A stinging pain bit Tessa, but she did not heed it, reveling in the feel of Rafe within her. And just as she thought there could be no greater joy than their joining, he thrust his hips forward, stroking deep, the spiraling madness he had awakened within her moments before building again, expanding.
"Sail with me, wildwitch." His voice whirled to her through a haze of passion.
She dug her nails into the flesh of his back, searching for something, anything to cling to in the tempest he had unleashed. Again and again he thrust, as though trying to reach some wondrous secret within her.
Then suddenly the passion-hazed veils fell away, revealing beauty such as she had never known. The world burst, shattering into a thousand jewel-hued fragments of joy. She tossed her head as she clutched Rafe to her, opening her eyes as she felt his body shudder, then stiffen. She watched him, her heart filled with love, as his face contorted with the power of his own release.
Long moments he held himself above her. Then he buried his face in the tumbled waves of her hair, his body racked with the tremors that still jolted through him.
"Tessa." Her name was the most tender of caresses. His fingers stroked her cheeks, gathering up her tears as though they were the rarest of treasures. "Did I hurt you?"
Tessa traced the line of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip, unable to keep the quaver from her voice. "Nay. It was the most miraculous thing that has ever happened to me. It was beautiful, Rafe. It was..." Her fingers fluttered as though trying to grasp the right words to describe what had happened between them, but there were none wondrous enough, none magical enough.
"God forgive me, wildwitch," he whispered, his voice breaking. "For at this moment I'm glad I lost my Lady, glad I was cast upon these shores to taste of you just once."
Tessa stroked the silky softness of his hair, her throat too tight to speak.
Then he raised his head, his eyes warm and tender as he gazed on her face. "Come with me," he said, trailing kisses across her eyelids, her nose. "I need you. Want you."
"Come with you? Where?" She tried to clear her mind, remember his earlier words.
"Come with me and stay with me forever. I've nothing to offer you, Tessa—no ship, little money. By Saint Michael, I might well lose my head if Elizabeth Tudor cages me in her Tower. It is madness to ask this. Insanity... and yet I've been searching for you my whole life. I can't let you go, no matter what the cost."
"I'll not leave you, Rafe."
"Marry me."
She gaped at him, stunned, his words showering her with hope and joy and a soaring sense of wonder.
"Marry you? You are heir to the Earl of Valcour, son of a Spanish grandee. I was but an orphan when my mother and father found me. I do not know where I came from or who my real parents were."
"It does not matter. I want you, Tessa. Only you. I'll go to your blasted court if it will make you happy, and I shall try to keep a civil tongue in my head to protect this earl you respect so much. But at least give me some small hope that once this madness has ebbed, you might be my wife."
My wife... Had Tessa ever heard words fraught with more longing?
"I've been alone so long, Tessa. I was beginning to believe I would never find you."
His hands curved about her cheeks, his lips drifting closer, his breath softly mingling with hers. A chuckle rumbled low in Rafe's throat, and Tessa was struck by how seldom she had heard that rich, wonderful sound.
"I thought I would never find you, querida, and then—then you tumbled off of a cliff and into my arms. I looked into your face, and you... you bewitched me. When I was a lad I scoffed at the sailors of Odysseus, risking death for the Sirens who lured them onto the reefs, but I would join them now, and gladly, Tessa. I would face any peril to ensure that this sweet enchantment will not end."
Tessa kissed his cheek, his jaw, the curve of his lips, and she felt a whispering of dread deep in her stomach. If only the peril confronting them could be as simple as the sea reefs Rafe had often faced, rather than the sinister shadows of Morgause Warburton and the looming danger of the queen.
She closed her eyes, scenes whirling before her like some dreadful nightmare—the majesty of Elizabeth Tudor's court, magnificence she had never thought to see, the lurking danger in the cruel, power-hungry courtiers, and the savagery of Neville Warburton.
What weapon could a man like Rafael Santadar wield against the intrigues he would be hurled into?
To what lengths would the Warburtons—aye, and Tarrant St. Cyr’s other enemies—go to destroy this grandson whom the earl so obviously treasured? And what of her? Would she not be the perfect tool with which to crush the bold Santadar?
