “From this day forward you’ll shave me.”
Her slender eyebrows lifted. “Is that why you’ve neglected your beard these last days?” She ran her thumb over his whiskered chin. “You don’t know how to shave yourself? I thought you were a grown man. Perhaps I was wrong. So, little boy, how old are you?”
He liked her saucy tone. “Old enough to have my needs taken care of by others.” He backed away. “However, if you refuse to shave me, I’ll have to find someone else to do so.”
“You will not.” She advanced until she was toe-to-toe with him. Hand on his chest, she combed the short hairs. “No other woman has the right to shave you. Shall we proceed?”
Tristan could hardly wait. He opened the door. “Tell me, have you ever shaved a man before?”
“Never. But I’ll learn.”
* * * *
If her father had been alive to see this, Diana was certain the shock would have killed him.
Tristan sat in a chair in their bedchamber, her straddling him. Male flesh effortlessly touched female flesh because he wore naught except the healed scratches on his cheek. She was equally nude, clothed only in diamonds to show how he possessed her.
Despite his masculine privilege, she held a deadly razor, while being very close to offering him her heart.
Days ago, she wouldn’t have believed this possible. After the dining room scene with Canela, Diana had despaired that she and Tristan’s relationship would ever work out but couldn’t deny her feelings for him. That left one choice. Fighting for his love and friendship in the only way she knew, by becoming a full part of his life and this island.
Shaving him in the nude was a fine start. She dissolved into giggles.
“You find this amusing?”
“No. I’m quite certain every man is shaved in the same manner.”
He palmed her breasts. “Pity the poor bastards who haven’t been.”
She nestled closer, incomplete without his touch. “Haven’t been what?”
“Shaved in this manner.”
His cock thickened beneath her. Unspeakably lovely. “I’d have to include my father in your comment. Shall I proceed with my task?”
“Please do.”
She lathered the soap and applied the bubbles to Tristan’s cheeks, upper lip, chin, and throat.
He played with her nipples.
Her aim was so unsteady much of the froth wound up in his hair. She pressed her mouth to his ear. “You must quit arousing me or I’ll never be able to keep my hand firm, especially when I’m holding the blade.”
He wrapped his arms about her waist. His long fingers dangled over her buttocks. “When you mentioned your father, were you saying what we’re doing now wouldn’t have met with his approval?”
“The man was determined to resist all pleasure.”
Tristan shook his head.
“Careful or I may miss my mark and cut your throat.”
He was as still as a corpse. “What of your mother?”
“She never would have cut your throat as she was—”
Tristan tickled her.
“Very well, very well!” Diana squirmed and laughed. “I give you my word to be far more serious. I’ll even outdo my father.”
“A simple answer is what I ask.”
“My mother was a lovely woman, and I miss her greatly.” Diana brought the razor to his face. “I’m about to begin on your cheek. Menton in French, correct?”
“Not unless you mean chin.”
She hung her head. “I did study the language, though I wasn’t at all good at it. I shall be now. How do you say cheek in French?”
“Joue.”
“I’m about to begin on your joue. Keep still.”
“You have my complete obedience. How old were you when your mother died?”
Diana eased the razor down Tristan’s cheek. “Huit.”
“Eight?”
She nodded.
He sighed. �
��So young. When did your father pass?”
“When I was seventeen. I forget, how do you say that in French?”
“Dix-sept.”
She drew the blade down his cheek in short, careful strokes.
“Were you just seventeen when you met Benedict Bis—”
Her hand jerked. The blade cut Tristan.
He yelped. “Damnation, that stings.”
“Do forgive me.” She washed the cut and daubed it with linen. “You must keep still.”
“And not ask questions about your benefactor?”
She recalled Tristan’s anger when she’d told him she belonged to Bishop. It seemed a lifetime ago, yet his fury then was the same as her jealousy over Canela and not soon forgotten. “There’s something you must understand. When I learned pirates took Peter, Bishop was the only one who offered to help with my rescue plan.”
“You went to him then? His offices?”
She rinsed soap and whiskers off the razor. “No. I had known him before.”
“Through your father?”
“No. I met him upon my father’s death. Bishop said he was a friend from long ago.”
“Was that true?”
“I have no idea. My father never confided his past or present to me. Why? Are you saying Bishop wasn’t my father’s friend?”
Tristan touched the cut and regarded the blood on his fingertips. “Before he came into your life, did Peter ever have a desire to go to sea?”
“Why?”
“Did he?”
“No, but he was a child. In many ways he still is. Quite impressionable. Surely, Peter overheard Bishop speaking of a mariner’s life and took it upon himself to run away, thinking it would be more exciting than doing lessons and becoming a reverend. Besides, when we were on the Lady Lark, Peter said he’d taken off to spare me the expense of housing and feeding him.”
“Where did he get the idea? From something you’d said?”
“Never.” She slapped Tristan’s shoulder lightly.
“What was that for?”
“Your offensive question. Peter’s my brother. I would have starved before he had to. When I told him Bishop was concerned for his safety, Peter seemed surprised. He asked how I could be certain it wasn’t Bishop who put him in harm’s way.” She shook her head. “Peter said he’d heard things about the man. What things? Please, you must tell me. Aren’t we almost friends?”
