Christopher dragged in a breath, his eyelids flickering. He groaned her name, then he rode out his climax, his breathing labored, his eyes closed.
After a very long time, Christopher slowed and stilled. He raked Honoria's hair back from her face and kissed her.
Their storm finished, quieted. Christopher kissed Honoria's swollen lips, and she returned the kiss in gentle tiredness.
For a long time they lay quietly, he kissing her, she in limp tranquility. The ship rocked a little as the river ran beneath them; a church tower on shore chimed midnight.
"Christopher . . ."
He raised his head. Strands of blond hair stuck to his throat, and his eyes were heavy-lidded. "Shh. I order you to kiss me, my wife."
"I have been."
Christopher seized her wrists and pinned them together above her head. "This is another kind of order I expect you to obey without question."
The candlelight made wild shadows of the planes of his face. He looked frightening, ruthless, but Honoria felt heavy and happy. She lifted her head and kissed his mouth.
His lips brushed across hers then he kissed his way down her throat, skimming her breasts, dropping kisses to her warm stomach. He licked her navel, then laid his head on her breasts and went silent.
His warmth soothed her, and Honoria's limbs loosened. She drifted to sleep listening to the faint whisper of river, men speaking in low voices above them, a dog barking on shore.
When Honoria opened her eyes again, bright moonlight slanted through the cabin. Christopher's head rested on her shoulder, his hair warm on her skin.
His whisper broke the silence. "God, I can't do this."
"Hmm?" Honoria murmured.
Christopher stilled a moment, then traced her sensitive skin with a blunt fingertip. "Go back to sleep, my wife."
"You cannot do what?"
"I wasn't talking to you."
Honoria smoothed a pale lock from his face. "I never thought of you as a churchgoing man. Or as one who talked to God."
"Oh, I can pray, Honoria."
"What things does a pirate pray for?" She felt playful, despite the serious note in his voice. "Ships heavy with treasure, run by a crew that gives up without a fight?"
Christopher's voice was quiet. "When they took me out of the prison that morning, I prayed. I prayed I'd die in a hurry. Without lingering, without doing any of the horrible things a man can do when he knows he's dying. You can be sure, my wife, that I prayed."
*****
Chapter Ten
Honoria touched his face, her heart aching. "I don't like to think about that. When I heard you were dead, I couldn't come out of my room for three days." She traced his cheekbone. "I am grateful God answered your prayer."
Christopher's eyes lost every bit of mischievousness, every bit of warmth. "Yes, he spared me the noose and sent me straight to hell."
"But you were saved. You were taken to the ship."
Christopher raised his head. "Have you ever been on an English merchantman?"
"No, I can't say that I have."
"Believe me, a pirate's life is better."
Honoria frowned. "How can that be?"
"The East India Company, my darling, is far more worried about the cargo pirates carry off than the crew who die trying to protect it. If pirates simply murdered everyone on board and left the goods and the ships intact, there would be no pirate hunters."
Honoria had heard more than once from James how merchant captains would express gratitude to James for saving their cargo from attacking pirates. These same captains reasoned that losing half a dozen sailors and two officers a fair price for keeping hold of their crates of crockery and sweet wine.
"My brother Paul was killed by pirates," Honoria said softly. "As were his wife and daughters."
"I heard. I was sorry about that."
"Tell me about your sister." Honoria had been surprised to learn that Christopher had something as human as a sister.
"Half sister."
"What is she like?"
Christopher's smile returned, crinkles deepening in the corners of his eyes. "Mean. There's not a better person I'd want at my back. She is absolutely loyal to me, and I trust her with my life." He traced a pattern on Honoria's shoulder. "She disappeared the same time that James arrested me. I haven't seen her since."
"I am sorry," she said, and her anger at her brother rose. "Sometimes I quite hate James."
"Strong words."
"It is the truth. He decides what everyone's life should be, and God help you if you do not agree. I wonder you do not hate him yourself. He arrested you and nearly got you hanged."
Christopher shrugged with infuriating patience. "He was doing his job. You seemed pleased enough that he made you a widow."
She raised up on her elbows. "How can you say that? I told you, I was ill for days when I thought you dead."
"You seem to have recovered."
"You think I did not care?"
"I think you did, in your own way."
"In my own way?" Honoria sat up straight, narrowly missing the beam above her. "I told you I loved you, Christopher, and that I grieved for you. That wasn't a lie. I hurt for you, for months. Years. You have no idea how I felt. You know nothing about me."
"Now that is a true observation." His eyes were clear gray, the same color as diamonds.
"Then why did you come back for me? If you don't believe I ever cared for you, why did you bother?"
Christopher's body just fit between her and the bulwark, a solid wall of flesh covered by his shirt and the tangled quilts. "Because every man is allowed to be stupid about a woman once in his life."
She sensed anger in him, anger that went beyond anything she could comprehend. "And you were stupid about me?"
Christopher tossed the covers aside and climbed out of the bunk over her. He snatched up his breeches, casually leaned over, and put them on. Candlelight gleamed on his naked hip, making the Chinese lion dance.
Christopher fastened his breeches then bent over the bed again, his hands on either side of her head. He smelled of lovemaking, his seed, and maleness.
