The Pirate and the Pagan (49 page)

It began to rain, and when it rained in Holland, it did a thorough job of it. The heavy pewter sky made Summer’s spirits sink and no matter how she tried to push away the disturbing thoughts about Rory, they crept back insidiously, fueling her active imagination with one unsavory plot after another. She almost insisted that Hans return her to the ship so she would walk in on Rory and de Ruyter, but she thought better of it and allowed the blond giant to escort her to a fine restaurant for a good hot meal to ward off the chill of the wet weather.

She decided she needed a drink to banish the darklings, and when a light golden wine was suggested, she shook her head emphatically and ordered gin. Hans looked alarmed. If he had dared to refuse her, he would have done so. He was all too aware of the potent and immediate effects of the clear, strong liquor. By the time he guided her back to the
Phantom,
Summer was in the state of intoxication which made the timid bold. In Summer’s case it made her downright aggressive. She boarded the
Phantom
and watched with knowing eyes as the faithful Hans went up on the quarterdeck and reported to Black Jack Flash that she had almost disgraced herself by guzzling gin.

She divested herself of her gown and high heels and donned the white duck pants and knotted his white lace shirt at her waist. She tied a red kerchief about her hair and, barefoot, went up on deck to beard the lion in his den.

Rory’s eyes followed her progress with amusement as she took extra-careful steps to match the ship’s roll as it rode at anchor. Today his amusement annoyed her. She’d wipe that damned smile off his face if it was the last thing she did.

She swaggered up to him insolently, fists dug into her hips, and said, “I’ve decided I don’t like this stinking country, when are we leaving?”

Rory’s eyebrows went up slightly. “When I give the order to leave.”

She uttered a stable oath and he looked down at her from at least six feet and said in a mocking voice, “I should teach you how to curse in another language, it sounds so coarse in English.” He was filled with arrogance, dash, and swagger. He could be rude or charming, but she knew he would never be anything other than self-assured, and today it simply grated on her nerves.

“English is quite good enough for me,” she said with narrowed eyes. “I hate fraternizing with my enemies even if you do not!”

“I believe you are slightly drunk, Cat. Seek your cabin,” he said quietly.

“You give orders so well, sir, let’s see if you can take them. I order you to weigh anchor now!” she shouted recklessly.

“Cat, I warn you I will not tolerate your impudence before my men. Go below,” he ordered.

She took an aggressive step toward him, daring his manhood. “And if I don’t?”

He took two strides toward her and lifted her in his arms. Her mouth curved with satisfaction. Now he would carry her below and try to make love to her, but she would refuse him! He carried her to the rail, lifted her over, and let her drop straight down into the water.

She came to the surface gasping for air. She couldn’t believe what he’d just done to her. God damn all Helford men to hellfire! The dunking had sobered her up in one hell of a hurry, but there was no way on God’s earth she was going to haul herself up on the seawall and board the
Phantom
looking like a defeated drowned rat.

He wasn’t even looking over the rail to see if she was all right. She trod water for what she estimated would be ten minutes, then she filled her lungs with air and pushed herself out from the side of the ship in a deadman’s float. Her arms spread wide, her hair drifted out from the red kerchief, and she hung facedown, half-submerged in the water. She heard the cry go up—“Captain! Captain!”—and forced herself to remain still and use up as a little oxygen as possible. She heard Rory’s frantic “Christ Almighty!” Then she heard him plunge down from the deck thirty feet above her. She felt his strong hands lift and turn her so that she was faceup in the water. “Sweetheart, speak to me,” he ordered. She lay with eyes closed in a seeming state of unconsciousness. “My God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he gasped. She fluttered open her eyes, whispered his name pitifully, and closing them
again, let out all her breath and stopped breathing. He was frantic now to get her out of the water. He floated her over to the seawall and allowed a half dozen of his crew to help him lift her, cursing them to be careful not to scratch her delicate skin on the sharp barnacles and crustaceans massed everywhere.

