Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (22 page)

“Then a woman cannot be your friend?”

“Well, sure she could, but …”

“But what?”

The thought of having a woman as a friend had never occurred to Tom. Men loved, cherished, and married women, but
friends
were other men. “You have to admit it would be kind of different,” he said, pointing out the obvious. “After all, women are women, and men—”

“Are men. Of course,” Adriana said, lying down again.

“So what's wrong with that?” Tom asked defensively, rising in turn on his elbow. “It's true, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Adriana sighed, and closed her eyes. “It's true.”

Tom waited for more, but she lay without moving. Puzzled, at a loss for words himself, he lay back down and watched, for a long, silent moment, a blue jay trying to break open a pecan. “I guess,” he finally said in a voice that sounded tiny in the vast emptiness that surrounded them, “that you must think me a silly ass.”

Adriana spoke sternly, but gently. “I think you are a man who loved a woman very deeply. I think you are a man who is afraid to believe that life goes on because he fears he will betray that love. But I tell you this. Life does go on, and your Jenny—you see, I dare say her name—could not have loved you as deeply as you say and yet wish you to live as half a man because she is no longer with you.”

Tom's eyes stung, and he had to clear his throat before he could speak. “I wish I could believe that,” he said.

Adriana sat up, and her hair made a tent over his face as she leaned over him. “You will,” she whispered huskily. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, floated, light as a feather, to touch his good eye, and then his lips. “I will teach you to believe.”

Her hands were magic wands that soothed the tension from his face. Patiently, Adriana gave him time, first to remember, and then, bit by reluctant bit, to forget. As his jaw relaxed and the hard lines around his mouth smoothed, her hands moved down to massage, ever so gently, his neck. And almost without his knowing, she undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt so she could massage his chest.

Tom was confused at first, even frightened. Jenny was watching, he was sure, and he was embarrassed to be seen with another woman. Jenny wept, and tears came to his eyes, to be kissed away by ghostly lips bidding him goodbye and whispering in his ear,
live, my love
.

His throat burned and hot tears scalded his eyes.
No! Don't go, Jenny. Don't leave me. I love you!

But I already have left, my darling, don't you see? Our forever is over. Such a lovely forever.…
Her voice faded, became weak with distance, receded beyond his grasp.
You must live, my love. Do not be afraid
.…
You must live
.…

He was empty. Drained, he lay in the sun, and only gradually became aware of the gentle insistence of hands giving him the gift of life. At first, there were only the hands, for he dared not look. The hands, fingers combing the hair on his chest, slid across his nipples, ran lightly down his sides, and kneaded the muscles ridging his abdomen.

“Take off your clothes.”

Tom's eyes popped open. “What?”

“You're tense as a board.” Adriana reached behind her for the checkered cloth, then stood and spread it on the ground at his side. “Take them off and lie on your stomach.”

“I don't think—”

She knelt, pressed a finger to his lips. “We won't do anything you don't want to do,” she promised, and then turned her back. “Take them off.”

He felt foolish, like a child. Awkwardly, he struggled out of his boots and socks, stood to remove his trousers, coat, and shirt, then lay down with his head on his hands. “Are you sure—?”

“Hush,” Adriana said, turning back to him. “Relax. Empty your mind.”

She placed his arms at his sides and then, starting at the back of his head, began to work the tension out of him. Her fingers kneaded, caressed, stroked, and teased, easing, like a magic potion, the stiffness as they worked. His shoulders succumbed next, and as she manipulated each hand and arm, a sweet lassitude crept through him. Her hands worked down his spine, now gently, now probing muscles he hadn't known he had. She kneaded his buttocks, massaged his thighs. His calves felt like knotted ropes that she untied one by one, and so adept was she that he actually dozed off while she was massaging his feet.

How long he slept, he had no idea, but not long, certainly, for the sun had barely moved when he woke. In the months since Jenny had died, sleep had been a physical need to which he gave in only when he was exhausted, and when he had slept long enough, he would awaken instantly. On this afternoon, though, he was aware of a slow awakening, a pleasant swimming ascent from the depths, and a feeling of refreshment, as if he'd slept for many, many hours.

