by Jo Goodman
Sprite! He was ridiculous! She was talking about being his wife and he was treating her like a four-year-old again. It was not to be borne! Kenna could not get off his lap quickly enough. She walked away from him, her arms hugging her middle, and missed the look of pure bewilderment crossing Rhys’s features.
“Kenna?”
She spun around, hands on her hips. “I’m Kenna now, am I?”
Rhys shook his head as if to clear it. “What in the devil’s name are you talking about?”
She stamped her foot. “Do not be clever!” she snapped. “The devil’s name has nothing to do with this. It is my name that is in question.”
Rhys’s eyes widened. He could not make any sense of her irritation but he saw that it was real enough. “Perhaps if you repeat the question,” he suggested.
“There isn’t any question, at least in my mind. I do not pretend to understand what goes on in yours.”
Before Rhys could form a response there was a knock at the door. “Thank God,” he said feelingly, welcoming the interruption. He told their visitor to come in as Kenna sat down on the window seat and picked up her sewing.
The cook’s assistant came into the cabin carrying a large tray. “O’Malley sent me to clear the table if you’ve finished.”
Rhys motioned to the remains of their meal. “All done, Hank.”
The room was quiet except for the occasional clatter of the dishes as the helper stacked them on the tray. Kenna was stabbing at the hem of her gown and Rhys was leaning back in his chair, deep in thought. Hank could not get out of the cabin quickly enough.
“Cap’n says to tell you to secure everything, Mr. Canning,” he said in a rush as he backed out the door. “This squall is going to get worse afore it gets better.”
Rhys nodded shortly and looked past Kenna to the darkening sky outside. His glance returned to Kenna. “What about this squall? Is it going to get worse before it gets better?”
She shrugged. “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
Rhys pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room to stand in front of Kenna. Without any warning he took the material from her hand and threw it on the seat.
He grasped her upper arms and pulled her to her feet, then put one arm beneath her thighs and swung her in his arms.
Kenna had no choice but to grasp Rhys’s shoulders else risk being dropped to the floor. “What are you doing?” she demanded as Rhys carried her over to the bed.
“You heard Hank. The captain says to secure everything. And you, my dear Kenna, are the only thing worth securing.” He tipped her out of his arms onto the bed. While Kenna struggled to sit up and sputtered some sort of unintelligible protest, Rhys locked the cabin door and turned back the wicks on the lantern lights. The cabin, the furniture, even Rhys, dimmed into shadow.
Kenna watched Rhys warily as he approached the bed. She noticed that though the ship was rolling with greater force than it had even minutes before, Rhys’s steps were sure, his balance faultless. “Rhys?” Her voice had lost its confident quality. “What are you doing now?” His brief laugh, totally lacking in humor, unnerved her. She scrambled back toward the wall.
“Even in this poor light it should be obvious. I’m taking off my clothes.” He drew his linen shirt over his head and carelessly tossed it on a chair.
“But why? It is not much past eight. You surely don’t intend to go to sleep now.”
“You’re right. I don’t intend to go to sleep.”
“But…” Her thoughts faded to nothingness as Rhys bent closer and she caught the flinty gleam in his eyes. His trousers and socks went the way of his shirt and when he sat down on the bed he was naked.
“Come here, Kenna.”
She didn’t, couldn’t, move.
Rhys could, and did. He caught Kenna’s arm and pulled her away from the wall while he moved backward on the bed. His hand made a fist in her hair, tightened, and drew her head up so that her parted lips were near his mouth. She was breathing shallowly, clearly frightened by what she did not understand. He laid one palm between her breasts and felt the wild fluttering of her heart.
“Why are you so angry with me?” she whispered.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“But I’m not angry. Not any longer.” It was true, she thought. Her anger had vanished the moment he held her again. She wondered at the power he had over her, wondered anew if loving him gave him that power.
“Then it’s the same for me. But I find I want you very, very much.” His mouth descended hungrily on hers.
