She smelled--a little bit like coal smoke and fish, the smells of Greenwich--but her own fragrance was there as well, the subtle scent of rose petals. Christopher teased the nape of her neck with his tongue, and she made another surrendering sound.
Yes, there was something about unfastening a bodice, pushing it open in slow goodness. Honoria's shoulders above the chemise were white, with a smattering of tiny dark dots that black-haired women often had. Christopher kissed them, one at a time.
Her breathing quickened. Christopher rested his hands on her abdomen, thumbs stroking her waist through the thin chemise.
"Christopher," she whispered, "were you intending to take me to bed?"
He nibbled the shell of her ear. "Mmm-hmm. Eventually."
"You can't."
Christopher tugged free the ribbons that held her chemise closed and slid his hand inside to her bare breast. "I can, and I will."
Her chest rose with her quick breath, her breast filling his hand. "No, we really cannot . . ."
He kissed the side of her neck. "Are you trying to tell me you're having your menses?" When Honoria shook her head, he kissed her again. "I didn't think so. You're no more irritating than usual."
She shot him a look over her shoulder. "Only a man would say that."
Christopher tugged her tightening nipple between his first two fingers. "So I am a man. And your husband. The bed will be involved."
"But we cannot."
"Oh, I think we can."
"No, because . . ."
He bit the curve of her shoulder. "I'm not interested in your explanations, my wife." Christopher stripped the chemise to her waist, and cupped both her breasts as the garment tumbled down.
Honoria tried to pull away, but only succeeded in pressing herself more fully into his hands. "Listen to me . . . "
"I'll listen to anything you say, once we're in bed."
"Damn your hide, Christopher Raine."
"Damn yours, Mrs. Raine." Christopher wrapped his arms around her, pulled her back with him, and sat down hard on the bed.
He remained still for one stunned moment, then something sharp and searing tore through his thin broadcloth breeches and into his skin.
"Bloody hell!"
Christopher leapt from the bed, shoving Honoria away. Honoria spun and faced him, her eyes wide. "That is why," she said breathlessly.
Christopher reached down and grabbed the featherbed, which crackled. Something sharp bit through the fabric.
Honoria clasped her hands in agitation. "They're woodchips. They didn't have any feathers."
Christopher's famous patience stood no chance against the fire of anger, annoyance, and need that swept through him now. The bride he'd fought across years and distance to find was staring at him in fearful consternation, his bed was a pile of raw kindling, and he'd just had a sliver of wood shoved into his backside.
He roared. "Why the devil is my bed full of woodchips?"
"I told you, I could not find a featherbed. The peddler told me that if you cover the chips with enough quilts and pillows the bed is plenty soft, and warm too. Dogs like it."
Christopher balled his fists. "Damn it all, Honoria, I am not a dog!" He grabbed her by the wrists as she tried to back away and shoved her against the cabin wall. "Don't you dare play the feeble wit with me. I know exactly why you bought this thing. The same reason you bought the bloody statue and all the other loads of junk. You want me to throw you off my ship and sail without you. Well, I didn't cross half the world to be put off by your idiotic games. You belong to me, and to hell with your woodchips."
She stared at him, frozen, face white. She probably was afraid he'd send her overboard after that statue. He was almost ready to.
Instead, Christopher jerked open the window, seized the misnamed featherbed, and stuffed it through the opening. The thing stuck, and he pounded it, then he backed up and kicked it through.
When he turned around again, Honoria had sunk to the floor, her bodice pulled up around her, her face buried in her hands.
"Oh, damn it all, this is all I need." Christopher dropped to one knee beside her. His breeches tightened over his backside, digging in the splinters. "Stop crying, Honoria. I'm not going to hurt you, but I'm also not going to divorce you for it, so give up the idea."
Honoria pressed her hands more tightly to her face, her shoulders shaking, and then Christopher realized she was not crying.
