A pocket-handkerchief of a house. Very humble, but clean, and with quite enough room for two. Spending her honeymoon here with Michael, far from the tumult of London, might not be so bad. An optimist might even call it rustically romantic. They could spend time getting to know each other here before returning to the business of saving Fulton’s. Perhaps it would give Michael a chance to come to terms with his past.
She opened the pantry and found it stocked with eggs, butter and milk and some sort of meat pie beneath a muslin cloth. There was a cask of small beer tucked in one corner beneath the shelves.
Enough food to keep them going until the morning.
How long would he want to stay? A week? More? They would need to hire some sort of servant. Or might he have already done so, since clearly someone had prepared the house for their arrival?
Most importantly, they needed wood for the fire if they were to make a cup of tea or warm up the pie. Thank goodness she wasn’t expected to cook a meal.
At the sound of the front door opening and closing, she returned to the parlour to find Michael removing his coat. He hung it on a hook behind the door, picked up an armful of logs he must have set down when he entered.
‘You must have read my mind.’ At his enquiring look, she smiled. ‘About the logs.’
He grinned, looking comfortingly like her handsome pirate for the first time since he’d arrived in London. ‘This will get us started. I will cut some more after supper.’
Her heart lifted. Whatever the future brought, they would face it together.
Chapter Seventeen
Shadows filled the corners of the room, the glow of the fire their only light. Supper over, Alice smiled at him over the tea tray.
‘Good lord, it’s dark in here,’ he said and crossed to the hearth, lit a spill and held it to the candles on the mantel. He brought one back and placed it in the middle of the table. The glare captured a bitter twist to his lips, but it was only a trick of the shadows, because when the flame steadied his expression was utterly calm.
‘Simpson won’t return until tomorrow,’ he said, going to the door and shrugging into his coat. ‘I’ll chop some wood for the morning.’
‘I’ll wash the dishes.’
Her shadow flitted back and forth. Washing the dishes. If he listened, he could hear the sound of crockery in the sink and her humming through the casement. The sounds the wife of an ordinary man would make in her kitchen after supper. The kind of life he’d dreamed of before his memory returned and with it the burden of duty.
He hefted the axe-head in his palm. Caught in the light, the blade flashed a fiery reminder. He didn’t want to go, he realised with savage sadness. Duty didn’t stop him from wanting her the way a man dying of thirst wanted water. That’s why he’d stayed tonight, when he should have left with Simpson. For one night, he wanted to sink into her warmth, immerse himself in her calm spirit, and ease the constant ache in his chest. It was wrong, given his intentions, but he couldn’t resist.
Michael slammed the axe into the log. The blow sent vibrations up his arm and into his shoulder.
Hell. He felt like a bastard.
He should never have taken her on his ship. Never have let her get beneath his skin. Now he couldn’t let her go.
Another blow of the axe jarred his spine. The log split in half. He hacked it into kindling, woodchips flying.
She didn’t need to know. Didn’t need her illusions about her father destroyed. She’d be all right here. Safe.
It wasn’t cowardly to protect her from her father’s crimes, from seeing him pay the price. The sins of the father need not be visited upon the child.
Goddamn it. She loved her father. Whatever happened, she’d be hurt. Just thinking about the pain he would cause her weakened his resolve.
Which was why she had to remain here, out of his sight, so he wouldn’t be tempted to forgo his justice.
Bloody Jaimie hadn’t helped him feel any better by begging him to give the whole thing up. They’d argued for the first time since their reunion two years ago.
Tell her, Jaimie had said. Explain.
Time enough to tell her when it was all over, then she must understand. She was his wife.
And if she didn’t? He pushed the thought aside.
Forwards. He could only go on. There was never any going back. He raised his arms, tensed his shoulders, gathering his strength for the next blow. He’d tell her he was leaving in the morning. Tonight he’d bind her close.
Crack. The log shattered in tune with something inside his chest.
All of the downstairs rooms were dark when Michael entered the cottage. She’d retired for the night. Gone up to the small room at the top of the stairs. Tucked into bed below the eaves. Waiting. Hot blood streamed through his veins.
