Nicole Jordan Read online

  Gritting her teeth, she turned her palms faceup to show him the oozing raw welts.

  Deverill swore under his breath and threw a savage glance at Fletcher. “I thought I told you to keep her safe.”

  “It was not his fault!” Antonia exclaimed, leaping to the old tar’s defense. “It was mine.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Deverill grated. “You were too intent on not showing any weakness to ask for a respite.” He grasped her elbow again. “Come with me.”

  “Come where?” Antonia asked, trying to resist.

  He steered her toward the companionway ladder. “Below to my cabin, so I can see to your hands.”

  Antonia gave in almost meekly, feeling too much pain to argue.

  When they reached his cabin, he made her sit at his desk while he gathered supplies, including a basin of water, some cotton gauze, and a jar of ointment.

  “Evidently I was wrong when I credited you with a high degree of intelligence,” Deverill said, inspecting her hands more closely. “I should have known you would be this hardheaded.”

  Antonia held herself stiffly, trying not to cry. “I don’t begrudge you your amusement at my expense, Deverill, but I would appreciate it very much if you would refrain from crowing just now when I am suffering.”

  “I’m not crowing.”

  “You aren’t?” Her tone held skepticism.

  “No. I’m provoking you to take your mind off the pain. I imagine this hurts like the devil.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t know what to say to that. The fact that Deverill sympathized with her plight helped somehow.

  His touch was gentle, but she still gasped when he cleansed the savage weals. When he blotted the raw skin dry, unavoidable tears sprang to her eyes, and she clenched her teeth to keep from crying out.

  Deverill glanced up at her briefly, his own jaw tensing. “This will take away some of the pain.”

  He spread ointment over the raw flesh, thankfully bringing her hands a measure of cooling relief, and then carefully wrapped her palms and her three injured fingers with gauze.

  Antonia tried to sniff back her tears, but Deverill’s kindness only made her feel worse. Here she was whining at her minor injuries when he had endured terrible torment that had left his body forever scarred. She wasn’t proud of herself, either, when she remembered how she had questioned his integrity, his very honor.

  And then there was the matter of her father’s death.

  Numbing cold seeped into her as she remembered how delighted her father had been when she became engaged to Lord Heward, a man of noble stature, of impeccable breeding. . . . Her throat tightened on the aching memory.

  “You truly believe Heward is guilty, don’t you?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

  Deverill stilled in his ministrations. “Yes. I no longer have any doubts. Your father intended to break off your betrothal, so Heward poisoned him. If I hadn’t believed it, Antonia, I would never have taken so drastic a step as abducting you.”

  She closed her eyes tightly as the tears threatened.

  “I felt I had no choice,” Deverill said quietly. “You had no one else to stand champion for you.”

  Her blurred gaze lifted to his. “Is that what you are, my champion?”

  He was silent for a moment as he finished the last bandage. “Perhaps more accurately, I am filling the role of guardian. I want you safe, Antonia.”

  It was inexplicably comforting to know Deverill was watching over her, but a sick wretchedness gnawed at her heart: Dismay that she had been so stupid as to believe Heward’s lies. And horror that she had contributed to her father’s death.

  Perhaps it was the accumulation of emotional strain during the past two days, or the acceptance of her father’s senseless death, but her defenses gave way and she couldn’t stop her tears from spilling over. “If Heward is guilty of murder . . . then my betrothal led directly to it. I caused my father’s death.”

  Deverill gave her a hard look. “Don’t be absurd. Of course you didn’t cause it. Heward was solely to blame.”

  But she couldn’t absolve herself so readily. A sense of grief swept through her with oppressive force. It was as if she had lost her father all over again. A sob caught in her throat, and she couldn’t stop it.

  “Antonia, don’t. . . .” Deverill’s voice was low and pleading.

  She felt his strong hands close around her upper arms as he pulled her to her feet. She averted her gaze, not wanting him to see her cry. She hated that he understood her pain so well. Yet at the same time, she felt so vulnerable and raw that she ached with a need to be held. It was all she could do not to bury her face in Deverill’s hard chest and ask him to hold her for just a little while.

