The Rogue Pirate’s Bride Page 15

  She heard him inhale sharply and glanced at his face. He was staring at her, and his expression made her knees feel weak. She looked down and realized she had but a thin strip of cloth left and she’d be bare to the waist. Slowly, she allowed the cloth to fall away.

  He didn’t even touch her, but she felt her nipples warm and harden under his hot gaze. She could almost feel his fingers on her, was eager to thrust herself into his hands.

  But he was not so eager—or if he was, he was in no hurry. He sat, holding his bunched shirt in one hand, and studied her. She was not particularly modest or prudish, but after a moment, she felt herself grow self-conscious. She made to raise the cloth, and he dropped his shirt and grabbed her wrists. “No, ma belle. I’m sorry. I did not see before how perfect you are.”

  She made a sound of denial and tried to raise her hands, but he held them down. With a slight movement, he pushed her back against the pillows and leaned over her. “You don’t believe me?” He kissed her mouth lightly, and she felt the lightest trace of his fingertips on the side of one breast. She arched; heat jolted through her body.

  “No, I don’t believe you. I’m not perfect.”

  “Oh, but you are.” He bent, cupped one breast, and rubbed his lips against the upthrust nipple. “You’re full and heavy.” He traced the sides and cupped her underneath as though testing the weight. “Pink and cream.” He said this against her nipple, and she bit her lip to stop a moan. “Soft and hard.” He took the nipple lightly between his teeth and raked his mouth over her.

  Raeven couldn’t help but throw her head back. She was on fire. Never had she wanted something so much as she wanted Bastien to divest her of the rest of her clothing and finish what they’d begun.

  “Oh, you like that?” he murmured, suckling her, which was an entirely new sensation. “What else do you like?”

  “I don’t know,” she breathed. “But don’t stop doing that.”

  He chuckled against her, his stubble tickling her sensitive skin. “Don’t grow shy now, ma belle. Tell me what you want.”

  She met his gaze. “Really. I don’t know.”

  A small flicker of alarm flashed in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you are a virgin.”

  She almost laughed at the worry in his voice. “No, but I fear I am not very experienced. I…” She didn’t know what else to say without revealing parts of her life she had shared with only Timothy and which were too personal to tell anyone.

  “Ah.” He was studying her face, his expression again full of wonder. “Have you ever experienced la petite mort?”

  She raised her brows. “The little death? What does that mean?”

  He grinned. “If you have to ask, you have not had the experience. I think I know what you would like.”

  She raised her brows. “I’d like you to take off the rest of your clothes.”

  “All in good time. But once I remove my breeches, I find it hard to think of anything but myself. I want to think about you”—he rubbed her nipple lightly between two fingers—“for a little while longer.”

  He bent to kiss her, and she arched to give him better access but was disappointed when he bent lower to kiss her abdomen. She thought of pulling his lips back to her nipples but resisted when she felt his fingers on the fastenings of her breeches—his breeches, really. He didn’t even need to unfasten them to remove them. They were far too big on her, and he ended up pulling them over her hips and tossing them across the cabin. She watched them land on the floor then looked back, expecting him to rise over her.

  But he was kissing her stomach now, and his hands were on her hips. She could easily see where he was going with his explorations, and she tensed, unsure if she should allow him.

  He glanced up at her. “I thought you were feeling wanton.”

  She swallowed. “This might be more than wanton.”

  “What did you expect?”

  She would never have dreamed of what he proposed now, but she had to admit she expected passion. She expected pleasure. She felt his fingers run along her thigh, resting at the juncture of her legs. His gaze was locked on hers as he gently coaxed her legs open and then caressed her lightly but quite effectively. She jumped, and to her shock, pushed harder against him.

  He touched his lips to hers, kissed her cheek, kissed her neck—all the while sliding his fingers against her deliciously. “If you like this,” he whispered in her ear. “Imagine what my tongue will feel like.”

