Seize the Fire

  She gave a faint, shaky laugh. "That must be a change."

  "Sweet princess." He brushed his face against her, buried it in the contours of her body with a deep inhalation. "You always smell like heaven to me."

  She drew in a sharp breath as his tongue searched and found the source that sent cascades of sensation flooding through her. She arched her head back, pressing it against the hard wall of mahogany.

  "Sheridan," she gasped, curling her fingers in his thick hair.

  He made a wordless sound in answer and slid his hands upward on her naked skin, cupping her buttocks, pulling her harder against his mouth. The teasing, arousing rhythm of his tongue made her writhe with exquisite torment. She bit her lip, trying to stifle the sounds that hung in her throat, trying to keep the breathless cries to moans, here where she might be heard.

  He brought her to the edge of explosion, caressed and kissed her until her trembling fingers pulled at his hair. She found his shoulders and tugged upward, breathing in short fervent sighs, pleading for more.

  He rose, lifting the gown over her head and pushing her back against the wooden wall in one swift motion. His kiss raked her mouth, tasting of her own excitement. He shaped her breasts, lifting, so that her nipples rubbed against the fabric of his dove-gray coat. The sensation of roughness against the tender, swollen nubs made her close her eyes and open her lips, but he subdued her cry of pleasure with his mouth, plunging his tongue deep as he pressed his arousal against her.

  She rotated her hips, answering the hard, masculine message. Her fingers searched eagerly between them, touched and pressed and outlined the shape of him while he groaned against her mouth. She could feel the deep vibration in his chest against her breasts. She teased at the buttons on his breeches, releasing them one by one, slowly—so slowly that he finally pushed her hand away and reached for the last one himself.

  "Damned civilization," he muttered. "Who thought up all these clothes?"

  Olympia swayed and tilted her head back in his arms. She was smiling, stimulated by the new sensation of being naked against his full dress. "I like them," she whispered huskily. "I think you look handsome…and elegant…and…so…so…tantalizing…"

  His long eyelashes lowered on a gleam. "Do you, now?" He kissed her chin, tasting it with his tongue. His shaft throbbed against her, heat against heat. "I won't bother to take 'em off, then."

  "Good," she murmured. "Good."

  His low laugh blended with a kiss at the curve of her throat, his teeth closing lightly on her skin. He lifted her to him, pressing her back against the wall. Olympia knew what he intended. She arched in his embrace, slipping her legs open and closing them again on hot stiff maleness and sensation.

  His luxurious sound of pleasure seemed to soak into her soul, igniting a tumult of desire. He didn't enter her, but began to move, cupping her buttocks, sliding between her thighs on skin moistened by anticipation, stimulating showers of wild sparks that fountained upward through her whole body. She clutched at him, breathing faster. His face was bent to her shoulder; his mouth open against her skin, the touch of him all heat and fire as he pushed her to the cool varnished wood.

  She flexed into the thrusts that slid between her thighs, her urgency exploding. Her back curved, her neck arched, trembling against the desire to open her legs and be penetrated. This was what he had taught her—for her own protection, to prevent the disaster of conception on the island—but each time it became harder and harder for her to remember reason with his body moving on hers, his hands pulling her hungrily against him with every stroke.

  In a haze of passion, she relaxed the tight clasp of her thighs and tilted her hips, bringing his next thrust with sweet, blunt pressure against her waiting entrance.

  "Sheridan," she whimpered. "Sheridan, please—take me." She swallowed a gasp. "I want all of you."

  His fingers pressed into her buttocks. "Princess—" His voice was a rasp, muffled in her hair.

  "I want you inside me—I don't care…I don't care what happens." She tried to turn her head, brushing her lips to his hair and neck. The salty male taste of sweat burned on her tongue. "Please." She squeezed her thighs, arching against him. "It doesn't matter; what difference will it make? We can marry. Now. Tomorrow. We can tell them all the truth. Oh, God…please…"

  "Don't!" The word came between harsh pants. "I can't think now; don't ask me to think."

  She raised one knee, sliding it up the long muscular tightness of his thigh beneath the doeskin breeches. The move placed her so that his coming thrust would fill her. With a little moan of pleasure, she pushed forward—asking—inviting…demanding that he impale her.

