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Authors: Heart of the Storm

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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“Then your stay on the
Chameleon
has been just as good for you as it has been for Aubrey. Tell me.” Once more he covered her free hand with his. “Will your family be as grateful for the changes in you as Aubrey’s will be?”
She cleared her throat nervously, but she didn’t try to remove her hand. “It’s hardly the same sort of thing.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Are
you
grateful?”
“I … I don’t know. Cyprian, please,” she added. “I think we’d be better off sticking to the subject at hand.”
“And what is the subject?”
“Aubrey. Aubrey is the subject.”
“No, it’s you and why you fled England.”
“I didn’t flee.”
“No? Tell me then, when is this wedding set to occur?”
She pulled her hand away and gripped the stem of her goblet again. It was clear the subject of her forthcoming marriage unsettled her. “Well, Eliza? When are you to marry this fine fellow your parents have selected for you? They are the ones who selected him, aren’t they?”
“Well, yes, they are. But I’m quite content with their choice,” she retorted. “We are to wed next summer.”
“So why didn’t you stay in London to plan the blessed event and be with this fellow your parents picked out for you?”
Eliza didn’t answer until she’d drunk deeply of her wine. She licked a drop of the red liquid from her bottom lip in such an innocently provocative manner that Cyprian wanted to curse out loud. She was driving him to distraction, without any understanding of what she was doing!
“I chose to accompany Aubrey because I thought I could help him.”
“Anyone could have come with him. His own mother seems an obvious choice. So why you?”
He stared straight at her, not wanting to give her an easy out. She looked so distressed he thought she might even cry, though it had never been his intent to hurt her that way. But she took a fortifying breath and her sweetly rounded chin lifted to an almost belligerent angle.
“If you must know, I wasn’t completely pleased to be marrying Michael Johnstone. Not at first, that is. But now I believe we will do well together.”
“Do well together?” Cyprian chuckled and stretched back in his chair. “But what of passion, Eliza? Don’t make the mistake of leaving passion out of your life.”
“Who are you to advise me?” she snapped right back
at him. “Judging from your behavior up to now it seems you would choose passion over commitment. Passion over trust. Passion over genuine caring between two well-suited individuals.”
He smiled at her vehemence. “If you would taste of passion but once, my dear, you would know better than to compare that most violent and supreme of emotions to the blander ones you seek to sanctify.”
At that her gray eyes glittered with righteous anger. “You of all people should know better than that, Cyprian Dare, for it sounds as if your mother was undone by that very sort of passion. She married a man who obviously was not committed to her, nor worthy of her trust. Why do you suppose that was? Could it be that she confused her passion for him with all the finer emotions, the ones that make for a good and solid marriage? You were raised without a father and your mother lived a hard life, as you put it, and all because passion probably ruled her choice of a man when a more rational approach might have served all of you far better. Michael may not make my heart race, but we shall do well together. And at least he’ll not abandon me!”
That quickly did she cast ice water over the rising flames of his own passion for her. In a fury of frustration with her and anger at the wreck his father had made of their lives, Cyprian spoke without weighing his words.
“Did I say she married him? Forgive me for conveying the wrong impression, Eliza. My father did not go as far as to wed my mother. I fear you see before you a bastard, to put it plainly.”
His words were calm but they were glacial, and she was as silenced as if he had shouted. She swallowed and fiddled with her goblet, before licking her lips nervously. “I’m … I’m sorry. I … I didn’t know.”
Cyprian pushed up from the table. Son-of-a-bitch, but he was making a fine mess of things. He hadn’t meant to tell her that. He hadn’t meant to tell her anything except
what might draw her closer to him. He’d intended to stay in control, seducing her with words and just the force of his will until she was finally his. Instead she was controlling him, until he’d become a victim of his own emotions. She had but to taste a drop of wine from her lower lip and he was as horny as a goat. She used his mother’s wretched life as an argument for avoiding the dangers of passion and he turned furious. Then her tongue darted out to moisten her lip and he was once more gripped by desires so strong that he felt about to burst with them.
