The Black Rose Page 33

  Finally Andre's mouth broke away. "Diaoul, how the sight of you gives me pleasure. But especially here —"

  Without warning his wiry beard brushed the silk of Tess's belly. A raw whimper broke from her throat; her knees melted like wax at that erotic, scraping contact.

  Roughness against melting softness. Hard, hungry male against yielding female.

  Dizzily she tried to push him away.

  Fight — don't fee l— too dangerous, a wild voice warned.

  But the warning came too late. Somehow all that mattered now was that he never stop.

  Of their own volition, Tess's muscles tensed, her hips thrusting up to meet him, the birthmark at her inner thigh revealed to his burning gaze.

  Andre answered with a dark groan, raw with hunger and primal, male triumph, for he recognized the moment of surrender when he saw it. "Sainte Vierge!" His breathing grew strained. "Open, bihan," he said hoarsely, his manhood engorged at the sight of that tiny black half-circle and the dusky auburn triangle above.

  But that was for later, he told himself fiercely. Now must be for her, to forge the bonds of their future. "Open for me, Anglaise," he repeated urgently. "Now."

  Dimly Tess realized his dark intent. Some shredded vestige of reason made her shudder and try to pull free.

  But the hard, calloused fingers only tightened, biting into the soft skin of her thighs, holding her still. "No, this way, my wild beauty. The first time this way — for you and your pleasure. And because I want to see you, to taste you, sea gull, when you tremble beneath me in your ecstasy." Even as Andre spoke, his thumbs slid slowly higher. Their calloused pads circled, igniting embers of raw pleasure wherever they skimmed Tess's heated skin.

  He breached the dark center of her desire.

  Somehow timber and beam melted beneath her feet; cable and canvas, wave and cloud dissolved overhead. Suddenly she was falling, blind, vulnerable, and naked, the world of matter and mass scattered to nothing as she gave herself up to the dark poetry of Andre's voice and the demon fury of his touch.

  Yielding, straining — hungry to find that nameless, sun-swept shore just out of reach.

  "Say my name," he rasped, his fingers ruthlessly gentle, ruthlessly knowing. "Tell me which man you think of now."

  Tess's dry lips moved, but no sound emerged. Her head fell back, the wild flame of her hair spilling about her shoulders and sweeping across his naked chest.

  Sound burst forth from Tess's throat then — ragged, tormented, the voice of a stranger. "You, God help me! You, Andre!"

  It was all the answer he needed. The next moment his stiff beard scraped her creamy thighs and she felt the silken probe of his tongue parting her. With fire and fierce tenderness he possessed her then, learning her slowly, coaxing her, driving her on toward a choking release.

  She shuddered, swaying, and would have fallen had he not cupped her hips in one strong hand and cradled her against him, his mouth never ceasing its drugging torment.

  Pain and pleasure.

  Dear God, ineffable, devouring sweetness.

  The hot, sleek rapture of tongue and teeth. Embers bursting, white-hot to light her darkness.

  Then the sweet tempest was upon her, a raw soundless moan ripped from her throat as her body tensed and began to convulse beneath him.

  Sweet love, dark love, take me now. Were they his thoughts or hers? Perhaps both. Perhaps it did not matter.

  For, gasping, Tess fell, down and down again, plunged into an endless raw pleasure so intense it seared. Branded, she felt his mark everywhere, his passion sweeping over her to become her passion, their bonding never to be forgotten.

  That was when the Frenchman taught Tess his third lesson, while her skin still burned beneath his touch and her blood still sang.

  She did indeed have a heart, Tess discovered, and although it was raw and bruised with tortured memories, it was whole.

  And it was his for the taking.

  Chapter Thirty

  Slowly, weak in the aftershocks of pleasure, Tess slid down the wall and toppled forward onto Andre's broad chest, dimly feeling the hard thrust of his manhood at her stomach.

  "Ah, bihan," he muttered darkly, thickly. "More than I dreamed. Unforgettable."

  "I believe those lines were to be mine," Tess said faintly, her throat as dry as other hidden parts of her body were dewy-slick.

  "Then say them, damn it," he muttered, shifting and tugging until she sprawled limply against his outstretched body.