“You slept.”

Her voice was like a dream that comes between sleeping and waking, not quite dream, not quite real. “Ummm,” he grunted. “How'd you do that?”

“It doesn't matter. Roll over.”

Tom lifted his head and turned to look at her. “Now, wait a—”

She was naked. Her hair, alive with light from the sun, streamed down her shoulders. Her breasts, perfectly shaped, swelled enticingly to end in large, deeply pigmented areolae and dark thick nipples that begged to be touched. Her skin was clear, the hue of honey gold. Sturdy thighs, pressed together as she knelt at his side, protected the dark, luxuriant hair where they met.

Tom's breath caught in his throat as, in spite of himself, he rolled onto his side. “You are …
beautiful
,” he said, his voice filled with wonder.

“I am Adriana. Only … Adriana. Roll over. Onto your back.”

Strangely enough, Tom was no longer embarrassed. This time, Adriana started at his feet, and as she worked her way up each leg, Tom felt the first faint stirrings of desire. He hadn't thought about sex for months. A woman had been the furthest thing from his mind, but now, as her hands moved closer to his loins, he felt himself begin to fill and swell.

He was disconnected from himself. He watched her hands slide up his hips, along his sides. She licked her palms and slowly, lightly, rotated them on his breasts.

Adriana's breath quickened in time with Tom's, and, as if imbued with a life of their own, her hands strayed down his torso to enfold his now rapidly rising sex. She hadn't planned on being so affected herself. The seduction had been calculated, a way to win his heart, to make him so dependent on her that he would have to take her to San Sebastian. She had, instead, been caught in her own web. His honesty, his touching display of loyalty to a woman long dead, his single-minded devotion to his children, engendered in her a tenderness that, fired by the touch and sight of his tumescence, rapidly became ardor. Her breasts swelled achingly and her nipples hardened. She could feel herself becoming warm and moist in anticipation, and at last understood that she wanted him—wanted him more than she had known it was possible to want a man. “Tom,” she whispered hoarsely. “Thomas Gunn Paxton. Make love to me.”

His heart singing, Tom reached for her and pulled her down to him. Hungrily, their lips met and his tongue explored her mouth. So long without the touch of a woman, his hands swept over her body. Flare of hips, rise of breasts. Caress of moist, parting lips ready for his entrance. The musk-sweet smell of arousal …

Moaning, gone wild, Adriana rolled off him and he was quickly on top of her. His sex, rigid against her, seared her flesh. Eagerly, near her climax already, she tilted her hips to accept him, and guided him to her with her hand.

Suddenly, he was inside her. A beast untamed, his length pierced and filled her. His sweat mingled with hers. The touch of his chest against her breasts electrified her. Rhythmically, he withdrew, hung poised above her, and then entered to her depth.

She wanted to wait, to savor the exquisite friction, the maddening pressure as, already large, he seemed to grow and harden even more inside her. “Thomas!” His name was ripped from her throat. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she drove herself against him as the first spasms racked her.

His teeth clenched, his lips parted. His back arched, his body shuddered and stiffened. Adriana threw back her head and gasped. Her eyes, wide with surprise, locked with his, and the slow, fierce explosion hurled them into that measureless void in which two hearts, two souls, two bodies meld and expand to become one distinct being, whole and timeless, without beginning or end.

CHAPTER XII

Three days passed all but unnoticed by Tom and Adriana. Tom had never known a woman of such fire; Adriana had never met a man so gentle and yet so forceful. Their lovemaking was extravagantly impetuous. A knowing glance, a smile, the merest hint of invitation sent them tumbling into bed to explore each other's sensuality, and join themselves in ageless ecstasy. They spent hours on end in the exquisitely appointed suite—Maurice had thoughtfully moved elsewhere—and the delicate furnishings, draperies, and silks seemed the perfect setting for romance. Tom reveled in hedonistic bliss. He glutted himself on passion, and only occasionally succumbed to guilt about Jenny. Adriana discovered within herself a desire long held dormant. She had been a child of love—for the Gypsies are a race bred out of a passion for love and life—yet that part of her able to give love had until now existed as one asleep, like a seed in the earth awaiting spring.

