Chapter 13
“Wherein fires are lit in a room full of powder.”
Henri pulled away and saw her own shock reflected back at her in his eyes.
The bright blue had seemed dull, his expression so utterly hopeless that she hadn’t known what else to do.
She only knew she wanted the insufferable, arrogant pirate back, that all too charming man with the merry blue eyes who made her blood boil and her heart race.
She wanted to take away the pain she saw in his eyes and lift off the shadow of the past that hung over him.
Henri felt she could almost see it, the weight of it at least, as it bowed his shoulders. And so she had kissed him.
His breath caught at the first press of her lips, an encouraging sign she thought, as she had drawn back, just a little, to brush her lips against his again.
She was tentative, not really certain of what she was doing, and only knowing she was mimicking the manner in which he had kissed her before. Had it really only been this morning?
But it was not only shock in his eyes and her heart began to crash with wild abandon as she understood what that meant.
She had read enough romance novels in her life to know she could never be happy being married to a cold and indifferent man who would never love her to distraction. She had wanted to know love and passion, to know what it was to be desired above all else.
Well, her foolish plan may mean she would not experience what it was to be married to a man who loved her, but she knew this man needed her, for the moment at least. And she was likely the biggest fool in the world, but she could no more walk away from him now than she could have let the militia men drag him away to the gallows.
She raised her other hand, holding his face between them and feeling a warmth that spread through her chest as a smile tugged at that gorgeous mouth of his.
“Miss Morton,” he said, his voice low, and a familiar thread of amusement behind the words. “You are the most contrary young woman I have ever known, and ...” He shook his head and brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “You never cease to surprise me.”
She smiled and blinked, finding her eyes fill at the soft look he gave her. “My name is Henri.”
He laughed at that, and her heart lifted at the sound.
“Well,” he said, taking one of her hands and raising it to his lips. “In that case ... my name is Lawrence.” He pressed a kiss to her fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. “And other than Mousy, you are the only person on board who knows that.”
She blinked, quite taken aback that he should choose to share something he had taken great pains to keep secret.
“Lawrence,” she repeated, smiling. “I like that very much. But I promise you I will never use it in front of your men. You will be Lars until you say otherwise.”
“Use it now,” he said, his hand closing around hers, and such desperation in his voice that she didn’t know how to respond “Please. I want to be Lawrence again, just for a little while at least.”
She hesitated, whatever was she to do? She would not see him dead. Whatever he had done, she would not believe he was a bad man. She needed to know exactly what it was aboard that ship that made such guilt burn in his eyes. But he would only tell her that if he trusted her.
She clasped his hand in hers and held it to her cheek, before turning her head and kissing his fingers, one by one.
“Lawrence,” she murmured his name against his skin, feeling with delight the shiver that ran over him.
There was a panicked voice screaming in her head, reminding her of how nice young ladies behaved. But then she’d never been that good at being a nice young lady. She had too quick a temper, she was too stubborn and wilful, and she was far too impetuous.
If she was a nice young lady she would have been delighted at being found such a wealthy husband as the Earl of Falmouth. She would not have run to a dubious part of town, alone, at night, in order to blackmail a pirate so she didn’t have to.
The voice grew fainter by the moment. His big hand was rough and calloused, and she had imagined how it would feel, sliding over her skin.
Oh, good Lord, Henri, stop, but she couldn’t.
She turned his hand over and pressed her mouth to his palm before looking up.
His eyes were dark, his breathing ragged, and she knew what she should do, what she wanted to do.
“Kiss me,” she said.
He stilled and for a moment she felt as though her heart waited for him to move before it dared to beat again. And then his hand was at her waist, pulling her towards him and she went willingly.
She moved forward on her knees, into the space between his thighs as he pulled her close.
One hand clasped her at the small of her back, the other cradling her head.
She leaned in, meeting his mouth as his head ducked towards her and this time there was no gentle brushing of lips, this wasn’t gentle at all.
His kiss was hard and desperate, and she gasped in surprise as his tongue invaded her mouth. She tensed in his arms, but he persisted, his tongue stroking hers, the warmth of him like being enveloped in a blaze compared to the frigid temperature of the room.
Encouraged by his example she began to imitate his moves as their mouths worked with increasing need.
She slipped her hand under his coat until just the thin fabric of his shirt was between them.
Reassured to feel his heart was thundering just as hers was she reached up her other hand and slid it around his neck, tangling her fingers in his thick hair and pulling him closer.
Oh God but it felt good. She felt warm for the first time since she had left her home on that freezing night.
Except it wasn’t just warmth, it was heat, a luxurious burn that blazed just beneath her skin, and the heart of the fire was being kindled somewhere deep inside of her.
Every slide of his tongue, his mouth, his hands, added fuel to the fire, and she wanted to burn.
This, she realised, this was what Annie had warned her about. She’d never truly understood the idea that a woman could become so lost in a man’s touch she would do anything, risk anything, to be with him, to feel his touch again. But now, now she knew.
Her body was crying out for more, her skin needed to feel his hands against it, and there was a deep and clamouring ache inside her. It demanded his attention, this empty, hollow sensation that only he could fill.
Her hand slid down his hard chest, feeling the taut muscles beneath her fingertips and wishing there was no cloth to keep her from touching the warm flesh beneath.
