Laird of Ballanclaire (22 page)

Constant knew that even though they finalized the annulment, and she was no longer Kam’s wife, she still hungered to be in his arms. She’d struggled with her feelings even before he came back into her life. Now that he was near, she was a bundle of ache and frustration, with no release in sight.

Constant stopped, her hand on Kameron’s actual doorknob, and slowly backed away onto the deck.
Oh, dearest God!
It was only the sixth day out! They had five weeks left to sail . . . except for her. She didn’t have five weeks. She knew what she should do; she’d suspected the moment she’d heard the lawyers’ decision to have the Duke of Ballanclaire determine the future of her marriage. If she didn’t take the only option available to her during this voyage, she was going to spend her life watching her own children grow up and take their places in high society, while she stayed hidden in the shadows somewhere. She was never going to be able to claim Abigail and Benjamin. Or Kameron.

Constant looked over at one of the three ships accompanying them. Perhaps she should ask if she could move to one of them. Maybe then she wouldn’t find her hands idle at her sides, her feet taking her where they shouldn’t, and her entire being yearning for something she could never have.

Constant dropped her gaze to the waves. The ship was large, resembling a small town of industriousness. She wasn’t even seasick, although one of the nurses had the affliction. She was grateful. The large ship rode the waves like a great bird gliding with the wind. Elegantly. Graciously. Once they’d cleared Boston Harbor, the waves had become more elongated, choppier, and darker green in color. She’d spent a good portion of time looking down into the ocean. Pondering. Preparing. Gathering courage. Each day, the water looked more ominous, the depths blacker and deeper.

There wasn’t any other path open to her. There never had been. Kameron Ballan was out of reach. He always had been. Regardless of what he wanted, it wasn’t to be. Constant Ridgely didn’t need some old, pretentious, bewigged and gem-covered duke telling her she wasn’t good enough. She knew it. She wasn’t a princess. Why, she wasn’t even a wife anymore. If she continued living, she would be the unwed mother of twin bastards.

She’d heard drowning wasn’t a difficult death, especially if one didn’t know how to swim.

Constant’s vision wavered on the ocean water that was going to be her grave. It was nice that there was a greenish opacity to every wave. And then she turned away. She still had five more weeks. Five. She just had to prevent her own feet from coming this way again. She didn’t think she could stand it if Kameron gained even a hint of what she was planning.

She retraced her steps back to her own cabin, taking malicious pleasure in hammering each heel into the deck beneath her, and that was why she didn’t see his boots until she was almost upon him.

Constant instantly knew who blocked her. She’d once held a foot that size in her hands. She pulled in her breath and moved her gaze up. Kameron was wearing a long, plaid skirt, and his shirt wasn’t correctly fastened, for it gapped open to mid-belly. She couldn’t seem to move her eyes. He hadn’t grown his chest hair back.

“I’ve been watching for you,” he said.

“You shouldn’t be,” she told his chest.

“I ken as much.”

She glanced up, gasped, and immediately looked back to his chest. It was safer. That one glimpse was almost too much. He hadn’t pulled his hair back, and he had a black patch covering one eye, taking some of his angelic beauty and mutating it into a rakish, harder visage.

Constant’s breasts swelled, growing heavy with liquid and tender with the pressure against her gown. She was afraid it wouldn’t pass notice. When she dared to look back up, she knew for certain, as the one golden-brown eye moved from her face to her bosom and stayed there.

“You were there, Constant. You heard them. You even agreed to this compromise. This is a platonic voyage.”

“Yes,” she answered.

“I understand platonic. I just canna’ get the rest of me to understand it.”

He was growing more agitated, if the quickening breaths were any indication. Constant bit her lip.

“I . . . I wasn’t looking for you,” she said.

“As always, you need to work on your lying. You’re in clear violation of rule number one.”

“What?”

“Doona’ lie if the truth is staring you in the face.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You just came from my cabin.”

“No, I—”

“You just came from my cabin
door
. I ken. I just said as much. I’ve been watching you.”

“I needed . . .” Her voice stopped. She couldn’t finish. She couldn’t think.

His groan was audible and very stirring. As was the motion of his chest. “Are you tormenting me on purpose?”

“I . . . no,” she answered.

“I haven’t had a woman in some time, Constant.”

He took another step nearer to her as he spoke, shrinking the corridor they stood in, and making her pulse leap.

“I know. It’s been at least six days. I don’t know how you manage.” She tried to answer flippantly but failed.

He was frowning. The one eye she could see was narrowed at her. “I have na’ had a woman since you, Constant.”

“A whole year?”

He put his hands on the wall on either side of her head and leaned toward her. Then he was speaking his words to her neck.

“It’s my bane, if you will. I was wounded and out of commission at first, but once I wasn’t, I found that other women meant naught to me anymore. Only you. It’s a constant thing, too. Constant problem. A constant desire, constant craving, constant longing. You probably should na’ stay this close to me much longer.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“You’re going to get singed.”