  "All you said and more," Tess whispered. She turned her face into his chest, feeling her cheeks flush at the memory of her wanton response. "Perfect. Oh, Andre ..." She could not quite hold back the sleepy smile that curved her lips. "Perfect beyond imagining."

  A calloused finger swept her cheek. "Not quite perfect, my little savage. But it soon will be," the Liberte's captain murmured darkly, shifting in a vain attempt to forget the fiery torment left unassuaged at his own groin.

  Knowing that even now their time together was growing short.

  Her head slipped onto his shoulder and her body curved into his. He smiled grimly, feeling her proud soft breasts tease his bared chest. Mother of God, but this was pain, Andre thought, feeling his manhood swollen and taut where her silken thighs brushed against him.

  He closed his eyes, trying to forget that tangle of auburn curls. Trying to forget how she had moved against him, pleading for his touch. How she had swayed, only to moan his name, mindless and hungry with passion.

  Growling hoarsely, he shifted beneath her, trying to find a more comfortable position, knowing it was impossible until this fire in his loins was quenched in her dark sweetness.

  In grim silence, he caught Tess to his chest and carried her to his bed, pulling a pillow beneath them as he settled at her side.

  Ah, Anglaise, you are indeed all that I dreamed and more. Mystery upon mystery. A creature of rare fire.

  His face dark, the captain fingered a warm strand of auburn hair. But why? he wondered. Why only with her this fever, this desperate hunger? There had been other women, of course — Dieu, but there had been women past counting. Yet, none of them had left him dizzy with just one look, with only the faintest touch of her sweet tongue.

  And none of them mattered, he thought suddenly, realizing that what existed between them was new and fresh, entirely untainted by anything in his life before this moment.

  That was the first lesson that the Englishwoman from Rye taught Andre Le Brix, though he had the strong feeling she would teach him a great many more in the years to come.

  Beside him the auburn-haired beauty stirred slightly, murmuring as she nestled closer into his warmth, the movement sending new waves of torment into his already aching groin.

  The captain frowned. She was young, he saw now, innocent and vulnerable when sleep took the tension from her slim shoulders and the wariness from her haunted eyes.

  So young. So vital. While he ...

  Sometimes he felt a hundred years old. The Frenchman's face settled into harsh, bitter lines. Looking down at her hair, alight with tiny fires in its russet depths, Andre faced the fact that she was far too young for him, sea-rough and coarse as he was, carrying the curse of war and the blood of slain men upon his hands. No, he would have to take her back, and soon. It was too dangerous for her here.

  Too dangerous for them both.

  But he would not think of that now, the Frenchman decided. Now was for drifting and dreaming and perhaps forgetting. Now he would hold her and comfort her when the nightmares came — lighting her darkness, loving her awake, driving her to breathless pleasure until his name trembled on her raw lips.

  Yes, he could not let her go until he had done that. Somehow he would protect her until then, Andre swore.

  But who, he wondered bleakly, tortured by the knowledge of his own dark past, who would protect her from him?

  * * * * *

  The ship had settled to an easy creak and snap, the waves to a dull, steady slap against the hull, when
Andre heard footsteps hammer down the passageway.

  A heavy hand rapped at the cabin door.

  Smothering a hard curse, the bearded Frenchman turned to tug the shreds of Tess's peignoir about her just as the door burst open.

  "What sort of madness is this?" the Liberte's first mate barked from the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the two bodies entwined on the bed. "You are supposed to be resting, you fool! Or is it your goal to bleed to death?"

  Mumbling furiously beneath his breath, the giant Breton stalked across the room and dropped a heavily laden tray down upon the table. His broad shoulders were a line of granite, stiff with reproach, his eyes now carefully averted from the nearly naked couple.

  Blinking, Tess bolted upright, clutching the shredded scraps of silk to her chest.

  Memory returned; her cheeks glowed crimson. Dear God, what had she done? What had this stranger done to her?

  Without warning, the rich smell of eggs and butter and cheese wafted over her, knotting her stomach — reminding her that she had not eaten for hours.

