Page 16 of A Pirate’s Pleasure (Cameron Family #2)

XIII

R oc Cameron paused long enough to drink deeply by the spring, dousing his head in the cold waters. Skye longed to sink within the water, but she did not, sipping it in silence and cooling her heated face with several splashes of it.

He waited for her quietly. The fire had long since died away, but he kicked the scattered ashes, dusted his hat upon his breeches, and proceeded toward the road. She followed him in silence. Even when they came upon the main road, she hovered slightly behind him. Exhaustion seemed to weigh heavily upon her heart. She could not forget the night, or the dark secrets she had given away during the length of it. Nor could she forget the morning. She knew him better than she had known him before, and still she did not know him at all. Perhaps she could escape him still, and perhaps she didn’t really want to escape him at all. He intrigued her, and fascinated her, and he could evoke wild fires within her. If she could just forget the man who had come before him…

But that didn’t matter now. He had admitted that he was worried about her father, too. They did not head back toward his estate, but hurried along the road to Williamsburg.

She paused to pluck a pebble from her shoe. He waited for her, frowning. “Do I walk too fast?”

She shook her head. “No.” Then she admitted softly, “Perhaps, just a little.”

His dark lashes fell over his eyes for a moment, then he reached for her hand and took it within his own. “We needn’t travel so swiftly,” he said, and started out again. They had not moved far then when he paused once more. She looked at him curiously. “There’s a carriage coming. Mine, I hope.”

It was his carriage. It came around a corner and Skye saw the family crest upon the doors. She looked at Roc and he offered her a rueful smile. “I should hope that they would have come looking for us. I can almost guarantee that Storm followed that mare all way home.”

Perhaps Storm had followed the mare, but now he obediently trailed behind the carriage. Peter sat by the coachman; he leaped down from the driver’s seat as he saw the two of them, his face splitting into a relieved grin. His affection for his master was so apparent that Skye felt her heart warm and shimmer slightly. There was, perhaps, much about the man to draw affection. His voice could ring with steel and he could command with the finest of captains. He was a seaman of worthy measure. He knew his own mind and seemed determined to his own will.

And he was young and striking, with his silver-eyed charm and reckless ways. He could make her laugh, she thought, and he could also make her tremble with excitement and desire.

“Milord, milady! And glad I am to see the two of you!” Peter called out, hurrying to them. “When those horses came back with the dawn, we were deeply worried.”

“No harm done anywhere, Peter,” Roc said. “Minor spills and mishaps, but we’re most heartily glad to see you, too. Peter, we’ve a need to reach Williamsburg, and quickly.”

“Yes, milord.” He opened the door of the lovely teal carriage for them. “Williamsburg, and quickly!” he cried to the driver, who nodded gravely to Roc beneath his low-brimmed hat.

Skye paused, wondering if she hadn’t seen the man before. Then she forgot him as Roc urged her into the carriage with a prodding hand upon her derriere. She moved in quickly and sat, gnawing upon her lower lip. He sat in his own corner, ignoring her then. When she glanced his way, she saw that his eyes were dark and brooding and a finger of fear touched upon her heart. He was worried, too.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him. “Where could Father be?”

“At home, perhaps? Thinking that we should come to him?”

She shook her head. “You know that isn’t so. Where could he be?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

He reached out as if he meant to take her hand and squeeze it with assurance. He stiffened his fingers instead, and his hand fell flat. “We shall see soon enough.”

The carriage stopped in another few minutes and Peter came around to the door. “We’re on the outskirts of the city, sir. Am I to go direct to the governor’s house, or Lord Kinsdale’s?”

“Lord Kinsdale’s,” Skye said over Roc’s shoulder. She glanced his way as he watched her. “Just in case Father is there.”

She parted the drapes as the carriage set to motion again. Her heart leaped. Williamsburg had changed. They were passing the Bruton parish church, and it had been built anew. They turned, and she saw the governor’s mansion, complete now, rising at the end of the broad greenway with grace and elegance.

Children were playing, men were hawking their wares. Slaves were working in the gardens, and upon a pile of bricks before a white house a fifer was idly playing a tune. She sat bolt upright. There, halfway down the street, lay her own home. Two-storied, whitewashed, brick-trimmed, with a picket fence about the small yard.