“So are you.”

One leg spliced between hers, leveraging her upward, while his hands helped. They were against her waist, then her hips, lifting her atop his bent leg, bringing her face level to his.

“I suggest you say something to stop this. I suggest you do it now, Constant.”

He had his nose against hers as he said it. His lips were hovering above hers, and his breath mingled with hers.

“Why do you wear a patch?” she asked, between gasps of breath.

“Bright light affects my vision.”

“Bright . . . light?”

She leveraged her mouth the slightest bit toward his. She touched her tongue to his bottom lip. Kam started trembling. She felt it in every bit of him she touched.

“Constant . . .”

“What kind of light?”

Constant slid her lips along his cheek and from there to his throat. His tremors increased. The cords in his neck were intriguing, as was the chest heaving under her hands.

“Light?” he asked.

“Your patch.” She murmured the words against his skin. She was glad he wore his hair loose. That way she could taste it as she maneuvered her way toward an ear.

“Oh. Bright sunlight . . . on the waves . . . blurs things. My eye waters. Things . . . like—Constant?”

“Yes?”

“I will na’ make you my mistress. I-I-I . . . refuse.”

Constant had slid her tongue around the edge of his earlobe, causing him to stammer. “I’m not asking you to.”

She was having as much trouble breathing as he was. Her mouth reached the juncture of his jaw. He moved, burning her lips with his whiskers just before his lips reached hers. Then, nothing burned as hot as his mouth devouring hers.

Constant helped him, too. She lifted her legs, wrapping them about his waist, and brought her hands over his shoulders.

“Oh, love. Oh, Constant. Oh, sweet . . .”

Kameron was murmuring love words all over her, trailing them down to her chin before he nipped at the top buttons of her blouse. Then he looked up, pinning her in place with that one golden eye.

“There’s nae constable in sight,” he whispered.

“Constable?”

“Solicitor, barrister, servant, sailor, wet nurse, nanny . . . guard. You ken. Constables.”

“Oh. Those.”

“You are still nursing the bairns?”

She wrinkled her brow. “Some. Why?”

“’Tis na’ easy to get you with child, if you are.”

Her eyes widened. “It isn’t?”

“Nae.”

She licked her lips. His shudder went right through her frame, too. “We might get caught,” she whispered.

“We might not.”

Now it was her turn to groan. “Don’t tempt me. I can’t stand it.”

“Me? Look who’s prancing through my side of the ship, wearing little more than—what are you wearing?”

“A day gown, a shawl, all the proper undergarments.”

“Damn you, Constant. Damn you.”

He grabbed her lips with his, alternately sucking and licking. Possessing. Constant helped. They were well into creating a whirlpool of sensation when the ship’s bell rang.

Both of them lifted their heads.

“Another ship,” Kam informed her.

“Are they . . . friendly?” she asked, between pants for breath.

He turned and put his uncovered eye on her. “Right at the moment, I’m na’ inclined to care. You?”

Constant shook her head. He put both hands beneath her buttocks and held her to him as he started walking.

“I’ve had a gullet-full of this. I’m your husband. You’re my wife. I doona’ give a damn for any annulment papers or property forfeiture, or fines. I want to be buried deep in you, love. I intend to do that very thing. Here’s your cabin.”

He shoved the door open, shut it with the bottom of his foot, settled her to one side in order to free a hand, and drew the bolt down with it.

“I don’t . . . want this.” It would be more believable if she wasn’t pushing her loins into him, and gasping through the words.

“You do.”

“No . . . wait . . .”

Her request came on a moan, belying the words. No place on her body wasn’t wanting. Needing. Desiring. He had her atop the bed now, pulling her cap off and then running his fingers through her hair. Constant hadn’t braided it last night.

Kameron had her splayed across the coverlet, then just stopped. The expression in his eye made her heart skip a beat. He held himself from her on his elbows as he just kept looking. And then he began shaking. The wooden platform beneath her feather-stuffed mattress rattled with it.

“Look at me, Constant. Just look. I’ve bedded more women than I can remember, and yet I’m tense and anxious as a virgin with you. Just you. Why? What is it you do to me?”

“I love you,” she replied.

“Oh, darling. If I had words to tell you the depth of my love, I’d speak them. I would.”

He accompanied each of his words with a stroke—on her face, down her arm, across the swell of a breast, making Constant a writhing mass of nerves, and he hadn’t taken one stitch of clothing from her.

“We probably don’t have enough time.”

“Then, make time,” she replied, and started yanking up on his shirt.

“I’ll na’ take you quickly. I’ll na’ lose it again. I’ll make it as enjoyable for you—stop that!”

Constant had his shirt opened and shoved down his arms, while her hands ran over every inch of him, as if he was displayed just for her. Every glorious, rippled inch.

“You haven’t grown any hair back?” she asked.