Nay, she resolved inwardly, her arms tightening about Rafe. I shall aid him, shield him. Guard him against the daggers they will try to slip betwixt his ribs with their honeyed words, their evil minds.
She started from her musings, finding Rafe regarding her with solemn eyes. "Wildwitch?"
"It is nothing, Rafe, nothing," she struggled to assure him, burying her face against his shoulder for an instant. She pulled away, her gaze meeting his steadily, dark with strength. "It is just that I'll not ask you to cast yourself upon any reefs where I am not willing to follow, my bold sea phantom. After we've confronted whatever demons await you, we'll see whether you truly want a Siren at your side."
Chapter 11
Rafe had expected the glittering court that surrounded Elizabeth Tudor to be decadent, but even in his wildest imagination, during the week he had healed at Valcour Castle, he had not dreamed of the excessive lavishness of the English court.
Precious gems were scattered upon garments and hair as carelessly as flower petals tossed from a child's hand. The throne room was filled with treasures that dauntless adventurers had carried back from countless voyages to shower upon the queen who held not only their loyalty but, it was rumored, their hearts as well.
The Virgin Queen, they had named her, and yet it was well known that her majesty possessed a highly cultivated taste for a well-turned masculine body, although she rarely showed it, except in bawdy jests or in the patterns of the dance—the only time she was seen touching her male courtiers, even her renowned favorites. But her passion was there, all the same, in her eyes and in the aging lead-painted face that men had once called beautiful.
Rafe's gaze flicked across the crowded room to where the queen was ensconced upon a magnificent throne, her gem-starred hair like flame surrounding her pale cheeks, her mouth a tad selfish, her eyes keen.
She was the enemy ruler, and yet even as he watched her from a distance Rafe could feel her magnetism. It was a kind of silken thread that drew the greatest men in her kingdom to her and made them trip over themselves like puppies in search of her smile.
"What do you think of her?" Tarrant St. Cyr’s voice broke through Rafe's thoughts. Though Rafe wanted to tell the earl that his queen paraded about like a strumpet, that the lavish trappings of the Elizabethan court were vulgar, he found himself unable to do so.
Instead he heard his own harsh whisper. "She is magnificent."
The earl's lips curved in an indulgent smile. "Every man in this room is half in love with her, be he ten or a hundred. Once I believed it was because of the power she wielded, and that men only flocked about her in the hope of gaining a crown. But now I know it is some quality in Elizabeth herself. An aura that kept her safe even as a princess while her enemies plotted against her."
"Perhaps it is the fact that she changes her loyalty the way a chameleon shifts his hues," Rafe said. "Or that even though she is a monarch, she is not averse to using feminine wiles, seeming helpless while she waits to pierce a man's heart."
Tarrant scowled. "You think you know so much about our queen, and our ways, eh, stripling? You do not know Elizabeth at all. She can be the most loyal of friends. The kingdom she inherited from her sister was as somber as one of your Spanish courts, the fires of Smithfield still poisoning the air. Now look at it. For a generation—aye, since even before Henry
died—factions warred within England, tearing it apart. Men did not care what damage they did to this island. They only cared that their own special puppets sat upon the throne. Elizabeth changed that, though even I never suspected that she could."
Rafe gave a snort of disbelief, clinging to the scorn he had always felt for the Tudor queen. Instead of the outraged response he expected from his grandfather, the old earl's lips curved in a grin.
"And now she has even defeated your Philip," St. Cyr observed, "king of the high seas, master of an empire. Not a bad tally for a child who was called a bastard and raised more like a captive thief than a princess, eh, boy?"
Rafe winced as the earl's elbow dug into his ribs. The nobleman's eyes were twinkling, as though Elizabeth had provided him with some grand jest.
"You called her magnificent," St. Cyr said, "and you were right. But she is more than that, this Elizabeth. She will be immortal."
A harsh laugh broke from Rafe's lips. "I never thought to hear the English speak such idiocy, unless, of course, it is true what is whispered of your queen—that she is in league with the Dark One."