The coachman knew his way. He drew up before the house. Skye didn’t wait for anyone to come to her. She leaped down from the carriage and tore through the fence, ran up past the steps, past the flower beds, and burst through the doors.

“Father!”

She heard footsteps from the parlor and headed that way. A tall black woman with strong handsome features came hurrying toward her. “Mattie!” she said with pleasure.

“Skye!”

They came together with a fierce hug. “Child, child, child, it is so good to see you! Safe and sound and home at last. Your father was so very worried about you—”

“Where is Father?” Skye asked hopefully, pulling away. Mattie was looking over her shoulder to the parlor door. Roc stood there now, watching them.

“Lord Cameron,” Mattie murmured, bobbing him a small curtsy.

“Mattie,” he acknowledged her. He stepped on in. He was comfortable in her parlor, Skye thought with a touch of resentment. “Where is Lord Kinsdale?” he asked also.

“It’s a terrible thing, Lord Cameron!” Mattie said. She pulled away from Skye and walked to the elegant rosewood liquor cart and poured out something. Skye assumed it was a brandy for her.

Mattie walked straight past her and handed the glass to Roc. He nodded his thanks and drank down the brew. She looked at Skye. “I’ll get tea on right away, and something for you to eat.”

“Mattie!” Skye wailed.

Mattie shook her head miserably. “He’s gone run off and been captured by those louts, he has!”

“What?” Skye gasped, looking quickly to Roc.

“The Silver Messenger come into the river about a week ago. You know your father, Skye. He went about ranting and raving and saying that he had to come for you himself. Well, he’s so anxious to go off to sea to find you or meet you or just wear off steam, that he decides to hire himself a new captain out of one of the taverns. Turns out he hires himself a pirate! It’s the government down in Carolina, that’s what Spotswood says it is. Those slimy sea creatures go into North Carolina, then slip on up here. When we catch ’em, we hang ’em! It’s just that we don’t catch them all.…”

Skye fell into one of the elegant little Louis XIV chairs before the fireplace. She covered her face with her hands, remembering the carnage when the Silver Messenger had first been taken by the pirates. A great trembling shook her, and silent tears began to fall down her cheeks. He was all that she had in the world.

No, she had a husband.

A stranger…

She needed her father. She loved him, and she needed him desperately. The old fool! Why had he left?

He had come for her. He had wed her to Roc Cameron, but he hadn’t even trusted in Roc. He had been impulsive—like she was herself. He had cast care and reason to the wind.

“Has there been a ransom demand as yet?” Roc asked.

Skye looked up hopefully.

Mattie shook her head. “A man come back off of the Silver Messenger , a decent man, I assume, for he went to the governor with his tale. The ship is taken, and Lord Kinsdale is prisoner in the hold, and that is all I know for the moment.”

A sob escaped Skye. Mattie sank down by her, taking her into her arms. “Don’t fret, they won’t hurt him, I’m certain. The governor has ships out—”

Skye leaped up. “The governor. Perhaps he knows more!”

She swept past Mattie and Roc Cameron and came out to the street again. She was travel-stained from her night in the woods and tears made dirty tracks down her cheeks, but she didn’t care. She ran down the length of the palace green, near hysteria. She loved Theo; she adored him. Even when they disagreed, he would puff up his cheeks and eventually see things her way. Even if he had cast her into marriage against her will…He had worried about her unduly, all of these years. He had wanted a fine house for her, a bastion against the world. He hadn’t even wanted her to travel to England, but his position had meant that she should be well trained in the fine arts of feminity, and so he had given in.

“Skye!”

She paused, leaning against a tree. She didn’t stop because she had been summoned, she stopped to gasp for breath. Roc was coming behind her.

“Skye, wait!”

She turned around and ran again, approaching the gates to the mansion. Armed guards stood before them. They blocked her way with their brown Besses when she would have burst through the gate. “I have to see the lieutenant governor!” she cried.

“And who might you be, miss?” one asked her skeptically.

Hands fell upon her shoulders. Roc had caught up with her. “Lord and Lady Cameron, and it is most urgent.”

