CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MADDY HADN’T FELT THIS safe in years. Maybe ever. She was warm, protected, loved, and she refused to surface from the drugging depths of sleep to examine why. It felt too good to examine—all she wanted to do was experience it. She couldn’t see anything—it was pitch black wherever she was, and she knew she wasn’t alone. She took a deep breath and recognized the intoxicating scent of his skin, the feel of his arms around her, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.
She waited for the familiar rage to fill her, empower her. She waited for anger, so that she could take him unaware, shove him off the bed, bring her knees up first. All those thoughts flitted through her brain like the shreds of clouds disappearing in the wake of a storm. She was so tired of being angry, and if felt so good lying in his arms. Even the gentle, almost imperceptible rock of the ocean was a benison, comforting her like a mother’s arms.
She hadn’t mourned her father—she’d responded with fury, first at him, then at whoever had destroyed him. Her anger had extended to everyone around her, until she was consumed by it, and there was nothing left but a hard, cold cinder of regret. She didn’t want to be that cinder. She wanted to be a woman, whole and lush and alive, not lost in a cyclone of anger and death. She wanted to be a woman in the arms of a man, a man who held her gently and kissed her hard. She wanted to be in Luca’s arms, right where she was, and it was too late for her. She had made her choices, and now she would pay for them. Once he knew who she was he would hate her.
Her face felt wet, and she realized to her horror that she was crying. Tears were for private moments, when no one could see or hear her, not even her sisters. She had to stop this, immediately. She couldn’t show weakness, she couldn’t feel weakness, tenderness, longing. She tried to move her hands, to wipe the tears away, but her wrists were still bound and trapped between their bodies, and the knowledge only made her cry more. In the darkness she knew that Luca was wearing only a light linen shirt, and if she didn’t stop the tears would soak through. She could bite him, tell him she drooled in her sleep, and she tried one more time to summon up her constant companion, vengeful fury. There was none to spare.
Very well. He might not notice the dampness—after all, how much water did tears make? As long as she was very silent it would pass soon enough. It always did. These bouts of tears didn’t last long, and when it was done perhaps she might reclaim her anger. This was just a way to release the treacherous, weakening sorrow so that she might fight again.
She couldn’t be angry with him for her father’s sake, but hitting her, kidnapping her, forcing her on board a ship was more than enough reason on her own.
But then, if he hadn’t, there would be no saving her life, kissing her like a fallen angel, holding her while she slept. How could she hate him?
To her horror her breath hiccupped, just a small, infinitesimal hitch in her breathing. She had cried much more forcefully than this after Tarkington had fallen into a heavy stupor, and he hadn’t stirred. Luca would never notice…
His hand brushed her cheek, so gently, taking the tears with him, and she waited for her body to freeze, in anger or in fear. Instead she turned her face into his hand, rubbing against it, as the tears kept flowing.
He pulled her closer, then seemed to realize her bound hands were still between them. Without a word he reached down and untied them, in a quick, skillful act that should have infuriated her. All her struggles, even using her teeth, had availed her nothing, and yet a few twists with his clever hands in the darkness and she was free.
Her wrists stung from the abrasions of the rope, and she tried to concentrate on that, but as she lifted her hands to shove him away she found that his arms had slid around her. She was pressed up against him, and now she was sobbing, her entire body shaking with the fury of her grief, for her father, for her sisters, for her lost innocence and hope. And for the man in whose arms she lay, the one she could never have, the one it seemed she had always wanted.
He held her, tightly, letting her weep. His hand rubbed her back, a soothing, gentle gesture, and through her sobs she could hear his soft voice, hear the gentle, comforting murmur of words she didn’t understand, didn’t need to understand. He wasn’t telling her to stop crying, to calm down. He was giving her the freedom to grieve, to mourn, telling her she could let go and he would be there to catch her.
But even she couldn’t cry forever, no matter how many tears she had stored up. Eventually they slowed as he held her, stroked her, and then there was nothing but the occasional dry hiccup as she hid her face against his soaked shoulder. And yes, there was a surprising amount of water in tears, she thought, moving her hand to grasp the wet linen.
She’d hoped for anger to follow even such a storm of weeping, but there was nothing but a peaceful exhaustion. She couldn’t fight, didn’t want to fight, no matter how much he deserved it.
“I’ve drenched you,” she whispered in a raw, resigned voice.
He pushed her hair away from her face. That was wet too—it felt like everything was covered in her tears. “So you have, monisha. Lie back for a moment.”
She did as he said without question, and felt him sit up and move in the darkness. And then he slid down beside her again, and she realized without shock that he’d removed the damp shirt, and he was using it to dry her own tears and strands of hair, imprinting the scent of him on her. He tossed it to the floor and pulled her back into his arms, back against the shock of his warm, hard chest, her face up against his skin, and she closed her eyes, breathing him in, wanting to inhale him, take everything inside of her. She couldn’t fight anymore.
Why him? Why now? She needed a title and a fortune to restore the House of Russell. Running off with a gypsy would be a considered an even greater breach of society than her father’s so-called crimes, at least by some people.
