Traitor in Her Arms Page 26

  Gabrielle was on her feet and stumbling toward him. With a laugh, the captain, who had sun-weathered skin and long whiskers on the sides of his face, helped her out then hoisted Ramsey up beside her.

  She blinked in the bright sunlight and breathed deeply of the fresh, clean air. They were on a good-size schooner and moving at a fast clip. All around her the crew moved efficiently about their business. She spotted no land before her or behind her, but the sun shone brightly and the wind felt good against her face. She allowed herself to believe, for the first time, she might really be saved.

  The captain must have watched her. “You truly were snatched from the blade of the guillotine.” He gestured to her shorn hair. The longer pieces slapped against her cheeks in the sea breeze.

  “We were very fortunate,” Ramsey said. “I believe you mentioned a bath.”

  The captain laughed. “I’ll show you to my cabin. It’s yours for the remainder of the journey. It’s not much, but there’s a bed and a small hip bath. If you dig through my trunk, you may find some clothing that fits you. You’re not my first refugees, and I find that I usually want to burn the clothing they arrive in.”

  “Thank you,” Ramsey said. Gabrielle wanted to thank him as well, but her throat was too parched to speak.

  In the captain’s cabin, she gulped water straight from a pitcher and attacked a plate of bread and cheese. Ramsey must have been as hungry and thirsty as she, but he made no move toward the food or water, letting her eat her fill. When the warm bathwater arrived along with the small tub, he helped the cook carry it in and fill the tub. It was barely big enough for her to sit in, and she would have to get out to wash her hair, but she did not care.

  Ramsey crossed to her and handed her a towel and soap. “I’ll step outside. Knock when you are finished.”

  Then without a word, he left her to her bath. She washed and scrubbed until the water was all but black with the dirt and grime. When she was clean, what was left of her hair wrapped in a towel, she dug through the trunk and donned a clean shift. It was a bit small for her, but it smelled of lavender and linen.

  She felt guilty she had taken so long and used all the clean water, and she quickly crossed to the door and opened it.

  Ramsey stood on the other side, his hair wet against his shoulders and dripping onto a clean white shirt.

  She frowned at him. “How did you—?”

  “The water was cold and I had to stand, but I’m clean.” He bent and picked up a plate covered with a cloth. “I brought more food.”

  Gabrielle’s eyes widened. “I could kiss you.”

  He grinned. “Promises, promises.”

  She moved back into the cabin, allowing him inside. When he shut the door behind him, she realized she had forgotten how small the cabin really was. Either that or she’d forgotten how large he was. How he always smelled of bergamot. How the days’ growth of stubble felt against the skin of her thigh. How when he looked at her with those too-green eyes, she couldn’t seem to look away.

  She’d also forgotten to search for a dress. The chemise suddenly seemed far too revealing. His gaze swept over her, resting for a moment on her bare feet, before it returned to her face.

  He was acting the gentleman.

  Gabrielle reached out and took the plate from him, her fingers brushing against his.

  She did not want him to act the gentleman.

  Chapter 21

  “I was hoping you would share that,” he said, releasing the plate of stale bread and dried apples. Before Paris, he wouldn’t have fed such fare to his dog. Now he’d eat it without another thought. After his childhood, Ramsey could well understand how hunger and poverty fueled a revolution, but he would never understand the bloodlust. What he’d seen in the Place de la Révolution sickened him, and he’d almost lost Gabrielle to it.

  Her fingers brushed his, and he forced his gaze to remain on her face, not the thin linen of the chemise or the delectable skin it showed. But when she moved closer, and her hand touched his again and more deliberately, his belly tightened and he sucked in a breath.

  “I will share it,” she said, voice low and soft as velvet. “Later.”

  Ramsey didn’t dare to move. She couldn’t want him, not after what he’d done to her. Not after what he’d confessed to her about who he really was.

  “You’re not angry with me?” he said cautiously.

