A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella (11 page)

“The way I’m looking at you now?”

Something in his voice choked any answer in her throat. Confused, she stared up into his face. The unwavering regard of those deep green eyes had her heart performing drunken cartwheels.

Channing indeed looked as if he intended to snap her up like a bonbon between his straight white teeth. He leaned over her, caging her between his impressive chest and the arm he propped on the pillow near her head. Against her side, his body was pleasingly heavy and hot.

“Y…yes,” she finally forced out between lips that felt as dry as sand. Her pulse throbbed so hard, it shook her whole body. She began to tremble, not to her shame with fear, but with frantic anticipation. “Just like that.”

His eyes darkened in sizzling concentration. Nobody in Bess’s whole life had looked at her with such burning focus. Her breath hitched and her head swam until all she saw was his face. His lips curled in a smile that made her giddy with longing.

If this was more teasing, she’d never forgive him.

“At last, a right answer.”

“Does that mean…” she stammered, as without conscious command, one hand slid up his arm to shape his shoulder.

“That I’m about to compound all the wickedness you accuse me of by being very wicked indeed? Aye, it does.”

“Oh…” she said faintly, then didn’t speak again because Lord Channing’s lips stole her breath.

This was shatteringly different from the last time he kissed her. That had been a question. This was a conquest. He lashed his arms about her and rolled to the side so they lay face to face. His warmth and masculine scent surrounded her. That rich essence flooded her senses with the promise of excitement and adventure and daring. And home and lifelong sustenance and safety.

She shouldn’t feel safe. After all, he was a pirate and a seducer, and she’d known him less than a week. But none of those good sensible warnings touched her heart. Her heart told her that she was home.

Rory Beaton was her home.

So when his tongue flicked against her lips, she obeyed the silent prompting and parted. He explored her mouth with shocking carnality. She tasted chamomile and raw spirits, delicious when combined with Channing’s distinctive flavor.

When she moved her tongue against his, he growled encouragement. She did it again and the kiss became an incendiary dance of lips and tongues. A deep pulse pounded in the pit of her stomach, making her feel empty and needy and jumpy. She wriggled to get closer, frantic to ease that hot, painful craving. Every rule she’d lived by tumbled around her like fallen ninepins hit square by the ball. Nothing outside the circle of Channing’s arms mattered. All that mattered was the passion flaring between them, and her need to know more, feel more.

He teased at her lips, nipping and licking and taunting her. She caught on quickly and teased him back until he, the worldly rogue, groaned and gave her more of those long, desperate kisses. As if he perished of thirst in the desert and only Bess offered sweet, fresh water.

She’d told him he made her feel special. When he kissed her as if the world would end if he stopped, he made her feel like a goddess. How could this be wrong?

Shyly, she buried her hands in his thick, silky hair, holding him close for more kisses. He whispered incoherent Scots words of appreciation against her lips and cheeks. The soft burr of his voice turned her bones to molten syrup. Emboldened she stroked his neck and face, feeling the prickling beginnings of his beard on his jaw. Everything he did, everything he was fascinated her.

He rolled her onto her back and surged over her. His mouth traced paths of fire over her face as she looped her hands across his powerful back. He found a spot where her shoulder curved into her neck. Kisses there made her quake, and when he bit down gently, she cried out and clawed at the fine lawn of his shirt.

He rested on one elbow and bent to take her mouth again. She met him unhesitatingly, sliding her fingers into the curls at his nape. He offered such a banquet of different, delightful textures, she hardly knew where to explore next. Somewhere at the back of her mind lurked the certainty that this glorious interval couldn’t last, that she had to wring every drop from this experience while she could.

His kiss was so overwhelming that she didn’t immediately realize that he’d flicked open the buttons descending from her collar. When air brushed her skin, she drew back to see her bodice gaping over her breasts.

“Channing?” she whispered, more in wonder than protest. She knew she should be frightened, but stronger than fear was instinctive trust.

“Rory,” he muttered, sliding a seeking hand under her shift to claim her breast. His palm was warm and confident on her flesh, and when he rolled her nipple between two fingers, heat seared her. The peak tightened with pleasure that verged on pain.

When he slid the frail covering away, his eyes flared at the sight of her bare breast. “You’re so beautiful, you take my breath away.”

Bess knew she should stop him, but the fire in his eyes held her acquiescent as he took that beaded point between his lips. When he drew on her, she caught his head in her hands, pressing him closer. Heat blasted her and she writhed against him, begging for more. She’d never felt like this in her life.

He looked up from her breast and kissed her again. When he slowly drew her skirts up, she murmured consent. He meant sin, but right now, the greater sin was abandoning this passion before she reached its destination.

When he touched her between the legs, she bucked with shock. She greeted his fingers with a hot surge, and whimpered with excruciating need. He was so close to where she ached to feel him.

He lifted his head and regarded her with a searching expression that pierced her soul. She was beyond pretending and made no attempt to hide her impatience. She had no truck with pride or prudence. All she wanted was Rory.

“Please?” she whispered with every ounce of longing in her heart. “Please don’t stop.”

For one fraught moment, desire’s clinging web held them captive. Breathlessly she waited for him to proceed, to initiate her into this ultimate mystery. His hands were hard on her hips. His body was big and powerful above hers. His face reflected her unbearable hunger.

Then in the space of a heartbeat, his expression closed and he turned into a stranger. Behind his eyes, shutters slammed down upon all that heat and desire and need.

“Rory?” she asked shakily, cupping his jaw with an unsteady hand. Briefly, he remained motionless under her touch, and she wondered if she’d mistaken his withdrawal. Then he angled his head away and shifted until his body no longer touched hers.

Ice encased her soul as he reached across and tugged her shift over her breast. “Bess, this can’t be. I’m sorry.”