  His hands froze. "No." He made a vehement groan as he stopped the drive of his hips. For a long moment he held her suspended, pressed against the wall, while he drew in short, sharp breaths and his shoulders trembled. He shook his head fiercely.

  She stirred in his hold, creating a voluptuous pressure on the swollen intrusion, the part of him that said "Yes" instead. She wriggled, trying to draw him further, reveling in the feel of him, full and hard. He could bring her to final ecstasy in his own way, she knew that, but she wanted more. She wanted them joined, she wanted to have him deep within her, the ultimate invasion that would make her wholly and only his.

  "Please," she whispered, drawing her fingers down the hot, damp skin behind his ear. "Sheridan, please…"

  He moved suddenly, violently, not pushing into her but propelling her away from him into the wall. "Curse you!" He slammed his open palms against the wood on either side of her head. "What are you trying to do to me? It's too risky—you know why—God Almighty, do you think I don't want…" He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The pulse in his throat beat hard and fast. "No." He swallowed. "No."

  She kissed his forearm where it was braced beside her. "Please," she whispered again, touching him, using her fingers to coax and caress in ways that she knew would take him to the edge of endurance. As he shuddered, straining, she slid her hands around his hips to pull him back and murmured, "It would feel so good…you know how good."

  "Be damned to you," he snarled, and shoved away from her.

  Olympia's arms fell to her sides, empty. She stared at his taut back as he turned away. He buttoned himself, then stood with his white-knuckled hand on the brass doorknob, facing the blank wood. His shoulders rose and fell with deep, labored breaths.

  Without turning, he said, "I have to talk with you. Would it please Your Royal Highness to put on your bloody dressing gown?"

  "Sheridan—"

  "Put it on."

  She grabbed the rumpled flannel from the floor and dragged it over her head. "There. Satisfied? Shall I wrap myself up in the blanket as well?"

  "It damned well wouldn't hurt."

  Olympia plumped herself onto the berth. She drew the blanket around her, not because of him, but because the cabin that had seemed so hot a moment ago now held a chill. "There," she said stiffly. "You can turn around. I'm not going to accost you."

  He pushed away from the door and sat down on her trunk. He didn't look at her; he seemed to find the deck more interesting. His breeches still showed the heavy burden of arousal, and Olympia gazed at them wistfully.

  "I'm sorry," she said in a softer tone. "Don't be upset with me."

  He propped his elbow on the bulkhead and shoved his hand into his hair, frowning into space. "I don't want to hurt you," he said in a hard voice. "I don't want you in trouble. But God—it's difficult enough—do you have to make it unbearable? I'm no saint, Olympia." He took a deep breath. "God knows I'm not."

  A surge of guilt and love washed over her as she watched his tense profile. "Who wants a saint?" she asked softly. "I think I prefer my angels fallen."

  He smiled sourly and gave her a sideways glance. "I never got high enough to fall. Virtue ain't my style. And it's not yours, either—that's coming clear enough."

  She pressed her lips together, feeling her cheeks grow pink. "Well," she said defens
ively, "if we were married, it would be all right. It would even be virtuous. 'Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing.' Proverbs 18:22."

  "Jesus—you ought to be struck by lightning, quoting the Bible to me after the kind of thing you were saying not five minutes past."

  Her eyes widened. "You're a prude!"

  "I'm not a prude. I'm trying to keep my head. We aren't married. For God's sake, everyone on this ship thinks we're brother and sister!" He rubbed his temple. "Let me tell you, it makes my blood run cold to imagine the consequences if you were to start increasing now."

  "We could tell them the truth. It would be such a relief! And then the chaplain could marry us."

  "You're not thinking," he said.

  "There's no way my uncle could reach us now. Me or you. What do we have to fear? Everything's different from when we left England." She gazed at him earnestly, trying to put all of her feelings into her eyes. "Everything."

  He held the look for a long moment, his expression strange and uninterpretable. He looked away from her. "Yeah. Everything."

  She frowned, watching him. His strong fingers toyed with the latch of the trunk between his knees, marking an uneasy rhythm. He stared down at his hands, his face hidden.

