If I Wait For You (17 page)

No, the island where they were now was
known for its friendly natives and its willing women.

“
I’m ever so sorry,” Mr.
Billings had said when he’d found her staring morosely at the
shore. “’Tis a terrible thing the captain is doing.
Terrible.”

It didn’t matter how many times Sara
told herself it was his right to do what he wanted, she could not
help but feel betrayed. It was almost as if pretending to be
married had meant they were married in fact. She tortured herself,
jealously as hot and desperate as the ridiculous tears she’d shed
when she realized where West had gone. But they weren’t married.
They. Were. Not. Married.

She would tell herself this over and
over. And then she’d cry anew. “Why doesn’t he want to marry me?
Why doesn’t he love me,” she cried at one particularly low point.
Minutes later, she was telling herself she wouldn’t marry the
scoundrel if he were the last man alive.

Hearing sounds outside the stateroom,
Sara dashed away any lingering tears and tip-toed to the door and
peeked out, her eyes widening at the sight that beheld her. In the
murky darkness of the hall, she could see Mr. Billings and an
island girl wrapped about each other just outside the second mate’s
cabin. The man who’d just claimed to be so shocked by the captain’s
behavior was now completely naked, the girl’s dark brown legs
hugging his white, muscled buttocks. Mr. Billings was heaving
against the girl, whose back was against the door, his hands
gripping her firm buttocks.

Sara could not look away. She began
feeling strange and hot watching their frantic movements, listening
to the sounds coming from their throats. Suddenly, Mr. Billings
opened his door and moved inside, the woman still wrapped about
him. The girl giggled and the mate let out a throaty
laugh.

Sara let out a shaky breath before
shutting the door, feeling weak and stunned by what she’d just
witnessed. An image, sharp and intoxicating came to her, of her and
West in such an intimate embrace, of their bodies slick with sweat
moving together like that. Cruelly, she realized at that moment
that West, indeed, was likely engaging in a much similar act with
another island girl.

The thought came unbidden: It should
have been me. Oh, West, if you’d only asked, I would have loved
you.

Hell. Bloody, bloody hell.

In all his imaginings, he never
thought he’d be the subject of scorn for cheating on a wife who
wasn’t a wife. The thing of it was, he felt guilty. Guilty for
simply contemplating trying to rid himself of his physical torment.
It was a guilt that had nothing to do with the woman he was
promised to marry, and everything to do with Sara. The men would
give him a goddamn medal if they knew how noble he’d been. And now
he was faced with confronting a woman pretending to be his wife who
was apparently wounded by his actions. Wounded. Shit.

West would have laughed at his good
friend Oliver if the old man hadn’t been gripping his knife sheath
as if he were trying to find the strength not to remove the dagger
and skewer him with it. “Ye done a very bad thing, today, sir. A
very bad thing.”

To make matters worse, Zachary stood
behind Oliver shaking his head scornfully.

“
You!” West said, pointing
a finger at Zachary after Oliver had stalked away in disgust. “You
are the last man on this ship to look at me with disapproval. You
know the truth.”

“
I only know, sir, that I
heard my little sister crying her heart out down there.” And then
he’d stalked away.

West wanted to shout after him, “I
didn’t even touch her.” It was the truth, he hadn’t, though not
because he had a pretend wife sitting on board ship. He’d been
ready and more than willing to have himself a good frig; hell it
would have perhaps exorcised the demons plaguing him. But the
native girl’s brother, a fine source of chickens for many years,
had interrupted him before he’d even reached for his trouser
buttons to warn the captain his sister was diseased. The girl had
railed at the young man, and West had left, leaving behind a pair
of brightly colored ribbons for the girl’s trouble. Then he’d found
the nearest beach, stripped naked, and dove in—a vain attempt to
rid himself of his raging hunger.

He was a goddamn saint and
he’d be damned if his mates made him feel like some sort of
scalawag simply because Sara had cried. Sara had
cried
. Shit.

West took a deep breath of the sweet
island air, and headed down to the stateroom. His torso was still
bare and salted from his swim, his shirt stuffed negligently into
his waistband. The thought of donning it in the tepid heat of the
ship’s bowels was unthinkable.

He opened the door without knocking,
and she started. She was sitting at the tiny desk with nothing in
front of her. That alone told him she was upset, for Sara Dawes was
a woman who never sat idle. Never. Why did he feel like the errant
husband returning to a knowing wife?

“
The men think…”

“
I know what they think,”
she said. He could not tell from her voice what she felt. He wished
she would be amused by the situation, as he had first been, but
clearly she was not.

“
I’ve no desire to hurt
you, you know that don’t you?”

She nodded, a jerking little movement
that only made him feel worse. It was oppressively hot in the
cabin, and her hair clung wetly to her neck, which only added to
his guilt. He turned away from her, intending to go back topside,
but stopped. “I didn’t have a woman,” he said, closing his eyes at
his own foolishness and turning away from her. He leaned against
the railing that kept his books in place. “I wanted to.” This last
he added with a hint of rebellion.

“
It doesn’t
matter.”

“
This situation is
untenable,” he said into the deep silence.

“
If you wanted a woman…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. She stood abruptly and came
up behind him, laying one hand on his bare shoulder. It felt like a
brand.
Please, God
. But he’d forgotten what he was praying for. His hands
gripped a railing as she pressed her mouth against his spine. “If
you wanted a woman, you could have had me.”

He swallowed and gripped the railing
so hard he feared it might shatter behind his hand. Slowly,
tantalizingly slowly, she moved her hands around his torso and
pressed herself against him.

“
Sara.” It was a
plea.