He climbed to his feet, swearing again when his breeches rubbed his backside. Honoria peeked up at him through her fingers, her eyes streaming, her mouth wreathed in smiles. She was astonishingly beautiful.
Christopher growled. "Don't laugh at me, damn you. I've got splinters in my backside."
Honoria pressed her hands to her mouth, snorting noises emerging from around them.
"Stop looking so smug," he said. "You get to take them out."
Honoria's eyes widened in sudden alarm. "I'll send for Mr. Colby."
"Oh, no, you will not." Christopher could imagine Colby's great roar of laughter, his bear-like form shaking as he held himself up on the doorframe. Colby would insist on bringing in the rest of the crew to view their captain's distress. "On your feet, my beautiful wife. Tend to your husband."
He unbuttoned his breeches, shot them down to his knees, turned around, and leaned over the bed.
*****
Chapter Nine
Honoria's laughter died.
Christopher's buttocks were firm with muscle, his thighs trim and tight. His backside was pale, a definite line between them and the brown sliver of back that showed under his shirt, indicating where his breeches covered him in the sunshine. The Chinese lion on his hip stretched a little with his movement, restless.
Always Christopher defeated her by having a body that stunned her senseless. God made the body, one of Honoria's governesses had once told her. He made it in his image, so there was nothing shameful about it. One should look upon it and rejoice.
Honoria had to admit that God had certainly done well with Christopher. She had not seen him without his shirt since he'd returned, but she remembered the planes of his chest, tanned, flat, and strong.
Christopher looked over his shoulder at her now, his gray eyes narrow. His thick plait of his hair had loosened in their struggles, blond wisps straggling over his shirted back. "Well?"
Droplets of blood marred his buttocks now, surrounding the sliver that had worked through his breeches and into his flesh. Honoria felt a twinge of remorse.
"It's quite large," she said.
"I'd be flattered if I didn't know you meant the splinter."
"There's more than one, I'm afraid." She came closer and gingerly put her hand on his back. His flesh was warm through the shirt. She'd kissed the lion on his hip quite wantonly once upon a time, but Honoria was suddenly shy. She was a different person now, and so was he.
Christopher watched her, not patiently. "You'll have to take them out. I can't reach."
"I know."
She smoothed the hollow of his hip, drawing her fingers toward the first sliver. She closed her fingers around the splinter, and yanked.
"Ow!"
"I can't see." Honoria unhooked the lantern from the ceiling beam and set it down on the privy, training its beam on his back. She returned to the bed, sat down, and gently took hold of the sliver.
"Pull it out all at once," he said tersely. "Don't dig around."
"I will if you will hold still."
He looked away, his muscles rigid. "All right, I'm rea-- Ow!"
Honoria held up the longest sliver. She gave it a triumphant look, then took it to the window and dropped it out. "Only three more to go."
"Bloody hell."
Honoria returned to him. Braver now, she put her hand on the small of his back, a bared half oval of skin beneath his shirt. "Christopher," she said as she worked the next free. "The pamphlets about you told stories of you being shot. Several times."
"What of it?"
"That
must have hurt more than a few splinters."
"It's not the same thing."
Honoria stopped. "Why not?"
Christopher shifted a little. "Because when you get shot, you are in so much pain that either you pass out, or someone pours opium down your throat. This, I feel everything."
"You are amusing, Christopher." Honoria resumed prying at the next-longest splinter.
"That sounded almost affectionate." His voice lost its edge. "Tell me why you fell in love with me all those years ago, when you read newspaper stories and pamphlets and wanted to meet me." He winced. "It will take my mind off the excruciating pain."
Honoria focused on her work. "I suppose because you were nothing like what I knew. I'd known most of the gentlemen in Charleston all my life. They went to university, started work in their fathers' businesses or plantations, and looked for a wife. They said the correct things, knew the correct people, and married into the correct families."
"And bored you senseless."