“Oh, milord! It is you. Lieutenant Governor Spotswood is in.” The guards moved away. “He was preparing to ride to your estate this very morning, milord.”

“Well, then, we have saved him some trouble,” Roc murmured. His hands remained fast upon her shoulders and he steered her through the gate. His words sizzled angrily against her earlobe as he bent to whisper to her. “Now, milady, I know that you are upset, and in private I have promised you certain concessions, but if you think to burst away from me like that again, I’ll take a horsewhip to you.” To emphasize his words, his hand fell hard upon her rear anatomy.

She gasped in surprise and fury. The guards all turned their way. Roc smiled charmingly. “Horsefly!” he said.

“Horsefly, my—”

“Come, love. We’re far from properly attired to visit the lieutenant governor, but it seems now that we shall visit anyway!”

Even then the front doors opened and Spotswood’s butler bowed low in greeting. “The lieutenant governor will see you upstairs, Lord Cameron.” If the butler thought anything of their strange attire, he did not betray it. As Roc pushed her through the entry way she suddenly gasped, looking at the layout of the mansion, at the arms upon the walls, at the size of the hall and the stairway.

“What?” Roc demanded tensely.

“Bone Cay,” she murmured.

“What?” he repeated suspiciously.

“Bone Cay. The—the Silver Hawk’s house there. It greatly resembles this one.”

He fell silent. Skye did not glance his way. Maids were polishing the floor. The butler hesitated, awaiting them.

“Come along,” Roc murmured, urging her forward.

Upstairs they came straightaway to the grand reception room with the fine leather wall covering that was of such pride to Spotswood. The lieutenant governor was at tea, finely dressed and wigged and ready for his day. He stood, expecting them, a fine porcelain cup in his hands. “Ah, Skye, my dear!”

He set his cup upon a table and hurried toward her, taking both her hands tight in his and studying her anxious eyes. “I am so sorry, dear, to greet you after these years with such sorry news!”

“Is there nothing else that you know, sir?” she asked.

Lieutenant Governor Spotswood looked over her head to Roc. Irritated, Skye squeezed his hands. “Sir, please…!”

He squeezed her hands in turn, and his gaze returned to hers. “I believe that he is alive and well, my dear. I told him that he should wait patiently and all would prove to be well. But he could not be patient, he determined to set to sea, and set to sea he did, with a rogue for his captain.”

“Do you know the pirate’s name, sir?” Roc asked.

Spotswood nodded slowly. “A seaman managed to escape the ship and swim to shore. He came instantly to my house, bringing the news.”

“And?” Roc persisted.

“The man’s name is Logan. Captain Logan. We hear tell that he has sailed with Hornigold and Vane. Do you know anything of him?”

“Logan!” Skye cried. Logan, she repeated inwardly, feeling the blood rush from her face. Logan, cruel, reckless, careless—and hating her greatly, she was certain. What would he do to her father?

She shivered, remembering the hook upon the man’s arm where his hand should have been. She remembered his narrow face, and his total lack of mercy. She remembered his fury when the fight had broken out, and how he had demanded her as his prize.

“You know this pirate?” Spotswood said to her intensely. She looked into his eyes again and nodded. She trusted him; he would do what he could. Some found him controversial; Skye had always cared for him greatly. He had been born in Tangier, on the east coast of Africa, when his father had been stationed there for the Crown. He was an adventurer himself, she thought, a man quick to rise to a challenge, determined, and vigorous.

“I know—Logan,” she murmured. She was striving for control but a huge sob shook her anyway. “I am afraid that he will kill Father.”

“Tea!” the lieutenant governor said. “You must have some tea, and something to eat. Then a long wash with hot water, and a good night’s sleep. Sleep will make the world look brighter.”

“I must do something!” she cried.

“Perhaps—” Spotswood began, but Roc cut him off with a startling fury. “Sir! Would you cast the girl into danger all over again when she has just been brought from it? I will take the Lady Elena and go after this Logan.”

His hand was upon Skye’s shoulder again. He pressed down, causing her to sit. “My love, you will do nothing! You may remain here in Williamsburg, or you may return to Cameron Hall, but you will not set sail again.” He bowed low to them both. “Sir! I am going to order my servants home, to see that the Lady Elena is readied for sail.”