  “Oh, I am angry. I’m furious.” As if to prove her point, she shoved him hard with both palms flat on his chest. Taken off-guard, he stumbled back and plopped down on the berth.

  She came down on top of him, and in a defensive gesture, he caught her wrists right before they could strike his face. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you think moldy bread and desiccated apples make up for what you did?”

  “No.” He struggled to hold her. She was fighting him, her wrists slippery in his grip. “But I saved you. That has to count for something.”

  “That’s the only reason I haven’t killed you yet.”

  On a laugh, he rolled her over. She gasped in surprise at the coup d’état and scowled up at him. Before she could knee him in the bollocks, he straddled her, imprisoning her legs between his. The chemise had fallen off her shoulder, baring the half-moons of her plump breasts.

  “The reason you haven’t killed me yet is because you can’t. Farmer’s son, remember? I’m a lot stronger than the fops you prefer.”

  She bucked under him. “Do you think I care where you came from or who your parents were? I come from Swansea. I wasn’t born a lady. I want to kill you because you’re a traitor.”

  He glared down at her. “You will have to find the back of the queue. I’m dead when we reach England anyway. You may stand in the front row of my hanging.”

  “Then I suppose this is my last chance to take you to bed,” she said, venom making her voice hard.

  For a long moment, he didn’t move. His grip on her wrists must have slackened because her hands were free. He flinched in anticipation of a slap to his face, but instead she wound her hands around the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to hers.

  The kiss was hot and hard, and the punch of arousal intense.

  He wrenched back, breaking the kiss. “I thought you hated me.”

  “I do.”

  He grabbed her wrists, pinning them to the berth and kissing her again. This time she moaned and writhed under him.

  “But I want you more,” she said on a gasp as his tongue lashed at hers.

  He wanted her too, and with an intensity he had never felt before. He would take her any way she would have him. He deepened the kiss, and when her ardor met his, he had to bite back the urge to free his straining erection and thrust into her. This was the last time they would ever be together. Madame Fouchet would reveal his true identity as soon as he returned, if she hadn’t done so already. He’d be arrested and hanged. There would be no leniency. One did not impersonate a peer and live to breathe anther day.

  Like a man sipping his last cup of wine, he lapped at her mouth, brushed his lips over her cheeks, and tasted the slope of her neck. She smelled so clean that he paused to inhale. After hours in the rank sewers and then dirty boats and carts, the scent of her was heaven. Her pulse raced where his flesh met hers, and he darted his tongue out to touch the beating point. She was alive, and her blood thrummed for him. He wanted to be certain she never forgot him, never forgot this coupling.

  He forced himself to take a deep breath, to slow down and savor, even as she pulled his shirt from his shoulders and urged him with her whimpers and her arched back to take her.

  Instead, he levered up on his elbows and looked down at her. Her eyes opened, softly blue and filled with a haze of passion. “What is it?” Her voice was a whisper as she fought to catch her breath.

  “I wanted to look at you. You’re so very beautiful.”

  She closed her eyes. “My hair is awful, and I’m sure I look as though I haven’t slept for a week.”

  “I don’t care a
bout your hair, and what you look like is a strong, resilient woman. You would have gone to the guillotine with your head held high, and you faced the rats in the sewers the same way.”

  He felt her shudder beneath him. “I prefer the guillotine to the rats any day.”

  He laughed. “Only you would say that.” He kissed her lightly. “Gabrielle.” He kissed her again. “My love.”

  “Ramsey—“

  He placed a finger over her lips. “I know you don’t love me. But just this once, let me love you.”

  He ran a finger down her cheek until he reached her collarbone. Sliding over, he caught the edge of her bodice and tugged it down very, very slowly. The curve of her breast crested into a hard, pink nipple. She moaned quietly when he finally pulled the fabric away. His hand dipped lower, tracing the shape of her with one finger, then sliding that finger over the distended nipple. Her hands came up and gripped his biceps as he repeated the gesture on the other side.