  But she wasn’t required to ask. Deverill drew her against him, tucking her head beneath his chin and wrapping his arms around her.

  Her tears came furiously then, and she sobbed out her grief. For a long while, Antonia clung to him, letting Deverill console her. Eventually her sobs quieted, but she still stood there in his embrace, feeling the solid strength of him. He made her want to curl into him and never let go.

  Thankfully, he seemed in no hurry to release her,

  although he repeated his earlier plea. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I can’t bear it.”

  The protectiveness in his voice felt strangely wonderful. She had missed having someone be protective of her.

  She felt his fingers brush her hair, then her face. Infinitely gentle, they stroked her damp cheek, her jaw, then raised her chin. When she met his brilliant green gaze, something turned over in her chest, sweetly painful.

  “I suppose I am a weakling after all,” Antonia whispered.

  “No. Never.” He fished in his coat pocket for a handkerchief, which she used to wipe her eyes and nose, a task that was made more awkward because of her bandaged hands. “But I would much rather see you cursing me than weeping.”

  She gave a final sniff. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your coat.”

  His smile was tender. “It’s for a good cause.”

  The corners of her mouth quivered, and she smiled bleakly in return.

  She might as well have grabbed him by the heart. Deverill felt an aching tightness in his chest as a protective tenderness rushed through him. Against his will, he reached up to rest his hand against her tearstained cheek.

  He knew he was on dangerous ground, but he could only think of how damned soft and vulnerable Antonia was just now, how beautiful. He wished she weren’t so damned lovely, for it filled him with a nearly savage kind of wanting.

  Deverill clenched his teeth, deploring the sensation of not being in control. Yet he had a sweet, self-

  destructive urge not to even fight it.

  Unable to help himself, he tilted her face up to his and slowly bent to kiss her. Antonia stilled instantly, but Deverill felt her instinctive response to him, felt the way her mouth softened and shaped itself to his.

  He breathed a sound between a curse and a prayer. It was a simple kiss, but the sharp pleasure of it stabbed him in his midsection, in his loins. Worse, when he drew back, he could see her eyes were luminous with heat, and he knew Antonia was fighting her desire as much as he was. He knew, also, that he didn’t want her fighting him any longer. . . .

  His palm cradling her face tenderly, he bent his head again.

  Antonia watched, spellbound as his beautiful mouth moved closer. When his breath fanned warm against her lips, her bandaged hands rose to press lightly against his chest. Yet she had no thought of pushing him away; she only wanted to anchor herself against the stunning sensuality of his kiss.

  She held her breath as Deverill’s lips caressed hers again, alluring, whisper soft. His mouth was as warm and hard as she remembered from her dreams, his taste as heady. Antonia gave a breathless whimper as his lips twisted and pulled softly, brushing sparks across the surface of hers. Then he deepened the pressure, settling his mouth more fully on hers, and she very nearly moaned.

&n
bsp; Why did her heart lurch so wildly at his touch? How could she resist the aching need he aroused in her? Deverill made her feel so many emotions, it was bewildering, frightening. When his tongue penetrated her lips in a sensual invasion, a heated rush of feeling assaulted her.

  Her body shuddered at the riveting sensation. His kiss was an intimate knowing of her mouth, one that stole her breath away. She could feel the hardness of his corded muscles beneath her fingertips, the heat of his powerful torso, smell the arousing scent of him, warm and faintly musky.

  Then, to her dismay, he broke off his kiss. A sense of loss filled her, but only for a moment. His hands caressing her shoulders, Deverill turned her and urged her backward a few steps, until her back was pressed against the bulkhead. When he pulled her close to his body, she could feel him . . . his power and strength, the sinewed length of his legs, the breadth of his chest, the hardness of him.

  His eyes smoldered with heat as he stared down at her. Antonia’s mouth went dry at the fierce yearning in his look, while a wild tingle of excitement surged through her blood. “Deverill . . . please . . . kiss me again.”