“I shall see to breakfast, Petroc,” the lieutenant governor called after him. He smiled to Skye. “It will work out, Skye, I am quite certain.”

Her troubled eyes fell upon his. “Sir! You do not know this Logan. I have seen the man.”

“Have you?”

“On the island of New Providence.”

“Hmmph! That den of iniquity will soon be no more. There will be proper government there, and soon, I swear it!” He handed her a cup of tea and winked. “There’s a touch of honey and whiskey in the brew, Skye. Steadies the hands, on an occasion such as this. So you know Logan.”

“Yes!”

“As fierce a man as the Silver Hawk?”

Skye lowered her eyes, shaking her head. “A far, far different man than the Silver Hawk! Logan is cruel and horrid and the Hawk—”

“Yes, my dear, tell me. I am boundlessly interested in these rogues!”

“Logan is cruel,” she repeated simply. “The Hawk is not.”

“They say that Logan is sailing the islands and shoals of the inland waters just south of our own colony, in North Carolina. It might take one rogue to find another.” He came close to her suddenly, coming down upon one knee and looking past her shoulder to the hallway. He was anxious, Skye realized, that her husband not return.

“They say that your Silver Hawk is in Virginia.”

She gasped, winding her fingers into her shirt. “So—why—why haven’t you seized him, arrested him. Surely, you plan on hanging the man!”

“Too slippery, my dear. I cannot come near him, not as yet. I haven’t the force, or the power. He could well disappear into the night, and that would be that. But I have heard rumors that there is a tavern near Jamestown way, but on the peninsula, by the waterfront. All manner of rogues congregate there, milady! I have heard that the Silver Hawk is among them, just arrived last night.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Skye whispered. Suddenly, like Spotswood, she was looking over her shoulder, lest her husband should return. Her heart began to beat quickly. A startling new hope began to build within her.

Lord Cameron was a worthy seaman.

The Silver Hawk was…indomitable.

“You were his captive for many days?” Spotswood said.

She nodded, feeling that the blood was drained from her face.

“And he was gentle with you?”

“Er—yes,” she murmured.

“Then perhaps you could pay the one rogue to go after the other! Let him help us first, then he can hang in his own time!”

“Sir—”

“Shush! Your husband is returning.”

He is not my husband! she longed to shout, but he had once told her that she could not change truth by denying it.

And she was also shivering and trembling within, besieged by a tremendous guilt. He had been honorable in all things. Perhaps not. There had been last night. Last night he had not been so honorable; he had been a man, and the man who claimed to be her husband. He had touched her and awakened her, and maybe it hadn’t been his fault that she had dreamed of another, and that their images had combined.

She could not go to the Silver Hawk. She was Lord Cameron’s wife. She could not seek out a rogue.…

But her heart was beating frantically. When Roc Cameron left her, she knew that she would ride herself, and try to find the pirate king. Her father’s life was at stake.

Roc Cameron’s long strides beat against the hardwood floor. Spotswood called to a servant and asked that a meal be served to them there. Roc came behind Skye. “I have sent Peter homeward. I will find your father, Skye. I swear it. I will bring him home safely, no matter what the trial and cost. Believe in me.”

Skye thought that Spotswood watched them with a curious light to his eyes. She flushed, for Roc’s declaration had been passionate, and his touch upon her was tender. She didn’t know quite what Spotswood knew about their relationship, but she found herself looking uneasily to her lap. She meant to betray her husband.

“When will you leave, Petroc?” Spotswood asked him.

“I’ll see Skye settled in her home tonight, and ride out in the morning.”

“The morning!” Skye cried.

Roc’s silver eyes fell to hers. “Yes. What is the matter with that?”

“Just that—just that you should leave earlier! You should leave today. Perhaps Logan takes Father further and further away. Time is of the essence—”

“Skye, they can only load and arm and supply the ship so quickly. I will see you safe this evening, leave by the dawn, and sail with the tide. It will be all right, I swear it.”

Food was brought to them. Spotswood began to question her sharply about the time she had spent in New Providence. There was little she could tell him. Her time there had been so brief. Yet both men listened to her with rapt attention, and when she caught her husband’s eyes upon her, they were bright with a startling fire.

