Another great wall of water began to rise behind them.
Time slowed. If he breathed at all, William didn’t know it. Business deals, life itself—nothing mattered, next to reaching his lady before the next wave crashed over the deck.
The Astoria’s engine whined and she wavered, before she started to careen down another wave. She rolled and the child lurched sideways into Viola.
William’s beloved wife slipped on the slick deck and lost her footing. The boy went screaming in the opposite direction.
William bellowed a war cry, ancient and Irish and written for another ocean, and hurled himself over the ropes. Hauling himself along them—like the sailors rushing to help—would have taken far too long. Carter was running on the diagonal, heading for where the ship’s roll would send his son.
Water gathered itself beyond the railing, touched by spectral silver, and reached toward the sky.
Viola slid toward the railing. Slight as she was, she could slip between two of those bars, especially if the heavy seas tore out just one piece of wood. But, praise God, she wasn’t paralyzed with fear. She managed to grab one of the safety lines as it went past, her face straining with effort under the almost blinding sheets of rain.
She stopped with a jerk, sending her body swinging around—and her legs heading straight toward the railing.
The Astoria pitched and rolled. Viola couldn’t hold on firmly. She started to slip, closer and closer to the roiling Pacific Ocean. To the widow-maker formed by the Columbia’s mouth.
William hurtled over a rope and caught her with one hand. His heart in his throat, he wrapped his other arm around the safety line and pulled her close to his heart. If the ocean wanted either of them, it would have to take them both.
The wave broke over the deck in a fury of salt and water, driving into his lungs, all the way through his clothes and his skin, pounding up from the deck. It could have lasted five minutes, it could have lasted five hours. All William truly knew was that Viola—his beloved fairy queen—was as much a part of him as his own bones.
The Astoria’s engine groaned and her wheel ground into the boiling cauldron. She began to labor up another wave and the water retreated sullenly.
William gasped and looked down at the breath of his life, desperate to see if she’d survived.
Slender fingers touched his face, shaking a bit. He kissed them, telling her he was alive, too.
Strong hands pulled them away from the safety line. “Come on, Sir! We’ve got to get you two inside before the next wave breaks. Mr. Carter’s taking his son down below now.”
William brought Viola up to her feet carefully and headed toward the cabin, his arm locked firmly around her, bracing himself against the wind to protect her. There was no way in hell that he’d let her out of his sight for the rest of the voyage.
Rachel walked down the hotel corridor beside Lucas, her gloved hand tucked in his arm, and tried to think of something safe to say. A bit of polite conversation to take her mind off what would happen next—consummating her marriage to Lucas Grainger!—or something seductive that the worldly women he knew might utter. But nothing occurred to her.
Her body’s reactions were even more startling. Her leather gloves were sturdy, designed for Boston’s worst winters, and her hand rested on his thick winter coat. She couldn’t possibly feel anything unique to him, any more than what she’d noticed of his servant or Reverend Anderson.
So why did her pulse insist on racing as if a towering ocean wave was about to sweep her off her feet? Or why did her breasts tighten against her corset with every breath she drew, trembling at his scent? And as for the fashion in which frissons danced over her skin every time she caught a new detail of his person—such as how the snowflakes melting on his coat emphasized the width of his shoulders. Or how deftly he’d held the hotel door to bring her in from the cold. And, as for the way her eyes kept returning to the shape of his mouth, as if begging to taste a kiss…
She bit her lip and told herself firmly she was being silly. She was as acutely aware of him—of his strong arm under her fingers, his leg brushing against her skirt and setting her ruffles swaying as they walked side by side—as if they were lying beside each other on an embroidered coverlet, rather than walking alone together.
Theirs was a marriage of convenience, not one of passion. Lucas would be courteous in their wedding bed, as befitted a gentleman and her friend. She should pray for gentleness and not hope for passion.