Instead of growling with anger, St. Cyr laughed. "Well, my son, if she is in league with the devil she will be in good company. It seems to me half the great men in society have been accused of the same thing in whispers. It is the only way people who are envious of them can explain away their own failures."
St. Cyr’s eyes narrowed, and Rafe felt an urge to squirm beneath his intense regard. "I have heard of a Spaniard who was wooed by the devil's mistress," said the earl. "A seafarer, he was, who bargained away his soul."
Rafe felt his cheeks burn.
"So tell me," Tarrant said. "How did you find his highness, Prince Lucifer, when last you spoke?"
Visions of Rafe’s homeland skittering through his mind. Rumors of consorting with the devil was no jesting matter in sultry Spain. He blinked, his imagination filling with the horror that was the Inquisition. During the auto-da-fé, the death ceremony for those condemned by the inquisitors, pristine white robes, hand-stitched by dainty Spanish maidens, draped the unfortunates who filed into the town square. The repentant were allowed the mercy of strangulation before being put into the searing flames.
"That tale about me is absurd," Rafe snapped.
"But it could also be very dangerous, could it not?" The old earl's eyes flicked to Rafe's, the teasing within them tempered with understanding. "Trysts with dark forces are a serious matter in England as well, especially when the subject of those rumors is a queen who has often feared the cold kiss of an ax blade upon her neck. No matter what you think of our Elizabeth—either her faith or her form—she is still a monarch. She is bold Henry Tudor's daughter, and no son could have served him better. She has not survived by being weak. And she holds your fate in her hands, Rafael."
Rafe felt his grandfather's hands close tightly, about his upper arms. "Listen to me, boy. I know you are not used to buckling before the will of any man—let alone a woman. But do not bait the queen. Nor should you make the mistake of thinking that Elizabeth can be won with pretty words.
"You have a future here, a chance at more than you could ever hope for in Spain. What were you there? Captain of some leaky ship, existing on weevil-infested biscuits and stagnant water, searching for treasure that Englishmen would snatch from your hands? You were no one there."
With an oath Rafe tore from his grandfather's grasp. "I was Captain Rafael Santadar, a man known for winning countless battles on the high seas. But I would rather be a peon working in a grandee's vineyard than an earl in the land of my enemies. You say that you love me, that your blood runs in my veins. If this is true, you will forget you ever saw me once this farce is finished. You will let me go away with Tessa."
Rafe saw the earl's craggy features harden, and hated him for the contempt he saw in those falcon eyes. "Away to what, Rafe? Life upon the seas with the daughter of a common sailor?"
Rafe’s eyes flashed blue fire. “I love her. And if she had not interceded on your behalf, I would have left Valcour Castle the first night I had the misfortune to darken your door."
"Oh, aye, I am the most heinous of villains, am I not? Sheltering you in a castle legendary for its strength, offering you a fortune to rival that of the queen and a name—"
"A name I will give Tessa of Ravenscroft when she is my bride, whether you approve of it or not. It sickens me that she has shown you such loyalty these past days while you have shown her nothing but scorn."
"I have treated her in a manner befitting one of her station. By Mary's crown, boy, I've not flogged her or abused her. I even dispatched my own men to retrieve her trinkets from the hovel she and the old woman lived in."
"Those trinkets are all she possesses. They are her memories."
"Then the wench has precious little worth remembering, lad. Trunks full of half-finished ruffs, a score of puppets—God's wounds, I've not even objected to the trysts in your chamber these past nights. The girl discovered your identity, brought you to me, and for that, I'll always be grateful to her. If she eases this period of transition for you, I'll see that she's provided for during the rest of her life."
"Something you neglected to do when her father lost his life on one of your vessels?"
St. Cyr’s eyes narrowed beneath his craggy brows, and his voice became a dangerous growl. "Do you know what I was doing when that ship went down? I was still tearing myself apart with grief, aye, crazed with it. Still thinking that you and your mother... ah." The earl drew out the final syllable. Then suddenly his stormy gaze paused on something visible over Rafe's shoulder. His rough-carved features softened a little, but Rafe mistrusted the canny light in those eyes that were so like his own.
