Heart's Ransom

CHAPTER TEN

  Kitty heard Rafe’s heavy footsteps in the corridor beyond the room moments before he entered. It was not much time, but it was enough for her to scuttle into a cushioned chair and assume a non-chalant posture as she pretended to brush her hair. She did not want to rouse his suspicions, make him think she had been listening in to his conversation in the garden moments earlier―which, of course, she had. It had not been intentional; Rafe and Isabel had been almost directly beneath Kitty’s balcony and they had been speaking in English. It would have been nigh impossible for Kitty’s keen ears to miss them.

  Rafe and Isabel were in love. She had her worst dreads confirmed now. That has always belonged to you, Isabel had said of her heart, while Rafe had admitted that he had pleaded with Isabel in the past to marry him. On my knees―here in this garden, even after you had given your vows, I begged you.

  Something had happened, another man had come between them, this Guillermo they had mentioned, the Conde or count, Isabel’s husband. From the sounds of things, she had married him for his stature, a circumstance with which Kitty could fully sympathize. English women were often forced into similar situations, and most likely at the arrangement of their parents. That was precisely her own father’s intentions as he gently but repeatedly pressed her to wed Michael Urry back on the Wight.

  She married the count, Kitty had thought. But she had still loved Rafe. Now her husband was apparently dead and Isabel wanted to resume matters with Rafe as they had left off.

  Kitty had heard soft sounds, rustling noises, and Rafe murmuring to Isabel. He is kissing her, she had realized with a shock. She had stumbled back from the balcony, her eyes wide and stricken, even though she knew she had neither cause nor right to feel stunned and pained by this notion. Of course he would kiss her; he loved her. He had no reason not to want the same things as Isabel―to continue their relationship, to be with her again.

  The door opened, swinging wide with enough force to strike the wall, and Kitty jumped, startled by the sharp report. She heard heavy footsteps and then the door slammed closed once more. She heard ragged breathing, as if someone was out of breath or struggled against tears, and since she could not fathom why Rafe would be one or the other at the moment―much less why he would be in her room in the first place, and not downstairs making love to Isabel―she was immediately bewildered and alarmed.

  “Who is there?” she asked, rising to her feet, edging backwards uneasily. She had changed into a linen nightgown that had been left for her; it was sleeveless, the neckline low and scalloped with lace, the hem too short for her and falling only to mid-calf, rather than ankles, as was customary. She was all-too aware of her state of undress, and shrank, trying to keep her arms crossed before her in some semblance of clumsy modesty.

  “It is me, Kitty,” Rafe said, but her sudden relief was only momentary. He sounded hoarse, his voice strained and choked.

  “What is it?” she asked quietly, hesitantly. Why are you here? she wanted to add. The last she had heard of his progress in the garden, things had been rekindling well with Isabel. “Rafe, what is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he replied, but his footsteps, rapid and anxious, told another story. She listened to him cross the room, and heard the rattle of his chains, the rustle of the coverlet and the creak of the mattress as he sat down on the bed.

  Did Isabel change her mind and reject him? she wondered with a thrill that left her immediately ashamed of herself. “Rafe,” she said, following and sitting hesitantly beside him. “What has happened? You are upset.”

  He was quiet for a long moment, and she thought he meant not to answer. It would only be fair. It was none of her concern, what did or did not happen between him and Isabel. She was nothing to him, his prisoner and no more.

  That is not true, she told herself. Maybe it was once, but not anymore. She thought of him playing the guitar, singing to entertain her; of how he had drawn her against him, letting her stand atop his feet as he had led her clumsily in a dance. She thought of how he had ordered a bath prepared for her and how she had heard nothing―not so much as a quiet intake of breath―to indicate he had broken his word to her and peeped in on her unawares from the corridor. She remembered how he had held her, his voice quiet and his touch gentle, as she had wept over her blindness.

  They might not have been friends, but they were something more than enemies now; something more cordial, if not compassionate.

  She reached for him, draping her hand against his, and his fingers tightened against her as if he gratefully seized upon the comfort she offered.

  “When I was thirteen years old, Cristobal broke his leg,” Rafe said. She had been expecting him to say nothing, or at best, something about Isabel, and blinked in surprise at his chosen topic.

  “Father only had his fishing boats then,” he continued. “Three of them in all, and none even a third of the size of El Verdad. He fished the southern Mediterranean and was often gone for days, if not weeks at a time. He would sell his catches all over the Balearic Islands―Mallorca, where we lived; Ibiza, Menorca. It was my responsibility to look after Cristobal and our home while he was away.”

  His hand tightened briefly but noticeably against hers. “It was my fault,” he said, his voice pained. “When Father brought fish to Santa Ponca, it was my responsibility to see it to the market. I would deliver fish to the houses of each of his crewmen, and bring the rest to the village market to be sold. Father and his crew would load up a donkey cart and I would drive it into town. It was very heavy. Father always brought the best catch home to us.”

