Pirate Wolf Trilogy (72 page)

No, he had not
dreamed it. The lingering heaviness in his body belied any doubts
he might have had, as did the redolent scent of sex on the
bedsheets—the ones that were not scattered on the floor or tossed
into a heap at the foot of the bed.

He groaned and
sank back down onto the bolsters. He’d had wine, but only two small
glasses, not nearly enough to make him dizzy with lust. The hot
soapy bath—the first in over two months— had made him decidedly
light-headed, but instead of putting him to sleep, it had sent him
prowling out onto the balcony like a tomcat. Seeing Juliet there,
clad only in a cambric shirt, had completed his fall from grace.
Had she not stunned him by initiating the seduction herself, he
likely would have thrown her over his shoulder and ravished her
anyway.

Having already
reached the conclusion that Juliet Dante was unlike any woman he
had ever encountered before, the fact that she’d had him out of his
clothes and damn near out of his skin quicker than he could blink
an eye should not have surprised him, but it had. He had known too
many women who were eager to make the conquest but then were
paralysed by propriety when it came to actually enjoying the deed.
Juliet, on the other hand, made it quite clear she had no interest
in making a conquest of any kind. She had simply wanted something
and had taken it eagerly and aggressively.

His blood
stirring at the memory, Varian rolled onto his side. A single
filament of auburn hair trailing across the pillow and he stared at
it for several moments before plucking it up between his fingers.
Long and shiny, he imagined it tangled in the rest of the silky
mane, the curled ends teasing his flesh as she moved above him. It
had been his enormous pleasure to let her straddle his hips and
assume command of the ship, so to speak. A superb navigator, she
had sailed them both into a maelstrom of bouncing bedsprings and
juddering posts.

Only afterward,
swallowing past the hoarseness in his throat and listening to the
sound of his heart thundering in his chest, had he thought to give
thanks for the fact that her family slept in the other wing of the
house.

Yet as well as
he had come to know her body, he was no closer to understanding
what went on behind those pale gray-blue eyes. When they were not
willfully engaged in acts of pleasure, she had wanted no part of
him. She had wriggled to one side until they were not
touching—difficult to do in a bed not much wider than the span of
his arms—and only at the last, when neither of them could have
raised a limb or exchanged a caress to save their lives, had she
fit herself snugly into the warm curve of his body and drifted to
sleep.

Varian stared
at the dancing pinpoints of sunlight on the ceiling. He had no idea
what time it was, no idea when she had left or how she had managed
to extricate herself from his arms without so much as jostling the
bed. He did not even want to hazard a guess as to what her reaction
would be when she saw him today. Would she be embarrassed? Angry?
Would she resent him for having exposed the softer, more vulnerable
side that she strove so hard to keep hidden beneath all that
thick-skinned armor?

Or worse...
would she act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened? As if
it was her habit to take her hostages to bed and extract her pound
of flesh before they were delivered to her family for their
amusement.

Varian sighed,
raked his hands more vigorously through his hair, and swung his
legs over the side of the bed.

Never
mind her, he thought sourly. What would his own reaction be when he
saw her again? He had sold his soul to the devil and no doubt the
devil would demand his due. He was the Earl of Harrow and he had
all but foresworn his wild ways when he had agreed to the marriage
with Lady Margery Wrothwell. The fact he was not officially
betrothed was small consolation for it was understood by both
parties that the engagement would be announced upon his return to
England. Yet here he was, his body rife with lust for a woman he
had known but three days. A woman who was more comfortable wielding
a sword than a tapestry needle. A woman whose entire family held
only scorn for the king, for England, for the strictures of a
society that had dictated every facet of Varian St. Clare’s life
for the past
twenty-eight years
.