Kenna discovered her desire matched his own and returned his kiss measure for measure. Rhys’s grip on her hair lessened as her arms slid around his neck and she pressed herself to his naked chest. She felt Rhys’s fingers on the back of her gown, loosening it enough so he could drag it over her shoulders and free her breasts. Her soft gasp rent the air as his mouth touched the aching tips of her nipples. When he would have returned his lips to hers she stopped him.
“Help me out of this dress.” The neckline of the gown was bunched about her waist and the skirt had ridden up her thighs.
“Turn around.” When she had done so Rhys fiddled with her gown, teasing her bare shoulders with kisses. “I think you can get out of it now,” he said huskily. She had better be able to because he was within seconds of tearing it off her.
Kenna scooted off the bed and stepped out of the dress, then quickly discarded her undergarments. She tumbled back onto the bed when the ship shifted beneath her feet. Rhys caught her and pulled her over him as they both fell back on the thick feather tick. Kenna laughed a trifle breathlessly, looking down into his face. “I have yet to cultivate my sea legs.”
Rhys’s palms glided along the backs of her thighs. “Graceless wench. I love your legs.” His hands cupped her buttocks and gave her a little jerk. Her thighs, slipping over him, and Kenna found herself straddling Rhys. She placed her hands on his shoulders and raised her torso, feeling his hardness pressing against her flat belly. Rhys’s arms stretched in front of him, fondling her swollen, sensitive breasts. “Ride me, Kenna.”
She required no further instructions, understanding full well what he wanted. Kenna raised herself slightly and with Rhys’s help and throaty encouragement, guided herself onto him. She bit back a small cry of wonderment as she adjusted to the feel of him deep inside her.
“It’s all right, Kenna. I want to hear you. Don’t hold anything back.” He rocked his hips once to give her the rhythm then caught his breath as she began to move.
Kenna gloried in the control she had. She teased him with her slow thrusts in much the manner he had taunted her. She ached for release yet did all that was in her power to prolong its moment. Most of all she watched his face, loving the tension and desire she brought to his mouth, his eyes, the set of his jaw. “Yes,” she said when one of his hands slipped from her breast and probed gently between her thighs. “Please,” she murmured on a thread of sound as his fingers sought and found and stroked the moist bud of her pleasure. “I want—” she began, but she could not complete the thought as a force more powerful than her will took over. Her hips moved more quickly and then it seemed as if every muscle in her body tensed in anticipation of what would follow. Kenna’s head was flung backward, her neck and back arched in an abandoned posture that was the most beautiful thing Rhys had ever seen. His fingers pressed against Kenna’s thighs as he felt the nearness of his own release. He arched into her, bringing a soft cry to her lips, then she fell forward and moved with him again until she felt the astonishing strength of his climax.
Her head rested very close to his while his hands massaged her back and buttocks, quieting her. After a few moments he turned them on their side and withdrew from her. Even his gentle movement was more than Kenna could bear. She clutched his shoulders, her fingers digging into his taut flesh as another river of sensation swelled within her.
“Rhys!” She cried out his name, panicked at the return of the sweet frisson of p
leasure. She didn’t think she could bear it again, not so soon, not so unexpectedly. Kenna buried her face in his shoulder, mortified that seemingly against her will her hips were pressing hard at his thighs.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “More than all right.” He cradled her buttocks and urged her closer until the intense, relentless pressure of their contact brought Kenna the end she sought.
“My God!” she breathed against his neck.
“Mm.” Rhys pressed a smile to her forehead and brushed a few damp tendrils of hair from her nape.
“What happened to me?”
“Nothing out of the extraordinary.”
“So you say. From where I am it was extraordinary indeed.”
“It is not so uncommon for a woman to reach her pleasure more than once during lovemaking.”
It would have been unfair to ask him how he knew, so Kenna held her jealous question. She didn’t think she wanted to know the answer even if he had deigned to tell her. She shivered slightly in his arms and he drew one of the blankets that had been kicked aside over them.