  She groaned. She could imagine it, but she could not speak of it. Instead, when he lowered his head again, she made no protest and opened willingly for him. At first she kept her eyes on the ceiling above them. His breath on her thighs was warm, but she dared not look at what he was doing. She felt the first light touch of his tongue, and she could not help but stare down at his dark head. His hair spilled over his forehead as he bent to his task. She could not believe she was allowing this, but then he glanced up at her—a wicked gleam in his eyes—and she could believe it. She would probably have allowed him to do anything.

  He touched his tongue to her again, and the last of her thoughts fled. She could think of nothing but the mounting pleasure. She’d had a taste of it before, but then the experience had ended, leaving her wanting more. She knew Bastien would not leave her that way.

  Unwittingly, she arched her hips against him, and instead of shocking him, he grasped them and pulled her closer. “Come for me, ma belle,” he whispered against her.

  His tongue scraped against her again, and her world exploded.

  Eleven

  Bastien watched la petite mort rip through her and thought how aptly the French metaphor fit the experience. She did look as though she might die. She’d flung her head back, reached up to cup her breasts, and arched hard against him. Now she lay with eyes closed, panting lightly.

  He took the moment to study her body. He had not lied when he told her she was perfect. Men had many different tastes when it came to female beauty. He was of the opinion that most women were beautiful in one way or another. He might admire one woman’s face, another’s legs, a third’s bottom. But he could not stop admiring every inch and aspect of Raeven.

  Her breasts were exquisite. Like most men, he preferred large breasts, and hers were abundant. He did not know how she had ever hidden them so well. Softly curved, they were almost too large for her small frame, for she had a tiny waist and slim hips. And yet her legs were long and muscled. And her bottom—he would have to turn her over so he could see it in the flesh. But he’d had his hands on it, and he knew it was round and firm.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. The emerald color was not quite as sharp as before. Her irises had turned soft and muted, her pupils large. She gave him a tentative smile. She didn’t smile often, and seeing the corners of her mouth turn up now, he couldn’t resist kissing her swollen lips.

  “Did I please you?” he asked. He knew he had, but he had to ask anyway. He wanted to know what she’d say after her moment of uncharacteristic shyness. But it had been only a moment. Once he’d applied himself, she’d come hard and fast and without reservation. He wanted to please her again. But this time he wanted to be inside her. He wanted to feel her tighten against him, feel those breasts thrust against his chest when she bucked against him.

  “Yes,” she breathed. Her voice was low and husky, and he didn’t think it was possible, but he grew harder. “I don’t think ‘pleased’ is a strong enough word for what I felt.”

  He looked into her eyes and saw she was completely serious. If he had not already been an arrogant man, he would be one now. “That’s only the beginning, ma belle.” He kissed her lips again. How did she manage to taste like cherries after more than a day at sea? “I can show you more pleasure.”

  She yawned and stretched. “That’s quite all right. I’m ready for a nap now.”

  One look at his face, and she burst into laughter. “Oh, you should see your expression, pirate.” She put a finger under his chin and pretended to close his mout
h. It hadn’t really been hanging open. At least he didn’t think it had. “You’re the one who said lovemaking can be fun, no?” She mimicked his voice and accent, and he gave her a grudging smile.

  “I didn’t think you had much of a sense of humor,” he said.

  “I guess you don’t know everything about me.”

  No, he didn’t, but he thought he would like to. And if he couldn’t know everything, he’d like to know much, much more. He nuzzled her neck. “Why don’t we become better acquainted?”

  She pushed him back. “Very well. Why don’t you remove the rest of your clothes? I feel quite exposed, lying here naked with you still wearing breeches and”—she made a sound of dismay—“you haven’t even taken off your boots.”

  “Would you like to take them off for me?” He took a moment to enjoy the image of her removing his boots, naked, then he stood, removed them himself and stripped off his breeches. He would have climbed right back beside her warm body, but she was staring at him so intently, he glanced down to see what was amiss. Had he been wounded in the fighting? Was he covered in bruises?

