Care and Feeding of Pirates (12 page)

He raised his head. Strands of blond hair
stuck to his throat, and his eyes were heavy-lidded. "Shh. I order
you to kiss me, my wife."

"I have been."

Christopher seized her wrists and pinned them
together above her head. "This is another kind of order I expect
you to obey without question."

The candlelight made wild shadows of the
planes of his face. He looked frightening, ruthless, but Honoria
felt heavy and happy. She lifted her head and kissed his mouth.

His lips brushed across hers then he kissed
his way down her throat, skimming her breasts, dropping kisses to
her warm stomach. He licked her navel, then laid his head on her
breasts and went silent.

His warmth soothed her, and Honoria's limbs
loosened. She drifted to sleep listening to the faint whisper of
river, men speaking in low voices above them, a dog barking on
shore.

When Honoria opened her eyes again, bright
moonlight slanted through the cabin. Christopher's head rested on
her shoulder, his hair warm on her skin.

His whisper broke the silence. "God, I can't
do this."

"Hmm?" Honoria murmured.

Christopher stilled a moment, then traced her
sensitive skin with a blunt fingertip. "Go back to sleep, my
wife."

"You cannot do what?"

"I wasn't talking to you."

Honoria smoothed a pale lock from his face.
"I never thought of you as a churchgoing man. Or as one who talked
to God."

"Oh, I can pray, Honoria."

"What things does a pirate pray for?" She
felt playful, despite the serious note in his voice. "Ships heavy
with treasure, run by a crew that gives up without a fight?"

Christopher's voice was quiet. "When they
took me out of the prison that morning, I prayed. I prayed I'd die
in a hurry. Without lingering, without doing any of the horrible
things a man can do when he knows he's dying. You can be sure, my
wife, that I prayed."

*****

Chapter Ten

Honoria touched his face, her heart aching.
"I don't like to think about that. When I heard you were dead, I
couldn't come out of my room for three days." She traced his
cheekbone. "I am grateful God answered your prayer."

Christopher's eyes lost every bit of
mischievousness, every bit of warmth. "Yes, he spared me the noose
and sent me straight to hell."

"But you were saved. You were taken to the
ship."

Christopher raised his head. "Have you ever
been on an English merchantman?"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Believe me, a pirate's life is better."

Honoria frowned. "How can that be?"

"The East India Company, my darling, is far
more worried about the cargo pirates carry off than the crew who
die trying to protect it. If pirates simply murdered everyone on
board and left the goods and the ships intact, there would be no
pirate hunters."

Honoria had heard more than once from James
how merchant captains would express gratitude to James for saving
their cargo from attacking pirates. These same captains reasoned
that losing half a dozen sailors and two officers a fair price for
keeping hold of their crates of crockery and sweet wine.

"My brother Paul was killed by pirates,"
Honoria said softly. "As were his wife and daughters."

"I heard. I was sorry about that."

"Tell me about your sister." Honoria had been
surprised to learn that Christopher had something as human as a
sister.

"Half sister."

"What is she like?"

Christopher's smile returned, crinkles
deepening in the corners of his eyes. "Mean. There's not a better
person I'd want at my back. She is absolutely loyal to me, and I
trust her with my life." He traced a pattern on Honoria's shoulder.
"She disappeared the same time that James arrested me. I haven't
seen her since."

"I am sorry," she said, and her anger at her
brother rose. "Sometimes I quite hate James."

"Strong words."

"It is the truth. He decides what everyone's
life should be, and God help you if you do not agree. I wonder you
do not hate him yourself. He arrested you and nearly got you
hanged."

Christopher shrugged with infuriating
patience. "He was doing his job. You seemed pleased enough that he
made you a widow."

She raised up on her elbows. "How can you say
that? I told you, I was ill for days when I thought you dead."

"You seem to have recovered."

"You think I did not care?"

"I think you did, in your own way."