  “I intend to, love. I don’t think I could stop myself.”

  He bent his head once more, feathering kisses along her jaw and lower, along the column of her neck. His warm lips sent a sweep of sensation surging over her skin. Then his tongue caressed the jumping pulse in the hollow of her throat, while his fingertips rose to her bodice and skimmed the underside of her breasts.

  “So sweet,” he murmured, his voice a husky rasp.

  His strong hands cupped the swells beneath the muslin, his thumbs coaxing, making the sensitive tips engorge painfully under his light touch. A moment later, his mouth joined in, grazing her breasts with arousing caresses.

  Urgent longing gathered in the pit of Antonia’s stomach, in her loins. Then his lips closed over one taut bud, flooding her veins with shuddering heat.

  Arching against him, she shut her eyes at the sweet spasm that arrowed down to her loins. Desire churned inside her, awakening a wonderful aching weakness that pulsed to life in that secret place between her thighs.

  Still suckling her nipple, Deverill reached down to raise the hem of her skirt. He growled softly as he found the naked skin of her thigh. When his hand moved higher to brush her woman’s mound, Antonia instantly felt her soft, secret flesh melting with sweet moisture. Then he touched the wet cleft between her legs, his thumb gliding over the folds of her sex, pulling her open, stroking.

  Antonia gasped aloud as the melting hunger inside her turned into a relentless, gnawing ache. His touch became both vital and unbearable. Flushed and straining, she pressed against him, wanting more, needing more.

  At her eager response, Deverill took her mouth again, his kiss turning suddenly hot and hungry. Antonia responded with frantic ardor, her body trembling violently against his. She couldn’t remember how to breathe; her skin burned with a fever too hot for her to bear.

  When he slipped a finger into her, her moan of pleasure was hoarse and raw at his probing invasion. The hunger in her was like flame, licking her flesh, consuming her.

  Then abruptly Deverill lifted his head, his jaw tight. He pulled in a deep, shuddering breath, as if striving for control. “God, you are dangerous. Just touching you is driving me to the brink.”

  Almost faint with desire, Antonia raised her mouth to his, pleading against his lips, “Please . . . don’t stop.”

  This was what she had dreamed of. In her dreams, Deverill had kissed her this way, loved her this way. She wanted him, wanted his passion. She felt as though she might die if he didn’t give it to her.

  Following her instincts, she reached down between their bodies, deliberately brushing the front placket of his breeches. She saw his response in his flared nostrils, the darkening of his eyes, heard the sudden intake of breath.

  She didn’t have to plead with him again. He drew back only long enough to unfasten his breeches and drawers and free his rigid arousal. Raising her skirts to her waist, Deverill eased her thighs apart and wedged his knee between hers. His eyes seared her as he cupped her bare bottom, pulling her hard into the cradle of his thighs, firmly against his naked erection.

  At the delicious pressure, her knees nearly buckled. But then Deverill was bracing her, lifting her up, pulling her legs around his hips as his kiss slanted down fiercely over her mouth again, taking, devouring.

  The hard bulge of his sex throbbed against the soft yielding of her loins while his tongue thrust into her mouth, plunging rhythmically, just as she knew his flesh would do. Her heart pounding, Antonia tensed with a woman’s fear of the unknown. The hot, throbbing maleness of him pulsing against her felt enormous and alien.

  But she needed desperately for him to assuage the terrible, yearning ache inside her, needed to feel him deep inside her. When Deverill gripped his hard shaft and began to ease its silken head into her quivering flesh, Antonia whimpered in surrender.

  Her breath coming in ragged pants, she shut her eyes tightly and gave herself up to the bliss his sensual assault promised.

  Nine

  Frenzied need surged through Deverill; the need to plunge deep inside Antonia, to feel her wet heat close around him.

  His mouth still plundering hers, he lowered her onto his engorged length, allowing her own weight to impel her. Instantly she stiffened as his rigid flesh rended and stretched her soft woman’s tissues.