And why should she suppose he’d want anything from her? Oh, he wanted what Tarkington had wanted—that much was clear. In truth, she hadn’t met many men who didn’t want her in their beds, with the exception of Mr. Quarrells and his singular taste. And Mr. Brown. There was something about Mr. Brown, something important, but she was so tired and worn out from crying that she couldn’t remember, didn’t want to remember.
She would tell Luca her real name, and he would hate her. That would simplify everything. He would pull away, leave her, and she could curl up into a ball and not think about anything for a while.
His long fingers were stroking her face, very gently touching the painful bruises. “I wanted to kill the man when he hit you,” he said in a low voice, “and then I had no choice but to do the same thing. I’m sorry, love.” She felt his lips brush against her cheek, and her jaw, and she wanted to weep again.
She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat for a moment, as his lips brushed against hers, softly, back and forth. She caught his shoulders in her hands, and he felt so strong, so alive, that she wanted to pretend it was another time, another place. But she couldn’t.
“Ask me my name again,” she said in a hoarse voice. This time she would tell him. This time it would end it.
He brushed his mouth against her eyelids. But he didn’t ask her the question. “Do you know what ship we’re on?”
She should have felt irritation, but even that was denied her in her weary acceptance. “I don’t care. Ask me my name.”
“We’re on the Maddy Rose,” he said, and before she could react his mouth covered hers.
This was different than the other kisses. There had always been an element of control, of command, the other times he’d kissed her, a command she’d responded to despite her better judgment. This kiss was gentle, wooing, teasing her mouth into opening beneath him, teasing her tongue into a shy response. This was the kiss of a lover, not an enemy, and she had nothing left to fight him with.
She no longer had the protection of a corset—he’d already destroyed that, and someone, probably Luca, had loosened her clothes, so that the bodice wa
s open against the cool night air, and the hand that had brushed her face was now cradling it, his fingers gentle on her bruised neck, splaying across her shoulder and pushing the fabric out of the way.
She wanted it gone. She wanted to be skin to skin with him, she was willing to pay the price and have him inside her if she could give him that pleasure and hold him afterwards. It was an intoxicating feeling, and she wanted it with him.
“How long have you known?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady as his fingers moved down the front of her bodice, unhooking button after button. She felt like a fool, thinking she’d been so clever, but his hands, his mouth kept distracting her.
“From the first day.” His mouth followed, kissing the tops of her breasts.
“No.”
“Yes,” he said. “I saw you when you christened this ship. It was five years ago but I remembered.”
She closed her eyes. “I thought… I thought…”
“You thought I’d killed your father,” he said, not sounding offended. “I’m guessing you were convinced I somehow managed to embezzle the assets of Russell Shipping and then lure your father to his doom. I didn’t, you know. I was a pirate, not a bookkeeper.”
“I know,” she said miserably, her voice quiet. “But we found a note from my father. It said ‘never trust a pirate.’ ”
“Well, that’s obvious enough. And your father came to see me just before he died, accusing me of all sorts of crazy things, and I’d done nothing. I thought I managed to convince him, but he died that night after he left me.”
Maddy tried to stifle the ever-present pain at the memory of her father’s death. “I’m so stupid,” she said miserably.
“For infiltrating my house and trying such a thing? Yes,” he said equably. “For the way you carried it off? Not at all. You just picked the wrong man.”
Those words were like a death knell, whether he realized it or not. She had picked the wrong man. A Traveler, a sailor, a man who never settled down when she needed permanence so badly. A man not made for the kind of commitment she needed, a man who hadn’t picked her. She’d simply thrust herself upon him.
“Lift your hips, Maddy,” he whispered. “I have to get this damned dress off of you.”
Her name sounded so right in his voice. She could have argued, but she didn’t, lifting her hips as he tugged the voluminous dress over her head and tossed it somewhere in the darkened cabin, then unfastened her petticoats and tossed them as well, leaving her in her shift and drawers. His hand moved down her side, not touching her breast, to end up holding one hip with a possessive gesture, kneading it gently. But he didn’t pull up the thin fabric and untie her drawers. He just held her.
“Why did you stop?” she asked finally. Maybe he’d thought better of it. Maybe Tarkington had left because she was so unsatisfactory, maybe Luca didn’t want her either, maybe she was…
“This has been inevitable from the first time I kissed you, and we both know it. I need you to show me. I need you to finish taking off your clothes.”
A dance of icy fear raced across her skin. He was asking for everything. This way she couldn’t pretend the wicked gypsy was seducing her and it was out of her control. This way she had to own it.
What would he do if she refused? Would he then cajole and seduce her? Would he tear off her remaining clothes in a frenzy of lust? Or would he leave her?
“I need you to show me,” he’d said. It was the one honest thing she could do, after so many lies. She moved back, away from him, and he didn’t move, didn’t try to pull her back. She sat up, and yanked the shift over her head, then sent it sailing into the darkness. It felt strange, her breasts free in the night air, even if it was too dark to see, and then she reached for the tapes to her drawers and untied them, shimmying out of them so that she lay beside him in the bunk, absolutely naked with a man for the first time in her life.