If he was any kind of gentleman, he’d make his bed down here, pretend to have one of his headaches, instead of enjoying her favours knowing full well he intended to betray her trust.
He hung up his coat, untied his cravat and left it hanging loose. The stairs creaked under his weight. She’d hear. Know he was on his way. Would she welcome him as warmly as the yearning in her eyes had suggested? A lump of anticipation lodged in his throat.
A sliver of light surrounded the slightly ajar door. A good sign, surely? His heart drummed in his chest as if he was some callow youth on the trail of a chambermaid, instead of a man bent on seducing his wife. A push with his fingertips swung the door back.
Hair around her shoulders, a virginal white gown tied low across the rise of her breasts, she gazed at him, eyes wide. She snatched the sheet up to her throat. Delicious colour rushed up her face. She laughed, an awkward little chuckle, and let the sheet fall.
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, my lady,’ he murmured, making no attempt to hide from her gaze the beat of lust in his blood.
Her breasts rose with her quick intake of breath. Anticipation was not at all one-sided.
She primmed her mouth. ‘You will be suitably punished for your lateness, sir.’ Laughter sparkled amid the brown-green velvet of her eyes. ‘I have been waiting since yesterday.’
He found himself smiling like a besotted fool. ‘Would you berate a man for his illness?’
‘On his honeymoon? Yes.’
‘Demanding wench.’ He unbuttoned his waistcoat and tossed it aside. ‘Believe me, I have every intention of making up for lost time.’
‘Good. I shall hold you to that promise.’ Smiling saucily, she rose up on her knees, affording him a glimpse of the valley between her pert breasts. He had no doubt from her smile that she did it on purpose. Fire rushed through his veins in a torrent of desire.
He tossed his cravat over the bedstead and she set to work on his shirt buttons with nimble fingers. Grasping her shoulders, he inhaled the scent of her hair, rubbed his cheek against its silken strands. A sense of deep familiar contentment, as if he’d sailed into a well-remembered port, enveloped him. A coming home.
‘I missed you,’ he murmured into those silky tresses. He pressed his lips to the pulse below her ear, felt its rapid beat beneath the sensitive skin.
The top button popped free.
‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ she said, her voice rough, her fingers busy with the next button. ‘I didn’t dare believe you’d risk coming to England. Not for me.’ There was pain in her voice. It caught him by surprise. He captured her chin, turned her face until he could see her expression. A shimmer of tears glistened in her eyes.
‘There was never any danger,’ he murmured. ‘You knew I’d come for you.’
‘I hoped. Oh, Michael, I did hope. But how could I be sure? After what you said.’
Damn, he felt like a cur. He thumbed away the trail of tears on her cheek. ‘No tears. Not tonight.’
‘No,’ she said gravely. ‘I want this night to be one we will remember.’
So did he, for both their sakes. He broke away. Ripped the shirt off over his head and let it fall to the floor. Her gaze
ran over his body, avid, greedy, scorching. It roused him harder than ever before.
How did an English primrose go from shy to siren in the space of a minute? The seduced becoming the seducer. However she did it, he would not rush this, no matter how much she tempted. He would make every moment count. It might be weeks before he was with her again.
If ever, the small doubting voice whispered. A voice he refused to acknowledge.
‘Alice,’ he murmured. ‘Lay back, my lovely,’ he whispered close to her pretty ear. He blew a breath on her tender column of neck.
She shivered.
His groin tightened at the feminine sign of arousal. Gently he eased her on to the sheets and let his gaze rove her body. ‘Let a pirate show you what he does with his most precious treasure.’
Her lips curved in a smile. ‘I’d rather know what a privateer does with his captive.’
‘Would you, indeed?’
She bit her lower lip, clearly trying to keep from laughing. ‘I would.’
‘Then you shall.’ He bent his head, his lips so close to hers, their breaths mingled. ‘First there are kisses.’ He brushed his mouth across hers, once, twice, thrice, a whisper of kisses. She moaned for more. He melded his mouth to hers, wooing, seeking entry. Her hands flew to his shoulders, pulling him close, her open mouth all fire and passion.
