Regency High Society Vol 4: The Sparhawk Bride / The Rogue's Seduction / Sparhawk's Angel / The Proper Wife

“Then maybe there’s a place in that boat for us both.” Now that he was back with her, the storm seemed less frightening. If he wasn’t ready to die, then she wasn’t, either, and together they would find a way to safety. “Do you think you can walk?”

“As well as anyone can on board a sinking ship, chère.” He shoved back the coverlet and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. With Jerusa’s help he was able to reach the steps, and by the time they had fought their way against the wind to the deck itself, by will alone he was supporting her as much as she was him as they huddled in the companionway, shielding themselves from the full force of the wind.

As much as Jerusa had guessed at the havoc the storm had caused during the long afternoon and night, she still was unprepared for the sight of the wreck that the Swan had become. The shattered stump was all that remained of the mainmast, and along with the mast itself and all the sails and lines, the starboard rail had also gone over the side. The brig had settled low into the water and the waves broke and washed freely across her now, sweeping everything else away and leaving the deck oddly empty.

Empty of lines and rope, buckets and hatch covers, and empty, too, of any other people except for them. The davits that lowered the boats to the water were empty, also, and with a desperate disappointment, Jerusa realized that George Hay had kept his word and abandoned her and Michel to die together aboard the sinking brig.

But Michel was pointing in the other direction, over the bow. Through the blowing rain and spray Jerusa could just make out a long, shadowy shape on the horizon, land that seemed to be creeping closer every second. No, they were racing toward it, decided Jerusa, and abruptly they stopped. With an impact that tossed them both back down the steps, the Swan was hurled against an outcrop of rocks so large that it was almost an island, and then stayed there, her hull wedged awkwardly between the two largest rocks.

“Hurry, Rusa,” shouted Michel urgently as they climbed back to the deck. “There’s no guessing how long she’ll hold.”

Hand in hand they ran across the deck, now strangely still beneath their feet, forward to the bow. The island Michel had first spotted remained a tantalizing distance across the water, though exactly how far—a hundred yards, two hundred?— Jerusa couldn’t guess. He drew her to the very edge of the deck, where the rail had been before it had been washed away. Below them the bow hung free over open water, beyond the rocks that trapped the hull.

Michel cupped his hand around Jerusa’s ear so she could hear him. “If we stay on board the Swan, she’ll only break up around us, ma chérie. But if we can reach the island, we’ll have a chance of it.”

His eyes were bright with excitement, his whole body so alive with the challenge of what lay before them that she couldn’t believe she’d feared he would die. Not Michel, she thought with boundless happiness, not today.

“I love you, Michel Géricault!” she shouted, as much for the world to hear as for him.

He grinned back at her, his hand tight around hers and the wild daring in his eyes that she’d come to know as his. “And I love you, Jerusa Sparhawk!” he shouted back. “Now jump!” And with a wild, joyous whoop, she did.

Chapter Seventeen

“Jerusa?”

Michel rolled over on the sand, automatically reaching for the pistol at his waist that wasn’t there. But Jerusa wasn’t there, either. All that was left were the prints from her bare feet and the sweeping marks where her skirts had dragged across the sand. But mordieu, where could she have gone? She had been there beside him when they’d finally crawled from the surf, and she’d been curled beneath his arm after they’d collapsed here, high up on the beach where the palms would shelter them.

“Jerusa!” Unsteadily he rose first to his knees, then his feet, using the palm for support as his gaze swept up and down the empty beach. His gun was gone but his knife had somehow remained in its salt-stiffened sheath, and he drew it now, straining his ears for sound. He was light-headed from hunger and swallowing too much seawater and the lingering weakness of the fever, and the last thing he wished to do was to track her down, wherever she’d wandered off to.

Unless she hadn’t wandered off at all. Unless the beach wasn’t as uninhabited as it first had seemed, and while he’d been asleep like some great useless slug, some other man had come along to claim her. Unless…

“Oh, good, Michel, you’re awake!” She came bounding toward him through the tall grass at the edge of the heavier forest, her bedraggled skirts looped up over her long legs and a small bunch of yellow-green bananas, still attached to their stem, tucked under her arm. “Look what I’ve found!”

