To her horror her breath hiccupped, just a small, infinitesimal hitch in her breathing. She had cried much more forcefully than this after Tarkington had fallen into a heavy stupor, and he hadn’t stirred. Luca would never notice…
His hand brushed her cheek, so gently, taking the tears with him, and she waited for her body to freeze, in anger or in fear. Instead she turned her face into his hand, rubbing against it, as the tears kept flowing.
He pulled her closer, then seemed to realize her bound hands were still between them. Without a word he reached down and untied them, in a quick, skillful act that should have infuriated her. All her struggles, even using her teeth, had availed her nothing, and yet a few twists with his clever hands in the darkness and she was free.
Her wrists stung from the abrasions of the rope, and she tried to concentrate on that, but as she lifted her hands to shove him away she found that his arms had slid around her. She was pressed up against him, and now she was sobbing, her entire body shaking with the fury of her grief, for her father, for her sisters, for her lost innocence and hope. And for the man in whose arms she lay, the one she could never have, the one it seemed she had always wanted.
He held her, tightly, letting her weep. His hand rubbed her back, a soothing, gentle gesture, and through her sobs she could hear his soft voice, hear the gentle, comforting murmur of words she didn’t understand, didn’t need to understand. He wasn’t telling her to stop crying, to calm down. He was giving her the freedom to grieve, to mourn, telling her she could let go and he would be there to catch her.
But even she couldn’t cry forever, no matter how many tears she had stored up. Eventually they slowed as he held her, stroked her, and then there was nothing but the occasional dry hiccup as she hid her face against his soaked shoulder. And yes, there was a surprising amount of water in tears, she thought, moving her hand to grasp the wet linen.
She’d hoped for anger to follow even such a storm of weeping, but there was nothing but a peaceful exhaustion. She couldn’t fight, didn’t want to fight, no matter how much he deserved it.
“I’ve drenched you,” she whispered in a raw, resigned voice.
He pushed her hair away from her face. That was wet too—it felt like everything was covered in her tears. “So you have, monisha. Lie back for a moment.”
She did as he said without question, and felt him sit up and move in the darkness. And then he slid down beside her again, and she realized without shock that he’d removed the damp shirt, and he was using it to dry her own tears and strands of hair, imprinting the scent of him on her. He tossed it to the floor and pulled her back into his arms, back against the shock of his warm, hard chest, her face up against his skin, and she closed her eyes, breathing him in, wanting to inhale him, take everything inside of her. She couldn’t fight anymore.
Why him? Why now? She needed a title and a fortune to restore the House of Russell. Running off with a gypsy would be a considered an even greater breach of society than her father’s so-called crimes, at least by some people.
And why should she suppose he’d want anything from her? Oh, he wanted what Tarkington had wanted—that much was clear. In truth, she hadn’t met many men who didn’t want her in their beds, with the exception of Mr. Quarrells and his singular taste. And Mr. Brown. There was something about Mr. Brown, something important, but she was so tired and worn out from crying that she couldn’t remember, didn’t want to remember.
She would tell Luca her real name, and he would hate her. That would simplify everything. He would pull away, leave her, and she could curl up into a ball and not think about anything for a while.
His long fingers were stroking her face, very gently touching the painful bruises. “I wanted to kill the man when he hit you,” he said in a low voice, “and then I had no choice but to do the same thing. I’m sorry, love.” She felt his lips brush against her cheek, and her jaw, and she wanted to weep again.
She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat for a moment, as his lips brushed against hers, softly, back and forth. She caught his shoulders in her hands, and he felt so strong, so alive, that she wanted to pretend it was another time, another place. But she couldn’t.
“Ask me my name again,” she said in a hoarse voice. This time she would tell him. This time it would end it.
He brushed his mouth against her eyelids. But he didn’t ask her the question. “Do you know what ship we’re on?”
She should have felt irritation, but even that was denied her in her weary acceptance. “I don’t care. Ask me my name.”
“We’re on the Maddy Rose,” he said, and before she could react his mouth covered hers.
This was different than the other kisses. There had always been an element of control, of command, the other times he’d kissed her, a command she’d responded to despite her better judgment. This kiss was gentle, wooing, teasing her mouth into opening beneath him, teasing her tongue into a shy response. This was the kiss of a lover, not an enemy, and she had nothing left to fight him with.
She no longer had the protection of a corset—he’d already destroyed that, and someone, probably Luca, had loosened her clothes, so that the bodice wa
s open against the cool night air, and the hand that had brushed her face was now cradling it, his fingers gentle on her bruised neck, splaying across her shoulder and pushing the fabric out of the way.
She wanted it gone. She wanted to be skin to skin with him, she was willing to pay the price and have him inside her if she could give him that pleasure and hold him afterwards. It was an intoxicating feeling, and she wanted it with him.
“How long have you known?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady as his fingers moved down the front of her bodice, unhooking button after button. She felt like a fool, thinking she’d been so clever, but his hands, his mouth kept distracting her.
“From the first day.” His mouth followed, kissing the tops of her breasts.
“No.”
“Yes,” he said. “I saw you when you christened this ship. It was five years ago but I remembered.”
She closed her eyes. “I thought… I thought…”
“You thought I’d killed your father,” he said, not sounding offended. “I’m guessing you were convinced I somehow managed to embezzle the assets of Russell Shipping and then lure your father to his doom. I didn’t, you know. I was a pirate, not a bookkeeper.”
“I know,” she said miserably, her voice quiet. “But we found a note from my father. It said ‘never trust a pirate.’?”