The Black Rose Read online

  "Diaoul!" he rasped, turning swiftly and crushing her to his chest while he struggled to capture her flying fists. "By the devil himself!"

  "L-let me go! I won't do it, do you hear? N-not again!" She was fighting in earnest now, her eyes huge with terror.

  A muscle flashed at Andre's jaw as he studied her white, tear-streaked face and blind, tormented eyes.

  Not this way, bihan, he answered silently. In the name of God, I swear I never meant it to be this way.

  May heaven forgive me, the hard-faced corsair thought, reaching for the rum.

  Only this time, the drink was for him.

  Swiftly he tilted the jug, swallowing long and hard, trying to forget the dark terror he had seen in his captive's blind eyes.

  "No more rum, sea gull, that much I promise." His long fingers covered her palms and pressed them flat against his chest. "And no more dreams in the darkness. Not when I am here, me kalon. With me you will know only starlight and midday sun. No more shadows. Only this ..."

  Andre's breathing was harsh and ragged in his ears as he slanted his lips over hers, fighting to quell his wild haste, his fierce desperation. Haunted by the thought that three times he had nearly lost her, twice to wind and wave, and the last to something far worse.

  Then the hot silk of her lips met his hungry tongue and he was lost, well and truly. Groaning, he wrapped his mouth around hers to taste her better, feeling as if he had been cast tumbling and churning into stormy seas.

  Drowning — and knowing he never wanted to come back up again.

  Mamm de Zoue, but she was a tempest that shook him in blood and bone. Even now, when their kiss was no more than scant seconds old, the Frenchman knew he would never get enough of this woman.

  Suddenly all the fierce tension of the last weeks roiled and exploded within him, erupting in a savage wave of passion. His senses aflame, he stroked her, tongued her, nipped her.

  With every second he grew reckless for more, until he thought he would drown in the sweet taste of her rum-laced mouth, her skin scented with lavender and sea salt.

  Head on, the Liberte's hard-faced captain faced the storm, feeling desire pound through him in fiery waves.

  Oh yes, he would have her, his Anglaise. Whatever it took, he would do. And when the time came at last, his possession would be fierce and total.

  For now and forever.

  * * * * *

  Darkness everywhere. Terror choking her. And yet —

  Something sharp and bristly scoured Tess's cheek, and suddenly her lips were bathed in fire. She choked back a sob, struggling wildly against the madness hammering in her head.

  Whimpering, she waited for the angry bite of tiny jaws, her fingers opening and closing convulsively.

  Instead her hands met hot flesh and straining muscle.

  More dreams, a cold voice whispered. This dream more dangerous than all the rest.

  Frowning, Tess brought a trembling hand up to cup her throbbing cheek.

  And realized dimly that her pain came from the rasp of bearded skin, not from the tiny, clawing night creatures.

  A dream? If so, how sweet!

  Once again, fierce and sleek, the dark fire raced across her lips, making her tremble — not with pain or even fear, but with a hunger she barely understood.

  Deep within Tess an answering heat stirred to life. Her muscles tensed; she felt heavy and light at the same moment. Her emptiness grew into a raw ache.

  "S-stop," she rasped, afraid of this storm he loosed upon her, afraid to feel so keenly when everything in her life had taught her that to feel opened one to pain and torment — that every pleasure carried anguish in its wake.

  Without warning, Tess thought of the man who had been her first love, the man who had shattered her every hope of happiness. His kisses, too, had left her hungry and aching. Yet in the end that desire had brought her nothing but torment.

  No, she must never yield!

  "So cold, you are," the Frenchman whispered, his full beard grazing her lips. "But not for long, bihan." His big, calloused fingers began to ease open the buttons on her damp shirt.

  Tess gasped as dreams shifted and took solid shape in a stranger with hard, hungry fingers. Understanding his intent, she recoiled, going rigid in his arms.

  He only pulled her closer. "Hush, my heart. Padrig's brought fine silks and velvet, and I would see you clothed all in sapphire and crimson rather than in these sodden breeches." All the while he spoke, Andre's strong fingers continued to move soothingly, weaving a spell upon her trembling flesh.