  He could see nothing remarkable and gave her a questioning look.

  “I suppose I’ve seen naked men before,” she said slowly, her gaze roving over him. Bon Dieu but he was feeling almost self-conscious at the intensity of her perusal. “But I’ve never seen anything like you.”

  Women had complimented him before, but the words had never meant anything to him. He did not know why, but he wanted to please this woman, this Raeven. Perhaps it was because he knew her praise was rarely given.

  He gathered her into his arms, pressing his body against her warm, soft flesh.

  “Your shoulder,” she breathed. “Does it pain you?”

  For a moment, he had no idea what she spoke of; then he remembered the wound Gaston sewed closed. “Not when I’m with you.” One hand found her rounded hip, and he fit her to him so she was pressing intimately against him.

  She gasped and whispered, “You don’t waste any time.”

  “I’m eager for you, ma belle. I’ve been waiting many long months and imagining this moment since I first saw you in that gown.”

  “Really?” She looked up at him, her emerald eyes full of questions. “Is this how you imagined it would be?”

  “It’s better.” He bent, kissed her mouth, opening her to delve his tongue inside to taste. Her tongue met his eagerly, her body moving against him as he deepened the kiss. He could feel her trembling beneath him as he pressed her legs open farther, felt her moist heat against the tip of his erection.

  He moaned. “Mon Dieu, but I want you.”

  “I want you too,” she whispered, and that was all the invitation he needed. He slipped inside her, sheathing himself in her heat. He could not have imagined such molten heat or that she would fit him like a glove. He moved inside her, felt her tense, adjust, and finally accept him. He moved again, and she tightened around him.

  With gritted teeth, he held himself in check. “Do not do that, chérie,” he ground out, “Or this will be too quick.”

  Her response was a moan and to tighten against him again. He would have to go slowly another time, he realized. This first time he was too eager—she was too eager—and so he gave up the soft, slow movements to thrust hard and fast.

  Her eyes flew open at his new pace, and a cat’s smile crept across her face.

  “You like that,” he said, driving into her again. But she was too far gone to answer. She gripped his unhurt shoulder then his bicep, and with a cry, her hips rose to meet his. Their bodies thrust and parried, thrust and parried, and finally he sank into her and surrendered to the white oblivion. He’d felt her shuddering release only a second before, and he thanked God, as he didn’t think he could have survived her another moment.

  Later, when his breathing slowed and he could think again, he rolled away. Normally, he would think of some excuse to go on deck, smoke a cigar, or breathe fresh air. Instead, he gathered her close. She smelled much better than the men on deck and was far warmer than the brisk ocean breezes. At least that’s what he told himself as he burrowed his face into her hair and lazily stroked her back.

  He didn’t doze. He was too aware that Jourdain could return and attack any time. But he also knew La Sirena had been damaged in their skirmish. Jourdain would be supervising repairs and making attack plans tonight, just as Bastien was—should be.

  “Merde.” He set Raeven aside and sat.

  Sleepily, she pushed her hair out of her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Jourdain will come for us in the morning. I need to call my officers, make a plan.”

  She nodded, the sleepiness leaving her face, and her swollen, rosy lips thinning. He wished he could erase her serious expression, replace it with the satisfied look she’d worn moments before. “I know I’m not one of your officers. I’m an outsider, and on top of all that, I’m a woman. But I’m good with strategy. My father always consults me.” She pulled up the bedclothes and tucked them under her arms. “And he always wins.”

  Bastien stood and pulled on his breeches. “I have no doubt of your abilities, but I think it’s better if you wait here. You should get some rest.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to rest. And even if I wanted rest, how could I? If this ship goes down, I drown along with the rest of the crew. If the ship is taken, you face death, but I’ll find death a merciful release.”