He ran a distracted hand through his hair. If he didn’t do something soon he was going to explode.
He took a harsh breath and sat down. Without saying a word he refilled both their glasses. It had been his experience from very early in life that backing down from a challenge was always a mistake. Whether that challenge came from some youthful bully, a more powerful adversary, or just a lovely young woman who had his emotions inexplicably tied in knots, going on the offensive was inevitably the best tack.
Of course, determining your adversary’s most assailable vulnerability was essential to success. With a street bully, a knee to the groin always worked. Lloyd Haberton’s weakness was his only son. But for Eliza Thoroughgood …
Cyprian raised his glass as if in toast. He studied her apprehensive expression, then smiled. “It appears we have reached an impasse on this matter, Eliza, so I have a proposal for you.”
“
A
proposal?” Something in Cyprian’s smile caused Eliza’s heart to sink. And yet that same contrary portion of her anatomy seemed intent also on beating its way right out of her chest. She clutched her wine glass tighter. “What sort of proposal?”
He shrugged as if it were of no great moment. “Your criticism of my mother and the choices she made in her life showed a profound lack of knowledge and understanding on your part.”
“I only meant—”
“No, hear me out. You speak of passion as if it is something to be avoided, a lure that can ruin your life. While it is true that my mother’s life could have been easier, she never once gave me the impression that, given the chance, she would have acted any differently. She actually loved the man,” he added, though a bitter edge had crept into his voice. “Her one regret was that she had not been able to keep him with her.”
Eliza bit her lower lip. “Perhaps … perhaps if she’d not succumbed to his … his—you know. Maybe then he would have married her and stayed with her.”
“And maybe he would have simply gone on his merry way until he’d found a more willing woman. Then where would I be? Never born at all. But that’s not the point.
At least my mother had a taste of passion, brief as it was. I would hate to see you settle for a dull fellow like your fiance without ever knowing what other possibilities life holds.”
“Michael is not dull,” she objected.
What he is, is too perfect to believe.
“But he does not fire your passions.”
“Not yet! But in time I’m certain, well, that … that he will,” she finished weakly.
“But I already have.”
Eliza’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened with both embarrassment and shock. “You … you do not,” she protested, though she knew it for a monstrous lie.
“Oh, yes. I do,” he countered, his smile and his posture so confident that she wanted to cry. “I can tell by the way your eyes grow so dark, so sparkling.” He leaned over the table. “I can tell by how you breathe: fast and shallow, sometimes not at all. I can tell, Eliza, by the way you kiss me. All that passion wrapped up in such sweetness. I think it’s past time for you to loose that passion from its strict bounds. And I’m willing to show you how. I’m willing to teach you all of the pleasures—and passions—that a man and woman might share.”
No, I can’t allow you to teach me any such thing.
But the words she meant to say aloud did not come. Instead she just stared at him, terrified. Fascinated. She should be repulsed. She tried to think of his mother and the ruined life she’d led. But all she could think of was how Cyprian’s kisses had roused such strange and fiery emotions inside her. Michael and his gentle kisses had hinted at such feelings. But Cyprian’s …
“Does this silence of yours indicate that you are giving my proposal consideration?”
“No.” Her reply was little more than a mouthing of the word. Then she gave herself a strong mental shake
and took a sharp breath. “No, I cannot consider your proposal—whatever it actually is.” She took a long drink of her wine, though even as she did so, she knew it provided only a false sort of courage. Too much to drink, and she quickly would lose all her perspective. She pushed the glass away and clasped her hands together instead.
But that proved not so wise a move, for Cyprian once again covered both her hands with his. As she stared at him, unnerved by just that warm touch, he smiled deeply into her eyes.
“Come now, Eliza. You know you like me. We both know it. And I like you.” He paused as his gaze roamed her face. “I like you far more than I ever would have thought possible.”
“I will not … will not listen to this,” she stammered even as she drank in his every word. He liked her? He really liked her?