“You shouldn’t have gone off on your own like that, ma mie,” he cautioned. He might feel like the wrong end of a sailor’s leave, but she certainly didn’t. “You don’t know who or what you might have found.”

“Oh, fah, Michel, don’t be an old woman about it,” she scoffed, shoving her tangled hair back from her face, and she looked so pointedly at the knife in his hand that he finally tucked it back in its sheath. “I’ve told you before I grew up on an island, and I can take care of myself, too.”

He waved one arm through the air, encompassing the long empty beach, the wild, bright green forest and the vast turquoise sea. “This is hardly a proper little island in Narragansett Bay.”

“No, and we’re not proper little islanders, either, are we?” She grinned mischievously. “Have you any notion of where we are?”

He sighed, wishing he felt as cheerful as she did. “Somewhere off Dominica, perhaps, or maybe the Iles de la Petite Terre. Near enough that Mr. Hay and his friends should have kept to the Swan instead of scurrying off in their boats.”

She followed his gaze to where the brig lay wedged between the rocks, held in place as neatly as if she’d been set there for display. In the bright, warm sunlight it was easy to forget yesterday’s storm and how close they’d come to disaster.

“Do you think they reached land?” she asked. “I haven’t seen any sign of them in this cove, have you?”

“No,” said Michel, letting the single word answer both her questions with chilling directness. “Later, as soon as the tide falls, we’ll want to go back aboard. There’s things I’d rather not leave for the wreckers to find.”

“Wreckers?”

“Of course, ma chérie,” he said, surprised by her naïveté. Did she really believe they’d been cast away on some storybook desert island? There had been French, Spanish and English prowling about these waters for the last three hundred years, and Indians before that, and the odds of finding a truly deserted island anywhere in the Caribbean would be slim indeed.

“A prize like that brig won’t go unnoticed for long,” he explained. “And since she was abandoned by her crew, the salvage laws will let her be claimed by whoever wants her. Not that the wreckers will wait for the niceties of the law. I’ll wager that the first boats will be here by noon tomorrow, and then we’ll be on our way to St-Pierre.”

“Oh,” she said so forlornly it was more of a sigh, as she dropped onto the sand, the bananas in her lap. “I didn’t realize we’d be rescued quite so soon.”

Morbleu, she had believed they’d been stranded here for eternity! But as foolish as such an idea was, it did remain a pretty, tantalizing fantasy, and he could understand all too well why she’d wished for it. Waiting in Martinique with bleak certainty would be his mother and, quite likely by now, her father, and what wouldhappen there was now more than he could guess.

But here on this island the world narrowed to the two of them, a world that existed without the grim entanglements of loyalty and honor and revenge. Here none of that mattered. He and Jerusa had survived the storm unharmed and they had each other, and he couldn’t blame her at all for wanting life to stay that uncomplicated. Sacristi, what he’d give to keep it that way, too!

With a sigh he sat beside her, taking her hand gently in his. “Whatever else happens, chérie, remember that I love you.”

She smiled wistfully. “And I love you, Michel.” She looked down at how neatly their fingers intertwined and wished their lives could do the same. He loved her and she loved him, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that what they shared could survive whatever lay ahead in Martinique.

With infinite care she slipped her fingers free. “I thought you would be hungry,” she said, lifting the bananas from her lap. “I’m not certain, but I thought this must be some sort of fruit.”

“Bananas, ma petite. Something else that you won’t find on your Narragansett island.” He took the bunch from her, snapped the ripest banana free and peeled back the skin. Breaking off a piece, he held it before her until she opened her mouth to take it from his fingers. “They’re everywhere in the islands.”

She chewed it slowly, relishing the sweet, unfamiliar flavor before she finally smiled. “That’s very good,” she said, taking the rest of it from him to finish herself. “But surely you would like one, too?”