  She was right. If Jourdain took the Shadow, she would be fair game for all the men. The captain might claim her first, but when he’d had his fill, the rest of the men would all have a turn.

  He shrugged his shirt over his head, his wounded shoulder stiff and protesting. “My men won’t accept—”

  She jumped to her feet, pulling the bedclothes around her. “Your men are—as you told me before—fiercely loyal to you. If you listen to me, they will.”

  He bent to pull on a boot.

  “You know you have a traitor on board.”

  He stilled, his hands frozen on the soft leather, his foot half in and half out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shoved in his foot and looked about the cabin for the other boot.

  “Yes, you do. Someone alerted Jourdain to your position. He didn’t fire randomly in that fog bank. He knew you were there.”

  He saw the other boot and scooped it up. “Perhaps he was simply lucky.”

  “That’s possible,” she acknowledged. “And I might even entertain the idea if he hadn’t attacked. He didn’t have time or enough visibility to identify your ship. If he didn’t know it was you, he would have been firing on a ship unknown and unseen. That’s foolish, especially with the number of British and American men-of-war patrolling these waters. He might stand a chance against your sloop but not against a man-of-war. No.” She shook her head, her hair falling about her shoulders. “He knew it was you. He was sitting in the fog bank waiting for the Shadow.”

  She was right. He’d thought the same thing as soon as Jourdain attacked. The Barbary pirate shouldn’t have even expected him to be following, much less been lying in wait. He glanced at her, and she stared at him for a long moment.

  “But I’m not saying anything you don’t already know, am I?”

  “No.” But she’d forced him to acknowledge his suspicions. He would have been happier thinking his crew completely loyal.

  He would have been happy, but he would also be dead. The traitor had to be found and dealt with. But how to hook a traitor?

  He glanced at Raeven again. She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you think I’m the traitor.”

  He didn’t, but he decided to play out the idea. “You have more motive than anyone else aboard this ship. You and your Mr. Williams.”

  “But neither of us had any idea you were going after Jourdain. How could we?”

  “You managed to get aboard my ship. You managed to incapacitate my guard. You managed to make it to my cabin and put a dagger to my throat. I think you could ma
nage to find out our plans.”

  She pulled the bedclothes tighter, hugged herself. “Is that what you think I did?”

  He went to the mirror, pulled back his hair, and secured it with a thong.

  “Very well, tell me this. If I knew you were going after Jourdain, and I had somehow alerted him so he might surprise and destroy you, why did I sneak on board? Why did I warn you about the attack when we were on deck?”

  He watched her in the mirror. She paced when she spoke. Back and forth, back and forth, dragging the sheet with her. She really should have been a barrister.

  “Why did I help with the cannons? Wouldn’t it have been better for me to…?”

  “Enough.” He turned. She was so damn logical. “You’re not the informant. But I don’t know who is. Until I do, it suits my purposes to allow the suspicion to fall on you.”

  “You think others will assume there’s a traitor.” Clearly she didn’t. The tone in her voice was dubious. “Sailors are a superstitious lot. More likely, they’ll consider the incident bad luck. They might chalk it up to having a woman on board.”

  He gathered maps and charts from his desk. “Some will, yes. But my officers aren’t so foolish. If the idea hasn’t occurred to them already, it will soon.”

  “And you plan to name me? I might as well jump ship now. It’s better than being forced to walk the plank!”

  “Don’t jump quite yet. When the suggestion arises, I won’t name you, but I won’t discount you either. Unless there’s a mutiny, you’re safe under my protection. For a little while.”

  “And while I’m the prime suspect, the true traitor thinks he’s safe.”

  “It might be enough to cause him to make a mistake.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  He looked up at her tone.

  “Jourdain is coming back for you,” she said. “You don’t have time to wait.”

  He grinned, crossed to her, and took her pointed chin between two fingers. “Let me worry about that. You—if you’re so good at strategy—study the copies of charts I’ve left. Figure out where the hell he’s hiding.”