Despite
the fact he’d exchanged barely a dozen words with Simon Dante, he
was more than halfway convinced he was here, as Juliet had so
eloquently put it, on a fool’s errand. Dante had a fortress here,
why should he concern himself with the dictates of a king who waved
his sceptre from three thousand miles away? If anything, James
Stuart should be asking himself why the Pirate Wolf continued to go
to the trouble of sending the royal treasury ten percent of his
privateering profits? Surely after all these years he needed no
letters of marque granting him permission to trade. From what
Varian had seen of the firepower anchored in the harbor below, the
Dante clan posed a formidable threat to any foreign port or
authority and it would
behoove
the king to do whatever was necessary to ensure the wolf
continued to fly England’s colors on his masthead.

Varian stood
and gingerly stretched the knotted muscles in his arms and legs.
Dazzling blue sky showed through the open french doors and the cool
breezes that had played across their bodies through the night had
been replaced by a moist heat. He cast around for his clothes,
vaguely recalling he had torn them off with such haste he’d almost
knocked over the bedside table. There was no immediate sign of his
shirt or breeches, but his doublet was draped over the back of the
chair and he stared at it grimly, not entirely eager to button
himself into confining layers of padded velvet and leather.
Moreover the original owner of the garments had neither been as
tall nor as broad across the shoulders as he, and in spite of the
hasty adjustments Beacom had made, the sleeves were too short and
the collar of ruffled Spanish lace would not close. The wool
stockings scratched and the pantaloons were stuffed so full of
horsehair he felt like he had two gourds attached to his
thighs.

Fostering this
small streak of rebellion, he walked naked to the door. He stood
with his hands braced on either side of the frame, his eyes closed
tight against the glare of sunlight as he let the full blaze of
tropical heat bathe his skin. He recalled Juliet’s comment about
all Englishmen being terrified of allowing sunlight to touch their
flesh, and he had to admit, if only to himself, this was the first
time he had greeted Mother Nature face to face. To that end, the
sun’s rays felt marvellous on his chest and arms; even his nether
parts seemed to respond amiably to the new experience.

“I warrant it
should take about ten minutes for your skin to turn red and start
to blister.”

Varian jerked
his eyes open and brought his hands swooping down to cover his
crotch.

Juliet was
sitting out on the balcony, her booted feet propped on the rail.
She was dressed in an airy white shirt and black breeches; her hair
was gathered at the nape and tied with leather thong. There was a
second chair and a small wooden table beside her, the latter
holding a huge tray laid with bread, cheese, an inordinately large
mound of sliced meat, and bowls of exotic fruits Varian was not
readily able to identify.

She followed
his gaze. “I thought you might be hungry. And I wanted to thank you
for last night.”

Hairs that had
not already risen at the sight of all this domestication, riffled
upright into spikes. “Thank me?”

“For providing
sanctuary. My brothers searched high and low thinking to haul me
out in my bedclothes and play one of their nefarious pranks—one, I
am told, that involved paste and chicken feathers. They found the
bundle of blankets I had left in my bed, but they did not find me,
nor would they have thought to look in your room so aye, I have you
to thank for my reprieve.” Her eyes narrowed and a smile lifted the
corner of her mouth. “What did you think I was thanking you
for?”

Varian had the
grace to flush, and he did so in a magnificent flare of crimson
that shaded everything, even the lobes of his ears.

“Rather an
arrogant assumption, is it not?” she said softly.

Their eyes
remained locked for one, two heartbeats before Juliet broke first
and looked away. “You really shouldn’t expose all that untouched
skin to the sun too long. You wouldn’t want to look like me, would
you?”

She tipped her
face up, letting the sun bathe a complexion that was already tanned
to a golden hue.

“I would
happily oblige, captain, but my clothes seemed to have
disappeared.”

“No they
haven’t. I brought you new ones. You’ll find them at the foot of
the bed. I did not think you should walk around the island dressed
like a Spanish don. You might present too pretty a target.”

Varian turned,
but halted again. “May I ask what you’ve done with Beacom?”

“You prefer his
company over mine?”

“I didn’t say
that.”