No maidenly reserve from Alice, thank the gods.
He swirled her mouth with his tongue, tasting sweetness and heat. He cupped her small breast, felt the nipple bead against his palm. Her hips rose eagerly against his thigh.
Slowly he drew away, looking at the full rosiness of her lips now pouting in disappointment. But this was her fantasy and he would not disappoint.
‘Then I bare my captive to my gaze.’
Her indrawn gasp of sweet longing hit him hard in the groin, urging him on to ravish and plunder. Not yet.
Gaze fixed on her face, he untied the tapes of her bodice, slipped the filmy garment over her shoulders and down to her waist. Her eyes widened. Her lips curved. Her lashes lowered in invitation.
He allowed his gaze to wander down her delicious length. High small breasts with peaks puckered and hard begged for his touch. He took them in his hands, stroked and caressed, remembering their shape in exquisite detail, their fit in his palms, their weight. A dreamy expression crossed her face, her ribcage rising and falling with deep, even breaths. He ached to be inside her. Not yet.
Reluctantly, he returned to his task, sliding the wisp of fabric under her lovely curved bottom, over the gentle swell of her hips and past the triangle of soft-brown feminine curls. He trailed it down her thighs and calves and whisked it over her shapely feet.
Bare. Gloriously naked. He gazed on her loveliness, breathing hard. A raging beast barely leashed.
Her eyes popped open. ‘What now, wicked privateer?’
For a moment the words made no sense, he was all feeling, all bone and straining sinew, hot blood and rigid phallus. He inhaled. ‘Then I feast.’ How he would feast. But not yet.
‘Unfair,’ she said, her eyes laughing. ‘You are still clothed.’ Her husky murmur strummed every nerve until his body hummed.
‘All part of the torture,’ he said, with a wicked-pirate grin.
She curled her fingers into a fist and punched his shoulder. ‘Take that, you brute.’
Quick as a flash, he manacled her wrist, pressed her hand into the pillow above her head. Felt her soft breasts rise against his chest. ‘Fight me, will you, fair maiden?’ he growled.
Her lovely eyes blinked slowly, slumberously, her lips turned sultry. ‘Probably not.’
The prosaic tone hit him low in the gut. It was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. He laughed and leaned in to reward her with a kiss.
In one swift move, her leg pushed up between his, rubbing with delicious pressure against his groin. Amazingly wicked. He leaned forwards to allow her better access. A quick twist and she pushed him off balance. He fell to the side to avoid crushing her beneath his weight. She flung herself across his body. He looked up into her triumphant face and raised a brow.
‘The wicked privateer needs to keep better watch on his prisoner,’ she said.
With her knees either side of his waist and her damp quim pressed against his belly, her breasts hovered a tongue-length from his mouth, like peaches on a low-hanging branch, impossibly tempting, soft and mouth-watering. He licked a tightly budded nipple.
She moaned.
The temptation to retake control, to assert his ascendancy, surged like a tidal bore in his ears. He clenched his jaw. ‘So…my prisoner has escaped. What will she do now?’ In truth, he couldn’t help but wonder what she would dare, now she had him at her mercy.
She pursed her lips. ‘A little torture of my own.’ She snatched his cravat from the bed-head. ‘Give me your hand.’
‘What are you about, lass?’
A small forefinger tapped his lips. ‘Silence, prisoner.’
He watched as she tied the cravat around one wrist and passed it though the bars of the iron frame behind him. She grabbed his other wrist.
His body clenched. A pulse beat hard in his temple. ‘No.’ He jerked out of her grasp. And saw the dismay in her eyes. He forced a smile. ‘You don’t need to bind me to have your way,’ he said, hoping he sounded a whole lot less panicked that he felt.
She tilted her head in question. ‘But you are my captive. You must do as I say.’ She waggled her brows.
He laughed. Let go his breath. He trusted her. An odd feeling, when he’d only ever trusted himself. ‘Do your worst, then, fair maid.’