He turned, his gaze following his grandfather's to a group of courtiers who were entering the vast chamber. It took Rafe but a heartbeat to identify the object of Tarrant St. Cyr’s attention. For there, among the powdered and perfumed dandies with their oiled beards and the glittering jewels dangling from their pierced earlobes, stood Tessa, a pristine lily in a field of garish flowers.
Rafe's heart lurched at the sight of her. The dark mass of her untamed hair was caught back from her face. A French hood of bronze velvet edged with pearls added luster to her rose-blushed cheeks and rippled down past her shoulders like a veil of amber.
Bronze velvet also encased a waist so slender it seemed but a wisp above the generous skirts that swept out from her hips. A ruff rose behind the elegant column of her neck. His eyes shifted to where a jeweled stomacher pushed up her high, firm breasts, and he saw a glorious necklace of amber and topaz nestled in the valley between those two ripe mounds.
He and his grandfather had been speaking of devils but a moment before. Perhaps that was why Tessa now seemed like an angel.
But as Rafe's astonishment at her beauty faded, his wariness deepened yet again. He had left her in their chamber earlier to rest. When he had bent to kiss her before meeting his grandfather, she had been applying her knife to a bit of wood she had been working on the past few days, guarding it from his eyes with a jealousy that both surprised and amused him.
There had been no sign of the magnificent trappings garbing her now. His eyes flashed to his grandfather who leaned complacently against a pillar. "What by Mary's crown is she doing here?" Rafe snapped. "I want her spared whatever ugliness transpires."
"Tessa will be my insurance that as little as possible transpires." The earl flicked a speck of lint from his saffron doublet. "I fear you have a most formidable St. Cyr temper, and it will be lashed by the sharp tongues in this room. I advise you to remember that Tessa's future, as well as your own, depends upon your behavior this night. I could think of no better way to remind you than this."
With one scarred hand he gestured to Tessa, who now hovered, like a shy roe deer, in the carved wood archway. Her eyes were wide, and despite their melting dark beauty, Rafe could see in them the slightest shadow of fear.
How many times had he watch
ed her, in the past days, gazing at the richness of the St. Cyr stronghold? It had been as if she were staring into some chasm plunging between the two of them—noble heir and humble mistress of marionettes.
And now she was confronted by the scintillating grandeur of this room, these men and women of daunting power, and Rafe could feel her slipping away from him.
His jaw knotting, he turned his back on the earl and hastened toward Tessa. Her perfect white teeth caught the fullness of her lower lip in the nervous gesture that had become so achingly familiar to him. The hands that had swept over his body with such wonder were now clenched in a death grip about a delicate feather fan. As her eyes caught his, Rafe could see the relief shudder through her.
"Rafe!" Her lips formed his name as she rushed forward, and he fought the urge to draw her into the shield of his embrace. "Your grandfather asked that I present myself, but..." Her eyes swept the assemblage, and Rafe hated the look of uncertainty in those usually intrepid eyes. Her hand fluttered to where her breasts plumped above the stomacher and he noticed a tiny mark on one finger where she’d cut herself, no doubt while carving wood. Her cheeks flushed even deeper.
He wanted to rage at his grandfather for putting Tessa through this, but knew he must not reveal his anger to Tessa. It would only make her more uncomfortable. Instead he murmured, "I am glad you are here to show these posturing courtiers what true beauty is."
Tessa gave a shaky laugh. "I feel as if I've been cast adrift in the middle of your ocean with not so much as a keg to keep me afloat. It’s all so grand, I might drown in it. Unless the queen discovers who and what I am and hurls me from this chamber herself."
Despite the milling courtiers all around them, Rafe could not stop himself from reaching up to Tessa's face, its curves as pure and smooth as an apple blossom. His voice, when he spoke, was gravelly with the emotion she stirred in him.
"If Elizabeth Tudor banishes you from this assembly, it will be because she is a guttering candle in the face of your beauty."
To Chase the Storm Page 14