What could she do? she wondered in dismay. If he would not leave, then she could not escape him to find the Silver Hawk!

When the day waned to twilight, Roc rose and told Spotswood that they would take their leave. Skye nervously arose with him. He took her hand and bowed to Spotswood. Skye murmured something, aware that the lieutenant governor was watching her. He thought that she should go for the Silver Hawk. That’s why he had told her what he had.

He would gladly hang the Hawk, but later!

She nibbled nervously upon her lower lip as Roc led her from the governor’s mansion and outside to the palace green. His hand was upon hers and she trembled, torn between guilt and a growing affection, and a slowly rising desperation that he should leave her.

“What is the matter with you?” he asked her suspiciously.

She shook her head, lowering it. “I am worried about my father.”

He paused, catching her shoulders, drawing her close. “You mustn’t worry!” he told her kindly. “You mustn’t. I swear that I shall not fail you.”

She smiled, startled to feel that tears were hovering on her eyes. He held her against him. She heard the sound of the children playing, of the leaves rustling over their heads. It seemed so peaceful, and he held her so gently. As a husband might. As a lover.

She inhaled and exhaled quickly, pulling away. “I’d like to get home. I’d like to have a bath.”

“Of course,” he told her.

By nightfall she was up in her own room and in her own deep tub with a froth of French rosewater all about her. She leaned back her head and breathed deeply and felt steam rise above her.

He was across the hallway from her. In one of the guest bedrooms. She had not told him that he must go there; he had chosen the room. He had said that he would not disturb her, and he was a man of his word.

A man of his word, and more.

The steam about her seemed to swirl within her. She remembered his whisper, and his touch, and it seemed that the very heat of the steam swept deep inside of her. She flushed, wanting to forget. It was so wrong to feel this way. It had to be, after what she had come to feel for the Hawk.

She was going after the man to help her—and never to come close to him again. She could not do so. She was married to Lord Cameron. Truth, whether she denied it or not.

And truth…because in the fireglow and green darkness of the forest, he had taken her into his arms, and their marriage had been consummated there. She would never escape it now.

Not her marriage…

She had to escape her husband. That night, she had to escape him. How? she wondered desperately.

She shivered, despite the heat of the water. She could not betray him so. He had been too decent to her.

She had to leave, and leave that very night!

She never quite knew her intention when she stood in her bath, the scented rosewater dripping from her, to reach for her bathtowel. It was a huge cotton sheet of material that smelled freshly of the sun. She wrapped it around herself and stepped into the hallway. Downstairs, she could hear Mattie humming softly. But no one would ever disturb her up the stairs. Mattie would come if she called. If not, Skye knew, she would be left undisturbed.

She clutched the towel to her breasts. For long moments she stared at the door, then she knocked upon it. She did not wait for an answer, but shoved it open and entered into his room.

He had been lying upon the bed. As she entered, he bolted up.

He had bathed, earlier, Skye knew. He had gone out to the barn, and they had brought him pails of warm water there. He was barefoot and bare-chested, and clad only in a pair of soft bleached buckskin breeches. He looked at her, startled, reaching for a linen shirt that lay across the bed. His action amused her somewhat. He had been so ready to touch her in the night, to make intimate demands upon her. Then he shielded his own chest with a startling modesty.

His actions did not help her cause, she thought, and she was already rueing the rash impulse that had brought her here.

“What is it?” he asked her. The room was dim, his voice was husky. Strange, but the lack of brightness did not bother her here. She felt safety, knowing that he was near. No…she felt very alive, knowing that he was near. She dared not admit that it had been easy, easy to come here.

The damage was done! she cried inwardly. It had been done last night. And if this ever ended well, then she would be his wife in all truth, and she would make it up to him, God help her!

She stepped closer. “I…”

“What?” He came out of the bed. She remembered briefly from the fleet seconds in which she had seen them bare that his shoulders were broad and fine and his skin bronzed and sleek. She remembered his touch, and the strength and demand of it, and she wondered briefly if she hadn’t discovered him to be very fine, and if she hadn’t lost a corner of her heart to his raw demand and vehement, sometimes tender care. Perhaps she had. In the dim light she found that she had no voice, and she could not think of the words she wanted to say.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

It was not without some astonishment that he said the words, for he was amazed that she should be there.

