They were in the Atlantic Ocean. It was far rougher than the Channel or the seas off the Cornish coast. Katherine stood with her legs braced far apart, one shoulder against the wall, as the ship lurched through the waves, pushed by strong and favorable winds. Already the sun hung low upon the horizon, which was turning ink-dark. How was she going to avoid Liam O’Neill this night?
Katherine had no answer. She kept recalling his kiss in the queen’s dining hall. And her knees grew weak, her blood grew hot.
Katherine rubbed her face against the smooth, wooden wall. She thought about the kiss. She shivered. She thought about his hands—his dangerous hands.
She thought about Hugh. The man she was on her way to rejoin. The man she would marry. Oh, God. There was no place in her mind for Liam O’Neill. Damn him. For being so golden, so virile.
She froze as she heard the bolt being lifted on the door and she half turned. It was only the boy, Guy.
He carried her supper inside. “The captain says to tell you to go ahead and eat alone. He’ll be down later.”
Katherine stared at Guy. “How much later?”
Guy shrugged and left.
Katherine regarded the tray. She could smell fried fish and fresh bread, but she had no appetite. She turned again to the porthole. The sun was gone. The sea was black now, as was the sky, and there was no way of discerning where one ended and the other began.
Katherine stood there, trying not to think. It was impossible. She knew what was going to happen. She watched the stars blink. She watched the moon appear. It was full. Dread warred with anticipation.
Yet she knew that she must fight him. She must fight him and win.
She turned and walked to the table and poured herself not a glass of ale, which was what women usually drank, but a glass of French wine. She sipped it quickly, hoping it would steady her nerves. It did not seem to have any effect.
It was not until Liam appeared in the doorway, a small light in his hand, that she realized she stood in complete darkness. She stiffened, she stared.
He smiled at her, then closed the door carefully. He moved across the cabin, in no apparent rush. He met her gaze again. Her heart fluttered wildly. There was no mistaking his intentions. None.
His gaze slid over her, then the table, but he said nothing in response to the fact that she had not touched the tray of food, except for the goblet of wine which sat half-empty upon the table. He walked away from her, to the bed. She watched him set the taper in the small nook in the headboard designed for that purpose and cover it with an open glass dome. He closed the door to the nook, securing the light. And he faced her. “Come, Katherine.”
“What?”
“Come.” He stood with his booted legs apart, his hands on his hips. The candlelight flickered over him. Katherine decided that the bulge in his breeches was more notable than usual. “Come to bed.”
“I am n-not sleeping with you.”
His smile flashed, impossibly confident, impossibly seductive. “This bed is large enough to share.”
“You do not think about a simple sharing of the bed!” she cried.
“I will not force you to do anything you do not wish,” he said, silken and soft.
The sound Katherine made was strangled.
“Katherine, come.”
Katherine hesitated, and then she rushed for the door, which she knew was unlocked. He caught her before she had even crossed the room, murmuring softly in her ear as he pulled her up against his very hard body. “I want you, Katherine.”
She froze. He stood behind her, his arms locked around her waist, his massive manhood pushing against the cleft of her buttocks, his lips against her neck. “I want to pleasure you, Katherine,” he said softly, and then he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
9
Liam deposited Katherine in the center of the bed, coming down on top of her. For one instant he stared into her eyes, and in that instant, Katherine felt every inch of him, from her chest to her toes. His hips pressed hers, and his manhood pulsed strongly against her sex.
It all flashed through her mind with lightning speed. The convent and her flight from it, the violent capture of the French trader on which she had escaped, and Liam surveying it all from the forecastle as if it were his kingdom. And Hugh. Hugh, who waited for her, to give her his name, his home, and his children.
“Katherine, sweet,” Liam said roughly, his thumb stroking over her cheek. His hand was shaking.
Katherine stared into his smoky eyes and was almost mesmerized by the desire she saw there. How potent, how powerful, it was. But she was not totally ensnared. She had a shred of sanity left. Her hands were free, and she raised them with the intention of clawing him, or forcing him to release her. But Liam caught her wrists before she could touch him, wrenching them up over her head so abruptly that pain shot up her arms into her shoulders. He stilled her bucking by pinning her legs with his own powerful thighs. “Cease!” he commanded. “Damnation, woman, I am not going to hurt you!”