  For the first time, a worm of real fear coiled inside her. "You asked me to, marry you," she said. "On the island, you asked me. Did you not mean it?"

  The latch made a metallic clunk. "I meant it," he said to the floor.

  She drew a breath and waited.

  The latch clunked again. He added caustically, "I don't recall that you ever answered me."

  Olympia wanted to put her arms around him and hug him to her breast, but instead she only said, "You fell asleep."

  He sat back, leaning his head against the wall, his eyes closed. "I think I've been asleep for the past five months." He shook his head. "Dreaming."

  "Dreaming?" she whispered.

  "Impossibilities."

  Her throat would barely sound words. "You don't want to marry me now?"

  "Looked at in the cold light of reason, it seems to me to be a stupid and dangerous idea. I can't think where I came by it."

  The shock numbed her. She sat with her eyes closed, trying to breathe.

  "Use your head," he said harshly. "We're both at the mercy of Fitzhugh. You tell him the truth, and what's he going to do? Our precious young captain's the hanging sort—you heard what he made certain they did with Buckhorse and his gang."

  "They were murderers. They deserved it."

  "Aye, those brutes deserved it, God knows, but the man's got a righteous gleam of retribution in his eye. I know his kind. I've lived with 'em all my life. He can't get any normal satisfaction because of his damned tight morals, but he'll be delighted to take his thrills out of somebody's hide if he thinks he's got justice on his side." Sheridan stood up, prowling the tiny cabin. "And on top of that, the little bastard fancies he's in love with you. He's beside himself with lily-white passion. Just how do you think he's going to take to the idea that I'm not your brother, but a conniving blackguard who's kidnapped his adored object and been living in carnal intimacy with her for months?"

  "He's not like that. And you haven't kidnapped me."

  "How's he to know?" Sheridan shook his dark head. "We've lied, my dear. We've lied well and thoroughly. If we change the story now, we've got no credibility left at all. What's more fantastic—the truth or the tale as it stands? He's not going to believe you're a princess, and he sure ain't going to swallow the idea that I've been chaperoning you on the way to the revolution." His fine mouth curled. "Fitzhugh may be a self-righteous choirboy, but he's not as stupid as you'd think to look at him. It's only his rosy view of you that's made him miss the inconsistencies so far. Even Buckhorse could see we were lying till our tongues turned blue."

  "And he believed us in the end."

  "No, he didn't." Sheridan turned on her with a savage scowl, bracing his hand on the brass trimwork near her ear. "He just finally figured he wasn't going to beat it out of me. Besides, he had another use for me alive. Fitzhugh doesn't. I'm nothing to him, once I'm not the hero of his damned midshipman's fantasies." He thrust himself away. "And Fitzhugh's king aboard this ship, madam. He's God. If he gets some notion in a jealous fit, nobody here is going to say him nay. You can kill a man with a cat-o'-nine, Princess." His voice took on a mocking note. "Accidentally, of course. 'So sorry, the poor bastard looked tougher than that—who'd've thought he couldn't take two hundred lashes? Unfortunate business, but he was a pretty rum case, after all. Been pulling the wool over all our eyes for years.'"

  She frowned, watching him pace the confinement as if it were a cage. "I don't believe Captain Fitzhugh's at all the kind of person you think. And I know him much better than you do. I've never once seen him lose his temper. He's always been good and kind and considerate."

  Sheridan looked swiftly at her. His gray eyes glittered. "Marry him, then," he said angrily, "if he's such a damned paragon. Because I'm spiteful and selfish and I've got the devil's own temper, which I make sure to lose twice a day." He turned away, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "He's already applied to me for permission. I only hope he doesn't fall into an ecstatic swoon at my feet when I give him the glad news."

  Huddled in the blanket, she stared at him in miserable disbelief. "Why are you saying these things? What's happened?"

  "Reality." He shot her a sidelong glance, one eyebrow raised in derision. "Not one of your favorite subjects, I know."