A breathy laugh tickled his wrist as she tied off the second knot. ‘Oh, I will.’
She slid off the bed to admire her handiwork, naked, lovely, a tormenting smile on her lips. He wanted to feel her beneath him. He tested the fabric holding his wrists. It would be an easy thing to slip his hands free, if he wished.
Ah, hell, she trusted him not to.
She pointed to his breeches. ‘First off with these, I think.’ With some fumbling and laughing and some help from him, she undid his falls and pulled his breeches over his hips. A gasp when his erection sprang free only served to make him harder. From the look on her face, she was pleased with what she saw.
A feeling of pride made him swell all the more.
A small pink tongue flickered over her lips, her eyes turned smoky, like heather-clad hills in the dusk. ‘You are a naughty privateer, all ready for plunder.’
A growl rose in his throat. Damnation, this was torture of the most salacious kind. ‘Come here, you little witch.’ He jerked against the ties. ‘I’ll show you how I plunder sweet maidens.’
‘Oh no, sir,’ she said sweetly, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically, unconsciously lifting those wonderful breasts high. ‘I couldn’t possibly let you go. Not yet.’
‘Blazes, woman,’ he said, wrenching at the binding. ‘Come here.’
She knelt over him, gave him a swift kiss on the lips, and drew back to smile into his face, saucy and teasing. ‘I’m not finished.’ On those words, she gathered up a swathe of her hair and drew it across his chest, feathering across his nipples. They beaded. His muscles danced and shivered, his groin grew heavy and unbearably tight. He fought for control.
The feather-light touch traced the outline of every hill and valley of his chest, ribs and stomach. Unbearably soft. A tickle. A tingle. His flesh quivered with delight and agony. She lingered at his navel, swirling the soft living brush into the indentation. He raised his head, gaze fixed on her progress, unutterably aroused. Would she…?
The lock of hair floated down the dark line of hair on his belly, and circled the head of his shaft.
He hissed in a breath and collapsed against the pillow, eyes closed as he absorbed the pleasure and the pain of wanting her.
‘How,’ he grated out between pants for air, ‘did you learn such a trick?’
The torture stopped. ‘Is it not right for a wife to�
��pleasure her husband?’
‘For pity’s sake,’ he ground out, ‘don’t stop.’
She took him at his word. A toffee-coloured strand wound around his yard, constricting and releasing, sliding around his flesh like a silken chord. Too tight. Too loose. Then she kissed the sensitive tip.
His hips shot of the bed. He tore one hand free and flipped her over on her back. ‘Oh, madam, you will pay for that in kind.’
She grinned. ‘I hope so.’
Fates help him. He adored her. He wanted to lay his life, his whole being, at her feet. Slow and sure he slipped the head of his shaft inside her wet, welcoming heat.
Pleasure gripped him hard.
‘Oh, yes, my wicked privateer,’ she whispered, ‘yes.’
Blind with lust, drawing every nuance from her slight body’s response, he rode her with long slow strokes. Her legs rose up to cradle his hips in softness, her hands clinging to his shoulders, her nails a sweet pain on his bunching muscles. He lowered his head, took her breast in his mouth. Inner muscles gripped him and her soft cry assaulted his ears.
Her hips slammed against his groin, encouraged him deeper, harder. Their bodies clashed in a battle of pleasure, and then there was nothing in his mind but the urge to conquer and succumb, to challenge and submit. He pounded faster and harder and she rewarded him with guttural cries that rang in his ears.
‘Michael,’ she cried out.
Consumed by the fire of her body, he brought her legs over his shoulders, opened her fully, groin to groin. He rocked against her sweet flesh, felt the trembles, the rush of her heat and drove home to the hilt.
The dark turned blinding white. Her climax sparked his, tipped him into liquid heat, and he poured forth his essence and his very being.
Languid, her arms lay around his neck, her body a cradle as the spasms went on and on. At last he collapsed beside her, drew her into the circle of his arms, held her close, breathed in their mingled scents, embraced in peace.
Captured for the Captain's Pleasure Page 19