He had been a fool to touch her last night. He should keep a far greater distance than he did. But when she had lain so close to him, and when his hands had found her nakedness in the night and her soft moan had been his response, he had cast caution to the wind. He had never meant to take her. Her distress this morning had struck deep into his heart, and he had never felt more the knave.

But now she was here.

Fresh from her bath. Her eyes wide and luminous and nearly teal in their glazed color. Her features so fine and delicate and so hauntingly feminine that the sight of her trembling lips brought a rush of heat stabbing into his groin. Desire rose, and pulsed hard against his breeches, and still she stood there, silent.

He strode around the bed to the side table where he had brought a bottle of Mattie’s best dark rum. He poured out a portion and came before her, bringing the glass to her lips. She swallowed, and winced slightly as the fire of the rum rode through her.

“I…”

“Yes?”

“If it is truly your desire…”

He waited, but her voice had trailed away. “Yes?” he prompted softly.

She took another sip of the rum, moistening her lips. Her hair spilled all about her, touched by candlelight. It glowed with the red fury of fire, it cascaded like sunlight. He longed to thread his fingers through the length and mass of it. He longed to feel the fiery tendrils fall softly over his naked shoulders and chest.…

“Yes?” he repeated.

“You have been very kind.”

“Have I?”

She was still faltering. “I appreciate all that you have done for me.”

“You are my wife,” he said softly, standing back to watch her curiously. The length of him had come alive. The pulse and need rushed to fill his limbs, and his heart, and his soul. Warnings called out to him, and he ignored them. Let her speak! Let her come to him, or run, for he could not bear to keep his hands from her a moment longer. He wanted to rip away the towel and drink the sweet scent of rose dust from her flesh.

“That’s what I’m trying to say.”

“What?” he demanded sharply.

“I’ve been trying to say that…if it is your desire despite all that has happened…if you wish to have me for your wife, then, milord, I am yours.”

Her words hung softly upon the air for long moments as he tried to believe them. This sweet wild thing, this creature of temper and beauty and tempest, was coming to him.

She lifted her arms and dropped the towel that covered her. She stepped from it and stood before him in naked perfection, her flesh so gently kissed by the glow of the candlelight that touched the room. She was exquisite. Her hair did not touch his shoulders, but streamed over her own. Her breasts rose with coral peaks, full and tantalizing, beneath the caress of her swirling gold locks. Strands of red and gold cascaded all the way to her waist, and curled over the curve of her hips and buttocks.

He caught his breath. For one long moment he was unable to move.

Then he cried out hoarsely, casting the rum glass into the fireplace and sweeping her into his arms. He carried her swiftly to the bed and laid her upon it. The candles glowed on the table. He looked down at her and her eyes were passionate slits, teal and shadowed by the lush fringe of her lashes. Her lips were damp and parted as if they awaited his. As if they invited his touch…

But he did not bring his mouth to hers. Not then.

His lay low against her, fascinated to touch her. His hands curved over her breasts while his tongue teased the taut skin of her abdomen. Slight sounds escaped her, and he continued to touch. He rose against her to bring her breast deep into his mouth, and he withdrew to watch the nipple harden and the color deepen. He stroked the length of her, and felt the surge of her body, and still he did not touch her lips. She reached for him, but he eluded her, and buried his face against the sweetness of her body again. He moved lower and lower again, taking all of her with his sweeping caress. He parted her thighs and heard a startled sob escape, but he gave her no quarter that night; he longed to seek from her all that she had to give. He watched her for a moment, and her eyes were closed. They opened slowly, and when they met his, he lowered himself between her legs. He teased her inner thigh and stroked her flesh with the searing heat of his tongue. She gasped, writhing to escape so great an intimacy, but she was his, and he knew it. He touched her with that sweet stroke where and how he would, and her fingers curled into his hair while a breathless series of whispers and sobs and incoherent words tore from her lips. He brought her to the very brink of passion and then cast her over the edge, savoring the constriction of her beautiful form, and at long last, coming to her lips, there to swallow down the cries of pleasure that rose.