“Kenna,” he said after a moment when he could still feel the heat from her cheeks burning his shoulder. “I found it incredibly beautiful. More to the point, I find you incredibly beautiful.” When she didn’t say anything Rhys gave her a gentle shake, “Kenna?” Rhys laughed ruefully when he still received no response. She was sound asleep.
It took Kenna more than a few seconds to orient herself when she awoke. She was lying on the floor, tangled in a sheet and two blankets, and the ship’s roll had increased to nauseating proportions. She groped for the edge of the bed and tried to find some humor in the fact she had fallen out of it. “You really are a graceless wench,” she said aloud. The sound of her own voice was muted by the waves crashing against the hull of the ship and the shouting she could hear from the men above her. She patted the bed, searching for Rhys but knowing too well that he was gone. He must have been summoned on deck to help the others manage the Carasea in the storm. “Now is as good a time as any to earn your sea legs,” she decided, reasoning she may as well be terrified on deck as below it.
Kenna freed herself from the tangle of blankets and stood, balancing herself the way she had seen Rhys do. Still, the short walk to the wardrobe was an uphill, then downhill, battle. Kenna rifled the wardrobe until she found a pair of Rhys’s breeches and a shirt. To keep the breeches around her waist she improvised a sash from the material he bought her. She had no suitable shoes and no illusions that she could manage barefoot as many of the men did. She stuffed a pair of shoes belonging to Rhys with scraps of material and put on several pairs of woolen stockings for good measure. The shoes were still no more than an adequate fit.
As soon as she shuffled her way topside she questioned the wisdom of her actions. One of her shoulders was already bruised from banging it against the wall of the companionway and the moment she stepped on deck her hair was plastered to her head by the lashing rain. She had to squint to see more than a few yards in front of her.
“You there!” The rough voice came from behind her and Kenna nearly jumped out of her shoes. “This is no time to be standin’ around. Didn’t you hear the cap’n say we’ve got to haul in those sails?”
Kenna held up her hand to shield her eyes and glanced overhead. Some of the sails had come loose from the yardarms and were beating vainly against the wind like moths with broken wings. On deck men were struggling with the lines to haul them up but the ropes had become hopelessly tangled and the pulleys so clogged that it would require men in the rigging to finish the task. Kenna’s protest that she was not up to such work died in the wind. Her elbow was grabbed and she was pulled across the heaving deck with some force.
“Up you go, laddie,” came the order. “I’m right behind you.”
Kenna grabbed the rigging in both her hands and heaved herself up, clutching the slick ropes for dear life. Her feet slid almost immediately on the lines and she kicked off her shoes. Her toes curled on the ropes and once she felt confident of her footing she scrambled a few yards higher. As the gale force winds buffeted her and whistled past her ears, Carasea leaped on the crest of a breaking wave and listed at a sickening angle. “I am no hothouse flower. I am no hothouse flower.” She repeated the litany in her head as she continued to climb. “Kenna Canning is no hothouse flower.” Her heart thumped in her chest to the rhythm of her words. In front of her the sail flapped, trying to knock her off the ropes. Below her the deck tilted alarmingly and behind her was an endless expanse of angry ocean. Kenna drew in a deep breath and struggled on gamely. She was going to live through this, she told herself, if only to give Rhys the pleasure of killing her for her foolishness.
Several other men had joined her on the rigging and one of them took charge, yelling orders in such thunderous tones that even the shrieking wind could not silence him. “Wait for the lull! Steady on the downbeat when she shakes the wind from her sail! Heave!”
Kenna followed the lead of the men around her although in her heart she doubted if the thrashing sail could ever be tamed. But it was just as the self-appointed leader said. When Carasea shifted downward she shook off the wind as if brushing aside a bothersome pest and her sails flattened. Kenna reached with the others and grasped the lines.
“Heave again!”