She thought about that. "I tried not to let them. I knew I would have to marry one of them, eventually." She sighed. "Unfortunately, there is a streak of adventure in the Ardmore family. My brothers were able to fulfill it sailing the seas, but I had to stay home. I found my adventures reading about you, and imagining things."
"What did you imagine?" he asked, his voice dark.
"Nothing I will tell you," Honoria said firmly.
She was glad Christopher's face was turned away, so he could not see her blush. Before she'd met him, Honoria had lain awake most nights inventing adventure after adventure about herself and Christopher until her body had grown rigid with excitement.
One of her favorites involved herself stowing away on Christopher's ship. He'd find her, clap her in irons, and prepare to execute her. Then he'd be struck by her beauty and innocence, and he'd fall in love with her and release her. She'd prove herself clever, saving the day in some adventure or other, and he would promote her to be one of his officers. Christopher would confide in her, and she'd help plan his missions. Then one day, she'd save his life in a heroic feat, nearly losing her own in the process. Christopher would stay by her side until she recovered, and then he'd kiss her and profess his devotion to her. They'd marry, cheered by a grateful crew.
She'd had several versions of this tale, which she'd happily run through night after night, never tiring of them.
"And then I met you," she said softly.
Her girlish fantasies had died that day to be replaced by something deeper and more disquieting. Honoria had learned in the garden room what a man truly was, and what he wanted of a woman.
"I remember," Christopher said. "You were so pretty with your ringlets and your blushes. You were a delectable little morsel, and I wanted to eat you up."
"Which you proceeded to do, as I recall."
"Yes, and you tasted fine--damnation!"
Honoria held up another splinter. "Almost finished. The others are quite small."
"Thank God for that."
The last two came free with little resistance. Christopher was silent except for a single grunt and a very bad word in French as the last gave way.
Honoria disposed of the slivers and rummaged for a towel. She wet the towel in the basin and cleaned the wound, touching him with more confidence.
Unable to resist, she traced the lines of the springing lion on his hip, and then she leaned down and kissed the tattoo, his flesh scalding beneath her lips.
"Mmm," he murmured.
He smelled so good. His shirt tickled Honoria's nose, and his skin tasted faintly salty. Her fingertips rested on his backside, right over his wounds, but he did not seem to mind.
Christopher reached behind him and drew his hand through her hair, dislodging the matron's cap, which slid to the floor. Curls trickled from their pins to brush her shoulders, their touch reminding her of his light kisses. Christopher gave her a slow smile, as though knowing what she thought.
Any moment now, he'd roll with her to the floor, and their lovemaking would proceed in a frenzy of lust and ripped clothing, as usual. But he only said, "I missed you, Honoria."
Her heart fluttered as she continued tracing the lion, watching her fingers.
"Did you miss me?" he asked.
"No."
He stilled. "A minute ago, you were in love with me."
"Yes." Honoria leaned down and traced the outline of the lion with her tongue. Christopher's skin tasted heavenly, a tang that she'd never forget.
"But you didn't miss me."
Every moment without him had been agony, and not something she wanted to talk about. "I didn't let myself miss you." Missing someone was sad and bittersweet, very different from the tearing anguish she'd felt every day. "It hurt too much."
"Ah." His eyes were dark as he watched her flick her tongue back and forth across the intricate ridges on the lion's tail. "You're brazen for a woman who didn't miss me."
She looked up. "It isn't brazen. You are my husband."
Christopher rolled away suddenly, tugging his breeches over his backside, hiding the tattoo and everything else enticing.
He sat up on the bunk, his back against the wall. He did not button his breeches, but they hid him. Most of him. Honoria's gaze went to the tantalizing line of flesh below his navel.
He reached out to thread his fingers through her hair. "I should be angry at you, my wife. But I crave you too much right now. If you believe this is only your duty, then so be it."
"That is not what I meant . . ."
He dragged her to him, his breath hot on her lips, and Honoria forgot what she wanted to say. Her heart beat rapidly, and desire snaked through her with an intensity that almost hurt.