As if he saw the doubt inside her, his thumbs began to make small circles against her wrists. Small provocative circles. “You’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever known, Eliza. Shy and yet bold. Prim and yet passionate. There is no limit to the pleasure we can find if we search for it together.”
The beguiling rasp of his voice set Eliza’s heart to hammering so hard her chest hurt. “You … you speak of passion. And of pleasure. But … but there is no future in that. None.”
His eyes were so dark, so deep and compelling as he stared at her that she felt as if he were pulling her into himself. Her will. Her heart. Certainly her traitorous body.
“Tell me, Eliza. Does your Michael profess to love you? The truth now.”
The truth? No. Nor did she pretend she loved him either. But to admit as much to Cyprian Dare was tantamount to yielding to his preposterous proposal—which
she wasn’t entirely sure she completely understood anyway.
But he clearly took her silence for the admission she sought to avoid. “So he does not. Do you love him?”
“I … I have not had sufficient time to fall in love with him. Yet,” she added, hoping desperately to salvage something from this disastrous conversation. “But I’m sure I shall.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up and it gave her a hint of what he might have looked like as a boy. But that only increased her fear that she was sinking into a warm web of his creating.
“Can you fall in love with a man upon command, then? Could you decide just as easily to fall in love with me?” he asked in a huskier tone.
This time she had no voice to answer. Everything was spiraling out of control. Though her mind might tell her to say no—to jerk her hands from his, to run out of his cabin just as fast as her shaking legs could carry her—every other portion of her anatomy conspired to oppose such rational action. She could only sit there, mesmerized by his eyes, and overwhelmed by the urgent feelings inside of her, all clamoring for release.
Somehow he came around the small table. Somehow she was standing before him, her hands still in his. Then he bent down to touch his mouth to hers.
It was not a violent sort of kiss, like before. Their bodies did not touch. She did not strain up to him, nor did he seek to deepen the kiss. But by its very restraint, that kiss was her undoing. He exhaled and she drew the same air into herself. Her shawl slipped away and the two of them swayed in tandem to the ship’s movement. Then she exhaled against his mouth and she knew the intimacy had been exchanged. He’d touched her as no man ever had—both her body and something much deeper than merely her skin.
“Let me show you how good it can be,” he whispered the words against her mouth.
“Shh,” she replied, kissing him harder. She didn’t want him to speak because then she must reply, and if she replied she’d have to think and be rational—and responsible for her actions. But if they didn’t speak, this could be almost a dream … .
Her arms crept up around his neck as his slid around her waist. They embraced fully, legs entangled, loins pressed close. Her breasts flattened softly against the hard wall of his chest. And the kiss deepened.
It
was
a dream that she could feel such soaring, unlikely feelings, caused solely by his touch. Like a fever overtaking her entire body, he infected her with the passion of which he’d spoken so freely. It took over everything, her skin, her heart, her fingers, and her lips. Her mind. Her emotions.
Oh, but it was her emotions that suffered worst, for locked in his arms, submissive to his strengthening kiss and emboldened by the fire roaring in her veins, she could almost believe herself in love with this wicked and dangerous man, that all of these insane feelings
were
love. As she opened her mouth fully to the onslaught of his tongue, to the rhythmic stroking of it, she could imagine him professing a returning love, and vowing to cherish her and amend his ways … .
“You see?” he whispered between hot, sweet kisses along her jaw and neck and ear. “But this is just the beginnings of passion. The tip of a vast and depthless ocean of pleasure for us, Eliza.”
She shook her head faintly, not wanting to hear any of this. But what
did
she want?
Cyprian seemed to know.
“I’ll give you a taste, sweetheart. And yet let you preserve your purity to give as a gift another day.” He circled her sensitive ear with the tip of his tongue until she
squirmed in unconscious joy. “And maybe you shall give it to
me
.”
He didn’t allow her a chance to respond. Instead he lifted her to sit on the trunk where he kept his charts. He continued to kiss her, more forcefully than before, until her back was against the wall and she clung to his neck with tightly clasped hands. Meanwhile, he used his legs to part her knees.