  He paused for a long moment, then sighed wearily. “Cristobal liked to play tricks on me. One day, he hid beneath the cart after it had been loaded. I called and called for him, but he did not come out. I did not know he was there.” Rafe offered this last with a plaintive, pleading note in his voice, as if he felt he had to defend himself to Kitty.

  “I did not know he was there,” he said again, helplessly. “I was angry at him for hiding and I decided to leave without him, to make him walk home from the beach. I whipped the donkey to make her go, and as she started forward, Cristobal must have realized what I was doing. He called out my name and ran out from underneath the cart, but the donkey was moving, the wheels were already turning. He got caught.”

  Rafe’s voice grew choked. “His leg was crushed beneath the wheel. He screamed…Mother of God, how he shrieked. Father heard him from the docks and came running. Two days later, fever had set in the leg, and everyone said that Cristobal would die. Father never said anything to me―not one word for two days, he was so angry. It was all my fault.

  “Father had heard of a man, a physician from Madrid named Lucio Guevarra Silva. People called him el mago bendito, the blessed magician―a miracle-worker. Father sent word to him, pleading for him to come, even though he knew he could never afford his services. That was when he first agreed to begin shipping cargo from the mainland…cargo that had been stolen from English ships by privateers. His smaller boats could escape the notice of the British fleet in Gibraltar, and the privateers offered him handsome rewards if he was successful. He agreed to it because he needed to pay for Lucio’s travel from Madrid, as well as for his services. It is my fault, too, then, that Father ever became involved in pirating.”

  He pulled his hand away from hers, and she heard the chain jangle as he brought both hands to his face. “Father got his miracle,” he said quietly. “Lucio came to Mallorca and he saved Cristobal from the fever. He even spared him from losing his leg. He told Father there was no need to pay him, but Father…he was proud. He was ashamed to accept charity, and so he offered Lucio the only payment he could―the meager coins he possessed, and me.

  “Lucio had no sons of his own. He had told my father this. There was no one for him to teach his healing secrets to―secrets that he said had been passed from generation to generation in his family for ages. And so Father sent me away with him, back to Madrid, so that he could teach those secrets to
me.”

  Kitty said nothing. She did not understand what had prompted this conversation, what had happened to make Rafe upset enough to tell her of it, but she sat quietly beside him, heartbroken still the same. His pain, his confusion and loss were still apparent and poignant in his voice. In that moment, he had lowered all of his defenses and she knew it; his arrogance and pride were cast aside, and all that remained for that moment was the young boy from Santa Ponca, still filled with anguished culpability at what had happened to his brother, and yet suffering the shameful hurt his father had caused because of it.

  “I have tried,” Rafe whispered. “Tried to make amends with Cristobal, all of these years, but especially now, with Father gone. I agreed to take you, to all of this, because Cristobal begged it of me, for vengeance, he said, for Father. I thought it would make him forgive me. I thought…”

  His voice faded, growing strained and choked once more. He cleared his throat, and she heard him draw in a long, steadying breath as he composed himself. “I am sorry, Kitty,” he said, draping his hand against hers once more. “Forgive me. This is all my fault. All of it is because of me.”

  “No,” she said gently. “It is not. You were only a boy when your brother was hurt. It was an accident. No one was to blame, and your father was wrong to punish you. And for this…for what happened with my father, it is not your fault, either. Cristobal is your brother, all you have left. Of course, you would want to try and please him.”

  She thought of using the moment to plead with him to let her go, to spare her father, but cast aside the idea immediately. Rafe had just confided something genuine and poignant to her and it had touched her profoundly. She could not bear the idea of ruining that, or the trust he had just placed in her by trying to manipulate him in his vulnerable state.

  And I do not want him to let me go anymore, she thought. God help me, I do not want to leave Rafe.

  He touched her face, his fingertips dancing through her unfettered, unruly hair, brushing it back from her brow. His palm settled against her cheek and remained there, stirring a fluttering maelstrom of heat within her. She felt the pad of his thumb run lightly against her bottom lip; the gesture sent her heart racing with sudden, inexplicable excitement.

  “I am so very grateful for you, Kitty,” he said softly. He had leaned toward her without her notice. She had been too fascinated by his touch. His breath brushed her mouth and then, unexpectedly, wondrously, his lips settled against hers.

  Kitty could not breathe. The kiss lingered, and when Rafe’s lips parted slightly, the tip of his tongue prodding lightly against her, she whimpered, opening her mouth, letting him delve more deeply. Rafe took her face between his hands and drew her closer, his kiss growing more fervent. His tongue tangled against hers, tasting her, and as she relaxed in full against him, surrendering herself, he uttered a low, guttural sound of pleasure from somewhere deep in his throat.

  She felt his hand slip from her cheek, trailing down the slope of her throat. His fingers caresses her breasts, outlined through the thin material of her shift. Her nipples hardened through the flimsy fabric, and he toyed with them lightly, rolling each in turn between his forefingers and thumb, sending electric thrills shivering down her spine.

  At last, his hands moved away and he reached down, tugging at the hem of her nightgown. She shifted her weight and he drew it up over her head. She felt a moment of bright shame, her body nude and exposed, and tried to draw her hands over her breasts demurely. Rafe caught her by the wrists.