  He lowered his head and kissed the valley between her breasts, then trailed his tongue up the slope of one breast and circled the nipple at the crest. He licked the length of the hard point. As her breathing quickened into pants, he rolled it between his lips. Her fingers dug into his arms almost painfully by the time he took her into his mouth, suckled her. When he pulled back, he blew on the swollen skin and it pebbled.

  Before ministering to the other breast, he glanced at her face. Her cheeks were rosy with arousal, her lips wet where her tongue had darted out to moisten them. He tried to imprint the image in his mind. He’d think of it when he walked to the gallows. He’d regret nothing.

  He took her other breast in the same slow manner, then drew her chemise down and down, kissing each inch of revealed skin. She was soft and supple, her body quivering when his lips passed over a particularly sensitive spot.

  Finally, he had her laid bare beneath him. He could have spent hours learning every single curve of her body, but he didn’t have hours. The captain might want his cabin back. The Channel crossing might be swift and smooth. He had time to give her pleasure and that was all.

  He drew his shirt over his head and stepped out of his trousers. Her gaze fell to his stiff cock, and she held out her arms. It meant more than he could ever say to have her welcome him thus. She knew who he really was. She knew all of his sins, all of his transgressions, and still she wanted him.

  He went to her, parting her thighs and settling between them. She bowed up, ready to receive him.

  “Not yet,” he chided.

  “I’m ready,” she protested, sounding almost mulish.

  “Are you?” He laid a hand on her belly and skated his fingers down to her core. His cock had already felt the heat of her, ached for that heat. And when he dipped his fingers in her moisture, he clenched his jaw to keep control. She was indeed ready for him. He parted her feminine lips with his fingers and gazed down at her dewy pink folds.

  She moaned quietly, her breasts rising and falling more rapidly. Her thighs parted further, and he caught her gaze. “You like it when I look at you.”

  “I like the way you look at me, but I want you inside me.”

  “Mmmm.” One slick finger entered her, and she gasped, her muscles clenching around him.

  “Perhaps I should have been more specific,” she panted.

  He slid in and out again, this time sliding two fingers inside her. “You like this.”

  She didn’t argue.

  His palm pressed upward, putting pressure on the small bud he knew would give her the most pleasure.

  He felt her clench again and withdrew on her muttered curse. “Ramsey!”

  She was close to climaxing. Her body was coiled tightly, her nipples tight vermilion knots, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her.

  “You didn’t want my fingers inside you. Perhaps you want my mouth on you, my tongue inside you.”

  Her eyes widened, her breathing hitched. He lowered himself to settle comfortably on his belly between her parted legs. He kissed the inside of her thighs, then moved in to sample what she offered. His tongue circled her entrance, teased her until she was mewling and writhing. Then he slipped inside the tight channel.

  “Yes. Yes.”

  He slid out, gazed at her before sliding in again. She was lost in pleasure, her legs splayed, her hands on her breasts, her neck thrust back. Her body shook with the force of her need as he brought her just to the point of climax and then back away again. Finally, he traced a path to that small nub between her folds and touched the tip of his tongue to it.

  Shock rippled through her body, and he knew she’d finally come undone. Opening her to reveal the nub further, he circled it with his tongue and her body convulsed, a guttural scream echoing in the cabin. He circled again, flicked, and her hips lifted from the bed as pleasure ripped through her.

  He could have stopped. He could have watched her, enjoyed the look of joy and wonderment on her face, but he wasn’t done. He didn’t relent, even as she tried to close her legs, he held them open, continuing to lash the sensitive bud.

  “Ramsey…”

  He took it in his mouth, suckled and laved, and she drew in a sharp breath. Her legs opened again slowly, her hands gripping his hair. Her hips moved now in a rhythm he knew well as pleasure rose in her again. He eased off, using just the tip of his tongue, and when her heels dug in and her head moved from side to side, he took her inside his mouth.

  She began to shake again, her legs clamped about his head as though to keep him there, servicing her. But he parted her thighs and rose up.

  “Yes,” she all but sobbed, wrapping her legs around his buttocks. “Please.”