  With a faint rustle the cold, wet shirt slipped from Tess's shoulders.

  Cool wind played over her naked skin and panic rose to choke her. How could she? Shameful, it was. Madness itself! "Stop! You must not —"

  He stilled her protests with the dark fury of his mouth. This time all gentleness was gone from his touch. Now he neither asked nor coaxed, but drove his hot tongue deep within her, molding her to his hard desire as he set the brand of his passion upon her.

  Outside, the wind howled, lashing the unfurled canvas, sending sea spray exploding over the decks.

  Or was it Tess's heart that pitched and foundered so?

  Terror seized her as she felt the granite walls about her heart tremble and sway.

  Don't let go! Don't allow yourself to feel, for feeling makes you weak, and weakness is deadly, the beginning of all pain.

  But the strong hands whispered a different truth, their touch rich with the promise of magic. Captive in the thrall of Andre's hypnotic caress, Tess moaned, buffeted by this storm of new sensations he unleashed.

  With exquisite agony his calloused, work-roughened fingers lifted her hair and scraped the tender skin of her neck. His bearded cheeks scrubbed her delicate jaw.

  And this infinity of small torments only added to her dark stirring of pleasure. As if he knew this, Andre let his mouth hover until Tess whimpered with need; only then did he finally slant his face down, crushing her lips and devouring her very soul.

  Was any of this real? she wondered wildly. Yet how could she stop her heart from racing when he touched her so, when her body turned strange and reckless, hungry for this sweet torment he brought her?

  "No more shadows, gwellan-karet. Only heat and storm, my love," the man beside her whispered hoarsely, his lips brushing the swell of her lips, the silken lobe of her ear, the vein that throbbed at her neck. "Nothing else matters but this. There is no past and there will be no future for us, only this sweet, effortless now. Open yourself to it, bihan. Share it with me."

  His breath was hot, sweet with the hint of rum. His fingers, tracing electric patterns on her sensitized skin, were hard and sure.

  Dangerous. Infinitely dangerous.

  He knew exactly what he was doing, Tess realized. While she ...

  She was adrift, yawing like a rudderless ship.

  With a little sob she tried to push him away, shoving at his hair-matted chest. Desperately she tried to clear her whirling thoughts, to summon the will to refuse him.

  But the Liberte's captain ignored her struggle. Cupping her bare shoulders, he began to feather tiny kisses down her neck and across her collarbone, groaning as he felt her skin heat beneath his mouth.

  "Flame for me, bihan. I've waited so long ..." Lower he moved, and lower, his touch all storm and wonderful torment. His beard scraped against the upper swell of her breast, sending shockwaves plunging to Tess's very toes.

  "Dear God, Andre, you — must stop. I — I cannot think when you touch me so!"

  "Perhaps there is no need to think, bihan," the captain muttered thickly, his voice as rich and dark as the rum he had pressed upon her earlier. "Perhaps, for now, to feel is enough. To feel this, and far more than this. Although for myself," he muttered hoarsely, "this is nearly more than I can bear."

  Heat flooded Tess's face as she understood his meaning, for the rigid line of his aroused manhood was wedged against her thigh.

  The captain laughed grimly, his fin
ger tracing her hot cheek. "You blush, Anglaise. And it makes you beautiful beyond describing."

  Stunned by the harsh tenderness in that gravelly voice, Tess cocked her head, desperately wishing she might see his face.

  And in that moment a whole new world of sensation opened up to her.

  Blind, she began to know the texture of sound and scent, the many shades of darkness. Sightless, she learned to draw upon new, exquisitely sensitive ways of sensation.

  That was the first lesson the Frenchman taught her. In its wake Tess found herself reckless, wanting to savor all the other things he could show her.

  "Andre," she said huskily, unaware that her thoughts had found expression. Her head fell back, her lips accidentally brushing his neck.

  He shuddered. Tess felt his broad chest rumble as he groaned. At first she stiffened, stunned by his immediate response. Then she began to smile, heated by this discovery of her power over him.