  “You have nothing to hide,” he murmured, kissing her again. “Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to fear from me. You are beautiful, Kitty.” He drew her hands aside, and leaned down, his lips brushing against her nipples both in turn, sending shivers of delight through Kitty.

  His hand moved with slow and deliberate purpose along her inner thigh, sliding up toward her hips. Her breath hiccuped with a frantic new thrill of anticipation, and when his fingertips brushed against the apex of her body, through the soft nest of curls at her groin, she gasped.

  Rafe’s hand began to move between her legs, delving gently between the soft folds of her flesh, exploring her. Kitty tilted her head back, clutching at his shoulders as he began to stroke her, his fingers settling against some wondrous, sensitive place tucked deeply within her. His hand moved faster, and her pleasure increased; she parted her legs further, pleading soundlessly.

  She felt one of his fingers slide into her, even as his thumb maintained the strident rhythm he’d set. He moved simultaneously within her and without, and Kitty couldn’t breathe for the exquisite pleasure. He moved faster yet, and deeper within, and when she moaned, he caught the sound against his tongue, kissing her again. She felt something enormous and powerful growing at his touch; she tried to move with him, undulating her hips to meet and match the pace of his hand in eager, nearly desperate anticipation. She clutched at him, whimpering and moaning, moving against him, matching the rhythm of his hand with her hips.

  All at once, he drew away from her, leaving her shuddering with need against the coverlets of the bed. “Please…” Kitty gasped, reaching up for him, touching his stomach. “Please do not stop, Rafe.”

  She felt his own need, his arousal straining against the confines of his breeches, pressing against her inner thigh, and she heard seams ripping loose as he wrenched open the front of his shirt. She heard the rustle of fabric as he unfettered the waistcord of his breeches and let them fall away from his hips, and she trembled in anticipation.

  Rafe lowered himself against her, and she touched his face, raising her head and shoulders to kiss him. She felt the warmth and weight of his body settling against hers, the taut muscles stacked in his abdomen pressing against the soft plain of her own belly, her breasts and nipples pressed beneath his chest.

  He shifted his weight without releasing himself from her kiss; his hand fell against her hip and he canted her toward him, lifting her leg slightly as his hips settled against hers. Kitty felt him brush against her threshold, and then moaned as he slid into her.

  It was her first time, and Rafe was large; he moved slowly, pausing when she tightened against him, tensing at unexpected pain.

  “Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

  She shook her head, clasping his face between his hands and pulling him down into a kiss. “Don’t stop.”

  As their kiss deepened, she relaxed beneath him. He lifted her thigh, giving him more access as he eased himself inside with deliberate care. The pain was gone this time, replaced by a delicious friction as he palpated something deep within her. Kitty moaned again softly, moving in tandem to draw him into her depths. As she grew accustomed to his pace, Rafe quickened against her, each thrust delving more deeply, more powerfully into her.

  The pounding rhythm of his hips drew her to the same dizzying brink his fingertips had coaxed, and this time, as she clutched at his buttocks, he pushed her over its wondrous edge. She cried out, arching her back, tightening her thighs against him as her fingertips splayed against his flesh. She writhed beneath him in the shuddering, heaving throes of pleasure, and he stiffened against her in his own release, his voice escaping him in a breathless, hoarse cry.

  When it was over, he folded himself atop her and trembled, gasping for breath. He shifted his weight, rolling away. He settled himself against the bed and drew her against him in a gentle embrace, holding her spooned against him.

  Kitty lay motionless, enveloped by his warmth. She could feel the thrumming of his heart against her as it slowed from its near-frantic pace. His breath pressed against her shoulder, warm and comforting, and his fingers slid between hers.

  I want to stay here, Rafe, she thought. I want to be with you. She did not feel the dismay she would have expected at this realization, just as she felt none of the shame she might have anticipated following their lovemaking. She had lost her virginity to him; no man on the whole of England―much less the Isle of Wight―would want her now. She would be considered sullie
d goods at best, and yet, she felt no remorse or disgrace.

  Rafe will not send me back. He cannot―not now. Isabel had not rejected him in the garden. He had rejected her. He wanted Kitty. She knew he would not kill her; it was not within his nature. Rafe would not let any harm come to her, and now he had made love to her. He had claimed her virtues and as a gentleman, he would do honorably by her. He would relinquish his claims to vengeance against her father and want to make her his bride.

  I will write to Daddy, she thought. I will make him understand. Circumstances were beyond Rafe’s power to control, and he felt helpless against them―but now, he will make amends.

  John Ransom would be shocked. She imagined the whole of the Wight would heave on its rocky foundation to learn she had succumbed to the charms of a Spanish pirate. She knew she would likely never see her home again.

  It does not matter. This is where I want to be―here, in Rafe’s arms. This is my home now.

  Kitty smiled, closing her eyes and snuggling against Rafe as she drifted to sleep. My God, I have fallen in love with Rafe Serrano Beltran. My father is going to kill me.