He carried her dripping body down to his cabin, flung back the red silk curtains, and lay her gently upon the bed. He knelt down beside her, pinched her nostrils together, and gently pried open her mouth. He covered her mouth with his and gave her his own breath to try to revive her. “Please, please,” he murmured between breaths. Her chest rose and fell as he breathed life into her and Summer found it almost impossible to keep from giggling. The next time he fused his mouth to hers, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him in a most suggestive fashion.

“You little hellcat, I should beat you to a jelly playing such damned tricks.”

She began to laugh and found she could not stop. Finally she drew up her knees and, hugging them, rolled about the bed in mirthful glee. Rory regained his sense of humor and began to laugh with her. “You little bitch, you hate to be bested, don’t you?”

“I haven’t found the man yet who could do it.”

In a flash he dragged her across his knee and pulled down her soaking pants. Then he gave her bare bottom one resounding smack which he knew would smart like hell.

“Rory, don’t be fierce with me, you forget I’m with child.”

He turned her over quickly and dropped a quick kiss upon her stomach. “Your little belly is too big for me to forget such a thing,” he teased.

“You brute, how could you?” she protested. He grinned down at her. “Serves you right. The bed is drenched, we’ll have to sleep on the floor tonight.”

“Mmmm … delicious,” she said wickedly.

    Rory however was nowhere to be found that night. She fell asleep on the window seat waiting for him and didn’t awaken until the small hours of the night. When at last she heard him, his movements were so furtive she became suspicious. She pretended sleep until he changed into a robe and stretched himself out full length on the floor.

In less than an hour, light from the dawn crept into the cabin and she arose quietly. Her throat closed as she noticed his bloodstained
knife lying with the black garments he had removed. She slipped out to go up on deck to get some air. As she leaned against the taffrail in the half-light she saw something floating in the water. It was too dark to make out what is was at first, then slowly she was filled with horror. She knew it was a body because of its auburn hair floating like seaweed. The shade of auburn matched that of the Grenviles exactly.

Within the hour the
Phantom
was on its way and soon they had left the sodden skies of Holland behind for the sun-drenched coast of France. Summer’s peace of mine had fled. Her suspicions about him grew when they sighted Dutch merchantmen and Rory refused to attack them. Now that suspicion had raised its ugly head she could not content herself with his explanation that he did not want to jeopardize her safety.

When he took midnight watch at the ship’s wheel, she decided to go through his desk. She was convinced that he had unlawful dealings with the Dutch and hoped and prayed that he was not selling England’s secrets for money.

What she found was a diplomatic pouch with sealed documents addressed to King Louis of France from King Charles of England. She dared not disturb the seal further, for to her keen eyes it already looked as if it had been tampered with. Here was a puzzle indeed. Had Rory Helford been entrusted to deliver a message from England to France or had he come by the documents by piracy? If the documents were genuine, had he stopped off in Holland to reveal their contents to de Ruyter? Or were they fake documents to France’s king, only ostensibly from the King of England?

The next time they made love she would pry in a subtle way to see if he would let anything slip.

The
Phantom
lay at anchor in a secluded cove. The crew had gone ashore in the longboats. They were familiar with many wineries in the vicinity which had provided vintages to slake their thirst in the past and the vineyards stretched back for miles.

Summer and Rory had swum naked together in the warm azure sea the moment they had their privacy and now lay on deck sunning themselves and drowsing in the heat of the day. Summer had modestly wrapped a towel about her, but Rory hadn’t bothered with such an encumbrance. She reclined against soft red cushions he had brought from their cabin and Rory lay stretched out full length with his head resting in her lap. The wooden planks of the
deck were deliciously warm beneath her buttocks and the sun had kissed her face until her skin had turned golden.

His cheek stirred against her thighs and she peeped from beneath half-closed lashes. Her eyes ran over the splendid length of him. He had such a superb body, it gave her deep pleasure to see the great slabs of bronzed muscle flex and relax as he breathed. Then she became aware that he was watching her admire his body, for his manhood stirred and the great shaft began to thicken and lengthen. Her body heat almost scorched his cheek as it pressed against her soft thigh. Slowly his hand reached up and removed the towel which separated her bare flesh from his. He turned his face into her body and pressed a kiss just above her triangle of curls. “You are so lovely,” he said huskily, letting the tip of his tongue trace her secret places. “Your skin tastes salty from the sea.” Suddenly she knew a strong need—his body was so beautiful, she wanted to worship it.

