Captain of My Heart (30 page)

He groaned, his eyes opened, and her heart
melted beneath that mellifluous stare.

“Why are you doing this,
Moyrrra?”
he
said, in an agonized whisper.

“Doing what?”

“Driving me insane. I can’t take much more of
this and still behave like a gentleman.”

“I do wish you’d stop behaving like a
gentleman. I’m beginning to find it quite boring.”

“Faith.” He shut his eyes once more.

“The world is full of gentlemen and rakes.
You’ve already proven to me that you can be a gentleman. Prove to
me now that you can be a rake.”

“A rake?”

“Well, you are an Irishman, aren’t you?”

“Only half.”

“Well, then start acting like one. I want you
to kiss me again.”

“No,
Moyrrra
.”

“Yes, Brendan.”

“’Tisn’t safe, lass!”

“What, do I have some sort of disease or
something?”

“You know very well what I mean!”

She slid her hand beneath his shirt and
touched his chest. The muscle there was tough and hard and sinewy,
just as she’d known it would be. Softly, she ran her palm over the
skin with its soft, wiry hair, over and over until he sighed and
began to relax. His breathing quickened. Her fingers found an odd,
puckered scar, small and round, but before she had time to wonder
at it, his hand had caught hers.

“I missed you, Brendan,” she murmured.

She buried her face against his neck, sidling
closer to him, thankful for
Kestrel
’s slight rocking motion.
And then, in defeat, his arm came up to wind around her back,
holding her tightly against himself

“I missed you, too,
Moyrrra.
I
couldn’t wait to get back.”

Slowly, and ever so gently, he eased her down
to the thick furs. She shut her eyes, feeling her bones turn to
butter as he swept her throat with hot kisses and his hand roved
out over her hip, exploring its gentle rise.
At last,
she
thought, all but purring as a delicious warmth bloomed somewhere
deep in the pit of her belly and spread out through her blood. His
lips found hers, and there was nothing shy about them, nothing
jittery, and nothing hesitant. She reached up to embrace him,
feeling drops of melted snow trickling from his queued hair down
the back of her hands as she wound her arms behind his neck. The
kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her own,
and she groaned in delight as his hand roved up the curve of her
ribs to cup and caress one breast, making her all the more grateful
that she hadn't bothered to wear stays.

The warmth in her blood centered itself
between her thighs and she writhed in need.

He broke the kiss, dragging his mouth down
the side of her jaw, into the curve of her neck, and she moaned as
his thumb brushed across her nipple, the sensation exquisite
through the thin layers of fabric.

“Ohhh,” she sighed. She’d never known that
anything could feel so good.

“You were all I thought of when I was away,”
he murmured, his lips now grazing the quickening pulse at her
throat, brushing over the rise of her breast. “Faith, lass, you
make me mad for wanting you.”

And still, that rhythmic, delicious rubbing
of his thumb over her nipple, over and over again, until it began
to ache and harden. She pressed herself down against the decking,
solid beneath the fur on which she lay. It was getting difficult to
breathe. More difficult, still, to think, especially when he
unbuttoned and parted her short jacket, loosened and pulled down
the neckline of her chemise, and she felt the scratchy bristle of
his jaw against the tender flesh there.

Against her breast.

And against the nipple, his breath warm and
moist upon her skin.

The burning ache between her thighs
intensified, and as though sensing it, he slowly pushed her skirts
up, running his palm up the inside of her leg, and gently began
stroking her in that hot, damp area that had become the center of
her existence. She gasped and clamped her legs together, unsure,
her eyes suddenly wide; he looked up, then, and she saw the golden
starbursts in his honey-colored eyes, the desire—and yes, maybe
even love mirrored in their gentle depths. He gave her a slow,
teasing smile—and then he bent his head once more, his rich
chestnut locks tumbling over his brow and his tongue swirling
around the engorged nipple with a lazy, teasing motion that made
the breath catch in her throat.

And then he drew it into his mouth.

She gasped and dug her elbows into the deck
beneath her.

