by Ruth Owen
Years ago she’d let him walk out of her life, and nothing had been right since. She did not know what intrigues he was part of. She did not even really know which side he was working for. But she was certain of one thing. She was not letting the man she loved walk out of her life without a fight. She was going to make it as impossible for him to imagine living without her as it was for her to imagine living without him.
By the time she had reached the bottom of the path, she had firmly decided that she was going to seduce Connor Reed.
The trouble with seduction, Juliana thought bleakly as she walked along the beach several days later, is that if one were not familiar with the particulars, it’s damned difficult to find out about. Mrs. Jolly had taught her about the mores of London society. McGregor had taught her about running the Marquis Line. But when it came to making a man take her to his bed, she was definitely at sixes and sevens. There were no books to be had on the subject. The women in the village who might answer her questions did not speak her language. In fact, the only certain knowledge she had about the act was the rather cryptic suggestion of one of her finishing school teachers, who had advised her to close her eyes and think of England.
As she walked past the wharf, a few of the fisherman’s wives who were busy mending nets called out a greeting to her. She waved her hand in reply, returning their simple hello with honest appreciation. After the tangled intrigues of the ton and the equally complex maneuverings of the shipping business, the uncomplicated friendship of these people seemed like a gift from heaven. They lived in harmony with the ocean, marking their lives not by balls and parties but by the ebb and flow of the tide. It was a hard life, but it filled Juliana with a peace and satisfaction she’d never felt in the well-appointed salons of Mayfair. In a way she could not understand, a part of her life would always be bound up in the sea. Just as a part of her soul would always be bound up in loving Connor.
Juliana’s thoughts ended abruptly as someone jostled her elbow. She looked over into the broad, grinning face of Senhora de Varzim. Still grinning, she pointed at the water. “Marido.”
Juliana shook her head. “Pardon, Senhora. I do not understand.”
“Conn-air,” the lady replied, still pointing at the sea. “Marido.”
“Oh, my, er, husband,” Juliana acknowledged. “Yes, he and Jamie went out with the other fishermen this morning to help with the catch.” And to avoid me.
The older woman nodded toward the ocean and began speaking in breakneck Portuguese. Juliana waved her hands. “ ’Tis no good, senhora. I cannot understand you.”
Hmphing, the signora tried again. With her right hand she tapped Juliana’s shoulder. “Esposa.” Then with her left hand she made a fist. “Marido.” She flung her two hands apart.
Juliana grimaced. “Yes, I suppose that is as good a way to explain it as any. We’ve had a bit of a spat.”
“Spat.” The senhora tasted the word, clearly finding it unappetizing. Once again she shook her right hand and then her left. “Esposa. Marido.” Smiling, she brought her two hands together in a motion so blatantly sexual that it made Juliana blush.
“Yes, well, that is all well and good. But Connor—my marido—is set against it.”
Senhora de Varzim looked out at the sea, clearly surprised. Juliana gathered that the smart money in the village had been on the suspicion that she was the one responsible for causing Connor to spend his nights with the senhora’s bachelor sons. She raised her hands and made a bold, if embarrassed attempt at repeating the senhora’s coarse gesture. “My marido is …” She lifted her shoulders and glanced forlornly at the ocean. “He is set against it, senhora. And I wish I could make you understand, because I haven’t the first idea of how to change his mind.”
The senhora laid a finger to her cheek, then let out a bold laugh. Taking Juliana’s arm she hustled the girl back down the beach, all the while calling out the other women. By the time they had reached the senhora’s house, Juliana was surrounded by most of the village wives, all of them talking and laughing at a frantic pace. Juliana could still not understand their words, but their gestures and encouraging looks made their meaning clear.
Apparently Senhora de Varzim had made her and Connor’s reconciliation her pet project.