"Oh, yes, my Honoria. Very, very stupid."
A small pain filled her heart. "Do you not want the marriage after all?"
He kissed her, no longer playful. This kiss was meant to bruise and possess, to put Honoria in her place. "We are keeping the marriage, Mrs. Raine," he said. "I will have some compensation for what it took for me to get back to you."
He rose and abruptly stripped the quilts from her body.
Cold flashed over her, raising her flesh in sudden chill. Christopher took his time looking at her, raking his gray gaze over Honoria's bared breasts, her soft abdomen, her thighs that had parted so readily for him.
The gaze was possessive, one of a man looking over what belonged to him.
My wife, he'd called her, but he was treating her more like a courtesan. Honoria, a properly brought up young woman, ought to be upset about that.
Instead, the crawling excitement of her dreams and fantasies flared up inside her. He enjoyed looking at her, and she liked that he enjoyed looking at her. Without truly realizing what she did, she opened her legs a little and touched the tuft of dark curls at her cleft.
His face darkened. "Damn you."
Christopher shoved her back down into the quilts at the same time he popped open the buttons of his breeches.
Another thunderstorm, but this one a whirlwind of cold rage that frightened Honoria at the same time it exhilarated her. Christopher pressed her legs apart with hands that did not care, and thrust himself into her without preliminary. Hard and fast he pumped her, until Honoria was screaming with it.
Christopher made a raw noise as he spilled his seed, and then he pushed himself abruptly away from her, refastened his clothes, and slammed out of the cabin.
Honoria fell back to the bedding, cold, spent, and alone. But she would not cry. She was Honoria Ardmore, and she'd endured hardships far mor
e frightening than the rage of Christopher Raine. A lady of one of the first families of Charleston did not bow her head because her husband was angry at her.
Confusion wrapped her. The excitement Christopher gave her twisted her all around until she did not know what she felt. Honoria ached from lovemaking, but her body wanted more. She'd promised herself that she'd acknowledge the marriage and do her duty, but she had no idea what duty was anymore.
She rolled over into the quilts that still smelled of her husband, wrapped them around her, and squeezed her eyes shut.
*** *** ***
The saddle on the horse Christopher rode to Surrey did nothing for his backside. He'd not felt his torn skin while he'd made love to Honoria, but now the irritation was almost unbearable.
Finley rode on Christopher's left, looking as uncomfortable on horseback as Christopher did. Horses were fine animals in theory, and Christopher didn't mind handing them carrots or patting their sides, but once a man was aboard the beast, a horse became a demon with a mind of its own.
He'd once ridden down a mountain road in China in the freezing cold on a stubborn mount who enjoyed hugging the edge of the cliff. The horse would just miss its step, sending rocks into the chasm below, and dance backward as though surprised. Then it would plod on until it found opportunity to do it again.
When they'd reached the bottom of the mountain, Christopher had dismounted, turned the horse to face him, and cursed it thoroughly, much to the amusement of the Chinese man from whom he'd hired it.
The road to Epsom lacked treacherous cliffs, and the summer weather was warm, but Christopher's horse entertained itself by spooking at every fly, bee, dragonfly, mosquito, and butterfly that flew past its nose. Christopher growled at it, but the horse danced on, oblivious to Christopher's temper.
Mr. Henderson, a gentleman who'd had English countryside born and bred into him, sat his mount with easy grace. He was one of those irritating Englishmen who could ride anything, and who probably owned stallions called Beelzebub or Mephistopheles and made them do his bidding. Henderson rubbed it in by avoiding the muddy holes in the road, while Christopher's horse seemed determine to stumble through every one.
A landau rolled behind the three horsemen, its top lowered to let in the sunshine. Owned by Finley, the landau contained Honoria and Alexandra, who had their heads together while they talked.
Christopher imagined Honoria describing to Alexandra the horrors of their night together. The two would either exclaim that Christopher had been an unfeeling brute, or worse, they'd laugh at him. He glowered at the landau, and his horse tripped over another hole.
Ostensibly, the five were simply friends enjoying a day out in the country. Switton's Surrey house lay near Epsom Downs, and the man had replied to Henderson's letter that he would be happy to give Henderson an appointment.
After a tedious discussion of etiquette, it was decided that Henderson would keep the appointment alone. Grayson and Christopher and their wives would take rooms at a public house in the next village and pretend to enjoy rustic picnicking near the downs.
At least Christopher pretended. The others seemed to be having a splendid time.
Once the picnic was set up, with much girlish laughter on the part of the two ladies, Christopher paced restlessly to the top of a hill. From here he could look out to the road that Henderson had taken to Switton's estate.
The estate lay out of sight over a few low hills that were surrounded by tree-lined streams. Hedges enclosed patchwork fields where farmers bent in labor or led draft horses or oxen across the furrows. Sheep grazed on open greens, including the very hill upon which Christopher stood. One sheep, not five feet away, pulled up a mouthful of grass and watched him with mild interest.
Down the hill, Finley's baritone guffaws intertwined with the lighter laughter of Alexandra and Honoria. The two ladies had planned this outing down to the last detail, from selecting the correct foods to debating the color of the napkins to worrying about what to wear.
