Nicole Jordan (38 page)

Twenty minutes later the door slammed open. Deverill entered a bit more quietly but pinned Antonia with a fierce gaze as she jumped to her feet.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded, his tone soft and ominous.

“I should think it obvious. I am going to London with you.”

“The hell you are.” Deverill shut the door behind him, his eyes searing her, smoldering and furious.

“Deverill, listen to me, please. I know you are angry—”

“How perceptive of you. I will lose valuable time, having to return you to Wilde Castle.”

“You needn’t bother,” Antonia said, striving for a reasonable tone, “since I won’t stay behind. You may as well let me accompany you.”

Deverill moved halfway across the cabin, the full power of his forceful personality blazing out at her. “I have no intention of risking your safety by letting you near Heward.”

“And I have no intention of putting my safety above yours,” she retorted. “I feel terrible enough that his machinations made you a fugitive from the law. I am coming with you, if only to assuage my own guilt. If you refuse to take me, I will simply hire a ship and follow you.”

With effort, Deverill refrained from reaching out and throttling her. His heart had leapt when he’d learned Antonia was on board, and again when he’d laid eyes on her just now. He shouldn’t be so damned glad to see her, especially since she was defying his express orders and interfering where she wasn’t wanted. Once again she had caught him off guard, acting in ways he never expected. She was stubborn and determined—and she wouldn’t willingly back down, he knew.

He crossed the final distance to her, harboring some vague notion of taking his frustration out on her, along with a more specific thought of intimidating her into submission.

As if she could read his mind, Antonia lifted her chin. “I am not a wilting hothouse flower, Deverill, or a cowardly milquetoast who shrinks at the thought of danger. And I am not giving up. Not when the stakes are so high.”

“Dammit, I don’t question your courage, Antonia. I only want to keep you safe.”

Hesitating, she reached up to press a placating hand against his chest. “Perhaps, but don’t you see? This is something I must do, no matter the cost to myself. I have to come with you, Deverill. I am willing to risk my safety to achieve it. I
need
to be a part of bringing my father’s killer to justice. I need to feel as if I am helping—for my father’s sake, and for yours, and for that poor woman who died as well.”

The words vibrated between them, low and impassioned, and gave Deverill pause. She was deadly serious, he knew.

Gritting his teeth in sheer frustration, he gripped Antonia’s hand and held it away from his chest, struggling against her sweet touch as he battled with himself. She cared passionately that justice be done for her father, even if it cost her personally. He admired her courage and her willingness to sacrifice, certainly. Yet he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if she came to harm.

On the other hand, she had a right to be involved in bringing down her father’s murderer. And he had little right to stop her.

In truth, he would rather have Antonia collaborating with him than slipping behind his back where he had no control over her actions or her safety.

Just then, without warning, she rose up on tiptoe and lifted her mouth to his, just brushing his lips with her own.

The soft, startling caress was his undoing. With a harsh groan, Deverill hauled Antonia into his arms.

His head slanting down, he kissed her savagely, dominating and devouring with angry thoroughness, his mouth insatiable and possessive. Her response was just as passionate, her arms reaching up to twine around his neck and cling. Yet her hungry whimper brought him partially to his senses.

Holding her away, Deverill fought for control like a man drowning. He needed to stop wanting her, needed to stop craving her. . . .

Muttering another violent curse, Deverill stepped back and pointed an accusing finger at her. “Stay here, damn you. I don’t want to set eyes on you for the rest of the day.”

When he spun around and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him, Antonia sank weakly into the chair and raised her fingers to her burning lips, her thoughts dazed.

She had kissed Deverill but it had not been a conscious decision. It was simply inevitable. Because she had desperately wanted to provoke an emotion in him besides anger. Because she had wanted to prove to them both that he felt something for her besides protectiveness.

He wanted to protect her, of course; that was who he was. He desired her physically, she knew. But she needed to know that he cared for her in a deeper way.

He
did
feel something for her, she was certain of it. She had seen the burning brightness of his eyes, felt the hungry passion in his kiss. Deverill was not as impartial to her as he pretended.