Something was going on. Connor sensed it the minute he stepped off the bean-cod and started unloading the day’s catch. The wives of the some of the men came to help with the nets, and paused to whisper in their husband’s ears. Soon the entire beach was buzzing with clandestine whispers, whispers that became noticeably silent whenever he approached. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have suspected the villagers of plotting with the French. But these fishermen were loyal Portuguese, and the tenacious people had spent too many centuries fighting to keep their little country free of Spain’s long shadow to lose it to a foreign tyrant. No, the plotting going on had nothing to do with Napoleon. And probably, he thought as he lifted the last of the heavy nets out of the boat and spread them on the frames to dry, it had nothing to do with him.
Tomorrow he would complete his mission. A few days after that, his ship would return and he would leave this village. He’d say good-bye to the cheerful fishermen, the fragrant hills, the colorfully tiled houses, the savory food, the rich port … and Juliana.
During the day the hard, rewarding work of spreading and harvesting the wide nets had kept him too busy to think about her. But when the twilight fell and the stars came out, his heart and body would start to work against him, filling his mind with dreams of things that could never be. If our lives had gone differently we’d be married by now, maybe even have a little girl like Pedro and his pretty wife. We’d be growing old together.
Jamie’s cry cut through the regrets. “Captain, ya gotta come. There’s a party!”
Connor followed Jamie’s gaze down the beach and saw a bonfire being built at the edge of the sea. He frowned, trying to recall what saint’s day fell at the end of March, but none came to mind. Still, as he and Jamie walked toward the blaze there was no denying that some sort of celebration was going on. There was food everywhere, and glasses aloirado, the finely aged port wine that was the treasure of this region. He’d smuggled a case or two of it in his time. A glass was thrust in his hand. He took a sip of the amber liquid, letting its seductive sweetness curl over his tongue. It was some of the finest he’d ever tasted, as heady as lust and potent as sin, but it had nothing on Juliana’s kisses. Where the devil was she, anyway?
On the other side of the blaze, the unmarried girls served food and flirted with the young men. In their traditional colorful skirts and bare feet, they made an appealing picture, and Connor’s glum mood didn’t stop him from admiring the neat turn of ankle of one girl. Her face was turned away with her hair bound up in a scarf, but her crimson skirt swayed against her slender hips with an enticing grace, and her enchanting step almost reminded him of—
Connor dropped his half-full glass to the sand and stormed to the other side of the bonfire. He gripped the red-skirted girl’s wrist and turned her to face him. “What the blazes do you think you are doing?”
“I was serving dinner, until you manhandled me,” Juliana answered as she shrugged off his grasp and moved to the next table. “There’s no need for rudeness. Take a seat and I’m sure that one of the women will serve you—eventually.”
“I’m not interested in the bloody food,” he stated, following after her. “I want to know why you’re dressed up … like this. ’Tis unseemly for a woman of your station.”
“Well, perhaps next time you kidnap me you will have the foresight to bring along a ballgown.” She turned away, her angry expression becoming a bewitching smile as she ladled some savory lamb stew onto the plate of a grinning young man. “Enjoy your meal, senhor.”
The young man’s grin crumbled to ash when he met Connor’s murderous glare.
Juliana moved to serve the next man, but Connor grabbed the dish from her hands and plunked it on the wooden table. “Will you lis
ten? You cannot do this. Serving meals is a task for the unmarried women, and we’re supposed to be married.”
“Well, you are not acting as if we are!” She placed her fists on her hips, her expression every bit as stormy as his. “Your obvious indifference has caused a positive scandal in this village. Senhora de Varzim thinks we’ve quarreled. She was the one who organized this affair.”
Experience had taught Connor to smell Juliana’s plots a mile away. “And you had nothing to do with it?”
She lifted her chin haughtily. “Sir, you presume a great deal. Besides, you were the one who fabricated the story that we were married.”
“Yes, but I am not the one prancing about with bare feet and ankles. Nor am I wearing an outfit that shows … well, that barely covers … God’s teeth, Juliana, a woman of your breeding should not be strutting around half-naked in front of all these men.”