“Oh . . . oh, Brendan—”

Soft suckling noises. Exquisite sensation.
She shut her eyes, burying her fingers in his soft, loosely curling
locks and dragging them free from the ribbon that queued them,
until his damp hair spilled over her hand. His tongue was circling
her nipple now, flicking over it, drawing it tautly into the hot
cavern of his mouth. She whimpered deep in her throat. Her heels
dug into the deck, and she arched her body upward, trying, needing,
desperate to get closer to him. Again, she felt the blade of his
hand parting the damp folds of her legs, coaxing them gently apart,
felt his hard, callused palm massaging her, his fingers delving
into the soft triangle of damp curls between her thighs, until the
sweet ache there began to build into something fierce and delicious
and strange.

“Kiss me, Mira,” he said raggedly, and as he
drove his mouth against hers, hard, he slid his fingers deep inside
her and pushed his thumb against a part of her she hadn’t known
existed. She cried out with the sheer, sweet agony of it, and as he
gently massaged her there, still kissing her, she felt the
unbearable ache peak and explode within her, her cries lost to his
mouth and her fingers anchoring, knotting, in the damp hair at the
base of his skull as her body bucked and writhed beneath his.

He broke the kiss, his brow bent, his hair
hanging over his forehead and tickling her breast. “Damn you, Mira
Ashton . . .
d’anam don diabhal, grá mo chroí
...”

It was the furthest thing from damnation for
either of them, yet it was all that, and more. He pulled his shirt
over his head and tossed it aside, then unbuttoned his breeches and
peeled them off while she gazed up at him through a strand of damp
hair with dazed eyes. Boldly, she let her gaze drift down—down his
chest, down the arrow of chestnut hair below his navel, down to his
arousal, rearing up from its bed of chestnut hair.

There was nothing shy about him now, nothing
at all.

“See what you’ve brought me to, lass,” he
murmured softly.

She gave him her impish grin. “It’s about
time.”

With a curse, he drove an arm beneath her
back and lifted her up, freeing her from the short jacket, its
buttons briefly tangling in her thick hair. He pulled the tapes at
her hips until her petticoats lay open, then dragged her shift over
her head until she was as naked as he.

A log popped in the little stove, and beneath
them, the schooner rolled a bit as the tide began to turn.

“Lie with me, Brendan,” she whispered, and
reaching up, she pulled him down atop her and sought his mouth.
They lay there together, skin to skin, hot despite the chill of the
air around them. The fullness of his erection stabbed against her
belly, and Mira felt the burn between her thighs, wet now with her
own passion, beginning to build once more.

She reached down, seeking him, wanting to see
what he felt like.

“Easy,
Moyrrra
. ...”

“I want to touch you, Brendan—”

“You are welcome to, but slow down, lass.
Slow down.”

She did as he asked, and her questing fingers
found him, hard, rigid, steel beneath velvet, pulsing and jumping
with the feathery touch of her fingers.

He sucked in his breath and raised himself on
his arms, looking down at her. “I would like to make love to you,
Moyrrra
.”

“I
want
you to make love to me,
Brendan.”

“Will you marry me, lass?”

“Marry you?”

“Marry me. You have bewitched me. I think I’m
in love with you . . . I’m done for.”

Her heart sang. “I will marry you, Brendan.
But first . . . make love to me.”

He eased himself down, burying his lips
against the curve of her neck, his breath stirring the hair there,
warming her flesh.

“We don’t have to do this, you know . . .
just say the word and I’ll stop.”

“You stop, and I’ll send you back to sea with
a black eye and a broken nose to go with it.”

He might have laughed, she wasn’t sure, for
his lips were drifting toward hers again. “’Twill hurt, though,
mo stóirín
....”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“But only for a wee moment.”

“For God’s sake, Brendan, just
do
it!
Nothing could hurt as much as what you’re putting me through right
now.”

“I’ll do my best to be gentle with you,
Moyrrra.”
His hands cradled her face, and he looked down at
her, then kissed her fluttering lashes, her dewy cheeks. She felt
pressure between her thighs, felt their slick, subtle protest as he
gently eased himself down, down—and into her.