He shook his head. “Before I eat anything, Rusa, we must find fresh water.”

“Oh, I found that already.” Quickly she stood, thankful for something to do. “Near the bananas.”

The path through the forest was wide and clear, so easy to follow from the beach that Michel was certain it was used by ships refilling their water barrels after long voyages. But he’d expected a utilitarian stream or river, not the exquisite clearing that Jerusa now led him to, and familiar though he was with the beauty of the islands, this took his breath away.

Twenty feet above their heads, a narrow stream of fresh water rushed down from the island’s higher ground over smooth black rock before it fell, glittering like diamonds in the dappled sunlight, into a wide, clear pool. Tall, feathery ferns and trees shaded the pond, and yellow and lavender orchids punctuated the shadows with bright spots of bobbing color. The air around them was alive with the sound of falling water and the cries of the forest thrushes.

And yet as beautiful as the place was, for Michel the loveliest part of it was Jerusa as she stood on one of the smooth, flat rocks that hung over the water, just within reach of the cascade. She held her arms slightly bent, her fingers spread and her shoulders raised as she let the cool drops of water sprinkle over her, and her smile was so full of unfeigned, open pleasure that Michel knew he’d never forget it.

She laughed when she caught his eye, shaking her hair back over her shoulders and scattering a new shower of droplets into the air.

“I’ll say it before you will,” she called over the sound of the water. “No, there is no place like this on any island in Narragansett Bay, nor any other place in all of Rhode Island, either.”

He laughed with her as he came to kneel on another rock near hers, reaching down to scoop up the cool, clear water. No wine or brandy had ever tasted so fine to him, and he drank deeply, letting the water take away the parched heat from his throat. When he was done, he sat back on his heels to watch Jerusa.

She’d inched closer into the waterfall itself, and she stood with her head arched back, her eyes closed, and the same blissful smile on her face as the water streamed over her body. Her tattered green gown was soaked, clinging to her body in a way that reminded him of the tub at the inn in Seabrook.

“You are very hard on your gowns, chère,” he called. “I pity your husband.”

She opened her eyes and grinned wickedly. “What, because you think I’ll be hard on him, too?”

“I hadn’t intended it that way, ma petite Rusa, but now that you say it, I shall consider the possibilities.”

He liked seeing her laugh as she did now, and with regret he realized how rarely she’d smiled or laughed since he had come into her life. And yet, in reverse, how often she had brought joy to him, a man who’d always before found little in the world to amuse him!

“You may consider them, but that is all,” she said with mock solemnity. “The possibilities themselves shall remain private between my husband and myself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of intruding. Unless, of course, you’d wed Carberry.”

“You’ve no right to say that!” she scolded, trying to look as indignant as she could while soaking wet. “Tom and I simply didn’t suit one another, that was all.”

“All, and everything, ma mie.” Watching her in the water reminded him not only of the Seabrook inn but of how gritty and hot he felt himself, covered with sand and sticky with salt from the sea. He glanced from her to the water and back again, his lazy smile of suggestion widening. What was he waiting for, anyway?

“Whatever are you doing, Michel?” asked Jerusa as he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it onto the rock beside him. He unbuckled his breeches at the knees and then stood to unbutton the fall at his waist. “Michel!”

His smile was his only answer, and swiftly she turned her back to him, staring into the wet black stone of the waterfall rather than see him naked. She heard the splash as he dived into the water, and next his shouted exclamation as he discovered how cool the water was. It was easy to imagine him behind her in the pond, and easier still to picture him without his clothing, no matter how much her conscience ordered her to do otherwise.

“Come join me, chérie!” he called. “You will, I promise, feel much refreshed!”

“I would feel most indecent, thank you,” she answered, sounding impossibly prim even to her own ears. But his words had done their work. Despite the waterfall, she still could feel the sand that had been washed under her clothes by the waves, bits of grit trapped between her shift and her skin. The water would be so deliciously cool, and it would be wonderful to feel clean again.