It brought her little satisfaction, though, for she knew he would never let himself go beyond caring. Not when his heart was still set on seeking redemption that he would never permit himself to attain.

The schooner got under way shortly. Much to Antonia’s relief, Deverill had not tossed her off his ship, yet his anger had darkened her own mood significantly. She attempted to read, but mostly she spent the rest of the day staring out the porthole window at the Atlantic Ocean and fighting despondency.

Fletcher brought her lunch and dinner, but she had little appetite. And when dusk fell, she didn’t bother lighting a lamp.

When eventually the cabin door opened and shut, she thought it might be the old seaman again, but the unexpected sound of the key turning in the lock made Antonia go still.

Glancing over her shoulder, she caught her breath to see Deverill’s tall, muscular form outlined in shadow.

He said not a word. Except for the creaking of the ship and the dull surge of waves against the hull, the cabin was silent. Then she heard a faint rustling noise as Deverill stepped forward, and her heart leapt. In the slender rays of moonlight shimmering through the porthole, she could see him removing his clothing.

He tossed his coat on the sea chest, and then shed his waistcoat and cravat. When he began unbuttoning his shirt, Antonia found her, albeit shaky, voice. “Deverill, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I am undressing.” His tone was calm but held a sharp edge of irony.

“But why?”

“Because making love is more comfortable without clothes.”

Antonia’s pulse quickened. “You said our affair was over.”

“That was before you demanded to come with me.” Crossing to her chair, Deverill grasped Antonia’s shoulders with cool deliberation and drew her to her feet. “We have two days left, and I intend to make full use of them.”

His gaze was unsettlingly intense in the silvery darkness as he guided her backwards until she came up against the bulkhead. He was still furious at her, she realized—and no doubt with himself for surrendering to her. She became a prisoner of that smoldering glance as she stared up at Deverill.

He braced his arms beside her head, his mouth hovering threateningly close to hers. “Unless you mean to deny me?” he murmured harshly, making it a question.

Antonia felt her heart begin to race. She understood what he was saying: This would be their last time together. In two days the voyage would end and their affair would be over, but for now—for the remainder of the voyage—they could enjoy each other.

It would be wiser to say no, Antonia knew, but she really had no choice. She desperately wanted Deverill, needed him. She would give him up when she reached London, but for now, for this moment, he was hers.

“I won’t deny you,” she whispered in return.

His expression never changed; he merely reached up to grasp her arms and turn her around. He made short work of removing her gown, slipping it down over her shoulders and hips to pool on the floor. Her corset swiftly followed before he tossed both garments across the cabin and turned Antonia back to face him.

His gaze raked her, lingering on the thin cambric of her shift where her nipples had budded tightly. Then with one hand, he pulled her wrists up and anchored them to the bulkhead over her head. When his other hand reached up to cover her breast possessively, Antonia felt her heart slam wildly against her rib cage.

“Deverill . . .”

“No talking.”

He lowered his mouth in a domineering kiss, his body pressed against hers, all sinewed muscle and intensity, his bare chest hot against her barely clad one. Her own skin burned where she was crushed to his hardness, her lips blazed from his heat. His plunging tongue made her whimper as her senses swam with raw sensation.

In one corner of her dazed mind, Antonia became aware that Deverill had worked his hand beneath the hem of her shift. When he slipped his fingers between her thighs and found her cleft already slick with moisture, Antonia flinched with pleasure and inhaled in a gasp.

“Don’t move,” Deverill ordered.

She bit her lower lip but remained still.

Releasing her, he dropped to one knee and pulled off her half boots and stockings, leaving her wearing only her cambric shift. His eyes never straying from her body, he leisurely stood while pushing the garment up to her shoulders, baring her breasts so that she was mostly naked.

Antonia sucked in another sharp breath, feeling her taut nipples thrusting out, wanting him, aching for him. Then with deliberate slowness, Deverill brushed the proud taunting crests, pinching lightly between his fingers. Pleasure flared inside her—and the devil clearly knew it.