Sweet, sliding, stretching fullness.

Wet heat.

She moaned, sobbed, and drove herself
recklessly upward.

Pain exploded deep inside her and she thrust
herself higher, into it, into him, welcoming it. He lay still
within her for a moment, poised on his forearms and letting her get
used to the feel of him inside her; then, the pain faded and a
sweet languor washed in to replace it, surging over her like a
rising tide, leaving her helpless to do anything but merely drift
upon it, with it, in it. And then she realized that he was causing
that tide, he
was
the tide, his powerful, hard thrusts
beginning to rock her body, building that sweet languor into a
fiery agony between her thighs that was threatening to carry her
away once more.

“Brendan. . . .”

He silenced her with his mouth, his hot
breath fanning her cheeks, his hands moving down her sides once
more to lift her up to him. The fur pelt slid beneath her back,
against the decking, bunching up beneath her with each strong
thrust. And now the rhythm built, his movements coming faster and
faster, harder and harder, and Mira hooked her legs around his hips
and began to meet him with every one.

With a hoarse cry, he exploded into her, his
hot seed pulsing against the walls of her very being and the flood
of warmth within sending her own senses spinning out of control.
Sobbing, she drove herself against him and clung there, convulsing,
her damp hair pinned between their chests, his mouth, her lips. She
held on long after the spasms passed, unwilling to let him go,
unwilling to end this euphoric, blissful thing that they’d
shared.

Kestrel
moved gently beneath them,
rocking them like a lullaby.

At last, reality returned. Mira saw the
firelight dancing against Brendan’s bare shoulder, his richly
colored hair. She felt its warm, drugging heat against her skin.
Reaching out, she groped along the floor until she found one of the
quilts. With her other arm still locked around Brendan’s back, she
pulled the quilt over his shoulders, cuddling him, nuzzling him,
loving him.

“Faith,” he mumbled, into the damp, hot curve
of her neck.

She merely smiled and tightened her arms
around his shoulders. “Still cold?” she teased.

He pushed himself up on his forearms and
gazed down at her, and the depth of love in his eyes was of such a
magnitude that Mira suddenly couldn’t breathe. Tears gathered
behind her eyelids. He reached down to touch her face, one finger
smoothing the little cat-wrinkles at the side of her nose.

“No,” he said softly. He lowered his head and
kissed her, so gently, so tenderly, she felt herself melting like
spun sugar.

“Were you serious about wanting to marry me?”
she asked in a little voice.

He kissed her forehead. “More serious than
I’ve ever been about anything,
mo stóirín.
”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. I don’t want to wait.
We’ll gather your family and Eveleen together and make the
announcement as soon as you’re willing.”

“I love you, Brendan. And I swear, I’ll be a
good wife . . . I’ll learn how to cook, how to act like a lady, how
to—”

“Shhh,” he said, his lips against her temple,
and against her hair, she felt his kisses, heard him murmuring
strange Gaelic words that she didn’t understand and didn’t need to
understand to know what he was saying. Outside, the wind howled. A
log shifted in the little stove and sent up a shower of sparks, and
the ship creaked gently around them. He slid his hands beneath her
head, pillowing it against the decking, cupping the back of it in
his palms and threading his fingers through her hair, and held her
close. And when he became too heavy, he sensed it and reluctantly
moved away, settling on his back on the thick fur pelts beside
her.

Moments passed. Long moments.

“We should go now,
Moyrrra.”

She sidled closer and rested her head atop
his chest. “We don’t have to.”

“No, but you do.”

“No, I don’t. I can stay here all night and
no one will be the wiser.”

“Your da—”

“Doesn’t rise until five forty-five.”

“Matthew—”

“Is probably warming Alice Little’s bed.”

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, his hair falling
over his knuckles. “But think of what they’ll say when Rigel
returns to the stable without the sleigh. . . .”

“And his bridle.” She, too, sat up, leaned
her back against the table leg, and pulled him close, coaxing him
to lean heavily against her as she wrapped her arms around him. He
closed his eyes, unprotesting. She brought the quilt up and covered
him with it.