His mouth closed over her breast, and she arched her back against him. He weaved his passion about her patiently, tauntingly, until at last she cried out brokenly, her voice slurred with desire, “Please, I cannot bear it . . .”
“Do you want me, Cassandra? Do you want me inside you?”
Her eyes took on a vague, smoky sheen as his fingers glided lightly over her breasts.
“Do you, Cassandra?”
“Yes.”
The small word seemed wrenched from her. He let his mouth close once again over hers. He felt her hands fumble with the buckle of his infamous belt and was delighted that for the first time she was showing initiative. But she could not free the silver hook and with a moan of frustration, she pounded her fists against his chest.
“Savor your passion, my love,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving her face. “Let it build inside you until you feel you will die if you do not find release.”
As he spoke, his hands, with the smooth skill of long practice, pulled her free of her gown and petticoats. She wanted to help him, to tear off the offending garments, but he would not allow it. Soon, her undergarments and silk stockings bunched softly about her ankles.
He let his fingers slowly trail over her belly until they touched her. Her eyes widened upon his face in mute surprise as his fingers caressed her. He smiled.
“Do you know how soft you are, cara?” His lips touched her cheek, the tip of her nose, her chin.
She felt his finger gently ease inside her and she gasped aloud, clutching her hands about his neck to support herself. He felt her tense.
“Not yet, my love.”
He took her hand and led her to the bed. He slipped out of his clothing as smoothly as he had removed hers.
She drank in his body without fear or embarrassment, her fingers clenching at the sight of his muscled chest and his taut belly. Her eyes fell to his sex and she felt a warm, insistent heat between her thighs that made her legs go slack.
“You are so different from me, so exquisite,” she whispered, scarcely aware that she spoke her thoughts aloud.
He laughed, a rich sound from deep in his throat. “All of me or just part of me, cara?”
“All of you.”
“Ah, we make progress.” He sat down beside her and laid one large hand lightly on her thigh. If only, he thought, gazing at her soft, parted lips, he could make her tell him that she loved him. But it was too soon, much too soon, and he knew that it was the passion he awakened in her that drugged her mind. She turned suddenly toward him, pressed her breasts against his chest, and tentatively placed her hands on his shoulders. He moved his hand slowly from her thigh, and stroked her belly.
He felt his control near to breaking. He eased her down upon her back and gently parted her thighs.
“Remember I told you how you tasted, Cassandra?” He pressed his mouth over her belly and she felt him nuzzling at her, until his lips closed over her.
She whimpered softly, and arched her back, raising her hips to let his mouth burn into the depths of her. He felt her body shudder, quicken, and rose to enter her. Her thighs closed about his sides and her hips lurched upward, drawing him deeper within her. He felt her hands pressing against his back, and he knew that he was lost. He drove into her, and she cried out. As she stiffened in her climax, he let himself go.
He sprawled on top of her, his head beside hers on the pillow. He knew that he must be crushing her, but when he made to move, her hands tightened about his back. A deep ripple of pleasure shot through him, and he smiled, contented. He remembered her still tender back and turned onto his side, drawing her close in the circle of his arms. Her breasts stilled their rapid heaving, and he felt her go slack. Within minutes, she slept.
Cassie shivered and reached out her arms to draw his warm body to her. Her hands closed about a soft featherdown pillow and she opened her eyes. She drew herself upright and gazed about the cabin. He was gone. She looked at the clock atop his desk and started in surprise. She had slept only briefly, for it was but a few minutes after eleven o’clock.
She pushed her hair back from her forehead and swung her legs over the side of the bed. For a long moment, she simply stared down at her body, unable to weave her thoughts together.
She looked at the rumpled bed and saw herself writhing beneath him, her hips surging upward, her hands urgently kneading the hard muscles of his back. The memory sent a sudden tingling down her back. She pictured herself as he must have seen her. Her virulent anger had turned quickly to passion. She had become a quivering woman begging for his man’s body. How very pleased he must have been to see her fall asleep like a sated young animal, replete with the pleasure he had given her.