  As his penetration dredged a startled whimper from deep in her throat, Deverill’s eyes flew open, and he froze for a heartbeat, shock flooding him as he realized how much he was hurting her.

  “Oh, God . . .” he rasped, “you’re a virgin.”

  Were a virgin, his mind corrected as he saw the pain contorting Antonia’s face. She was panting softly, while her body struggled to accept the fullness of him.

  Remorse speared through him. He should have realized she’d exaggerated her carnal experience that afternoon in the gazebo. In truth, he’d suspected it. But just now his mind had only been focused on possessing her.

  Groaning, Deverill filled his lungs with an uneven breath and pressed his forehead against hers, straining for willpower. “Damnation.” The word was not only a curse but a jagged prayer for self-control. The sweetness of her hot, tight body was driving him to madness, but somehow he had to find the strength to master himself before he lost all control and hurt her even more severely.

  With herculean effort, he carefully pulled himself free and lowered Antonia to her feet, but he was too late to stop his fierce climax. Gritting his teeth, Deverill closed his hand over the head of his shaft to catch the shooting spurts of his seed as his body shuddered.

  For a long moment, he simply remained there leaning into Antonia, his breath coming in harsh pants.

  “Did I hurt you badly?” Deverill finally asked.

  “Not . . . badly.”

  Swearing a low oath, he drew back, while Antonia remained braced weakly against the bulkhead, unmoving. His handkerchief was still balled in one of her fists, so he took it from her and wiped his wet hand, then went to the basin to wash away the final remnants of his seed.

  “You told me that you and Heward had been lovers,” he said tersely. He heard the anger in his voice, but he was angry at himself rather than Antonia. He should be shot for what he’d done. And she should have guarded her innocence more stingily. “Why the devil didn’t you stop me?”

  “I suppose . . . I got carried away.”

  He understood her answer at least, remembering his own wildness. Their simple embrace had inflamed him beyond reason. He’d lost his head, his blood surging thick and hot in his need to finally take what he’d been craving since the first time he’d held Antonia in his arms.

  Deverill stared at her, trying to come to terms with the passion that had ignited between them. He had never known such hot, wrenching desire. And perhaps he was lying to himself. Despite her innocence, he might still have made love to her just now—but he certainly would ha
ve taken much more care if he’d known this was her first time. He hadn’t given her any pleasure, only pain.

  “You should have warned me,” Deverill muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “I would have tried not to hurt you.”

  Slightly dazed, Antonia stared back at him. She could still taste Deverill on her lips, still feel the imprint of his mouth burning into hers, the hard flesh that had possessed her throbbing inside her. His abrupt withdrawal, however, had left her with the same unfulfilled ache that had haunted her dreams for years.

  Her senses were in turmoil as well. One part of her was dismayed by her wantonness, while another part was glad it had been Deverill who had breeched her womanhood.

  “You needn’t feel remorse,” she murmured finally. “It was my fault, not yours. I wanted you to make love to me.”

  She saw Deverill’s hard, virile face tighten at her declaration, but he kept silent as he wrung out a cloth and carried it over to her.

  When he started to draw up her skirt, Antonia snapped out of her daze. “What are you doing?”

  “Washing away the blood.”

  “I can do it myself.”

  “Not with your hands bandaged. You need to keep them dry. Now be still, vixen, and let me take care of you.”

  Antonia felt a flush of embarrassment sting her cheeks, but Deverill’s gentle stroking over her thighs and feminine cleft was perfunctory rather than loverlike.

  His next words as he straightened were just as perfunctory. “You realize, don’t you, that this leaves us with little choice but to marry.”

  Antonia sucked in a sharp breath. “What?”

  “You heard me. We will have to marry. We’ll hold the ceremony as soon as we reach Cornwall and can call the banns.”

  “You can’t possibly be serious,” she said, staring at him. “You have no desire to wed me. You don’t wish to wed anyone.”

  His mouth twisted wryly. “Perhaps not, but I took your innocence. Marriage is the only honorable course.”

  “You did not take my innocence, Deverill. I gave it to you. There is a difference.”