This was no time for her brain to flit like an agitated canary between the absolute certainty that Lucas was nothing like the invalid Elias—and eager anticipation of exactly how he’d demonstrate the differences to her. Why, Elias’s bullet-riddled shoulder had rarely allowed him to do anything as simple as escorting her in the conventional manner, with his arm bent and her hand resting on his, for more than a minute or two. Yet Lucas acted as if he could brace himself on his elbows and tumble her many times during a single night, a most incredible feat of strength.
If Lucas did that, surely his hair would sweep forward onto his brow. His mouth would be bruised from having kissed her long and often. And his eyes would grow heavy-lidded, giving him a look of carnal anticipation…
She flushed at the unexpected vision. A much stronger surge than with dear Elias, who’d often given her joy in the bedroom but never so greatly that she couldn’t think about how to pleasure him, while conserving his limited strength.
Startled, she forced down her body’s instinctive reaction to Lucas, demanding that logic play an equal part as it always had before. She needed to start planning now for the coming night with Lucas, in order to involve her brain, not her senses. As his wife, she had to make sure Lucas enjoyed himself, not greedily focus on her carnal fantasies.
Metal turned softly in a lock and she snapped back to the present, embarrassed at having lost track of her surroundings.
“Rachel, my dear.” His deep voice was quiet and alluring.
She looked up at him inquiringly.
“Are you certain you’re still willing to go through with this tonight? We could wait.”
She blushed and silently shook her head.
“Very well, if you’re quite certain.” He stroked a single finger down the side of her face, finishing at her throat.
Instinctively, she tilted her head to catch more of his almost insubstantial touch. A bubble of heat ran from her neck down to her womb, making her gasp.
His mouth curved, softening that harsh face under the dark hat.
He traced her lips with his finger, lingering over every curve as if they’d been sculpted by Michelangelo.
Her eyelids fell and her knees weakened. She couldn’t have stepped away, even if her mother had been there to yank her away. Was he trying to create a romantic wedding night for them, in utter contrast to their marriage negotiations?
“Lucas, anyone can see us here,” she whispered reluctantly, all too conscious of the long corridor with its multitude of doorways.
“Who cares? We’re married.”
Who cares? She gaped at him.
Before she could correct his disregard for society’s rules, he swept her up in his arms with one arm around her shoulders and the other under her knees. She squeaked, clutching at any portion of him she could reach. He chuckled softly and bent his head, gliding his tongue gently over her lips.
She started to protest—the public place, the embrace, their passionate display…
He deepened the kiss, teasing her lips and tongue.
Rachel moaned softly, involuntarily. Warmth shimmered enticingly through her, like a golden filament linking her mouth and breasts and loins. She wrapped her arm around his neck and tried to move closer, her mouth shaping to welcome his.
He growled approvingly, softly, deep in his throat—and kicked the door shut behind them, taking them into a softly lit hotel room. His tongue swirled deeper into her mouth, exploring the different textures of her, enticing her tongue to dance, while he slid h
er slowly down his body until her feet touched the floor.
When he finally lifted his head, she was dazed and pliable. He cupped his hand under her cheek and turned her to face the room. Her mumbled protest died when she saw the fantasy spread before her.
Potpourri had been scattered throughout, bringing the rich scent of summer roses to the room. Candles stood tall on every surface, ready to replace harsh gaslight with their truer, softer light. A covered silver tray held foodstuffs of some sort, while a bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket.
She tilted her head back and stared up at him. “How did you manage all this?”
He chuckled softly. “It’s our wedding, remember, Rachel? I wanted—and I hoped you might enjoy—more than simply standing up in a clerk’s office. I gave Mitchell a list of everything desired and he found it, including the church and our rings.”
“I’ll have to thank him tomorrow.” She turned back to him. “You’ve somehow given me a proper wedding. Thank you.” She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek but he captured her mouth with his, leaving her senses swimming.