Cassie rose shakily and rushed to the commode. She scrubbed herself viciously until she felt raw. She dropped the damp cloth and shook herself. “Oh, God,” she whispered into the stillness of the cabin, “what is happening to me?”
Unbidden, the memory of the afternoon she had been with Edward in the cave, but two days before their wedding, rose in her mind to taunt her. Had it not been for Becky’s interference, Edward would have taken her virginity. She had felt passion then, to be sure innocent, tentative desire, but nonetheless it had been she who had encouraged him.
She sobbed aloud and buried her face in her hands. Could any man touch her and set her body on fire? Was she a willing, loose little slut who would part her thighs at a man’s touch, at a man’s mouth closing over hers?
She gazed listlessly toward the port windows and a word formed on her lips.
“Gibraltar.” An English military outpost. There were Englishmen there who would help her, soldiers who could send a message to Eliott and to Edward.
Cassie sped to the portholes and pressed her cheek to the glass. The huge rock was now well behind the yacht, but she could make out a sandy expanse of beach. She moved swiftly, and within minutes, she was dressed in the breeches and white shirt the earl had allowed her to wear during the storm in the Channel. She pulled on her boots, jerked her hair back from her face and knotted a ribbon about it.
She rushed to the earl’s desk and pulled open one drawer after another. Papers, charts, ledgers; there appeared to be everything but the money she needed. She jerked at the bottom drawer and found to her surprise that it was locked.
She grabbed a hairpin from atop the dresser and thrust it into the small lock. She muttered a frustrated oath, for she could feel the yacht moving swiftly eastward, before the lock sprang loose and the drawer slid open. Her fingers curled about a leather pouch; she pulled it open and saw to her delight that it was filled with louis d’or. She quickly fastened the pouch to her waist. She was on the point of rising when she saw an elegant English dueling pistol, half covered with a velvet cloth. Uncertainly, she touched its shining silver handle and drew it out. Her jaw tightened. If someone tried to stop her, she would use it.
Cassie was not much familiar with guns, but from the little she knew, she could tell that it was primed. She laid it on top of the desk and shoved the desk drawers back into place.
She felt a light draft touch her face and looked up to see the earl standing in the open doorway, the remnants of the smile on his face turning into a cold question.
“Just what the devil are you doing?”
Cassie straightened to face him, her fingers curling about the pistol. She said curtly, “I am leaving, my lord.”
“I hardly think so, Cassandra.” He leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. “Indeed, I believe it more likely that you will take off those ridiculous breeches and put on one of your gowns. We will have lunch shortly.” He added, “How fortunate that I opened the door so quietly. I had thought you still asleep, you know.”
She stared at the intimate, caressing tone of his voice.
“Damn you, my lord earl. I will no longer be your whore. Now move aside for I am done with you.”
“My whore, cara? You have not sufficient experience to fill that position.”
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Her body shook at the amusement in his voice. Slowly, deliberately, she raised the pistol and aimed it at him.
“I have no desire to swim more than a mile, my lord. You will now stand aside or I will shoot you.”
The lazy animal grace left him. She was not fooled by the conversational tone of his voice, for she saw the tensing of his body. “How enterprising you are, Cassandra. But foolish, very foolish. Put the pistol down.”
“Go to the devil, my lord.”
“Put it down, Cassandra.”
He walked toward her, his stride confident, his dark eyes resting intently upon her face.
“Damn you,” she cried, and pulled the trigger.
A deafening roar filled the cabin. A trail of gray smoke billowed from the pistol as it dropped with a sickening thud to the floor. The earl grabbed his shoulder, the impact of the ball hurling him backward.