But it was nearly winter. How ironic! And did she dare come alive before she had fulfilled her solemn vow to Giuseppe's memory? She knew the answer, and the answer shamed her even as vengeance cried in the dark night of her soul. Fate had provided her with the means to bring herself once more within a dagger's length of Trevor Bliss. Fate had brought her Tom Paxton and his ship, the
Cassandra
. No matter how honest her growing love for Tom, he was also the means to an end. Guilt-ridden, she held her tongue and let sweet passion rule—the passion whose wild tide she planned to ride all the way to San Sebastian.

Not that Tom had forgotten the ship or his mission. Early every morning, he went to the yards to inspect the previous day's progress. Her hull now repaired and scraped clean of barnacles, the
Cassandra
had been floated free the afternoon before, and rode gently in a wet dock. She was a sleek three-masted cargo schooner, and her speed was evident to any experienced seaman who took the trouble to study her lines. Fore-and-aft rigged, with two jibs, she presented a breathtakingly beautiful picture. An adjustable centerboard eighteen feet long, six inches thick, and eight feet deep when fully lowered enabled her to navigate waters too shallow for a ship with a fixed keel. Her seventy-foot length and eighteen-foot beam allowed ample cargo space below decks in addition to three cabins and the other necessary working and living spaces for the crew. Lashed securely to the deck were a small catboat and a longer rowboat which would serve the double function of harbor lighters and lifeboats. The hull of the
Cassandra
was painted a brilliant white, with her name in black script against the bright background.

“Well?” Tom asked as he climbed aboard at first light and met Jamie Ragland. “What do you think?”

“Ready to go tomorrow morning,” Jamie said, proud of his accomplishment. “Want to take a look?”

They inspected her from stern to bow. The patch in the hull was indiscernible from the outside, and watertight. The new mast appeared to be sound, and a fresh set of lines had been rove. Half the sails were being replaced with new canvas, a job that would be finished by late afternoon. Below decks the ship had been fumigated and thoroughly aired. Later in the day, ballast, food and water, powder and shot and rifles would be loaded aboard.

Maurice was waiting with Slurry Walls when Tom emerged from the yard offices after a busy half-hour of signing papers. “Jamie says you took the tour,” Maurice said by way of greeting. “Any problems you can think of?”

“Everything looked shipshape to me,” Tom said. “You find any cannon?”

“Couple of three-pounders is all, which is about as good as tryin' to piss out a forest fire. Nobody wants to part with what they have.”

“Damn.”

“She's sailed for three years without cannon,” Maurice noted with a shrug. “I guess she oughta make this trip without 'em.”

Tom's eyebrow rose a notch. “You want to sail near that island and try to get the twins out of there with nothing bigger'n a rifle aboard?”

“Well …”

“I still think our best bet's Barataria,” Slurry interjected. “You can buy damn near anything you need there if you've got the cash in your pocket and the iron in your spine to deal with the men who live there.”

Maurice snorted. “Pirates!”

“If you want to call men like Laffite brothers and Dominique You pirates, suit yourself. As for meself, I like to refer to 'em as enterprising businessmen.”

“Businessmen, my arse,” Maurice growled. “You ask me, everything about 'em stinks. A thief's a thief, and no way around it.”

“So who's askin' you?” Slurry said. “It's Tom's ship and Tom's boys, so it's up to him to say.”

Tom rubbed his jaw and considered a moment longer. “You're sure you know some of the people there?” he asked Slurry.

Slurry held up two fingers. “Me and the Laffites are like this.”

“That don't surprise me none,” Maurice grunted sarcastically.

“Me either,” Tom agreed, “but what choice do we have? Which settles the matter as far as I'm concerned. We stop at Barataria to buy cannon. Anything else?” he asked, eager to return to Adriana.

“The crew,” Maurice reminded him.

“Oh. Well?”

“Pease says he won't go. Says one captain aboard is enough, and he doesn't want anything to do with this voyage, that he has enough troubles with the British Navy without sailing into one of its harbors an' askin' to be sunk. Most of the rest of the crew is waitin' to hear what you have to say, though.”