His lips twisted. “I told you . . . I’m a towhead. Now, wait!”

He put his hands where she was unhooking his belt, but had to use sheer force to stop her. Constant grinned up at him as he held her hands away from him.

“Na’ so fast, sweet. I’ve a debt to repay.”

“What debt?”

“A little thing called stealing your virginity, and na’ even doing it properly.”

“There is a proper way? But—oh!”

Constant lost the rest of her words in a squeal as he held her, a bent leg atop her hips to make certain of it, while the fingers on one hand started slipping her blouse buttons out of their holes.

“There are a thousand proper, and highly improper, ways . . . and all of them start with me giving you pleasure. Like this.”

Constant was sure she was losing her sanity as Kam tongued his way down the opening he’d created, using his mouth to open and separate the material. He didn’t stop until he had her blouse spliced apart, revealing each surge of her bosom as she struggled for breath. He was having difficulty controlling his own breathing, and each breath sent rivulets of warm air over her exposed flesh. He lifted himself over her, one hand on either side, while his legs straddled hers.

He was sending a golden glow of desire with every flick of his gaze. She knew where he was looking, too. At the part that always intrigued him. She arched herself, shoving the peaks of her breasts into the material, and saw it affect him. Kam shut his eyes, a shudder ran through his entire frame, and then he reopened them. His golden gaze moved up to her neck, her face, and finally he locked on her own eyes. Constant had never felt so loved or desired or adored.

“I canna’ tell you how much I’ve dreamt of you,” he whispered. “You’ve nae idea. You’re the epitome of womanliness, Constant, my love. There is something about you . . . something intangible, but still there. It must come with the birthday we share.”

He moved to sit toward the bottom of the bed, grasping her ankles to carefully remove her boots and adjust her legs in a bent position. Constant wasn’t capable of stopping him, although she knew she should. Then he ran his hands up her legs, pushing her skirt out of his way as he went. She barely felt him slide her pantaloons down, over her knees and across her ankles, the movement erotic and hot. Then he was flicking a finger against the tops of her stockings.

“Birth . . . day?”

“November twelfth. I heard you. Same as mine.” He was speaking the words to the skin of her ankle, as he slid his mouth up her leg.

“We have the same birthday?”

“Aye. That is na’ all we share.”

“It . . . isn’t?”

“Astrologically, we’re matched. Scorpion to scorpion. You ever study that sort of thing?”

“No.”

“Trust me. We’re matched. We both carry it. We’re both cursed by it.”

“Cursed?”

It wasn’t possible to understand his words. Kam had reached the tops of her stockings, and was moving his tongue onto bare flesh that had never felt the like.

“I speak of desire, my love.”

“De . . . sire?”

“Aye. Desire. Wicked, sensual, thirsting desire. Hot, hard passion. Molten, liquid, carnal pleasure. Lust. Eroticism. Sensory delectation at every turn. That kind of desire. You are all of that, Constant. I sense it. I smell it. I want to experience it. I crave it.”

He lowered his mouth to her and Constant screamed, and screamed again. She thought she was dying. She knew she had to be dying, and it wasn’t horrid, or frightening, or dreadful, or dark. It was light, and power, and wonder. She dissolved into whimpers and turned into such a quivering mass of female, she didn’t think she still possessed limbs, before he’d taken his fill.

Kam came back into sight, imprinting his gaze anywhere he cared to, as he looked and kept looking. He held himself above her with one arm while pulling his garments off with the other. Constant didn’t have an ounce of argument left in her.

“What . . . did you just do?” she whispered.

“Prepared you.”

“For . . . what?”

“Me.”

His lips went to a pout. Constant reached a hand out to touch them. He groaned, then he nipped at her fingers, then he was sucking two of them into his mouth, and she was wide-eyed at the sensation before she could snatch her hand away.

His groan deepened, blending with the sound of ripping cloth. Air caressed her and then heat. She felt the length and strength and power of him. Constant tensed for the remembered pain, but all she felt at the first pressured stroke was complete and absolute wonder, and then more of the same.

Constant shoved her arms about his shoulders, clawed at his back, and locked her ankles behind him so she’d have the power to return his thrusts. Kameron knew what she was about, for his motions were accompanied by deep-throated grunts, as he alternately filled, and then hovered and teased, until Constant was ready to scream again, this time with vexation.

She knew absolute bliss awaited her. She didn’t have to question it, she just knew, and with each of their thrusting movements, it grew closer, harder, more heated, more fluid, and more carnal. She was probably waking the entire ship with her cries, but she no longer cared.

And when it hit, Constant slammed her eyes shut and arched her head back in order to give it room. She was keening. She was soaring, floating . . . and it wasn’t on any ship. It was on a journey that wasn’t going anywhere but straight to Kameron. It didn’t have anything to do with deceit, forfeiture, loss, or death. It was full of nothing but life.