He did not hesitate a moment, but untied his breeches and drove deep within her welcoming warmth. She lay still, just trembling from all that had been before. He moved against her with the care of a master artist, seeking to elicit all emotions, all desires, and all needs. And when she rose again to the sure blaze of sensation, he at last gave over to his own desperate need. Hungry and afire, he took her with a fierce and driving force, and it seemed that the sun rose in his heart and vision, only to burst and explode all around him. There was no woman like her. None with her slender, provocative form, none with the perfect fullness of her breasts, not with her wild blaze of hair, her startling teal eyes.

No woman could love as she, caress a man so, part her lips so. Drive him to absolute heights with the thrust and sway of her hips, with her whispers, cries that touched the wind, that brought him to heaven.

She created…paradise.

She was his wife. She had said it. He had claimed her.

And he loved her. Deeply, and forever.

He fell beside her, pulling her close. For long, long moments they were silent. They were together, softly trembling with aftershocks of the explosion of the sun.

At long last he gently moved his hand over her bare breast, watching a golden curl fall from it. She buried her head against his throat and reached out a finger tentatively to touch his shirt.

“You’re still dressed!” she whispered reproachfully.

He hesitated. “Umm,” he said noncommittally. He saw his own fingers upon her flesh and he drew them away, holding her tightly. He should not even let her see his hands so, he thought. A smile teased her lips. Of all women to fear the darkness!

Darkness could hide so many sins.

He drew up the covers, but she was watching him pensively. She seemed very nervous. He leaned against her, and a shudder swept through him. He was about to leave her again. It might have been easier if she hadn’t come so close to him. If she hadn’t given him, freely, and willingly, this ecstasy.

He touched her lip. He stared into her beautiful eyes, and he remembered how he had fought the very idea of marriage.

This was no cross-eyed bride.

She was everything to him. She had been, from the very beginning.

“I love you,” he told her.

She inhaled sharply, her eyes widening. Then they widened even further, and she whispered, “I—I think I love you, too.”

“You think?”

She twisted away. He longed to pull her tight again. He knew that she was remembering a different man, a pirate, in a faraway paradise of her own.

He hated himself at that moment.

He longed to speak to her.

But he could not.

He pressed his lips against her hair and held silent for long moments. Then he whispered again, “I do love you, Skye Kinsdale Cameron. You have become my very life, and I swear, my love, I vow myself to you, now and forever.”

She lay silent. He turned away with a sigh, tying up his breeches. He rose from the bed and walked over to the table, picking up the rum bottle and swallowing down a long draft.

They would have this night, he determined. He would have to leave her in the morning, and by God, he would return with her father. She would be his wife then, in every way, for every day and month and year that came to follow.

But until then, he would have this night.

Something like a sob seemed to escape her. He turned around and saw that she was rising, too. Naked and graceful and beautiful and sleek, she walked his way. Her head was lowered. She came to stand in front of him. Her hands fell upon his chest. She leaned against him, kissing him, letting the wet warmth of her tongue blaze through the linen of his shirt.

“I will honor you, I swear it!” she cried softly.

He frowned, for her tension was so great, then his frown faded, for the lap of her tongue against his flesh was so arousing. Her fingers moved against his shoulder, her body was flush against his. She had indeed given herself to him that night, in so many ways.

In so many ways…

He moved to sweep his arms around her, but she slipped away and idly picked up the rum bottle.

“I’ll get you a glass, love,” he murmured.

She shook her head, and her teal eyes were luminous with a glaze of tears. “It will not be necessary,” she said.

She slipped back into his arms. She drew him down to her embrace, finding his lips with parted mouth, meeting him with a wild abandon that swept away his very thoughts.…

Then a shattering pain burst upon his skull.

Darkness came in upon him, and wavered back. Liquid spilled over him as he crashed down to his knees. He managed to look up, and into her eyes. He saw the broken rum bottle in her hands, and he managed to swear at her in a single gasp.

“Bitch!”

Then he fell, heavy and flat. She cried out, but stepped aside, and his weight came down full upon the floor as the blackness of oblivion came surely to claim him.