"In my own way?" Honoria sat up straight,
narrowly missing the beam above her. "I told you I loved you,
Christopher, and that I grieved for you. That wasn't a lie. I hurt
for you, for months. Years. You have no idea how I felt. You know
nothing about me."

"Now that is a true observation." His eyes
were clear gray, the same color as diamonds.

"Then why did you come back for me? If you
don't believe I ever cared for you, why did you bother?"

Christopher's body just fit between her and
the bulwark, a solid wall of flesh covered by his shirt and the
tangled quilts. "Because every man is allowed to be stupid about a
woman once in his life."

She sensed anger in him, anger that went
beyond anything she could comprehend. "And you were stupid about
me?"

Christopher tossed the covers aside and
climbed out of the bunk over her. He snatched up his breeches,
casually leaned over, and put them on. Candlelight gleamed on his
naked hip, making the Chinese lion dance.

Christopher fastened his breeches then bent
over the bed again, his hands on either side of her head. He
smelled of lovemaking, his seed, and maleness.

"Oh, yes, my Honoria. Very, very stupid."

A small pain filled her heart. "Do you not
want the marriage after all?"

He kissed her, no longer playful. This kiss
was meant to bruise and possess, to put Honoria in her place. "We
are keeping the marriage, Mrs. Raine," he said. "I will have some
compensation for what it took for me to get back to you."

He rose and abruptly stripped the quilts from
her body.

Cold flashed over her, raising her flesh in
sudden chill. Christopher took his time looking at her, raking his
gray gaze over Honoria's bared breasts, her soft abdomen, her
thighs that had parted so readily for him.

The gaze was possessive, one of a man looking
over what belonged to him.

My wife,
he'd called her, but he was
treating her more like a courtesan. Honoria, a properly brought up
young woman, ought to be upset about that.

Instead, the crawling excitement of her
dreams and fantasies flared up inside her. He enjoyed looking at
her, and she liked that he enjoyed looking at her. Without truly
realizing what she did, she opened her legs a little and touched
the tuft of dark curls at her cleft.

His face darkened. "Damn you."

Christopher shoved her back down into the
quilts at the same time he popped open the buttons of his
breeches.

Another thunderstorm, but this one a
whirlwind of cold rage that frightened Honoria at the same time it
exhilarated her. Christopher pressed her legs apart with hands that
did not care, and thrust himself into her without preliminary. Hard
and fast he pumped her, until Honoria was screaming with it.

Christopher made a raw noise as he spilled
his seed, and then he pushed himself abruptly away from her,
refastened his clothes, and slammed out of the cabin.

Honoria fell back to the bedding, cold,
spent, and alone. But she would not cry. She was Honoria Ardmore,
and she'd endured hardships far more frightening than the rage of
Christopher Raine. A lady of one of the first families of
Charleston did not bow her head because her husband was angry at
her.

Confusion wrapped her. The excitement
Christopher gave her twisted her all around until she did not know
what she felt. Honoria ached from lovemaking, but her body wanted
more. She'd promised herself that she'd acknowledge the marriage
and do her duty, but she had no idea what duty was anymore.

She rolled over into the quilts that still
smelled of her husband, wrapped them around her, and squeezed her
eyes shut.

*** *** ***

The saddle on the horse Christopher rode to
Surrey did nothing for his backside. He'd not felt his torn skin
while he'd made love to Honoria, but now the irritation was almost
unbearable.

Finley rode on Christopher's left, looking as
uncomfortable on horseback as Christopher did. Horses were fine
animals in theory, and Christopher didn't mind handing them carrots
or patting their sides, but once a man was aboard the beast, a
horse became a demon with a mind of its own.

He'd once ridden down a mountain road in
China in the freezing cold on a stubborn mount who enjoyed hugging
the edge of the cliff. The horse would just miss its step, sending
rocks into the chasm below, and dance backward as though surprised.
Then it would plod on until it found opportunity to do it
again.

When they'd reached the bottom of the
mountain, Christopher had dismounted, turned the horse to face him,
and cursed it thoroughly, much to the amusement of the Chinese man
from whom he'd hired it.