He sent her a hot, ruthless smile in the darkness before kneeling at her feet again. Holding her gaze, he let his hands close on her thighs and part them slightly.

Nearly moaning at the feel of those sensuous hands sliding along her skin, Antonia lodged a breathless protest. “If you mean to punish me for defying you . . . this is the wrong way to go about it. This is not punishment to me.”

“Hush, this is
my
fantasy . . . having you at my mercy.”

His hands made free with her body, stroking up her thighs, over the curve of her hips, along her abdomen, her rib cage, her breasts . . . before returning to her woman’s mound.

With maddeningly slow fingers he caressed her slick entrance and found the seat of her desire. “What a lovely pearl you have here . . . so plump and ripe and wet.”

Her hips jerked as he fingered her, straining against his arousing touch.

“Stand still,” he commanded.

She whimpered but obeyed.

Smiling darkly, Deverill leaned forward and put his mouth on her, nibbling for a moment, then pulling the dewy bud between his lips and sucking softly.

Antonia gave a low, sultry cry. “Oh, God . . .” she rasped in a ragged voice.

Deverill didn’t relent. His lips moved against her silky sex, while his hands moved over her hips, hot on her naked skin. Then his tongue slipped inside her, his exploration ruthlessly thorough, nearly making her scream.

Squeezing her eyes shut against the delicious torment, Antonia stood splayed against the wall, her head thrown back, her frustration mounting because there was nothing she could do but remain still beneath his sensual assault.

Except that Deverill wanted to hear her pleasure. “That’s right, moan for me, sweeting. . . . Let me hear how good it feels to you. I want you panting and mindless with need.”

She was already panting and mindless, Antonia thought wildly. Her breath was hoarse and ragged in her throat as she helplessly began to writhe.

His hands clamped down on her hips, anchoring her as he kissed her intimate center again, his mouth hard against her. Suddenly she flowered for him, her hips thrashing wildly beneath his caress.

Yet he wasn’t finished with her. Deverill aroused her once more with his stroking tongue, making her climax yet again, sending tremor after rapturous tremor ripping through her.

When finally he released her, Antonia sagged against the wall, her weak limbs barely managing to keep her upright.

His mouth was wet and curled in satisfaction as he rose to his feet. He had unfastened his breeches, his huge, swollen arousal springing free, Antonia saw before he braced a hand above her shoulder and leaned toward her, pressing that long, thick shaft against her naked belly.

Her thighs instinctively clenched together with longing, the feverish yearning only heightened since she was still pulsating with pleasure from her recent powerful explosions.

“You want me to fill you, don’t you?” he taunted hoarsely.

“Yes . . .”

“Then let me see how hot you are. . . . Let me hear you plead to take all of me inside you.”

“Yes, Deverill . . . please, yes . . .”

Her breathless entreaty turned to a keening moan when he obliged. Positioning his engorged phallus at her entrance, he slowly, slowly slid into her, plunging into her yielding flesh until she was impaled, stretched taut, holding her upper body against the wall with the weight of his.

Antonia shuddered, her inner muscles squeezing his throbbing length. It thrilled her when Deverill buried himself fully inside her like this. Wrapping her legs around his strong thighs, she curled her arms around his neck and clung as his hips began to pump in a rhythmic cadence, her own flesh shivering under the grinding thrusts of his loins.

In response, he grasped her bare buttocks, lifting her higher so he could go even deeper, penetrating her to the hilt, over and over and over again. He kept his gaze locked with hers as he moved, a savage possessiveness burning in his eyes, his body radiating such heat, such fierce desire, that she thought she would kindle into flame. In only moments she was writhing against him again, sliding her legs up and down against the fabric of his breeches with frantic need.

His hands kept her moving in that urgent, demanding rhythm. His eyes were fierce, his face hard and intent, his neck corded as he drove into her. Yet she reveled in his fierceness, reveled in her ravishment.

When her release came, she shattered in fiery waves, her moaning scream of ecstasy mingled with Deverill’s low, harsh shout. The keening sounds softly died as the violent tremors faded.