  His fingers dug deep into her hair, tugging her head back and forcing her face up to his scrutiny. "So this pain of mine amuses you, does it?" His fingers tightened and he muttered a rough curse. "You learn quickly, sea gull. Too quickly, I think." His tall frame shifted and she felt him move away.

  The cold that swept over her then was stunning. She shivered, feeling darkness press close.

  But an instant later his powerful body fell hard and heavy against her, crushing her back onto his bed.

  Suddenly the darkness was gone, swept away by a world of rich textures and infinite wonder. When his warm breath played over her naked skin, Tess realized he was studying the heart-shaped birthmark above her right breast. Her chest rose and fell erratically; she could almost feel the dark force of his eyes as they raked her skin.

  Once more her face flooded crimson. What sort of wanton had he made her? She must stop now, before it was too late!

  Wasn't it already too late? a mocking voice asked.

  "Andre —"

  "Say my name again, Anglaise," he growled.

  "An-Andre, please —"

  "Yes, mon coeur. Pleasing is what this is all about. Pleasing you, my heart, which pleases me. Feeling a storm rage through me when you say my name just so. Diaoul, but I think pleasing you is the thing I shall do very best in this world."

  Then he made truth of his words. His rough tongue lapped one soft pink nipple, making Tess gasp with pleasure. Shuddering, she tried to bite back a moan.

  Her breath fled.

  Her reason followed a heartbeat later.

  His crisp beard chafed the soft swell of her breast, an exquisite counterpoint to the velvet torment of his wet, circling tongue. Then, with a growl, his lips captured her hot, aching center.

  Tess whimpered, cast blind and yearning into a sea of raw sensation. Torment and pleasure flowed together. Around her the world shimmered and dissolved.

  "Dieu, que tu es douce," the Frenchman whispered, his mouth never leaving her skin. "So soft. I think I could drown in your softness, bihan."

  At the sound of those rough-tender words little suns exploded behind Tess's eyes, bathing her in golden light.

  And by some strange alchemy the softness beneath his mouth swelled and grew taut, forming a perfect, furled bud. Tess knew and did not fight it, felt and did not wonder, cast adrift, awash in dark pleasures which left no room for logic or reason.

  Groaning hoarsely, he closed his lips over her, drawing her deep within his mouth, his tongue moving hard and wet upon her aroused skin.

  No more shadows, Tess thought dimly. Not with this man. With him only heat and storm — only desire in wild, cresting waves. Maybe, as he had said, that was truly enough.

  She did not know how he had found her or why, only that this feeling between them was keen and blinding, sweeter than anything she had ever known. Almost, it was enough to make her believe in trust again.

  "Tell me you want this, mon coeur," Andre growled. "Tell me you feel this storm as I do."

  Don't answer, a cold voice warned. Trust no man.

  For a wild moment Tess thought of Ravenhurst, and a tremor passed through her.

  The Frenchman missed neither the shiver nor the hesitation. "Is there another?" There was steel in his voice now, along with a dark edge of fury.

  Cold tendrils — was it reason returning? — wrapped around her heart.

  How could she explain that pain may bind as keen as pleasure; that first love, though long dead, must cast a shadow upon all future joys? In the end what could she say, especially when she understood it so ill herself?

  The silence between them stretched out, brooding and potent; every second that Tess hesitated allowed grim thoughts of fear and regret to rush between them.

  "Do you love him?" the man above her rasped.

  "No!" Sharp and swift, her answer shot back. Too swift?

  Tess heard his quick intake of breath. There was the barest tensing of the hard fingers at her breast. Her heart began to hammer wildly. She could almost hear him scowl.

  "I wonder."

  "How can it matter? There is no past — you said so yourself."

  Crushed against his lean body, Tess felt as much as heard his slow sigh. "It seems, bihan, that I was wrong."

  "But I — I owe you my life."

  "You owe me nothing," the hard-faced corsair answered savagely. "Owing is not what I want from you!" He jerked his hands away from her aching skin and did not reach for her again.