She allowed her hand to drop further, resting on his thick thigh and sliding towards his hip, noting with satisfaction the way her touch increased his desire as he groaned into her mouth.
Confidence growing, she reached for his shirt, snatching at it and pulling it from the confines of his waistband. And then her hands slipped under the neck of the infuriating material and slid over his skin.
He paused, his mouth still so close to hers, but now his eyes were what consumed her, his hot gaze just as intimate as his mouth and tongue had just been. She watched him watch her as her hands explored beneath the shirt.
Beginning at those broad shoulders her hands glided lower, over the strong outlines of his chest. There was a key hung on a lace around his neck and she touched the metal, hot from its continued connection to his skin, absurdly she envied it, so close to his heart.
She recommenced her exploration, down over his taut abdomen, finding the trail of coarse hair that tickled her fingertips and led her lower.
He gasped and wrenched her hands away and she almost cried out in alarm that he should stop her now, but then she saw by the look in his eyes he had no intention of them stopping at all.
“Stand up,” he demanded, his voice rough.
She did as he asked, almost stumbling and tripping over her own skirts in her eagerness to obey him. With fingers that fumbled at the buttons she shed her pelisse, allowing the deep blue velvet to fall in a crumpled heap on the floor.
“Come here.”
If his demanding manner had irritated her before, now it made her breath catch and she climbed onto the chair as he moved her to straddle his lap.
The small voice whispered in her ear, pleading for decency, demanding what she was about, as she imagined she must look like any common whore if someone were to walk in on them now.
But then his hands gripped her waist and pulled her down and she gasped as the evidence of his desire was plainly illustrated.
Her skirts had ridden up so there was nothing but the fabric of his trousers between them.
She was momentarily pleased that she hadn’t given in to the sales lady on a recent shopping trip, who had been trying to sell her the latest fashion in the shape of a shocking pair of bloomers.
But then he tilted his hips and rubbed against her, just so, and her breath caught in her throat.
The room was still freezing, she knew it must be, but she didn’t feel it.
Henri felt nothing but the heat of him, the burn of his flesh under the fabric of his clothes that she wanted to snatch at and tear from his body.
She was vaguely aware that she was in the grip of some kind of madness but so far gone that she was beyond caring.
He sought her mouth again and she gave it to him, her breathing coming fast now, and punctuated with sighs and moans and small breathless noises that seemed to inflame him more as his hands slid up her sides to cup her breasts.
His fingers caressed her nipples, torturing the tight little nubs of flesh through the cloth of her gown.
Seemingly frustrated by the inconvenience of her dress, he wrenched at the buttons and tugged at the fabric, yanking it apart to expose her breasts, and she gasped as the cold air peaked the tight skin further.
And yet that was nothing to the sensation of his hot, wet mouth closing over the tender flesh and suckling her until she cried out.
Her head tipped back, eyes closed as something inside her seemed to contract and the ache intensified.
She buried her hands in his hair, pulling his head closer as the sensitive skin between her legs began to throb.
She arched and pressed against him harder, seeking relief from the sensation that was driving her to madness.
For if this wasn’t madness, her all-consuming need for this man, then she did not know what was.
He stopped suddenly, his head resting against her breast, his breathing harsh and she tilted his head, intending to kiss him again when the look in his eyes stopped her.
“Oh, God, Henri,” he whispered. “What have you done?”
“What?” she demanded, bewildered, wondering what on earth he meant.
He clung to her, his embrace so fierce she could barely breathe, and then with a ferocious curse he got to his feet, depositing her none too gently in the chair he had just vacated, and crossing the room. Apparently he wanted to put as much distance between them as he could.
“What did I do?” she asked, as colour flooded her cheeks.
She was mortified, humiliated. With fingers that trembled she rearranged her clothing until she was more modestly attired.
She felt like a fool and a slut. What could she have done to kill his desire for her so very thoroughly?
And yet when he looked on her she could still see that desire in his eyes as though it was a living thing that prowled the room, devouring the distance separating them with hungry bites.
“Nothing ... everything!” he exclaimed, running a shaky hand through his hair.
“You d-don’t want me?” she asked, not daring to believe the evidence of her own eyes when he stood so very far away from her.
He laughed, a desperate bark of laughter that sounded like he was at his wit’s end. Perhaps he was? Was that her fault?
“Of course I want you, you little fool,” he ground out, though his words were so angry she wasn’t sure she was reassured. “I want you,” he repeated. “But I want you enough not to ruin you.”
“What?” She stared at him as though he truly had run mad. “What on earth do you mean? I was ruined the moment the militia appeared outside of that tavern, and you well know it!”
He shook his head and met her eyes.
“No. You have a chance now, Henri, and I cannot ... I will not take it from you. I’ll not condemn you to a life where you’ll have to fight for survival, never mind happiness. I may be beyond help, but you ... For heaven’s sake, let me for once in my life do the right thing.”
She stared at him, not understanding how he believed she could be saved now, and even more perplexed by the idea that she wasn’t sure she wanted him to save her at all.
He walked closer to her and crouched down beside her chair, so that their eyes were level.
“Henri,” he said, his voice soft. “The commander on that ship, he’s a good and honourable man.”
He reached out and took her hand, covering it with his own and the ache in her body seemed to bloom outwards all over again, and yet this time her heart was the source of it.
“He will help you, Henri, I know he will.