He was rock hard and shaking and when
she moved her hand over his arousal he arched his back, the
pleasure too great to be still. “You could have me,” she said
again. Her words, her touch, was his undoing.

With a sound filled with violent need,
he turned in her arms and looked down, his knees nearly buckling at
the raw desire he saw in her eyes. Then his gaze moved down to her
mouth, that beautiful, plump, wonderful mouth and he knew he was
done for. He pulled her to him and kissed her on a groan born of a
desperation and a desire so strong it terrified him.

Sara nearly swooned when he finally
kissed her, as if everything was centered on that kiss, as if she
would have died if he hadn’t turned and pressed against her. She
burned for his for his touch, his mouth, his tongue. When he
fumbled with the buttons of her bodice, she shoved his hands away
and undid them herself. She needed, more than anything, to feel him
touch her there. She nearly lifted her breast to his beautiful
mouth, but he was already there, already sucking her hard nipple
in. Sara was dimly aware of the sounds she was making, of the
sounds he was making. Her entire being was centered on his mouth,
on what he was doing to her aching nipples.

He was kissing her again, suckling her
bottom lip the way he’d suckled her nipple, moving his hands over
her naked back, the down lower to her buttocks. She pressed her
naked breasts against him, sighing at the wonderfully foreign feel
of flesh against flesh. It was as if a lifetime of not being
touched or held had turned her into this wanton thing who could not
live without his hands upon her.

“
West, West,” she said over
and over, relishing calling him by his given name, peppering his
cheeks with kisses. So caught up in the moment, she continued
kissing him long before she realized he’d gone still. Sara looked
up at him, dazed, suddenly afraid he knew just how much she loved
him.

West stared down at her,
rejecting what was so plain her Sara’s face. Desire. That’s what
West wanted, that’s all he wanted. Not love.
Oh, God, don’t love me, don’t
. If
she loved him, then how could West do what his body demanded that
he do? He would no longer be able to rationalize it as two people
who simply got carried away with the moment, a physical act to
release this tormenting sexual tension. If she
loved
him, she would expect more.
She would expect forever. And West could not give that to
her.

“
You don’t love me, Sara.”
He willed her not to love him.

A flushed stained her cheeks. “No,”
Sara said, kissing him again, pressing her body against his
erection. “Just love me now. This moment.”

West knew it would not be
enough. He
knew
it. But he had a half-naked woman in front of him, the same
woman who had haunted his dreams, who made him laugh, who nearly
made him cry.

“
Take off your skirt.” Her
blue eyes widened, but she did as he asked with endearing
awkwardness. By the time she stood before him, he was completely
nude. Her eyes darted to his thrusting member, then immediately
looked away.

“
I won’t hurt you, Sara
love.” He held out one hand and she put her shaking one in his.
West hoisted her onto this swinging bed and she let out a little
laugh as it banged against the wall. Then he joined her, pulling
her to him, letting their entire lengths touch.

Sara could feel him pressing against
her belly, that part of him that was so foreign and lovely and
male. He hooked his leg over hers, drawing her even closer, as he
kissed her already swollen lips. Sara’s eyes drifted closed as he
moved downward, loving her breasts, licking and sucking until she
was unknowingly moving her hips against him.

“
God, Sara. You will shame
me.”

Sara had no idea what he meant, she
only knew that having him kiss her and touch her was better than
she dreamed. He moved his hand down her belly and she giggled.
“Tickles,” she said breathlessly, that breath catching when his
hand touched the mound of soft curls at the apex of her
thighs.

“
It’s all right, Sara.” And
then he let out a word that sounded much like a curse as his
fingers explored her. Sara felt as if every bit of blood was
surging to where his fingers were. She was warm and liquid and
needed, needed something more. He began to move his fingers and she
began to burn, to tremble, to feel as if something wonderful or
awful were about to happen. Her hips moved, her breath grew
shallow, her toes curled as he moved his finger against that most
wonderfully sensitive place where all the pleasure seemed to
center. Her hips began moving faster, needing, needing, more and
more. And then the world flashed colors and light. She exploded,
that’s what she did. Exploded where his hand touched her and
nothing in her experience could have warned her how wonderful and
intoxicating that explosion would be.

West moved over her, touched his
member to the wet, throbbing place between her legs. He stayed that
way a long time, his head pushed into the pillow next to hers, his
body taut and straining against her. He let out a sound, almost a
sob, then he adjusted so that he lay on his side, his cock pressed
against her hip.

“
Give me your hand,” he
said. He took her hand and placed it around him, his entire body
going rigid at that simple touch. And then, he began moving against
her hand as he pressed his mouth against her temple, needing the
release that only she could give him. It took little time before he
was pulsing his seed into her hand, his body arching against her.
He lay, spent, and suddenly conscious of what he’d done to an
innocent girl. She gazed down at her hand, fascinated, disgusted,
he didn’t know. He only knew he was ashamed, even though his body
felt immensely better. He rolled off the bed and retrieved a cloth,
handing it to her awkwardly, before pulling on his pants. He stood
there, head down, flooded with shame at his weakness even as part
of him was glad, so glad. “Damn,” he whispered.

What Sara had thought was wonderful,
suddenly was not. West couldn’t meet her eyes and she became
increasingly aware that he was embarrassed by what had happened. He
was an engaged man, after all, one who had promised not to touch
her, one who had suffered the humiliation of being censored by his
men for cheating on a wife who wasn’t truly a wife. He’d been
trying to protect her and she had…my God, she had thrown herself at
him. Begged him to make love to her. Touched his manhood in a
wanton way. What man could have used such restraint?

He turned toward her and she was
stunned by the look in his eyes. It was more than simple regret and
she shrank from that look. Was making love to her so awful, then?
Was it such a terrible mistake?