  Tess was stunned by the fierce regret she felt when he did not. A moment later she felt him shift, the bed rocking as he surged to his feet. His boots hammered across the floor toward the door, where he halted.

  "When I take you, Anglaise, it will be by your choice and your asking. At that moment there will be no other man's name on your lips, no other man's face in your thoughts, do you understand me? I will have you no other way!"

  The door grated on its hinges, then crashed shut, plunging Tess into blackness and cold once more.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Long the explosive crash of wood upon wood echoed through the still room.

  Numbly, Tess sat up and jerked on her shirt, her pulse still racing wildly in her ears. What had this man done to her? Dear God, he was a stranger. How could he exert such power over her?

  Unbidden came the memory of his hard hands, ruthless and expert upon her heated skin. Even now the thought sent her blood roiling thickly through her veins.

  Was this the thing that zealots raged against from their pulpits, and mothers warned their daughters against? Or was she truly going mad at last?

  Her fingers traced her lips, swollen from his kisses, then jerked away as if burned. In that wild movement, she brushed against the cool rim of a jug.

  The cider Padrig had left.

  Sweet as bottled sunshine, he'd called it. She could use some sunshine right now, Tess thought. Anything to drive away her demons.

  Her trembling fingers cupped the cold stoneware. Pressing her eyelids closed, she brought the vessel to her lips.

  It was her first taste of smoky Breton cider, and the brown liquid was light and fire, all bubble and bite, just as Padrig had said.

  Quickly Tess gulped down another drink. The darkness withdrew slightly, less suffocating; the terror did not hang so heavily on her now.

  With a watery, defiant sniff she sat up and pulled the heavy jug onto her lap. Another gulp — she felt a heat begin in her belly, curling pleasantly through her arms and fingers. She wiggled her toes, enjoying the warmth that radiated out to their very tips.

  You, my girl, are halfway to being tipsy, she thought. Well, and so what? she answered that censuring voice. What did it matter after all that had happened to her?

  She forced down another long drink, and then the thought came to her. Why did she remain here in the dank silence? She was not one who could be commanded by anyone, not even by an arrogant captor like her Frenchman.

  She would prove that to him now!

  * * * * *

  The wind was screaming as T
ess crept along the companionway. She would have to be more careful this time, she decided. Once already she had made her way past the crew, but after suffering their captain's fury they were certain to be more vigilant.

  With the wind lashing her auburn hair about her face, she stumbled on deck, realizing she was nearly three sheets to the wind herself. But the cider made her feel alive, as if the darkness could no longer harm her.

  Overhead she heard the sharp snap of canvas sails, and somewhere to the left the crash of cable hitting the deck.

  "Check that jib, Le Fur!" she heard Andre shout in guttural French from the bow.

  Her heart pounding, Tess sank back into the companionway; when the brisk activity on deck continued uninterrupted, she edged forward once more.

  And promptly tripped over a low chest of some sort, just as a wave swept beneath the boat, throwing her sideways, then onto her knees. Tess swayed dizzily, stifling a giggle. Not tipsy, but in truth drunk as a lord!

  And loving every minute of it, she thought defiantly, shaking the wild curls from her face, enjoying the bite of the wind upon her flushed cheeks.

  In that same instant, hard fingers circled Tess's waist, and she was hauled against a massive granite chest, the breath driven from her lungs.

  "What in the name of all the saints are you doing up here?"

  Tess hiccupped slightly. Her lips curved in an unsteady smile. "I am merely taking a turn around the deck, Captain. You did not restrict me to your cabin, as I recall." Her fisted hands fell against her hips as she glared up at the place where she imagined his face must be. "Not that it would have made the slightest difference if you had."

  "You crazy little fool! In such a storm —" Andre's voice checked audibly and he sniffed the air. "You've been drinking," he said in disbelief. "Diaoul, but you're drunk!"

  Tess tried to effect a nonchalant shrug. "I rather think I am. I should hope so, after all the trouble I've put into the effort. Of course, I can't really say for certain, never having attained that hallowed state. Perhaps if you'll describe —"