“At least they are not acting like an overbearing, boorish husband. Honestly, Connor. If I did not know better, I’d vow you were jealous.”
Jealous? Hell, he was going to wring the neck of the next man who so much as looked at her. “Senhora de Varzim thinks we’ve quarreled? Fine.” He gave Juliana a swift peck on the cheek. “We’ve made up. Now go back to your room and change into something more—”
A tap on the shoulder drew his attention. He turned around and met the unamused gaze of Senhora de Varzim. “No, Signor. Beijo.”
Kiss. “But I just did—”
She shook her head. “Beijo.” And with that, the whole crowd started pounding on the tables and chanting in unison. “Beijo. Beijo. Beijo.”
Juliana tapped her toes impatiently against the sand. “Unless you wish to stand here all night, I suggest we get this over with.”
With the whole village conspiring against him, he hadn’t much choice but to play out his role of conciliatory husband. Grimacing, he tilted her chin toward his, intending to give her a perfunctorily ardent buss and leave it at that. Surely he could restrain his passion for her for one little kiss.
Some women’s eyes were the windows of their souls, but for Juliana it was her mouth, and when he brushed her firmly closed lips he tasted all the anger, uncertainty, and pain bound up in her heart. Unable to resist, he brushed them again, savoring the sweetness that was headier than any port wine, aching with the pain that was the foundation of both their souls. The crowd around him had quieted, and he knew that the kiss had satisfied them. He could walk away now without regrets, knowing that he had behaved honorably toward her. He had not defiled her beyond repair. He had not robbed her of her innocence. He could walk away now. He needed to walk away now.
And the sea would turn to desert before he could willingly leave her. He lowered his mouth for a third time and her lips parted beneath his, and from that instant they were both lost.
She could never remember exactly how she ended up in her bedroom, or exactly what became of Connor’s shirt or her blouse, but it hardly mattered. What she did recall was Connor’s kiss, an endless, savaging caress that turned her knees to water and her blood to fire. She clung to him like a leaf in a whirlpool, spinning faster and faster as she was sucked into the center, driven by his heat, his power, and her own building need.
They fell together into the covers, an awkward move that only increased their desire. He tasted her deeply, lavishly, exploring her most tender recesses and enticing her to do the same. She felt places inside her that she hadn’t even known existed blossom into lush, throbbing life. She buried her face in his hair, breathing in his hot, musky smell. Breathing him.
She stroked his back, loving the way he was made, the coiled strength of his muscles, the soft thunder of the groans that he uttered whenever she touched him. He needed her as much as she needed him, and the knowledge filled her with a hunger that grew fiercer with every frantic beat of her heart.
“God, I’ve wanted this,” he growled against the edge of her mouth.
“Me, too,” she said, or tried to. The words seemed lodged somewhere in her throat. She tried to free them, but her effort ended in a gasp as his hand stroked the side of her breast. A bolt of pleasure shot through her, igniting a scorching fire in her center, but even in the midst of her passion a prick of conscience needled her. “Connor, I confess. I … I did plot to seduce you.”
His teeth and tongue savaged the tender lobe of her ear. “You don’t say.”
“Yes, ’tis true,” she admitted, though her shallow breaths made coherent words difficult. “It was calculated, duplicitous, and—oh, yes,” she groaned as his hand covered her breast, and mercilessly kneaded the sensitive bud into a taut peak. Lightning shot through her, turning her inner flame into an aching, hungry beast.
“Please,” she breathed. “This is … not honest. I seduced you most … ah, please, now the other … most dishonorably. Will understand if … God, you feel like heaven … will understand if you want to end this.”
Slowly he lifted his head, and gazed down at her with tender, burning eyes. “The only dishonor is mine, Princess. I’m going to ruin you. And God forgive me, I don’t care.”
She lifted her fingers and gently caressed his scarred cheek. “You could never ruin me. I’m yours. You’re mine.” She ran her nails down the tight, coarse curls of his chest, as if to prove her ownership. “I was made for you.”