When she came up for air, she was seated on the bed and Lucas was lighting all the candles, with the gaslight turned off. The warm glow transformed the simple room into a magical palace, rich with fantastical scents.
He opened the champagne and came back to her, carrying two glasses. She accepted one, twining her arm around his a little shyly. At least their sensual attraction should make this wedding night easier and hopefully the marriage to come, as well. Perhaps it might even keep him faithful for a time.
“To our new family,” he saluted and drank, the strong muscles in his throat moving deeply.
She smiled at that toast and swallowed her wine, letting the bubbles slide their way down her throat. Surely a home and family with Lucas would be splendid. God willing, they were the center of his motives for marrying her. “Lucas…”
His eyes, seen from this close, were turning more green than blue.
He stroked the lip of his champagne glass over her mouth. Her eyelids drooped and her mouth half-opened for the caress.
“Yes, Rachel?” he breathed against her cheek.
It was an effort to open her eyes and remember her question. “May I have some more champagne, please?”
He was watching her lips move as if he wanted to eat her. He tossed his hat aside, sending it spinning onto a coat hook. “If you kiss me again.”
His words seemed to pour themselves into her veins, as intoxicating as the finest French champagne. Every inch of her flesh hummed with eagerness for him.
A lock of hair spilled over his forehead, an unusual sign of dishevelment for him. She longed to push it back and run her fingers through his thick mane. A half-smile teased his lips, softening those stern features until a dimple almost appeared.
Taking all of her courage, she slid one hand up into his magnificent hair and kissed him, her blood sparkling like the wine. Her fingers stroked his scalp, the silk of his hair falling over her wrist.
He whispered against her ear, his warm breath fanning her cheek. “It’s time for our private feast. Oysters? Cheese? Chocolate?”
He caressed her again, the barest movement of his fingertips against her jaw, his hooded gaze scorching. “Or another taste of my wife?”
She blinked and ran her tongue over her lips, even as her brain tried to come back to life. They’d never discussed what he liked to do in the bedroom. “Lucas, perhaps we could talk a little—”
He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Talk? Now? When we can do this instead?”
His lips claimed hers again. Unable to disagree with his logic, Rachel moaned and arched against him, her mouth opening farther, her tongue twining with his. His kisses’ rhythm swirled through her, washing away all consciousness of anything else. Her pulse began to throb softly, regularly to the same beat. Deep within her core, a soft, rich fire shimmered into life, magically linked to his lips and her breasts.
He left her mouth, to her groaned disappointment, and tasted her face, kissing her cheeks, nuzzling her forehead, delicately nibbling her nose. “You’re a passionate woman, Mrs. Grainger, and a very sweet one. I need to taste every inch of you.”
“No!” She tugged his head back to where it had been. He chuckled, a rough male sound of anticipation, and claimed her more thoroughly this time, aggressively plunging his tongue deep into her mouth.
She answered him hungrily and pressed against him, her bones melting with eagerness for more. Her mind’s logic was losing control over her anatomy.
Her eyelids were heavy when he stopped and she had to force them open. Somehow he’d managed to take off his long frock coat and vest without attracting her attention. The sight of him in shirtsleeves, a strong pulse beating in his throat, rendered her almost speechless with hunger. His chest moving up and down, as he’d surge in and out in her…
“Shall I suckle your fingers?” The look in his eyes was both devilish and highly anticipatory.
For the first time in her life, her throat was almost too dry to speak. But she managed a brief nod.
He peeled her gloves off and kissed her fingers, one by one, slowly pulling on them with his mouth. She shuddered, tremors running through her until she could barely stand. What would similar caresses to other places do to her?
She forced herself to give voice to her duty. “Lucas, what do you want me to do for you?”
“For me, Rachel?” He shot her a disbelieving look and boldly cupped his magnificently rampant cock through his trousers. “Enjoy yourself, my dear.”
“But I should…”
He pressed a kiss into each of her palms. “Writhe in pleasure across the bed?”