She heard his deep, fierce intake of breath. “Your turn,” he said.
“I already took the rest of my clothes off.”
“I mean it’s your turn to undress me.”
Oh, bloody hell, she thought, suddenly panic-stricken. “I… I can’t.”
She’d been afraid of anger. Instead he laughed softly. “Of course you can. You can build up to it.” He caught her hand and brought it to his, palm to palm, like holy palmer’s touch, Maddy thought, suddenly remembering her Shakespeare. But they were no Romeo and Juliet and she refused to end in tragedy.
His hand was so much bigger than hers. His fingers were long, elegant, and his warm palm enveloped hers. Bringing her hand to his chest, he let it rest against him. She could feel the delineation of his muscles beneath the taut firmness of his skin. It would be honey gold, she knew, and the thought made her want to run her fingers over him, feel the tough, tensile strength of him. He lay back, letting her explore, and eventually her fingers slid down to the flatness of his stomach, the hollow of his navel, and the first faint touch of hair leading down into his breeches. She started to draw her hand back in sudden shyness when he caught it, pulling it downward to the row of buttons. He didn’t bother with them, instead he cupped her hand around the insistent ridge of flesh behind those buttons, holding her there when she tried to pull away.
He was big. And she was ready to change her mind. “Nothing’s inevitable,” she said in a panicked voice, and he released her hand, letting her roll back to her side of the bunk.
She expected anger. “Chicken,” he taunted her. “Here I thought you were afraid of nothing, and now I find out a simple body part has you cowering in terror.”
He was manipulating her, they both knew it, but she rose to the bait anyway, because that was who she was. “It’s not my body part,” she said in a stiff voice.
“Oh, yes, it is. I’m not going to hurt you, Maddy. You know that.”
She wanted to touch him. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her again. She was cold, so cold, even though the cabin was surprisingly warm. She needed his heat. She said nothing, not moving, and he turned to her, putting his mouth against her temple, moving it down her bruised cheek to her ear. “Put your hands on me, love.” It was a soft request, not a command, but she wasn’t quite sure she could do it. Instead she reached up and put her hand in his again, silently asking him. His fingers entwined with hers for a moment, and she felt the last of her nervousness, the last of her doubts leave, as he moved it to rest lightly against his erection.
This time she didn’t jerk away. She let her fingers trace the outline beneath his rough cotton trousers, the breadth, the length of it, straining against the buttons. He was right, there was nothing to be afraid of. It was just a body part. Just a body part that would push inside her and hurt her, but then he would be happy and she could hold him.
She slid her fingers down, cupping him, and he made a low, growling sound of pleasure. She liked that. She moved closer, letting her head rest on his flat stomach so she could experiment, brushing against the top, sliding down the length of him. She could feel tension running through him now, and she knew he was going to take her at any moment, but she let herself drift, slipping her fingers inside the placket of the trousers to the tiny buttons. The fabric was taut against his erection, and unfastening the first button was more difficult than she expected. But she wanted to touch him, touch that part of him without the barrier of rough cloth in the way. And he seemed to want her to.
There were seven buttons, and she undid them, one after another, moving upward as he seemed to grow even bigger against her hand. The last button, the top one, defeated her.
She loved the inky darkness, the safety of it. It was as if they were both blind—they could feel each other but they could see nothing, and if it couldn’t be seen then maybe it hadn’t happened. He reached down and unfastened the last button, freeing himself.
This time she didn’t hesitate. She put her hand on him, tentatively, and then drew back, surprised. It was the oddest sensation, the skin so velvety soft encasing something t
hat seemed hard as iron. This wasn’t what she remembered at all. She let her fingers move down, tracing the thick veins that ran along his cock, up to touch the flanged head of it. He was damp, there, and she realized suddenly that she was damp as well. Was it supposed to be like that?
She remembered what she was supposed to do. She encircled his cock with her fingers, sliding up and down, but to her surprise this time he drew her hand away. “Wasn’t I doing it right?” she asked, nervous.
His voice was low and delicious in the darkness. “I’m already about to explode, love. Too much of that and you’ll be very disappointed.”
Disappointed by what? She didn’t ask the question out loud, though, instead saying, “Then you don’t want me to put my mouth on you?”
There was a long silence. And then he swore. “Do you want to?”
“No.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you want to get out of this bed and get dressed, you can do that. I don’t force women.”
“You don’t have to.” There was no disguising the trace of resentment in her voice. She didn’t want to think of all the women he’d had, all the women falling at his feet. As she was.
He laughed then. “If I had to force them then it wouldn’t be any fun.”
“Fun?” she echoed. “That’s a strange term for it. I can’t think of anything less like fun in the world.”
“Then why are you here in my bed?”
“Because you dumped me here, tied up.”
“So I did. Why did you take off your clothes when I asked you?”
For a moment she couldn’t answer. But it was dark, and safe, and he was warm and strong and near. “Because I want you.” It was only half the truth. She wanted him on so many levels she refused to think about it. But she would take what she could get.