  Close at hand, Padrig slammed down silver and glasses, muttering in Breton, then switching to French. "She will be the death of you, my friend, I tell you that now! She and this dangerous obsession. Already your wound is bleeding again, opened up by what I am certain must have been very pleasurable exertions. But the next time I won't bother bringing new bandages, I warn you. You can lie in your own blood!" Worry made the big man's voice harsh.

  Tess felt fresh waves of color stain her cheeks, painfully conscious of the wanton sight they must make. A hard, muscled arm slipped around her tense shoulders, and she stiffened, feeling Andre shake with barely repressed laughter.

  Tight-lipped, she tugged the shredded gown up to her neck and dragged one arm over her chest, at the same time vainly trying to sweep her tangled hair into some semblance of order. Giving up that attempt, she swept away Andre's arm instead.

  Behind her there came a muffled chuckle as the captain leaned back comfortably upon his elbow. "It's no good, bihan. You look exactly like what you are."

  "And just exactly what is that?" Tess hissed.

  "A woman who's just been pleasured — thoroughly, passionately, and decisively, mon coeur. Don't you agree, Padrig?"

  The first mate snorted, muttering something in Breton, to which Andre responded with a rich, guttural laugh.

  Fresh tongues of flame leaped through Tess's cheeks. They were laughing at her, the crude beasts! After all she had done to help this bloody smuggler in his hours of illness! Her hands clenched, she beat the air vainly, yearning to feel the Frenchman's skin beneath her fists.

  "Come, sea gull, where's the shame in a thing so natural?" Andre protested, trying to dodge her flying fingers.

  Across the room, Padrig broke into reluctant laughter. "You see, mon ami?" the first mate chided. "I told you she would be dangerous, this one Have a care!"

  "And you remember my answer, do you not, Padrig?"

  "You boasted you would give her the soundest beating of her life, as recall."

  Tess's eyes smoldered with fury. "Oh, he did, did he?"

  "Indeed he did, bihan. But the captain will find that a difficult task, I think. Now eat, the two of you. We will soon be at the gulf."

  Tess frowned questioningly.

  "The Morbihan — the little sea," Andre explained. "A gulf enclosed by two peninsulas, her waters dotted with a hundred islands, each more beautiful than the last. An enchanted place kissed with warm winds and the scent of flowers, bathed by temperate currents in every season. Yes, you will like it greatly, bihan."

  Tess felt Padrig press a plate into her fingers, and she was once more assaulted with rich smells. She inhaled deeply, catching the fragrant tang of shallots and butter. "It smells wonderful, Padrig."

  "Aye, Le Fur is a decent enough cook, so long as you don't ask for more than crepes and omelettes," the first mate said dryly. "But this time he's outdone himself, I think. Here are grilled carp and artichokes. The fish stew we Bretons call cotriade, thick with fish and potatoes and a hint of sorrel."

  "What, no wine?" Tess snapped. "Certainly that would fit the scenario of this little seduction."

  Padrig only laughed. "You would little enjoy our local wine, bihan, for to drink it one must have four men and a wall." In silence he waited for her next question.

  Tess locked her lips, refusing to fall victim to their teasing again.

  "Go ahead and ask him, bihan. Put the poor fellow out of his misery," Andre murmured.

  "Oh, very well. Why four men?"

  "One man to pour the wine, one man to drink it, two to hold him up, and when he falls, the wall to catch him."

  Tess could not prevent a soft ripple of laughter. "Is it so very bad, then?"

  "All that and more. The cider is very good, however, but you know that already, I think. Good, too, these Plougastel strawberries — and the oysters. Those we got from a vessel under a day out of Belon."

  "Oysters, Padrig?" the captain growled behind Tess.

  "Of course, mon ami." The first mate was all innocence. "You like them, do you not? You will most certainly need your strength when —"

  "Enough!" Andre barked.

  Tess frowned, understanding none of this raillery. "But why —"

  "Never mind, bihan," Andre said shortly. "I'll explain it to you later."

  As the door closed, Padrig's booming laughter could be heard echoing up the companionway.