“Oh, Lucas…” She closed her eyes, unable to voice the images his words brought to mind, given how her body melted with hunger for them.
He chuckled, in a harsh, deep rumble that was closer to a lion’s eager growl. She shuddered, her hips lifting toward him.
“Rachel, you’d tempt an archangel,” he muttered, his eyes glittering with hunger. Breathing harshly, like a horse in the middle of a hard-fought race, he tossed her mantle across a chair and unbuttoned her simple jacket quickly. He kissed and licked every inch of newly discovered skin, making her tremble even more. By the time it fell from her shoulders, she was writhing against him, begging shamelessly for more of his touch. Her skin was as flushed as if she’d been standing next to a bonfire. Liquid heat was building deep in her core, in time with the drugging rhythm of his kisses. Rational thought was a ridiculous impossibility, yet…
Her brain barely gathered itself to notice when he told her to step out of her skirt, since she was so enthralled by his attentions to her shoulders and arms. Her bustle and petticoats disappeared in even less time, since he’d discovered magical places on her neck where a single kiss—or nibble!—could make her throw her head back and moan in agony, desperate for another intoxicating taste of his mouth.
“We should talk,” she gasped.
“Not now, Rachel,” he growled and went back to courting her neck, his hips rocking against hers through his trousers.
Her hands restlessly sought and clung to his head. Her fingers pulled him closer, while small, needy sounds crept from her throat. Her hands could barely grasp his broad shoulders. His arms were hard bands of muscles under the crisply starched shirt.
She writhed against her husband, rubbing her aching breasts against his chest, while passion’s drumbeat thrummed stronger and faster through her veins. Her skin was tight and hot, as if ready to burst from desperation. She wanted more of him, more than his kisses, more than his hands, enough to satisfy the liquid lust dripping onto her thighs.
His big hands slid down over her hips and gathered her rump to him.
Rachel gasped at the totally unfamiliar caress and how easily he’d accomplished it.
“That’s my good girl,” he crooned.
He kneaded her derrière, sending shockwaves of delight deep into her core. Her swollen
pearl pulsed, sending more cream gliding over her thighs. Her head fell back, offering herself for more; she was utterly unable to do anything else.
He growled softly, triumphantly, and tipped her up onto the bed on her back. She landed gently, her legs sprawled in welcome. Her breath caught in her throat at the naked hunger on his face.
Slowly, deliberately, she widened her legs, flushing at her own temerity—and startled at her own carnal passion. She’d never been so sensually desperate.
His eyes glittered, looking almost entirely green in the candlelight. One of his big, callused hands wrapped around her leg just above her boot and slowly stroked it. “My beautiful golden lady is on fire,” he purred.
Involuntarily, her eyes closed to savor the delicious contrasts between his strength, the caress’ gentleness, and his skin’s roughness. Frissons ran up the insides of her thighs from his hand to her folds, tightening and swelling her pearl. She moaned and closed her legs around his fingers.
His left hand repeated the caress on her other leg, making her wriggle in sheer pleasure. His right eased higher, playing with her. Her pearl pulsed again and again. She was on fire, barely able to breathe, fully surrendered to him.
His blunt finger found her intimate flesh through the slit in her drawers, played with her folds, and fondled her pearl.
She gasped, tossing her head across the pillows, heedless of her hairstyle, and thrust herself against his finger, seeking the familiar delights of a man’s hands. Elias had been so very skillful at sending her into raptures this way.
Lucas chuckled rather roughly and stroked her again, circling her entrance. She was so very wet that his finger slipped in easily. She groaned in satisfaction and arched, driving herself down upon him.
He shifted, rearranging her legs, and bent over. An instant later, he nuzzled her intimate folds and licked her pearl, swirling his tongue over her like an exotic delicacy. She gasped helplessly and bucked against him.
“Sweet, very sweet,” he muttered. “But you’d look better half-insane with lust.”
The Northern Devil Page 10