She should stop him, she thought, even as she met the bold encroachment of his tongue in her mouth. She was too vulnerable like this. Too exposed.
Yet that managed perversely to increase her excitement, so that when one of his hands slid up her leg, past her knee and under her skirt, she thought she might faint from the intensity of it. His touch was as smooth as velvet, as hot as molten lava, and as unerring in its goal as a homing pigeon.
When his thumb neared the apex of her opened legs, she stiffened. When she felt him brush the cover of curls down there, she twisted away from his demanding kiss. “No—stop—”
“Don’t be afraid, Eliza.” His words came low and urgent. With his other hand he caught the back of her head, forcing her to face him. Then he pressed that thumb of his deeper, past the protection of her curls, into a place even she hardly touched.
“Don’t—” she protested again, swallowing hard as her sense of propriety did fierce battle with the violent emotions careening around inside her. “Wait—”
But Eliza’s protest died when his thumb slid lower, then came back and began the oddest motion. Something—she could not say what—was happening to her. Her legs began to tremble. The air seemed to abandon her body, as did all her strength. She clung to him, her head back, her eyes wide with disbelief. And as she stared almost panic-stricken at him, he kept up that small rhythmic motion.
“Do you like what I’m doing, sweetheart?” he whispered.
She nodded, unable to do anything else. His eyes were so dark, so glowing, with an inner fire of their own. Was she supposed to do something like this to him, too?
She slid one hand down his chest to his flat stomach and lower. To do what, she did not know. She was operating on pure instinct now, for nothing she’d ever heard or read had hinted at what was happening between them.
But Cyprian caught her hand before she could do anything with it. “We’ll save that for another time, my fiery little girl. For now—” He kissed her hard, thrusting his tongue in and out of her mouth with such an urgency she thought she would explode. At the same time he slid his thumb somewhere … somewhere that felt like it was right up inside her!
“Just concentrate on how your body feels when I do this,” he murmured against her ear.
Once more he began that rhythmic motion, that thrumming sensation, as if he were playing some musical chord—some magical musical chord—that drowned out the entire world until only he and she were left to hear. Her entire body was filled with the song he played upon her. Oh, God, but she was filled to bursting with it. To bursting …
Then with a final surge of heat, the fire erupted.
She
erupted.
Like a puppet, Eliza jerked against Cyprian’s hand, again and again and again. As if he’d pulled all her strings and controlled all her limbs, she raised off the trunk, her legs clasping tight around his hips.
At once Cyprian pulled her against him so that the incredible center of all the fierce conflagration pressed hard against him. He held her with his hands beneath her buttocks, rocking her almost desperately against the hard bulge in his breeches.
“Oh, God,” she cried, as the agonizing fury at last began to subside. “Oh, dear God in heaven.” Her head fell limply against his shoulder as she clung weakly to him.
He groaned too and thrust against her. In the dimmest recesses of her mind Eliza knew that the momentous event that had just occurred had forever changed her. But she also realized that the same sort of stupendous reaction had not happened to him. At least not yet. She lifted her head and met his eyes and recognized that besides the fierce triumph she saw, hungry desire still burned there. And frustration. At once she understood the rigid arousal kept separate from her only by his tautly stretched breeches for what it was. A man’s need, rampantly displayed, still unsatisfied.
What could still be left between them? And yet somehow she knew. She’d seen the hunting hounds. And the sheep. Even the stallions … .
Her eyes must have grown huge, for Cyprian laughed, though his voice held a strained and almost painful note. “I think we shall save that for another time, my beautiful little innocent.”
Tears unaccountably sprang to her eyes. She, who never cried, felt the unlikely burn of tears. “I … I’m not so innocent—”
Cyprian’s grasp on her changed, growing gentler. One of his hands still circled her waist while the other stroked then cupped the side of her face.
“You are still quite the innocent, Eliza. Beautiful and innocent,” he murmured, smiling directly into her eyes. “Your maidenhead has not yet been breeched—unless you and your Michael …”

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