She opened her
eyes and looked at him. “Get dressed, your grace. It is well past
noon already and my father’s patience has its limits.”

“Noon?” He
glanced up at the sun with a start and realized it must be on its
descent, not ascent. “Good God, why did no one wake me
earlier?”

“I did try, but
the only part of you that seemed interested in rising was not the
part of you my father would care to see so early on in your
acquaintance.”

Varian’s jaw
clamped shut and he retreated hastily into the bedroom. He found a
plain shirt and buff breeches folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
Both garments fit surprisingly well, as did the tall knee boots
that were made of such soft leather, they molded to his feet like
slippers. The shirt laced up the front and he was tying the last
knot in place as he walked back out onto the balcony again.

Juliet was not
in the chair.

He glanced down
either side of the wide veranda, but she was nowhere in sight.

“I guessed you
and my father would be about the same size. I see I was right.”

He whirled
around. She was leaning against the wall, her arms folded over her
chest, one foot crossed over the other and balanced on the toe of
her boot. Something flickered in her eyes a moment as they swept
the length of his body again, but it was gone before he could put a
finger to it.

“The cheese is
excellent,” she said, indicating the tray. “We appropriated it from
a Dutch merchantman not long ago. The mutton we grew ourselves and
the ale is passable.”

“I am not
overly hungry,” he lied. “And if your father is waiting—?”

She gave her
shoulders a little shrug. “Alas, you seem to have missed him. He
has gone down to the harbor. You can just see him... there...
through the trees.”

Varian followed
the thrust of her chin and saw Simon Dante, mounted on a huge bay
stallion, cantering down the road away from the house.

“You have not
gone with him? I would have thought you had a hundred things to do
today.”

“
More
like a thousand,” she agreed grimly. “But I have already been to
the ship and... and Mr. Crisp seemed to think I was only getting in
the way. My mother reads Spanish far better than I, so she is
locked away in the study with the manifests we took from the
Santo
Domingo
. My brothers,
having been thwarted of one pleasure, are amusing themselves by
counting the barrels of pearls and coin being offloaded from the
galleon. Lieutenant Beck is being entertained by Geoffrey Pitt,
while the rest of the English crew is being introduced to hot
baths, good food, and sweet rum. As for your man Beacom, I sent him
down to the warehouses with Johnny Boy to search through some of
our vast inventory of velvets and lace to see if he could restore
your wardrobe. That would appear to leave only you at odds, sirrah,
and me to think of some way to amuse you for a few
hours.”

It was becoming
all too commonplace of late to feel his skin tightening and his
blood pulsing through his veins, and Varian did not know what to
make of it. The rush was stronger now, having experienced first
hand what his mind had only imagined until last night, but before
he could dare question the sparkle in the crystalline eyes, she
offered up a short laugh.

“Come. If
you’re not interested in eating, we can take a walk. I have
something to show you.”

She turned and
headed for the stairs at the far end of the veranda, the blade of
her sword reflecting flashes of sunlight. Varian cast a grudging,
hungry glance at the tray and snatched up a wedge of cheese and a
crust of bread before he followed.

There was a
stone path at the bottom; one direction led around to the front of
the house, the other led through a garden and a small orchard of
lime trees. They took the latter, with Juliet striding into the
lead and Varian pressed to keep an even three steps behind. Her
pace belied any notion they were out for a stroll and after five
minutes, when the path turned to dirt and began taking a steep
upward slant, he could feel the muscles in his thighs
protesting.

The trail
meandered and turned sharply to circumvent the occasional
outcropping of rock, but for the most part it went straight up.
Ferns grew over the path and brushed their arms and shoulders. The
vegetation was lush and fragrant, heavy with moisture, and after a
few hundred yards Varian began to stare at Juliet Dante’s shapely
backside, wondering if or when she ever tired. She seemed to
possess boundless energy and did not look the least winded or
dragging, not even when they broke clear of the treetops and had to
follow some tangled, rock-strewn goat path to reach the top of the
ridge.