“Rory, I want to taste you,” she said intensely. Their eyes met and held and in that moment the whole universe melted away until there was just the two of them and their great hungry need to devour each other. She knew all barriers between them must come down before he would reveal the truth to her. She knew they must merge and become one. He lifted her up until they stood pressed together in a close embrace. Her face when she stood on tiptoe reached to the base of his throat. She kissed the place where his pulse throbbed then her tongue began to lick his bronzed skin. He held his body motionless for her as she traced her lips lower across his pectoral muscles, his flat nipples, then her tongue traced down his ribs until she bent low enough to dip it in and out of the deep cleft of his navel.

Slowly she slid down his body until she was on her knees before him. His sex stood up rigidly, slightly higher than her mouth. She looked up to see him gazing down at her with adoration. This was the most intimate thing she’d ever done for a man and it would shatter the last barrier between them. She reached up gentle fingers to lever his shaft downward and kiss its velvet crown. He moaned with unbelievable pleasure and she took the head into her mouth and ran the tip of her tongue under its prominent ledge. She marveled that the head of his phallus was heart-shaped, and if she held her soft tongue pressed to him, she could feel every wild heartbeat and pulse of his magnificent body.

His head was thrown back now, the columns of his strong neck
arched until they stood out, straining his control to the limit. She nibbled and sucked on him for a few minutes then her tongue traced the full length of his shaft and he cried out, “Don’t!”

She had had a foretaste of lavish sensuality and now she needed him to fill her so she would never feel empty again. One last time she ran her tongue over the swollen crest of his manhood. She felt him swell and go solid. She removed her lips and saw how unbelievably large he had grown. She trembled with need. If she didn’t have him, she would die.

He pulled her face up to his before it was too late, then lifted her by the buttocks onto his marble-hard weapon and thrust it to the hilt. If she hadn’t been so completely aroused, she would never have been able to accommodate his great size. Their passion scorned convention and leaped the barriers of normal morality. They fell writhing to the hot deck and she wrapped her legs high about his back as he savagely thrust harder and deeper, impaling her to the limit of her endurance. It was torture, but a blissful torture of shivering, mounting, sumptuous response as he brutally carved out his own place inside of her.

She began to sob for the culmination, then she heard his command, “Now!” and he took her mouth in a bruising kiss which made her whole body throb from the tip of her tongue to her toes. She felt his explosion deep within and she felt herself implode upon him as he emptied himself inside her. It was as if he had opened the floodgates to paradise.

They clung together, dreading the inevitable separation that must come when they returned to being two again. He diminished in size and hardness until his erection was half what it had been at the height of their passion, yet he was still large enough in this semiaroused state to almost fill her. He rolled his weight from her but took her with him so that he could remain inside her. He could not bear to withdraw just yet. She lay in a wanton sprawl atop his great body and felt the delicious black crisp hairs beneath her cheek. The sun beat down upon her bared back and his beloved hands came up to massage her bottom, then he relaxed his hands so that he cupped her lightly. As she lay there, a captive to their lust, she began to feel guilty. What if this man was a traitor to his country? If she faced the truth, she knew he had killed a man. What if he was a danger to her husband, Ruark? She knew Ruark was involved in spying for the King. If Rory worked for the other side, was he ruthlessly using his brother to learn England’s secrets?

She looked at his face and for the first time it looked dangerous, hard, brutal.

When she could speak again, she said low, “Rory, I saw the sealed documents you carry.”

“Leave it!” His voice, like a whiplash, stunned her. How could he keep secrets from her while their bodies were still joined?

“Did you kill Richard Grenvile?” She felt enormous guilt over the death, since she’d been the one to tell him of sighting Grenvile. “Tell me!” she cried.