Pleasure of a Dark Prince iad-9

by Kresley Cole

  “If you and Mr. MacRieve are married, then I’ll eat Schecter’s shorts.”

  “Now that was just… unnecessary. And why would you think that about us?”

  “When you’re not looking, MacRieve reaches for you and pulls back his hand in a fist, like he’s dying to touch you.” He does? “Married people aren’t like that!”

  “Then I’ll be honest with you, Izabel. We’re not married, but he’s… old fashioned. He didn’t want my reputation to be hurt when I shacked up with him aboard this ship. Anything else?”

  “MacRieve keeps giving Travis cash, and we keep going off the planned route.”

  This was true. The Scot had told Lucia that he’d been steering Travis, paying the captain to take them directly by Rio Labyrinto. “MacRieve has been here before and knows promising research areas.” The ship would arrive in the vicinity in a week or so, probably right after the full moon. She and MacRieve had decided not to lose the mortals; instead, they planned to sneak out on the Contessa’s auxiliary motorboat. “So he’s merely been directing Travis. Anything else?”

  “That’s all I’ve got on you two. For now. But the others are just as strange.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Travis said to drop him a dime if you screwed up. Do you think he’d fire you for spying on his passengers? Maybe sack your brother as well, after all Charlie’s been putting up with?” Every day, the captain barked at the young man, ranting at him for repairing anything on board too well. Charlie was a good sport, quietly enduring each outburst. “Now tell me, or kiss your big Texan good-bye.”

  With another glare, Izabel said, “Fine. Take Damiãno. He’s definitely louco.”

  Lucia had to agree that something was off about the man, no matter how physically blessed he was. There was a seething intensity about him, much like MacRieve’s. Except that when Damiãno smiled, it never quite reached his eyes—and his eyes followed her constantly.

  “He speaks Portuguese, right?” Izabel said. “So Charlie and I try to talk to him. But he speaks old Portuguese.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s Portuguese like the conquistadors spoke.” That is strange. “And then he’ll see we’re frowning at him, and he’ll smile that magnificente smile.” She sighed. “Muito bonito.”

  “Damiãno is hot,” Lucia murmured, then realized she’d spoken aloud. “And by that, I mean, I respect his mind.”

  Izabel tapped her chin. “And Schecter?”

  “Not so much with the hot.”

  “Well, he—”

  “Shh,” Lucia hissed. “He’s coming.”

  With an aluminum case in hand, the professor slinked to the gangway—out of sight of the men laboring at the platform. His case was a Halliburton—the kind most often found handcuffed to a wrist, carrying missile codes inside. Lucia rolled her eyes.

  After glancing both ways, he took out his “revolutionary” lure, which looked like an airplane’s black box attached to a rope. When he turned it on, a blinking red light on the top beeped sonic frequencies. They made her ears twitch until he dipped the device into the water.

  Under her breath, Lucia said, “Hey, Iz—now’s your chance to eat his shorts.”

  Izabel’s eyes widened, as if she were shocked Lucia was teasing her. Then she whispered, “Hold me back. That cowlick? Muito machão.”

  Lucia couldn’t stop a grin.

  When Schecter moved on to other parts of the ship, Izabel said, “That one’s keeping snakes, lizards, and all kinds of amphibians in his room. Poisonous ones, even. And that lure thing? I’m not a scientist, but common sense says that when you bait something, you better be able to handle its arrival.” Smart girl. “I know this ship up and down—it’s held together by prayers, duct tape, and Charlie—and it couldn’t take the visit of a ‘mega’ anything. So Schecter’s either very foolish or very selfish.”

  Agreed. “What about Rossiter?”

  “Now him, I like,” Izabel answered. “But he’s sick or something. Never sleeps. And I think he’s obsessed with flowers, always drawing them—”

  Lucia’s phone vibrated then with yet another text message. She twisted around in the cramped space to view the screen. RegRad: Got 2 level 9/ ice wrld. U always do ice wrlds 4 me. Just as Lucia sighed—she missed Regin like crazy—another message from her arrived. Got thru it anywy. SO SUCK IT RAW!

  “Who keeps texting you?” Izabel asked. “A twelve-year-old you met at the skating rink?”