Their combined efforts rolled the sail less than a yard before the ship swung upward and wind filled the canvas again. Kenna thought she would suffocate as the billowing sail enfolded her body. She held onto the line with white-knuckled determination and no small amount of strength born of fear. At the next lull the order came again and she heaved with all of her might. It seemed an eternity before the final demand on her strength was made.
“Once more! Heave lively, men!”
Kenna pulled on the wet line with everything she had and the sail was furled. Quickly, before they lost it again, five pairs of hands tore at the sail and lashed it to the yardarm. Euphoria lent Kenna the stamina to scramble down the rigging behind the others. On the mizzenmast and foremast more sails were being lashed. The Carasea put her shoulder to the sea, riding in the trough between the waves as secure as a babe in arms.
Kenna jumped down on the deck, amazed at the difference in the ship’s motion now that the sails were secured. Someone slapped her on the back, nearly knocking her to her knees.
“Damn good job, laddie.”
Kenna grinned rather stupidly as she faltered on her feet. Her shirt was molded to her breasts and she pulled it away as she straightened. “You too,” she said hoarsely. Rain continued to blind her, stinging her face and shoulders. Someone else brushed past her and gave her a congratulating shake on her arm.
A familiar voice rose above the lashing wind. “We can go below now! There’s nothing else to be done. She’ll ride this out!”
Kenna looked up, startled to hear Rhys beside her. “Rhys!”
Rhys slid a little on the slippery deck before he was able to halt his forward motion. “Kenna!” He turned and astonishment etched his taut features as he came face to face with his wife. “What the hell are you doing up here?”
“I fell out of bed!” she shouted back as if it explained everything. “Did you see, Rhys?” She pointed at the mainsail secured on the yardarm. “I helped do that!” Her eyes traveled upward to the spot on the rigging where she had been perched. How was it that the height seemed more dizzying now than when she had been clutching at the lines? When she faced Rhys again she felt lightheaded. “Oh my!” she said giddily.
“Kenna?” Rhys stepped forward.
Kenna was not certain if the ship pitched or if her knees buckled. It mattered not. She fell into Rhys’s strong arms in a dead faint….
Kenna was in the gallery at Dunnelly again but this time she was not hiding behind the sofa, nor was she thirteen any longer. She spun around as the door opened and her beloved highwayman entered the room. When he shut the door and leaned against it Kenna ran to him. Rhys did not hesitate to fold her in his e
mbrace. He touched her upturned face with his fingertips and caressed the length of her back before he kissed her full on the mouth.
“You make a lovely Cleopatra,” he said, teasing the blunt black ends of her shoulder-length wig. “But I prefer your own hair. This is rather too dark for your fairness.”
“Silly! I am not Cleo. I’m a highwayman, as you are.”
“Look again. It is an odd sort of rogue who shimmers when he walks.”
Kenna drew back and looked down at herself. Amazement struck her every feature. She was indeed wearing a close-fitting, narrow gown of spangled gold. There were sandals on her feet. She touched her forehead and could feel the gold leaf circlet that held her coal black wig in place. On her bare arms were bracelets, fashioned like snakes, that were fitted above her elbows. She glanced up at Rhys and bewilderment etched her smile. “How odd,” she said slowly. “I am certain I intended to be a highwayman this evening.”
Rhys’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed. “No matter. I much prefer this guise. Come. How may this rogue be of service to the Egyptian queen?”
Kenna slid her regal arms about Rhys’s neck. “You may kiss me, sir. And go on kissing me until I call a halt.”
“My pleasure,” he murmured as his lips sought hers.
Kenna was pulled against his hard body and clutched his shoulders for support. His kiss was demanding and hungry. His chest offered her breasts all the comfort of sheer rock. Kenna closed her eyes and pressed against him, trying to make him yield to her softer contours.
When her eyes fluttered open she was no longer in the gallery but had been magically transported to the cave. She lay flat against a damp stone wall, gripping its sheer face so that she might hear everything going on in the chamber beyond. Kenna wanted to leave the cave and return to the safety of the gallery but she could not turn away. She was compelled against her will to go through the same motions she always had…