She rushed past him, through the cabin door and along the companionway. She heard him shout her name, but she did not slow. When she reached the deck, she forced herself to a walk. Sailors were looking about with surprised faces at the sound of the pistol shot. She paused for but a moment at the railing, gauging the distance to shore. The deep blue water was calm, as smooth as the surface of glass. In a fluid movement, Cassie climbed over the railing, stood poised an instant with her arms raised over her head, and kicked off.
“Madonna!”
She heard the shout just as her body knifed through the surface. The impact jarred her, and the shock of the cold water momentarily numbed her senses. Belatedly, she arched her back and fought her way to the surface. She gulped precious air into her lungs and slewed her head about toward the yacht. She heard sailors shouting and saw them lining up along the deck, gesticulating wildly toward her. She looked back toward the beach and felt a lump grow in her throat. It was far distant, more than a mile. She drew a resolute breath, kicked her booted feet and swam with sure, firm strokes away from the yacht.
“Cassandra!”
She turned her head and saw the earl at the railing. The next instant, he stiffened and dove into the water. His head cleared the surface much too close to her.
“Fiends seize you!” she yelled at him, and inadvertently gulped in a mouthful of water. She sputtered and coughed, aware that she was wasting valuable time. She ignored the burning in her constricted throat and stroked with all her strength away from him, toward shore.
A powerful arm closed about her hips, pulling her inexorably back and downward. Water closed over her head, and for an endless moment, she was locked against him in silent combat. She tried to kick free of his hold, but he drew her against his chest and bore her to the surface.
“You are insane, my lord. Let me go.” She struggled wildly against him, striking his chest, kicking her booted feet against his thighs. Suddenly his arms loosened and she wriggled free.
“Cassandra.”
Her name sounded barely above a low whisper and she flipped about to face him. To her horror, she saw that the water between them was red with blood. She gasped aloud. His head disappeared beneath the surface of the calm water. She saw him struggling, his arms thrashing weakly. He did not have the strength to bring his face above water.
She turned frantic eyes to the yacht. She saw Scargill, Mr. Donnetti, and half a dozen other sailors lowering a longboat. They would never reach him in time. He would drown.
“You fool,” she yelled at him. He floated near the surface, face down, in a widening pool of his own blood.
She swam back to him and clutched him under his arms, but she did not have the strength to raise his face above the water. She locked her arm beneath his chin and pulled him back against her chest, forcing his head back and up.
She looked frantically toward the approaching longboat. Her legs felt leaden, but she forced them to keep pumping. She feared she would drown with him if they did not hurry.
“Row harder,” Mr. Donnetti shouted as he flung off his cloak and boots. He was on the point of diving overboard when Scargill stopped him.
“Nay, Francesco, she may lose her hold.” A slight smile broke his grim expression. He could hear Cassie cursing the earl as they approached, berating him in broken sobs for his stupidity, his ridiculous stubbornness.
Mr. Donnetti muttered under his breath, “It makes no sense. She shoots him, then saves his life.”
“It would not be in her character to do otherwise,” Scargill said, but Mr. Donnetti paid him no attention.
The earl stirred.
“Hold still, damn you, else we’ll both drown.”
Mr. Donnetti and several other men slipped over the side of the longboat and freed Cassie of her burden. It took them some moments to pull him into the boat. She heard the earl’s voice, weak, but fiercely commanding. “Save her, Francesco, quickly, before she loses her strength.”
Mr. Donnetti grunted and grabbed Cassie none too gently around her waist. He lifted her toward the boat and several hands closed about her arms, hauling her upward.
Cassie crouched down at the stern of the boat and wrapped her shivering arms about her knees. A sailor threw a cloak over her shoulders, but it did not warm her.
The men huddled around the earl, and no one seemed to pay her the slightest attention. If she had had the strength, she might have slipped over the side of the boat before any of them noticed. She tried to see the earl, but Scargill and Mr. Donnetti were crouched in front of him, blocking her view. She heard Scargill tell him not to move.