The road to Epsom lacked treacherous cliffs,
and the summer weather was warm, but Christopher's horse
entertained itself by spooking at every fly, bee, dragonfly,
mosquito, and butterfly that flew past its nose. Christopher
growled at it, but the horse danced on, oblivious to Christopher's
temper.

Mr. Henderson, a gentleman who'd had English
countryside born and bred into him, sat his mount with easy grace.
He was one of those irritating Englishmen who could ride anything,
and who probably owned stallions called Beelzebub or Mephistopheles
and made them do his bidding. Henderson rubbed it in by avoiding
the muddy holes in the road, while Christopher's horse seemed
determine to stumble through every one.

A landau rolled behind the three horsemen,
its top lowered to let in the sunshine. Owned by Finley, the landau
contained Honoria and Alexandra, who had their heads together while
they talked.

Christopher imagined Honoria describing to
Alexandra the horrors of their night together. The two would either
exclaim that Christopher had been an unfeeling brute, or worse,
they'd laugh at him. He glowered at the landau, and his horse
tripped over another hole.

Ostensibly, the five were simply friends
enjoying a day out in the country. Switton's Surrey house lay near
Epsom Downs, and the man had replied to Henderson's letter that he
would be happy to give Henderson an appointment.

After a tedious discussion of etiquette, it
was decided that Henderson would keep the appointment alone.
Grayson and Christopher and their wives would take rooms at a
public house in the next village and pretend to enjoy rustic
picnicking near the downs.

At least Christopher pretended. The others
seemed to be having a splendid time.

Once the picnic was set up, with much girlish
laughter on the part of the two ladies, Christopher paced
restlessly to the top of a hill. From here he could look out to the
road that Henderson had taken to Switton's estate.

The estate lay out of sight over a few low
hills that were surrounded by tree-lined streams. Hedges enclosed
patchwork fields where farmers bent in labor or led draft horses or
oxen across the furrows. Sheep grazed on open greens, including the
very hill upon which Christopher stood. One sheep, not five feet
away, pulled up a mouthful of grass and watched him with mild
interest.

Down the hill, Finley's baritone guffaws
intertwined with the lighter laughter of Alexandra and Honoria. The
two ladies had planned this outing down to the last detail, from
selecting the correct foods to debating the color of the napkins to
worrying about what to wear.

Christopher wondered if any other man had
rushed headlong into marriage with a lovely, green-eyed wench, only
to discover he'd brought home a punctilious young woman who grew
horrified if he suggested that the napkins did not have to match
the picnic cloth.

A good many, he imagined. From the way Finley
looked at his wife, the man had gladly plunged headfirst into the
pool of feminine follies.

Honoria was so different from anyone in
Christopher's life, fragile like the tiny yellow blossoms that
poked through the tough grass on which he stood--yet strong enough
to grow there. Thinking of Honoria for four years had been the only
thing that had brought Christopher home alive, he knew that.

And, once he'd found her again, she'd
regarded him as though he'd gone mad and wondered why he hadn't
left well enough alone. Christopher sometimes wondered why
himself.

"It's a lovely view."

Honoria's soft Southern tones drifted over
him, and Christopher remembered with a vengeance exactly why.

She stopped beside him, shading her eyes to
gaze down the empty road. She wore a yellow gown, thin muslin for
summer, and not much beneath it. To entice him? Honoria had made
clear last night that she wanted him, whatever else she might feel
for him.

When she'd made that little gesture as
Christopher prepared to leave, silently asking,
Do you want
me
? only a hurricane could have stopped him, and then only
briefly.

"Alexandra says," she went on, as though they
hadn't made love like wild things last night, "that from here you
can watch the Derby race and see everything without all the dust
and noise."

The woman who had begged him at the top of
her voice never to stop was worried about a little dust and
noise.

Honoria went on. "Perhaps when you find your
sister we can all come and watch the races. It would be another
fine picnic."

"I don't care about horseracing," Christopher
snapped. "Or picnics."