“Jerusa, Jerusa,” he chided mockingly. “Why deprive yourself? It would be, after all, nothing I haven’t seen already. If you’ll but recall that afternoon in Seabrook—”

“I remember!” she snapped, and with a deep breath she spun around. Though he was in the water and his clothes remained on the rock, he was not exactly indecent; the ripples in the water around him hid all but his shoulders and arms. He flung his wet hair back from his face and slowly smiled, as blatant an invitation as any she’d ever had.

What was she waiting for, anyway?

Before she could change her mind she unhooked her bodice and tossed it onto the next rock. Her skirts, petticoats and stays followed, until all that was left was her shift. She looked down and saw the rapt look of anticipation on Michel’s face, and before he could ogle her any longer, she whipped the shift over her head and leapt into the water.

She gasped with surprise as her head broke the water’s surface, and Michel laughed.

“It’s not so bad after a minute or two,” he said. “Truly.”

“Not so bad if you’re accustomed to swimming in December!” she said, still gasping.

But as he’d predicted, the longer she was in the water, the less chilly it seemed to be. The pond was deeper than she’d realized, too, well beyond her depth, and automatically she began to tread water to keep afloat. Like loading and firing guns, her father had insisted she learn how to swim alongside her brothers, too, and as she paddled in the cool water now she was thankful he had.

“Are you all right?” he asked with amusement. “Would you rather stand, chère? The water’s not as deep here, by me.”

“I don’t need to stand, near you or otherwise.” To prove it, she swam away from him, enjoying the feel of the cool water against her skin and how her body warmed from the swimming.

Or maybe it wasn’t the swimming alone. She turned and glided back toward Michel, taking care to keep from getting too near.

Too near for what, Jerusa? What could possibly happen in a pond?

He sank deeper into the water until the surface was just level with his eyes, eyes that seemed very blue against all the shining black stone and green leaves. Silently he began to swim toward her, his strokes barely ruffling the water’s surface as his long blond hair streamed out behind him. Even though she knew it was no more than another of his endless games, she felt her heart quicken. There was something about the way he was watching her that was decidedly predatory, and she was his prey.

She narrowed her eyes and slammed her palm down on the water with a great splash, a ploy she’d learned from her brothers, but still Michel came closer. She twisted about in the water and plunged beneath the surface to get away from him, and instantly regretted it. Or at least her conscience did; the rest of her didn’t mind at all. There, before her in the water, was everything his breeches ordinarily hid, the last important detail her imagination hadn’t been able to supply, and Lord, he was a beautiful man.

He grabbed her ankle and jerked her up to the surface, sputtering. “Let me go, Michel!” she cried, blushing furiously as she tried to thrash free.

“Why should I, Rusa?” he teased. “All you’ve done is try to swim away from me.”

“Please, Michel!” It was nearly impossible to keep her body decently underwater while he insisted on dragging her foot into the air. He was going to upend her completely if he wasn’t careful.

“I’ll release your ankle if you give me your hand,” he bargained, and with little choice she reluctantly agreed, offering her hand as he let her foot glide back down through the water. “Now trust me, ma mie. Relax, and let yourself float.”

“Michel, I—”

“Shh, Rusa. You must trust me,” he ordered softly. “Remember that I love you, and trust me.”

Her gaze locked with his, gradually she did what he asked, letting her legs and body float upward behind her. Instinctively she extended her other arm to keep her head above the water, and Michel took that hand, too. Inch by inch she relaxed, the roar of the falling water filling her ears until she felt as if she were floating, weightless, not just in water but above it. Slowly he glided her closer to him, drawing her arms against him until their faces were only inches apart.

“Ma belle Jerusa,” he murmured, “ma bien-aimée.”

It seemed right for her to cross that last distance until their lips met. He kissed her gently at first, teasing her, their lips grazing together and then separating as he let her drift away, breathless with desire for more.

“Who’s running away now?” she whispered, her voice husky with frustration.

His smile was knowing, his eyes hooded. “Not I, ma mie.”