As the beautiful unrestrained ardor in Bess’s face faded to hurt bewilderment, Rory’s heart cramped into a hard nut of regret. Regret was a sour taste in his mouth, too, when only seconds ago, all he could taste was Bess Farrar.

“Why did you stop?” she asked, her face pale where before she’d been flushed with pleasure.

Knowing he couldn’t trust himself so close to temptation, he rolled off the bed and stood up. “I had to.”

She pushed into a sitting position. Temper replaced the devastation in her eyes. “Is that so?”

“Aye.” He backed away until his legs hit a chair. He collapsed onto it. Frankly, he wasn’t feeling too steady. “I shouldn’t have let everything get so far.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” she bit out.

Shaking fingers making a mull of the mundane action, she buttoned her bodice. But it was too late. The memory of her breast under his hand would haunt him until he died. He sucked in a jagged breath and battled for composure. And wished this damned hut was the size of Blenheim Palace. Bess remained dangerously within reach, and his honor barely clung by its fingertips.

Rory bowed his head and stared unseeingly at the rough timber floor. Looking at her hurt him.

How he cursed his inconvenient conscience, but he couldn’t argue with its conclusions. Every principle he had recoiled at giving Bess Farrar her first sexual experience in a shabby hut with no promises exchanged.

He’d sinned before. Of course he had. But ruining this shining girl was a sin far beyond any he’d committed in his turbulent, swashbuckling life.

When he’d looked down into her lovely face, he’d read unconditional surrender. Once, he’d thought that was what he wanted from her. But it turned out he wasn’t nearly as selfish as he’d believed. Caught up in her first taste of passion, she lost all sight of her welfare.

If he took her now, he’d show her pleasure. He’d treat her with respect and care.

It would still be a grievous wrong.

“I hope you’ll forgive me. I didn’t behave like a gentleman.”

Her lips tightened. “In my opinion, you’re behaving too much like a gentleman, my lord.”

No sweet whispers of Rory now, he noticed, hiding a wince. His refusal of her breathtaking generosity clearly stung. He could endure her anger. Her pain left him feeling like she eviscerated him with a blunt butter knife. Every word he spoke only seemed to widen the gulf between them.

He longed to take her in his arms, but he was grimly aware how precariously he maintained control. If he touched her, Miss Farrar would face tomorrow as a fallen woman. This wondrous, bright, new feeling that grew between them would become a thing of shame and secrets.

He couldn’t bear that.

He repeated what he’d recognized when, eager and reckless, she’d begged him not to stop.
Bess Farrar deserved better.

“Bess…”

She sighed, a sound of such misery it made him want to howl like a motherless bairn. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like a witch.”

Blistering sexual frustration didn’t leave him feeling too jolly either. He wondered why doing the right thing made her furious and him wretched. Where was the justice in that? “No.”

He’d never seen so much effort put into a smile to such little effect. His hands fisted against the urge to catch her up against him. Because while he might set out to comfort, that wasn’t how everything would end. Damn it all to hell.

“You’re trying to be kind.” Dull eyes leveled upon him. “You’re a good man, my lord.”

If she knew the demons of lust warring for ownership of his soul, she wouldn’t say that. “No, I’m not.”

She managed a choked laugh. “I’m not a witch and you’re not a good man? We can’t seem to agree on anything.”

She struggled to make the best of a situation which had no best in it. By God, she humbled him. “Please listen to me.”

Except what the devil could he say? How could he form a coherent explanation from this churning maelstrom of contradictory impulses? And if he started reassuring her in words that he wanted her and he’d pulled back for her sake, he knew he’d go on to demonstrate that desire in actions. Next time he wouldn’t find the strength to stop.

“No, not now.” Her voice cracked and her hands dug into the thick gray blankets. He loathed that he’d pushed this vivid creature so close to the edge of breaking. “Lord Channing, I’d be most grateful if we didn’t discuss this anymore. I find…I find I’m very tired.”

“Bess, for pity’s sake…”

“Yes, for pity’s sake, my lord, please…please leave me in peace.”

“Very well,” he said grimly. Despite the risk to his control, he ached to talk to her, to explain what had happened, to make her understand. But she looked so exhausted and sad, he couldn’t bear to push her.

She flopped down on the bed and turned her back. For a long moment, he stared at her eloquently hunched shoulders, suffering a roiling mixture of longing and remorse. He knew he made a complete bloody mess of this, but he didn’t know how to fix it.

Eventually with a heavy sigh he stood and fed the fire before he tugged on his greatcoat. When his fingers snagged in the rip Daisy had made in his sleeve, he swore under his breath. The reminder of the first time he’d kissed Bess wasn’t exactly welcome just now.

He banged the chairs together to form a makeshift bed. Nowhere near as comfortable as the one Bess occupied in bristling silence. But even if she allowed him to sleep beside her, he knew better than to test his willpower.

Rory leaned back against one chair and propped his feet on another. The iron-hard wood beneath his arse served as yet another reminder of the price of virtue. But whatever his wicked self wanted, he knew in his soul he’d done the right thing.

If only Bess thought so, too.

He drew out his pocket watch. It was only just past nine o’clock. He felt like he’d lived a lifetime in the last hour. His thoughts strayed toward those miraculous kisses, but he brought himself up short. Things were difficult enough already, without torturing himself about what he could be doing right now, instead of trying to arrange his long body in a way that wouldn’t leave him hobbling tomorrow.

Outside the wind shrieked like a banshee. Contrary to Bess’s optimistic predictions, the storm showed no sign of abating. It was going to be a hell of a long night.

R
ory woke from his restless doze to see the door opening. Stretching painfully, he raised one hand to rub his stiff neck. He wouldn’t recommend sleeping the night on two chairs.