Four sailors, two on each side of the narrow longboat, rowed furiously back toward the yacht. Cassie gazed toward The Cassandra and marveled at how quickly the sails had been lowered. As they drew nearer she could hear the grating sound of the iron-linked anchor line being dropped. She strained forward at the sound of the earl’s voice.
“Dammit, Scargill, none of you is strong enough to carry me up the ladder. I’ll climb it myself. Francesco, stay close to me.”
She could not believe that he would try to climb the ladder himself. She wanted to yell at him not to be such a fool, but his foot was already on the bottom rung, his face forbidding in his determination. She watched with held breath as the earl slowly and painfully pulled himself upward. A cry tore from her throat when he nearly lost his grip halfway up the ladder.
Joseph drew a relieved breath once the earl was finally hauled over the railing onto the deck. He turned to her and said crisply, “Now it is your turn, madonna.”
She shook her head mutely, for her arms felt like useless sticks of wood hanging at her sides. He misunderstood her. “I’ll not let you escape, madonna, and you haven’t now a pistol to shoot me.”
She licked her lips. “I cannot, Joseph.”
He studied her exhausted face and, without another word, hauled her over his shoulder and climbed the rope ladder. He set her down upon the deck. When she did not move, he said sharply, “Go to the captain, madonna. He’ll not be easy until he knows you are safe.”
Cassie entered the cabin quietly. The earl was stretched his full length on the bed, gritting his teeth against the pain as Scargill and Mr. Donnetti stripped off his wet clothing.
“Where is she, Scargill?”
There was an undercurrent of panic in his voice. She walked quickly forward into his line of vision. “I am here, my lord.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and closed his eyes.
Scargill straightened over the earl, his face grim. “Ye’ve lost a lot of blood, my lord, and the bullet must be drawn out.”
“Very well,” the earl said, without opening his eyes. “Get it over with.” Blood trickled through the black mat of hair on his chest. She felt an unwonted surge of guilt.
Dilson suddenly burst through the door.
“Captain, it’s the pirate, Khar El-Din. We spotted him before we brought you on board. Now he’s demanding to come aboard!”
“That bloody bastard,” Mr. Donnetti exclaimed, turning sharply.
The earl turned his head on the
pillow and said calmly to Dilson, “If our friend wishes to pay us a visit, we’ll not say nay. Francesco, go welcome him and bring him here. He’ll not accept less, you know.”
“But, my lord—” Scargill began.
“Enough, Scargill. Cover me, I cannot greet my friend naked. And bind my wound. Let him smell blood, but not see it.”
Cassie took a shaking step back, her eyes flying to the earl’s face. A pirate. The earl had told her that such men still existed, but she had not believed him.
“Cassandra.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
His eyes swept over her wet clothes, the breeches that clung tightly to her thighs and hips. He could make out her nipples pressing against the thin white shirt. Although her hair hung in tangled wet masses about her pale face, it seemed to make her all the more alluring. He felt a shaft of fear.
“Listen to me, cara, we haven’t much time. Wrap yourself from throat to toe in a cloak. You will sit very quietly, your eyes down. You will keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me?”
She nodded mutely, though she did not understand.
“Quickly, Scargill, cover her. Cassandra, we are not in England. Trust me in this.” He felt the pain drawing at his senses, and drew a deep, steadying breath.
“Do as his lordship has told you, madonna.”
Cassie pulled the satin cloak he offered her about her and sat down.
Her eyes flew from Scargill’s set face at the sound of heavy boots overhead. They drew nearer, sounding in her ears like the staccato beat of marching men.
A deep booming voice came through the open doorway, and a man entered whom Cassie would never forget. For an instant, her eyes locked to his, eyes so dazzling blue and piercing that they seemed hardly human. He was like a bull, she thought, short, but mammoth in girth. His blond hair was thick and long, bleached with streaks of white. His bare arms were thick with bulging muscle. He wore a loose red leather vest and baggy breeches that were held at his waist by a wide scarlet sash.
She dropped her eyes quickly to the floor.