At last he pulled her close, releasing her hands so she could circle them around his neck as his mouth slanted over hers. Hungrily she parted her lips for him, needing to taste him, and she felt the first shimmer of pleasure ripple through her. She brought her body through the water to nestle close to his, her arms tightening around his shoulders to steady herself. His hands eased along her body, from the narrowing curve of her waist upward until, with a shudder, she felt him cup her breasts in his palms, his thumbs stroking the tips into hard, tight peaks of response that made her cry out.

She slid her hands along the length of his back, exploring the feel of him, learning how the hard muscles of his back narrowed and lengthened at his waist. She brushed across the small pebble of his nipple, nearly hidden in the hair, and learned from the sharp break in his breathing that he, too, found pleasure there.

She felt his hands slide lower, over her hips, cradling her as he guided her closer to him, and instinctively her legs parted and curled around his waist. Too late she realized the intimacy of what she’d unwittingly done, and with a startled splash she pulled back.

“Trust me, Rusa,” he said, his voice dark with promise as he held her. “This isn’t Martinique and it’s not Newport. This is here, and it’s only for us.”

She drew back to see his face, her throat tight from longing as she gave him a shaky smile. She loved him so much, and she wanted this to be right for them both. With infinite care and curiosity she let her body slide back down against his, aware of his eyes on her as he waited for her response. She lifted her legs around his hips again and drew herself closer until their bodies touched. She could feel his heat where they touched, the hard length of him pressed between her open legs, and she thought of how much he’d changed since she’d first glimpsed him beneath the water.

Tentatively she moved against him, startled by the sensations that swept through her. It had been like this in the cabin when he’d touched her, but this was better, far, far better. She pulled herself upward along his body, delighting in how the rough hair of his chest dragged across her sensitized breasts, then she eased down again along his length.

Her breath caught at the languorous pleasure of it, and she tightened her legs around him, instinctively offering more of herself as she raised herself upward again. This time her motions weren’t quite as measured, her body eager for more as the cool water splashed and sluiced over them.

His fingers dug deep into her hips, lifting her against him, increasing the pressure of her sliding caress, and this time she cried out, feeling his touch in every nerve. He groaned in response, his breath hot in her ear.

“Enough of this, chère,” he said raggedly as he moved to swing one arm beneath her knees. “I don’t want to drown.”

He lifted her dripping from the water to the bank beyond the rocks, and she welcomed him, her wet, glistening body feverish in her need. With her black hair curling damply around her full, pale breasts, her nipples and her mouth red and swollen from his kisses, she looked like a mermaid from a sailor’s dream, wanton and eager for him alone.

He tried to tell himself to go slowly, that she was still a maid, and he’d no wish to frighten her again as he had before. But the idea that he would be the first man to have her was wildly intoxicating, adding more fire to a desire that was already hotter than anything he could remember. He kissed her again as he eased her legs apart, and when he touched her sweet, hot flesh, she moaned and moved shamelessly against him, and he knew they’d both waited long enough.

Her eyes widened as he entered her, and she gasped at the new sensation of joining with him this way and giving so much of herself. Yet when he began to move within her, she gasped again and cried out his name, as with each thrust, each stroke, he drove the pleasure higher, hotter than she ever could have imagined. Now when she curled her legs around his waist she understood, drawing him deeper within her and rocking her hips to meet him.

Now she understood about love and passion, and the white-hot need that Michel had raised in her soul and her body, and when at last she thought she could bear no more, he gave her the last and best secret of all. With a wild cry that rose above the waterfall she found her release.

Her cry reached to every corner of his heart, and in response he plunged more deeply into her, frantic in his need to lose himself within her, and when it came, the end left him shuddering and complete. Yet even then he did not want to let her go. With her he had discovered more than love; he had found the rare contentment and joy that only she could give, his Jerusa, his love.

“I love you, Michel,” she whispered drowsily afterward as she lay with her head pillowed against his chest. “Oh, how I love you.”

“Je t’aime, ma chère,” he said softly, marveling at the words he thought he’d never hear or speak. “Je t’aime tant, ma petite Rusa.”