She didn’t know if the sound he made was a laugh or a cry. He lifted himself off her, his gaze stark with all the uncertainty and loneliness she’d seen in him on the first day they’d met. “I vowed to protect you. Always. But instead, I’ve torn you from your life, destroying your past and your present, and probably your future. I’ve taken so much from you.” He traced his fingers along the length of her arm, as if he could not prevent himself from touching her, and said in a voice rife with self-loathing. “Now I’m taking your innocence from you, too.”
For months after her father had taken him in, she’d found Connor sitting alone on deck, staring off at the horizon with eyes like open wounds. He fought off everyone else’s help, but when she sat beside him and took his hand, he didn’t pull away. She lost count of the number of hours they’d sat that way, still and silent, two hurting children finding their healing in each other.
Deep down, they were still searching for the healing they could only find in each other.
Connor had not made any promises about the future. She’d asked for none. They might never have more than tonight. She knew she was taking the scraps of the feast, but a starving woman did not ask questions. Tenderly she took his face between her hands.
“Shall I tell you of my future? In a few days I will return to London, to a terrific scandal that will fade as soon as another indiscretion comes along. I will go back to the line, but in time I’ll be sucked back into the world of routs, balls, and the giddy pleasures of the upper class. I’ll fill the hollowness inside with a whirl of activities, until I’m wed to a man I will not love, but who can give me a family and children to fill the emptiness. No, don’t protest—you know it to be true. ’Tis the fate of women of my position, the brood mares for the titled class. I was born to it and I face it as I must. But—” She bit her lip, her voice wavering for the first time since she started. “ ’Tis a terrible cold life, Connor. I need the memory of our love to keep me warm.…”
“Hush,” he said as he brushed away tears she didn’t even know she was crying. He lowered his mouth to her cheek and kissed away her tears one by one. “The past and future are nothing to us. This night is all that matters. This night, when we belong to no one but each other.”
He drew her into his arms. Once again she was caught in the magic, the mystical binding that fused them together like two halves of a single sun. His mouth and hands were everywhere, coaxing and caressing, claiming every part of her as his own. She was warm, hot, burning like, a living flame. He caressed her into a frenzy, stripping away the last of her clothing and the last of her fears. His mouth moved lower, possessing first her breast and then her stomach. Unsated h
unger drove groans of passion from her throat, groans he covered with a renewed, ravenous caress. Then he stroked his hand down her body, delving into her throbbing, intimate center as his mouth claimed her animal moans.
“You’re so sweet. So tight. Give yourself to me,” he whispered urgently. “For this one night, Princess, pretend you’re only mine.”
She wanted to say it was not pretend—that she was only his, and always would be. But she was past words. She rode his hand, bucking and writhing in the passion that burned for him, only him. She gave herself up to his caresses, opening herself to him with a joy so rich that she thought she’d die from the beauty of it. And without even a thought of maidenly modesty, she stripped down his breeches and caressed his fullness with the same ruthless tenderness that he’d shown her.
He groaned, gripping her wrists and pinning her wanton hands to the sheets. “Do that again and this will be over before it begins.”
“It will never be over. Not for us. Take what is yours. What’s always been yours.”
They looked into each other’s eyes, hearts revealed without shame or shadows. In a dance as old as Eden, she raised her hips and he moved over her.
“God, you’re small,” he groaned, his voice ragged with need. He entered her just an inch, holding himself in check with iron control. “So innocent. Pure. Have no right—”
“Love gives you the right. I love you, Connor. I love—”
She gasped as he penetrated her, claiming her body as his love had claimed her soul. The quick pain was a small price to pay for the joy of having him inside her. Clinging to his shoulders, she felt a shudder pass through him, and thought what a miracle it was that a world-weary man could find peace in her body. She fell back on the pillows and sighed contentedly, knowing that she’d finally reached the pinnacle of a woman’s fulfillment. “That was wonderful,” she breathed.