  She hugged her knees. Watching him, she remembered his face in the firelight, patient and sympathetic as he whittled a comb from whalebone to replace the one she'd broken in a fit of pique at the impossible snarls in her hair. She remembered his gentle hands working through the mass of tangles himself after she wept with impatience because she could not. She saw him now, with that sarcastic twist to his mouth, and thought that reality was more tangled and frustrating than any mop of windblown curls.

  "All right," she said at last. "We'll just go on as we are."

  She thought he would say something cutting; she was braced for it. But her agreement met silence. He leaned against the wall, his profile reflected in the polished wood.

  She looked down, picking at the blanket. "It was only an idea, anyway."

  He straightened. He came to her and took her by the shoulders. His fingers slipped up the sides of her throat; he cupped her chin between his hands and held her, looking down into her eyes.

  His own were smoke, intense and impenetrable, like a wildfire smoldering.

  "Trust me," he said.

  She stared up at him. "How could I not?" Her voice had a husky break in it. "I love you."

  Something queer passed in his face, an instant and then gone, and she could not tell if it was shock or fear or exultation or a fusion of all of them.

  He bent and touched his forehead to hers with a silent, negative shake of his head.

  "I do," she repeated.

  "Foolish princess; I've just informed you that I'd rather shab off than risk my precious hide to marry you. What do you want to love a scaly chap like me for?"

  She arched her eyebrows. "Fishing for compliments?"

  "God help me—I ain't that optimistic. Just checking, in case you might have turned up sensible on me. Pleased to see you're as half-witted as ever." He drew back, shook his head again and went to the door. He paused with it open and gave her a wry smile. "I won't be slow to take advantage of it, you have my word."

  "Emiriyyiti!" Mustafa scratched on her door a few minutes later.

  She opened it and found him in red fez and white galabiyya, standing with a roll of blankets in his thin brown arms.

  "O my princess, where would you have me to sleep? Sheridan Pasha has said it may be outside your door or inside, as you prefer."

  Olympia protested, but the manservant, with orders from his pasha, only informed her that he thought it best that he lie down just inside her cabin door.

  "Inside? That would be e
xceedingly improper."

  "Of course you are right, my princess, in your infinite beauty of mind and form. My own comfort is less than nothing, and I shall be privileged to sleep in the corridor. I welcome the cold drafts and the kicks of these English sailors and their heavy feet, O Beloved; I would suffer a thousand bruises and broken fingers if you would only look kindly on me, a—"

  "Oh, very well." She grabbed his elbow and pulled him inside. "But I don't know what everyone will think!"

  Mustafa bowed deeply, gesturing as if to lift her hem and kiss it. "They will know that your charity extends to the ends of the earth, that the poor multitude kneels down in thanks at your mercy, and that I, made weaponless and fit to serve in the Great Sultan's hareem, will protect your honor with my life."

  "Nonsense. Really, Mustafa, you say the most outrageous things. I ought to scold you to an inch for telling me lies about Sir Sheridan. And stealing my jewels, too—when we both were beside ourselves thinking he'd been killed. That was taking most venal advantage." She frowned at him and sighed. "But I suppose you hardly know better, do you? You have no more moral sense than a monkey."

  His brown eyes widened. "Emiriyyiti," he said in a grieved tone. "I obey my pasha's orders. I have told you no lies except at his bidding, may Allah bless him."

  "No lies?" She made a huff of exasperation. "How you can be so brazen, I don't know." With a resigned shake of her head, she regarded him. "I suppose it's no use being vexed. You hardly comprehend if you're lying or not, I don't expect. But you should understand that taking my jewels and placing the blame on your master was very, very wrong."

  Mustafa looked horrified. "No, no! Forgive me, but it is you who misunderstand, my princess. I did not steal your jewels, Emiriyyiti. I would not dare! Sheridan Pasha took them, but now we say that it was I, so that this silly camel of a captain will not be so foolish as to detain my pasha as if he were a common criminal." The gold tassel on his fez bobbed anxiously. "You must say so, too. He has so ordered, has he not?"

  "Certainly not. Mustafa, you mustn't be afraid of me and lie on that account. I especially asked Sir Sheridan not to punish you over this, but do please stop making up stories!" She opened her arms. "When I think of all that nonsense you told me about how he had been a slave of some sultan—it really is too much."