  Stiffly, Tess concentrated on swallowing the fragrant omelette on her plate, bite by careful bite, furious at once more falling victim to their humor. Finally she could contain her curiosity no longer.

  "What did he mean?" she demanded. "About needing your strength?"

  "He meant, my little cat, the oysters. You still do not see, do you?" Andre's finger swept her cheek. "I think I shall enjoy seeing you blush, mon coeur. The oysters are an aphrodisiac — a stimulant to strength in love play."

  Tess choked on her omelette, feeling her cheeks flame just as he had predicted they would. "You — you are disgusting, both of you! You are ..." Words scathing enough escaped her.

  "What I am is insatiable," the captain growled, "and I need no oysters to make me hard for you, bihan." As if to prove his point, he hauled her hack against his chest until the blade of muscle at his groin burned into her hip.

  "Insolent, that's what you are!" Tess blazed, her breath coming and going in little gusts, furious at the sport they had made of her — furious, too, at how easily this stranger could work his dark magic, penetrating all her hard-won defenses.

  "Infantile!" she snapped.

  "Oh, not that. Not that, most clearly."

  The rough male triumph in his voice only made Tess's fury rage hotter.

  "Just like two children you were, snickering about some overheard bit of wickedness."

  "Ah, gwellan-karet, how your cheeks blaze when you're angry. And your eyes — how they burn with haunting green fires." A dark sound — half growl and half groan — burst from his throat. "I want you, sea gull. Now. Beneath me. Panting and mindless when you sheathe me in sweetness and take me all the way home inside you."

  His dark words struck sparks. A thousand fires skittered up Tess's spine at that erotic image, but she fought them desperately, fury stiffening her determination to resist him.

  As she had not the last time.

  "Never! What — what happened before can never happen again, do you hear me?"

  "Indeed?" Andre's voice was deceptively soft. "You find my body repulsive?"

  Tess swallowed hard. Repulsive? If he were any less repulsive, she would soon be clawing at him in eagerness! "Not precisely. You are tolerable enough, I suppose." She managed somehow to make her voice no more than politely casual.

  "Then perhaps you find the act itself distasteful?"

  "On the contrary. That is —"

  "Then I fear I do not understand you, bihan." There was only faint curiosity in his tone.

  "It must neve
r happen again," Tess blazed, tugging the satin wisps higher on her chest. Although why she should bother to cover herself now was beyond her.

  After all he had seen.

  Dear God, after the way he had touched her.

  Silence fell. The only sounds came from Tess's ragged breathing and her restless fingers bunching and unbunching the peignoir.

  "You have beautiful breasts, mon coeur. Did you know that?"

  Tess's heart did a painful flip-flop. He wasn't going to make this easy for her, was he? "That is neither here nor there, Captain," she said primly.

  "Your nipples are exquisite — dusky, like pouting roses just longing to be kissed. I am desolate to contradict you, ma belle, but they are precisely, oh most perfectly, where they ought to be."

  "Something you would know very well, of course. Since you've seen so very many female — er, anatomies." He was enjoying this, damn him!

  "But of course," the captain said calmly, not missing the sharp note of jealousy in her voice. The sound pierced him with warmth, making him very happy. Dangerously so.

  Careful, my friend, he told himself, then promptly forgot the warning.

  "Oh, you — you —" With ruthless fingers Tess tugged at the hem of the shredded peignoir.

  Andre smiled wolfishly, deciding it was time to put her out of her misery. "Now, me kalon, let me see your ankles."

  "You must be mad! I'll do nothing of the sort!"

  "Bihan," the Frenchman said warningly. "I would tend to those wounds." His voice dropped, husky with desire. "Just as you tended to mine during the long days of my delirium. Something I can never repay you for."

  The gruffness in his voice made Tess's anger melt away like snow in the noonday sun. She contented herself with a little sniff as he rose from the bed and pulled the shredded emerald cloth from her legs. A rich, aromatic scent assaulted her lungs.

  "Camphor and mint," Andre explained, gently massaging the unguent into the stinging welts left by the smuggler's rope. "It may burn for a moment, but the stinging will soon disappear, I promise. Once before I did this, while you slept — to the wound at your shoulder, too. Do you remember?"