  “How do you say ‘har-har’ in Portuguese?” Lucia asked innocently, then she added, “It’s just one of my sisters. She misses me.” And resents my being away this long.

  “How many sisters do you have?”

  Hundreds. All over the world. “Enough,” Lucia answered.

  “I wish I had a sister.”

  “A twin brother isn’t enough?”

  “I guess,” Izabel answered with a shrug.

  Now that Lucia thought about it, she’d never seen the two display affection. Likely because they were so different. Izabel was brazen, confident. Charlie seemed unsure and awkward.

  “Hey, do you feel that?” Izabel said. “They got the ship loose.”

  Lucia glanced down just as MacRieve hauled himself from the water onto the platform, the damp muscles in his back flexing so temptingly. When he stood, shaking his wet hair in that wolfy way, his sodden jeans hung even lower on his sculpted torso.

  Lucia’s claws curled for him. Just as she was thinking, Gods, he’s fine, Izabel whispered, “I’d lock that one down while you can. Esplêndido.”

  The Scot was splendid. And sexy and funny. He knew how to string a recurve bow. Here was a man who treated her well, who’d proved he was understanding about her… limitations.

  “Chuck!” the captain suddenly called. “Get your ass up here!”

  Izabel jumped, knocking her head on the shelf. “I have to go!” Wide-eyed, she shimmied back.

  “Why do you have to go?”

  “To wake up Charlie.”

  Travis yelled, “Izabel! Where the hell is Chuck?”

  “See?”

  Lucia couldn’t believe this girl had fallen for that querulous captain. To be stuck on this bucket, with no future, no prospects. She was so young…. “Izabel, you know there are other ships out there for you to work on. Ships that will treat you much better.”

  Izabel met her gaze. “I’ll never want another ship as long as I live.” And then she was gone, leaving Lucia to her thoughts. Which almost always centered on MacRieve.

  In the last three days, Lucia had begun to fear that she was settling in with him too easily. She’d been fooled once before, and even after all these years, she was still deeply ashamed of succumbing to Cruach’s trickery. Her sisters would have sensed he was evil.

  Regin had. She’d taken one look at the fair-haired man at the portal and run to tell their godparents. Who’d made her swear never to see him again. Lucia had fallen right into Cruach’s clutches, trusting in him so completely that she’d broken those vows.

  Am I being too trusting with the Scot? As if to remind her why that’d be unwise, the nightmares were coming every night. Only now, for the first time in her life, she was sharing a bed with another, a male who’d begun questioning her, wanting to know what she dreamed of—

  “Lousha?” he called then, and she too hit her head. As she crawled from the shelf, Lucia could hear him stomping along the gangway, then to the cabin below.

  Just before she’d reached the steps, he bounded up them. “Where were you?” he demanded, his eyes flickering blue.

  “Right up here. You couldn’t scent me?”

  He visibly relaxed, the tension easing from his broad shoulders. “It’s difficult to find you aboard a ship like this.” At her nonplussed look, he said, “I scent your bathing suit top drying on the clothesline by the galley.” He twined a lock of her hair around his finger. “I smell a strand from these curls up by the wheel-house. All around,
I detect your scent. It’d almost be easier for me to find you from thirty or forty miles away.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t leave. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Aye, but I chased you for the better part of a year. Old habits die hard. It actually feels odd no’ to be running after you. Welcome, but odd.”

  She tilted her head at him. “In all that time, did you… did you ever think about giving up?”

  “Never.”

  “Not once?”

  His voice was so deep as he said, “Lousha, you’re my lass.” He shrugged, as if he spoke an irrevocable truth.

  If I’m not careful, I might just prove him right….

  Chapter 30

  “You doona expect to catch dinner with that setup?”

  Imagine that, MacRieve taunting Damiãno, Lucia thought. For the last ten days, the two men had been constantly at odds. They neared a boiling point, unable to pass each other on the narrow gangway without slamming shoulders.

  “You think you could do better?” Damiãno snapped.

  “Oh, aye.”

  “Wager on it.”