She leaned forward and kissed his lips.
Christopher made a noise in his throat and pulled her closer. She tasted his lips, the sandpaper bristles of his chin, his lips again.
Still kissing her, Christopher pushed her loosened chemise and bodice down to her hips. He raised her to her knees, trailed his lips from the hollow of her throat to her breasts, her body tight with excitement.
Honoria closed her eyes, cradling his head in her hands and pressing him to her. He caught her breast in his mouth, suckling her, the movement fierce. It hurt her and it didn't, and it was glorious.
Every time they came together was like a thunderstorm--a tense buildup, then a sudden explosion of wind and lightning. The buildup was over, their tension had wound high. The release was going to sink the ship.
Christopher shoved her bodice downward, kisses falling on every inch of her bare flesh. His muscles worked as he lifted her to her feet and set her on the floor. "Take off the dress."
Honoria's fingers shook as she obeyed him. She pushed the gown down her hips and stepped out of the circle of fabric. At the same time, he slid off his boots and shoved his breeches down and kicked them away. Still in his shirt, he lay on the bunk again and dragged her on top of him.
He moved her thighs so she straddled him, while his warm hands skimmed her torso. Honoria felt a bit shy being bare for him--the other times she'd been with him, they'd never taken the trouble to unclothe themselves completely.
But her shyness dissolved as she lost herself in the absolute beauty of him. Christopher's erection, long and hard, rested against his abdomen, crisp curls of dark blond hair at its base. She shifted until the hardness nestled between her legs, the friction of it promising more joy to come.
"You're always ready for me, Honoria," he said. "I never have to wonder if you want me."
True, she was swelling and parting, already imagining him inside her. Christopher lifted her, his hardness rising between them, and he slid her down onto it.
In the cell in Charleston, everything had been quick, wicked, burning. Now Christopher went into her carefully, inch by slow inch, letting her grow used to him. His hands were slick with sweat, just as she was slick from wanting him.
Christopher eased her down, more, more, while he rose inside her. Hi
s eyes darkened as he watched her, candlelight touching his lashes and the golden bristles on his face.
"Honoria, love, I missed you so much."
He eased her the rest of the way down, closing the last inch of space between their bodies. Honoria rocked her head back, her loosened hair brushing her shoulders like warm silk. Her flesh rose and tingled, her nipples dark and tight.
Christopher lay almost quietly beneath her, muscles playing under the shirt he still wore. She wished he'd take it off so she could run her hands over his body, but he did not. His bronzed throat showed in the V of his collar, shining with perspiration.
And inside her was the blunt, rigid length of him, loosening what had been tight in her for so long. Honoria welcomed the burning at her cleft, wanting it and wanting him.
This was right. The only time in her life she'd ever felt complete, whole, was when she and Christopher came together. She did not understand why this should be--she only knew that she wanted to pull him deeper into herself, as deep as he could go.
"Harder, please, Christopher."
He obliged, droving his hips upward, filling her. His gray eyes were heavy, like a drunken man's, and his warm hands engulfed her.
Honoria let her head drop back again, eyes closing. Christopher thrust his thumb between them to where they joined, gently teasing the bud that swelled for him.
Her climax came, the apex of the storm. Incoherent sounds came from her mouth, Honoria rocking desperately on him. Christopher thrust and thrust, and then suddenly he was gone.
She cried out in disappointment, but then Christopher pushed her down into the quilts, his body a heavy weight on hers. Honoria sank into the pillows she'd insisted on keeping, then he moved her legs apart and entered her in one long stroke.
Honoria's climax went on, her voice ringing from the beams. Christopher pinned her with hard hands on her wrists, droplets of his sweat falling to her chest. He sought her mouth, closing his eyes as he took her lips in a fierce kiss.
He loved her silently, his body hot. Honoria was aching and tight around him, a heavenly pain she'd never forget, had never forgotten.