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She touched him again, tracing the
graceful wings of his brows and over across the strong lines of his
lips. She especially liked his lips and she found herself tracing
the seam of his mouth over and over again and his hot breath burned
her fingertips. As she watched his face slowly tighten, she jerked
away until he relaxed once more. Her hand trembled and she told
herself fiercely to stop. But somehow what they’d shared the night
before kept intruding and she couldn’t pull herself away. Damon had
touched her but she had gotten little to no chance of touching
him.

So pushing away the vague sense that
she was taking advantage of him, she traced the column of his
throat. He hadn’t put his shirt back on, preferring to wash it and
let it dry throughout the night. Jocelyn had done the same with her
chemise and hadn’t thought anything of it until just that moment.
It was a heady thing, being able to run her hands over his chest.
His shoulders were strong and broad, his arms corded with muscle
under her hands.

The urge she often got of consuming
him, of drinking down the taste of him if only to see if his skin
tasted as good as it looked, rose up in her again. It shook her it
was so strong and with her heart beating in her throat and her
fingers tightening on his arms she leaned over him and flicked his
dark nipple with the tip of her tongue. He tasted a bit salty, like
sea and air and sweat and beneath there was something heady and
spicy. Damon. Hungry heat exploded in her stomach and made the
space between her legs ache with a dull, throbbing need. Her breath
shortened, her nails dug into his skin and she licked him again,
circling the dark circle of skin around his pebbling nipple.
Beneath her chest where she was pressed against his side his breath
caught.

She noticed it dimly but she didn’t
pull away this time, didn’t pause. Instead she sucked him into her
mouth as he’d done her and scraped him with her teeth. He jerked
beneath her and suddenly his hands were gripping her forearms. She
looked up at him wide-eyed, the hair in her braid escaping around
her face and her cheeks flushing with color. No embarrassment, just
lust. Pure and simple. She wanted him again and she made sure he
could see it in her eyes as he stared down at her.

He opened his mouth, closed it again.
Then his face darkened in rage and as he sat up he set her gently
but firmly away from him.

“What in the hell were you
doing?

“Couldn’t you tell?” She sounded
childish but she couldn’t seem to help it. His jaw worked and he
ran a hand through his hair.

“Princess, I don’t think you get
it--”

“No.” Her voice was hoarse as she
interrupted him. “You’re the one that doesn’t get it.” And here the
blood that rushed to her face was caused by shyness. “I–I want you.
And you want me too. Don’t deny it. I may not be as … as
experienced as some of your women but I know enough to figure that
out at least.”

His smile was cruel, his
laughter--bitter. “What do you call that, Jocelyn? Women’s
intuition? Gut feeling? Psychic ability maybe? Anything to get the
answer you want is that it?”

Doubt swamped her. She didn’t know why
she was so sure of what he felt for her. Like she’d told him, she
was inexperienced with some things but there was something …
something in her gut that told her that Damon felt the same for her
as she did for him. But what if she was wrong? What if the only
reason that he’d stroked her and touched her and kissed her was
because she was the only woman around for him to do those things
to. Had Ava been there, would he have held her the same way? Would
he have confided in her as he had with Jocelyn? And even more
frightening, was he still in love with his dead wife? Did he kiss
her and not feel anything for her because his heart still belonged
to someone else or when he closed his eyes did he not even see her
face?

These thoughts and the things they
implied made her nauseous.

“I just--I was just curious I guess.”
She hated how weak she sounded. How stupid.

Damon made a helpless sound of
frustration and got to his feet, pacing in short quick bursts in
the small confines of the shelter.

“You can’t be curious with me. Not
anymore.” Stern, unyielding, his voice was like a knife through her
heart.

“Why not?” It was disconcerting how she
wanted to know but at the same time didn’t. She felt as if she were
standing on the precipice of something dangerous.

He looked at her, incredulous. “Why
not? Are you listening to yourself? Do you know how … how
ridiculous it is for the two of us to be together?”

The tears came then, silent but
devastating. “What do you mean by ridiculous? What’s ridiculous
about what I feel about you? Unless … unless you don’t feel the
same way.” She gave a shaky laugh. “That’s it isn’t it. It must
have been my imagination, to think that you’d want me that way. I’m
only a distraction for you.” Her voice was rising, and she glared
at him through a sheet of tears. “You must have been laughing at me
all this time. The way I panted after you. I practically begged--”
She sniffed. “I bet you were awake the whole time weren’t
you?”

Obviously tortured, he turned his back
on her and nodded.

“That’s what I thought.” She whispered,
“Are you tired of me now? Is that why you pushed me away? Now that
you’ve touched me and seen what I have to offer are you bored or
disappointed?”

“NO!” His voice came out a roar and his
back was hunched as if preparing for a blow. “No. It was never like
that. Do you know how long we could be stuck here? If you start
playing the eager student now it won’t be long before we have a
little bundle of illegitimate joy to welcome the rescue party when
they get here. I’d rather not be forced down the aisle just because
you’re curious.”

She paled and her eyes darkened in hurt
and anger. She was ashamed of herself. Horribly, viciously ashamed
to be so suddenly needy and weak. And simply knowing that she felt
that way made her angry with herself.

“You really don’t want anything to do
with me do you?”

“Not like that, I don’t.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to be able to go back home, to
my plantation without regretting anything. That’s all I want. It’s
all I’ve ever wanted.”

Her throat tightened in a spasm of
pain. How stupid she’d been to want him. How terribly foolish to
want him to want her.

“Oh. Well. I understand.”

“No.” His voice was sharp when he
turned on her, his eyes were bright, brighter than she’d ever seen
them. His big hands sunk into her hair, caused havoc to her braid
but she wasn’t looking at him anymore.