  Lucia sank down on the weathered lounge chair. Elbows to her knees and her chin in her hands, she settled in for the duration—because neither male had caught a single fish the entire trip. And now she could tell that neither would budge until they did….

  For each of these ten days, as the Contessa had headed deeper down the San Miguel into a primeval jungle, Garreth had grown more on edge. He paced constantly, palpably restless. He couldn’t run, and it weighed on him. Lucia knew the Lykae needed to run. Especially with the full moon tonight.

  And then tomorrow they planned to arrive in the vicinity of Rio Labyrinto—another source of unease for him. He’d said to her, “I doona suppose there’s any way I could talk you out of going to the labyrinth?” At her look, he’d added, “Dinna think so.”

  Yet as much as Garreth hated it here, she’d enjoyed it. She recalled that explorers used to talk about the jungle as if she were a mistress, leading men astray, making them shrug off civility. She finally understood what they’d meant.

  And she liked it.

  Levelheaded Lucia was losing it. Her façade of control, her tenuous rationality. Everything about this place was sensual—the colors, the warmth, the evocative scents. She felt more alive than she had in memory.

  Or maybe that was owing to the werewolf whose bed she shared? MacRieve was wearing her down every day—and night. As if she needed anything to erode her control. Her house of cards was in the midst of a maelstrom. With one stray touch, all would come tumbling down….

  Over these days, life aboard the Contessa had taken on a routine. Damiãno always seemed to be around, and though she sensed the male could be a threat, Lucia couldn’t muster any real fear. Damiãno might have been of the Lore, but no species could match Garreth in strength.

  As for Rossiter, when he wasn’t pacing in his cabin, the doctor got Charlie to teach him about the inner workings of the ship, and together, they did everything from refueling the generators to changing engine filters.

  Lucia didn’t think Rossiter had been asleep for an hour since they’d left. He was growing paler, his tall body rangier, and sometimes she thought she detected a growing glint in his dark blue eyes, like a… madness setting in. How could it not? Like her, Rossiter was running out of time.

  Schecter continually crept about at all hours of the night, dipping his sonic lure into the water, and just as continually, Izabel gave Travis long looks.

  When Travis didn’t think anyone was around, he’d checked her out a couple of times, then had appeared furious with himself. Yet it seemed Travis hadn’t noticed Charlie was giving him long looks as well.

  Despite the fact that the Texan wasn’t particularly kind to either twin, both of them were falling for him.

  Lucia actually liked Izabel. For a mortal. The girl was affable and no-nonsense, and reminded her a little of Regin. Though Lucia could never shake the feeling that something was off, it didn’t deter the budding friendship. And Izabel had confided secrets, explaining things about the captain that had puzzled Lucia, like his anger whenever Charlie made improvements to the boat—or his irritation at any reminder that Izabel was an attractive young woman.

  It turned out that Travis was a widower of eight years. His wife had apparently been a paragon, running tours with him, helping him restore this boat. She was the one who’d lovingly hung all the maps and quaint lists that remained to this day. The embroidered tablecloths and curtains had all been done by her hand.

  In Iquitos, it was rumored that Travis remained true to his dead wife, and the Contessa was a de facto shrine to her.

  Lucia had asked Izabel, “Why don’t you just tell Travis you want him?”

  “Two reasons. The ghost of his perfect wife. He hates anything that might tempt him from being faithful to her memory. And then there’s Charlie. Doesn’t matter. Capitão will never want me. Not everyone has it as good as you and Mr. MacRieve.”

  Lucia had been startled by her statement—because things were good with MacRieve. Though he was a rough-and-tumble werewolf, he could be remarkably patient. As they walked the decks, he would teach her Gaelic phrases. He’d chuckled a couple of times at her early attempts at pronunciation. Then he’d stopped laughing when he realized how quickly she was learning.

  And he was thoughtful. A few days ago, she’d heard MacRieve arguing with Schecter about taking “scientific credit” for a “previously uncataloged find.” Curious, she’d sidled to the corner, peeking around.

  In his big paws, the Scot was painstakingly cradling a delicate cocoon. Just emerging from it was a butterfly with silver wings, glittering with opalescence. She’d never seen anything like it.