  He drove into her, and she rose to welcome him. Her hands tore at his hair, his back, his arms. Her legs urged him deeper and harder, and when he gave in, she went with him, matching his pace. He was rough and merciless, and she cried out in pleasure at each thrust. Finally, he felt her close on him, felt her muscles contract. With a hoarse shout of triumph, she met his last thrust.

  He held off just until her body relaxed slightly and started to pull out as his own climax threatened. But her legs tightened again, locking against his buttocks.

  “I want you inside me,” she said.

  “Gabrielle—“He shook his head, words deserting him as the orgasm overtook him. She pulled him in deeper, and his body didn’t resist the natural impulse to bury himself in her heat and softness to the hilt.

  He shuddered as he came, barely biting back the shout of release.

  —

  She slept. Even if she hadn’t been weary to the core, she would have slept. She’d never felt so boneless with pleasure, never felt so absolutely grateful she was alive and her body could still feel that pleasure.

  With Ramsey. She should hate him. She should have slapped him, not kissed him. There would be time to slap him later. Time later to forgive, though she knew she had already forgiven him for the most part. He had made mistakes, but he’d done what he felt he needed to do. Who was she to judge when she’d done the same?

  And so she’d slept and dreamed of his hands on her, his mouth on her. The dream was so pleasurable she didn’t want to wake when he shook her. She could have slept for days, but Ramsey was insistent. The masculine smell of him and the simmering arousal from the dream made her drag him down for a kiss. She wanted him to fill her again, wanted to feel his body slide against hers.

  But he broke away from her, and she opened her eyes in confusion. He was dressed, his hair brushed back from his face, his expression serious. “We’ll be in London soon. We’re in the Thames.”

  She sat and pushed her hair back—phantom hair, since her hand caught nothing but a thin wisp that brushed her neck. “So quickly?”

  “The captain says the wind was in our favor. It doesn’t hurt that we slept most of the day and night. You should dress and come on deck. I’ll help you.”

  He did, his hands as impersonal as her maid’s when he did up the fastenings of the old dress she’d found
amid the captain’s stash of assorted garments. When he’d finished and she’d managed to shove her feet into a pair of slippers at least two sizes too small, she looked up to see him watching her.

  “Why?” he asked, his gaze flicking to the berth. “Why didn’t you let me protect you?”

  She knew what he meant. Why had she risked the possibility of a child when he would have spilled his seed safely on the bedclothes?

  She stood. “Because I want all of you,” she said. “The good and the bad.”

  “And damn the consequences.”

  “Exactly.”

  His mouth curved into a smile that managed to look both arrogant and sad. “It’s time to pay the consequences. It won’t be long before I’m arrested.”

  He moved toward the door, and she caught his sleeve. “I’ll fight for you. I’ll go to the king, do all I can—“

  “No.” He swung to face her, meet her gaze directly. “I want you far away from this sordid business. I don’t want your name sullied. If things were different I’d—“He broke off. “I can’t help you. I can’t clear your debts or save you from creditors, but I sure as hell won’t hurt you.”

  “It’s the least I can do after you saved me from the guillotine.”

  “No. If you want to repay me, stay out of it. Promise me, Gabrielle. Promise me you will not interfere.”

  “How can I make that promise?” She held her hands out, imploring him. “You must know that ever since the kiss in the Exeters’ greenhouse I’ve been—“

  His hand came up between them. “Don’t say it. If you care about me at all, Gabrielle, stay out of this. It’s time I did something on my own—my own name, my own sins, my own penance.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Promise me.”

  Feeling as though she were weighed down by a sack of bricks, she nodded. “I promise.”

  She followed him on deck, watching in wonder as they sailed up the Thames and into London. The river was as polluted and crowded as ever, but she couldn’t stop smiling. She was home. She was free. What bliss to live in a country where law, not terror, ruled the land.

  It must have taken hours to complete all the steps necessary to finally disembark, but when Gabrielle stepped onto British soil again, all the rest of it faded.