“No.” He repeated. “You don’t
understand anything.”

She jerked out of his hold and when she
spoke her voice was icy and calm. “Yes. I do. I must have seemed
very desperate to you. Very inexperienced and childish. You don’t
have to be so nice to me anymore; you don’t have to pity me. You
don’t have to force yourself to do those things because of some
misplaced loyalty to my family. In fact…” a deep shaky breath
pushed the words past the weight in her chest. “…In fact you don’t
have to worry about me at all because I won’t be bothering you ever
again.”

The sound he made, ah that sound. It
rivaled the heavens and shook her deep inside. He roared his
frustration and rage until her skin tightened with fear and as it
faded so did he.

He was gone, just like that.
Disappeared as quickly and as silently as he’d entered her life and
Jocelyn couldn’t help but feel as if that was the last she would
see of him, no matter how irrational the belief.

Curling into herself, she pressed her
skirts against her face until she felt as if she would smother.
Then she began to cry and couldn’t find the strength to
stop.

* * * *

Fool. That stupid little fool. How
blind could she be? How dense? Or maybe he wasn’t as obvious as
he’d first thought. Couldn’t she see how much he wanted her?
Couldn’t she tell each and every time his eyes fell on her how much
he craved to make her his with every fiber of his being? What he’d
said had been the truth. He did want to be able to go back home
with no regrets, but it wasn’t turning out that way. He knew,
simply knew, that once they were rescued, he would have to let her
go and he would regret that for the rest of his life.

Did he want to be forced down the
aisle? No, he didn’t. Not when marrying him would make her
miserable. He doubted he was anyone’s ideal husband, and he
wouldn’t trap Jocelyn to him simply because she’d gotten drunk off
a few kisses.

Besides, (and this was something he
held close to his heart) he didn’t want to be forced into marriage
with her. If they wed he wanted it to be something that they both
wanted, not something pushed onto them by society’s
rules.

When he’d felt her hands on him, his
heart had stopped. Her touch had been soft, sweet, and the tiny
cave of her mouth working against his nipple had been the most
erotic thing he’d ever felt in his life.

So he wanted her--that was one thing
she should never have to doubt. He’d worked himself to the edge of
collapse to keep his hands off of her, he could barely see from the
haze of lust that always clouded his eyes whenever she was near
him. What he smelled was not the ocean but her scent, what he felt
wasn’t the sting of salt or the irritating bite of bugs but the
ghost of her touch, both imagined and remembered. His body was so
attuned to her that he knew where she was and what she did, how she
moved, better than he knew the back of his own hand.

He’d never confided in anyone like he’d
done with her, never weakened himself enough to let anyone look
inside his soul. If he wasn’t careful, if he wasn’t strong, he’d
tell her everything and she’d have him.

What he feared most was that once she
did, she wouldn’t want him anymore.

Maybe that was the reason, more than
anything else, that had made him say such cruel things to
her.

His chest hurt, he was breathing too
hard and he was so tightly coiled he was close to breaking. At the
thought of the pain he’d seen in her eyes, of the way her voice
shook, he finally did break. All that tightly coiled frustration
that even work couldn’t get rid of, had his fist shooting out and
his knuckles slammed into the trunk of the nearest tree with enough
force to make his arm go numb.

A fool. Such a useless, bloody
fool.

And this time when the words rang
through his head, Damon knew he was referring to
himself.

* * * *

The morning after found them avoiding
one another. Damon didn’t speak to Jocelyn but that wasn’t because
he didn’t want to. Jocelyn on the other hand went out of her way to
avoid him and unlike Damon when she decided to stay away from him
she succeeded. Damon thought that she managed it far too well and
then he had to stop and wonder if maybe his will power wasn’t as
well developed as he’d once believed. With just a glance from those
green eyes of hers Damon would have cracked within the first hour,
thirty minutes if she decided to smile at him. But no matter how
often he smiled and fluttered his lashes in her direction she
studiously ignored him. He felt like a bug and he didn’t know what
to say to her that wouldn’t come out sounding like an excuse to
mend her pride.

So he built another signal fire, once
again putting certain leaves and damp sticks into the flames so
that the smoke rose up thick and cloying into the air. From where
he sat tending it he could see her moving further down the beach.
She was getting rocks and sticks and forming a message in the sand.
He should have been glad for the help, but for the first time Damon
found himself annoyed that she wanted to escape from this place,
and by extension, him.

Scowling he got to his feet to go and
work on the shelter.

Chapter Eight

My girls grew up around men. They know
how men fight, how they think. Their wants and weaknesses. They
know these things not because I taught them but by the simple
virtue of being born with their balls on the inside rather than
hanging around for the entire world to see. It’s called intuition
and it is a terrifying thing…

--To Clayton Holbrooke from his brother
John in regards to altercation he witnessed between his daughters
and an older male student during Sunday school.

“Where the fuck is my sister you
ignorant, bandy legged, saucepot!” The words came out in a hissing
fury. Both the language and tone completely at odds with the
beautiful young woman who spoke them.

Ava Holbrooke had been in England less
than a month before the missive came that her sister had been
killed at sea along with her guardian, Damon Burleigh. The Earl of
Stanford’s Wife, Kristen, had watched her niece worriedly as the
girl sat in their study and read the news.

Kristen was quite fond of Ava. Her
husband’s niece was a delightful girl. Charming and polite and she
giggled very prettily but shyly when shown attention by the
contingent of young men who soon noticed her presence in their
home. To say that she had never had so many heirs descending on her
home for luncheon or a morning ride through the park was an
understatement.