  “Schecter, what in the hell do I want scientific credit for?” MacRieve gave a grunt. “Just want to name it.”

  “Well, if you don’t care about credit, then what would it hurt to allow me to claim this species and give it a designation? Honestly, Mr. MacRieve—”

  “Schecter, go fook your science. I’m naming this after my lady, and if you say another word about it, you’ll get this butterfly all messed up with your jugular blood.”

  The professor gaped, speechless for long moments. Finally he cleared his throat and said, “Uh, well, yes, of course. What will you call it?”

  “Lucia Incantata,” MacRieve murmured. Her toes had curled when he’d absently added, “Reminds me of her eyes…” She still sighed whenever she recalled the look on his face.

  That night, he’d “surprised” her with the butterfly, setting up a mosquito net in the cabin to keep it in.

  The offerings only continued. When she’d mentioned how lovely she found the blooms of those Victoria lilies, the next morning, she’d awakened to find a flawless white lily bloom by her bedside. The vase? A rinsed-out Iquiteña bottle.

  On top of everything, he’d given her a never-emptying arrow quiver. She’d gasped when he’d proudly handed it to her. “You just happened to find one of these lying around on board?” It was so elegant, with fine leather ties that could be strapped to her back or thigh.

  “Had it with me the whole time.”

  The item in his bag she’d seen wrapped in leather… Which meant he’d brought it for her even when he’d been furious with her. “Did you filch this from the fey?”

  With a wolfy grin, he’d said, “Well, they damn sure doona sell them.”

  “MacRieve!” Yet once she’d gotten over her breathless excitement, she’d felt a tinge of sadness. This was a gift from a would-be lover, something to help her archery. Too bad she couldn’t keep the archery and the lover. Still, she’d rewarded his thoughtfulness amply….

  He didn’t promise gifts as some men were wont to do—MacRieve merely delivered them, delighting her Valkyrie sensibilities.

  Yes, atop decks, life was constant. Belowdecks, she and MacRieve indulged their lusts.

  Any time it rained during the day, he’d offer his h
and with the grated words, “Come, Lousha.” Just as he would command later when he wanted her to climax. She’d be shivering with anticipation by the time they got to the cabin.

  With his palm over her mouth to cover her screams, MacRieve did wicked things to her. During each encounter, he grew more aggressive with her body, kissing her harder, touching her even more possessively. She knew he considered her his woman—and the idea only aroused her more.

  The first night on board, he’d told her that she’d pray for him to be inside her. Again, he’d been right. When he spread her thighs wide, then lazily petted her sex, it drove her wild. Especially when he stroked just at her core while rasping in her ear, “One day I’m goin’ tae be wedged so deep right in here. You’ll be hot and wet and fit me like a glove.”

  Again and again, she tried to imagine how his shaft would feel plunging into her body. Most women in her situation would fear his size. But after his onslaught of teasing and petting…

  Yesterday, she’d nearly begged, murmuring how much she needed him inside her.

  He’d gnashed his teeth, puncturing the paneled wall above their bed with his claws. “Gods, woman! No’ till you ask me. Out o’ bed!”

  Every night after they were sated—or as much as they could be with their limitations—he held her in his arms. They watched her butterfly dance in the lamplight, talking for hours.

  They’d speculated as to why Nïx had warned her about the Barão and why its captain kept returning to remote tributaries if some of his passengers didn’t make it back to port. “Maybe Captain Malaquí’s been finding demons out there,” Lucia had said. “He could be sacrificing unwitting cryzos to them in exchange for power.”

  “We’ve heard of crazier things in the Lore….”

  And MacRieve told her more about the necropolis. If they could locate Rio Labyrinto, they could find the city of the dead. In that place were depictions of gold, possibly directing them to “the mythical” El Dorado—which, MacRieve had told her, might or might not even be a place.

  “Everyone thinks it’s a location, a lost city,” he’d said, “but the phrase is actually based on a legend of a native chieftain. He was so rich that he ridiculed anyone who wore the same jewelry twice. Instead, he had his gold ground into a mist, then painted on his body. At the end of the day, he’d wash it away, and it’d be lost forever. El Dorado means ‘the Gilded Man.’”