Christopher wondered if any other man had rushed headlong into marriage with a lovely, green-eyed wench, only to discover he'd brought home a punctilious young woman who grew horrified if he suggested that the napkins did not have to match the picnic cloth.
A good many, he imagined. From the way Finley looked at his wife, the man had gladly plunged headfirst into the pool of feminine follies.
Honoria was so different from anyone in Christopher's life, fragile like the tiny yellow blossoms that poked through the tough grass on which he stood--yet strong enough to grow there. Thinking of Honoria for four years had been the only thing that had brought Christopher home alive, he knew that.
And, once he'd found her again, she'd regarded him as though he'd gone mad and wondered why he hadn't left well enough alone. Christopher sometimes wondered why himself.
"It's a lovely view."
Honoria's soft Southern tones drifted over him, and Christopher remembered with a vengeance exactly why.
She stopped beside him, shading her eyes to gaze down the empty road. She wore a yellow gown, thin muslin for summer, and not much beneath it. To entice him? Honoria had made clear last night that she wanted him, whatever else she might feel for him.
When she'd made that little gesture as Christopher prepared to leave, silently asking, Do you want me? only a hurricane could have stopped him, and then only briefly.
"Alexandra says," she went on, as though they hadn't made love like wild things last night, "that from here you can watch the Derby race and see everything without all the dust and noise."
The woman who had begged him at the top of her voice never to stop was worried about a little dust and noise.
Honoria went on. "Perhaps when you find your sister we can all come and watch the races. It would be another fine picnic."
"I don't care about horseracing," Christopher snapped. "Or picnics."
Honoria turned to study him. The sheep looked at them both, took another mouthful of grass, and chewed while listening.
"My, but you are out of sorts today." Honoria's face softened. "But then, you are naturally anxious about your sister."
"You could say that." Christopher gazed down the road again, furious at the trees that hid his view of the house.
If Henderson didn't return in another hour, Christopher would storm the place, damn Henderson and damn the earl. Christopher's idea of negotiation was to put a sword to the other person's throat and tell them to do exactly what he said. He'd always found it effective.
"Well, do not let Alexandra or Mr. Henderson hear you say you don't care about horseracing," Honoria said. "It's very un-English, apparently. You'll be ostracized."
"I'm only half English, and that by accident." Christopher kicked at a clump of dead grass. The wind took it, and shards floated toward the sheep, who regarded the wisps in faint disdain. "I don't belong here," Christopher said. "Neither do you."
"I know." Honoria gazed across the everlasting green fields again. "I can say it's lovely, but I don't really like it. I've seen the ocean from my bedroom window all my life, heard its music every night. Here I feel--landlocked."
"So do I. Having to trust devious horses to get from place to place is insane. They plot, you know."
She smiled fully this time, her white teeth charming him. "They do not, Christopher."
"Don't tell me you have a way with horses too."
Her dimples deepened. "No. I'm just more used to them."
"You can't steer the bloody things. They go where they want to, just to spite you."
"Don't be silly."
Her eyes, green as the grass beneath them, sparkled with good humor.
"That's dangerous, Honoria."
"What is?"
She looked so bloody ingenuous. "Scolding me." His voice went quiet. "And smiling like that when you do it."
"I have no wish to scold you. I beg your pardon."
"And I'd rather have you scolding like a fishwife than being so bloody polite."
> Her fine brows arched. "Why should I not be polite to my own husband?"
"Because I don't want you being polite." Christopher turned from the view and caught her wrist, lifting it to his lips to brush her skin with his tongue. "I want you to spread yourself for me, like you did last night."
She flushed but held his gaze. "I'm afraid I was quite improper last night."
Maybe she was driving him insane on purpose, like the horses. He released her hand and slid his arms around her waist, rubbing his thumbs in circles on the small of her back. "That's fine, because I don't want a proper wife."
"Of course you do. All men do."
"How do you know? You've only ever been married to me."
"I read books."
Now Christopher wanted to laugh. He took Honoria's hand and guided it to the hard lump in his leather breeches. "Does that feel like I want you to be proper?"
She looked at him in surprise then drew her fingers down the hardness. Christopher clenched his teeth at the harsh tingle that chased her touch.
"You want me to be brazen," she said, still touching him. "I think I like being brazen."
"That pleases me, my wife."
"When you first kissed me, I wanted you so much." Honoria rose on tiptoe and put her lips to his ear, as though she wanted to tell him a secret. "I still want you, Christopher."
He felt her warmth through the cool country breeze. "Good."
"Everything is wrong and upside down from what it is supposed to be."
"I don't mind, as long as you keep doing that."
They stood for a long time, he holding her, she rubbing him softly and driving him mad.
She looked up at him, her cheek resting on his shoulder. "I still like to touch you, and I grow so excited when you touch me."
He brushed the nipple that rose through the silk of her bodice. "I see that."
Her hand continued its dance, and he was losing coherence. "I love your body," she said softly. "I've always craved it, and because I'm your wife, now I'm allowed to please it."
"I'm glad you've grasped your wifely duties." Among other things.