Then he turned again, and Skye was only too grateful to let him go. Alone at last, she sank back to her bunk, curved her legs taut to her stomach, and shivered anew. What in God’s name was she going to do? She could not marry him; she could not be touched by him.…
She might well be carrying a rogue’s child, she reminded herself.
And with that thought she leaped up once more, and drank down several swallows of the deadly potent rum.
In his own cabin Petroc Cameron—captain of theLady Elenaand once master of his own destiny—sat and imbibed more than a few swallows of rum.
He sat at his desk and slammed down the bottle and swore with a startling velocity, then tossed back his head and drank even more deeply.
Damn Spotswood! Damn Blackbeard and Logan and Vane and every pirate who had ever sailed the Atlantic and Caribbean. “And most of all,” he muttered aloud, “damn the Silver Hawk! Damn him to a hundred thousand different hells!”
He fell silent then and leaned his head back against his chair. The rum began to work its easing magic, pulling the pain and the tension, the ache and the desire, slowly from his constricted muscles, ligaments, and extremities. He closed his eyes, but he could not close his mind from the memories of her, nor could he cease to breathe in her scent, to imagine the silky softness of her flesh beneath his fingers, beneath his lips.
He could not forget her hair, spilling like sun rays over her breasts, wild and free and tempting him to touch. He could not forget her vows, or how like the Caribbean waters her eyes were, blue green, fascinating with their depths, their ever-changing color.…
He could not forget her form, and more than anything in the world, he wanted to drag her back into this cabin and feel her beneath him on his bunk that very night. Let the world be damned! Let any man come and blow them straight out of the water, he would sink and die happily, having her in his arms.…
She was his wife. He had the right.
The right…
But he had destroyed it all himself. In a surge of passion he had condemned himself to this hell, and so he would burn within it. He had no other choice.
He touched his clean-shaven cheeks and the nick where a blade had caught him that afternoon in the skirmish with pirates. He grimaced, duly noting that a bit closer and the blade might well have ended his days. His fingers ran down to his throat, where he could still feel the point of his sword. It was a mistake. He could see her face all over again, the fire in her eyes, the sweet triumph. She was always proud, he thought. She did not know how to surrender, no, she simply did not surrender, not even when she was bested. Even when he had wrested his throat away, even when he had slit the delicate ties to her gown, her eyes had battled him still. And surrender had lain within his own heart, for he had wanted with all of his heart to reach out and touch, to feel the fullness of her breast within his palm.
He swallowed more rum, groaning aloud. Had he any sense, he would keep away from her. He would bring her to Cameron Hall, deposit her there, see to business, and strike out again as soon as possible. Had he any sense. Sense did not always remain with him. One sight of her and he was challenged back to battle again. He could not leave well enough alone, he had to keep testing her.
He wanted the truth from her.
No, he wanted her. He wanted her with all the fire and flame within him, and he found it increasingly hard to endure the hell of his own creation. He could not seize her; he could not drag her here. He shouldn’t have kissed her; he shouldn’t have touched her. He should not be sitting here now, thinking of her. Of her hair brushing his naked flesh, of her eyes, liquid with passion, of her hips, moving beneath him. He should not. The hell was his, and his alone.
He would burn.…
With his bottle of rum, he thought wryly, and with his dreams.
During the next day it seemed that Lord Cameron quite purposely avoided her.
Davey was out and about again, and only slightly subdued as he served her. She was glad to have him and Bessie and Tara with her as she watched the ever-present shoreline.
The next day he did speak to her. He came to her where she stood by the railing, looking out. “North Carolina, madame. We near Virginia, and soon the Chesapeake Bay and the James River.” He paused, and she felt his eyes falling over the length of her. “And Cameron Hall,” he added.
“How nice. I shall see my father quickly, I imagine.”
“I imagine that he will be at the house. I saw Spotswood before I sailed. He knew that your ship had been seized, and that I was to claim you from the Hawk. I am sure that he has had your father come to my home.”
“We shall settle things quickly enough,” she murmured.
“Perhaps,” he said simply. He pointed to the shoreline. “Inlets and islands,” he murmured. “Spotswood finds the government of North Carolina to be sorry indeed. But then he commands a fine militia himself. And he is a military man, you know.”
She lifted her chin. “I know the lieutenant governor, Lord Cameron. I grew up not far from his new mansion.”
“You haven’t seen it yet, complete.”
“No.”
“It’s a fine manor. His balls are famous.” He smiled recklessly, widening his eyes like a rogue. “Be a good girl, and I shall take you to one.”
“Behave, sir, and I shall see that you are still able to walk to reach one!”
