How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) (13 page)

CHAPTER
19

When Holly
opened her tired eyes, she was alone in the bed. Scanning the cabin in the
morning light, she quickly realized she was also alone in the room.

“Bloody hell.”
She scrambled to her feet and groped between her breasts, searching for the
key. “That pirate!”

Holly rushed
from the room. For two weeks she’d nursed the blackguard through the pangs of
insatiable cravings, bouts of irritability, cold then hot sweats, retchings and
tremors—and he dared to escape
now
.

She’d wring his
miserable neck, she would. She had suffered right alongside him, every dreadful
moment. And on more than one occasion, she’d even feared he might truly perish
during a convulsion, that perhaps he really couldn’t live without opium. But
each attack on his body had lessened in severity with time, and soon there were
fewer and fewer attacks.

For much of his
confinement, Quincy hadn’t even noticed her presence. If he wasn’t in a dead
sleep, he was groaning in agony. She would often curl up beside him on the bed,
when he’d collapsed in fatigue, her own bones aching for rest.

Holly scaled the
hatch in her bare feet and stepped onto the deck. How could he sneak away in
such a cowardly manner after all she’d done for—?

Her tirade of
thoughts came to an abrupt end when she noticed her husband standing at the
stern of the ship, gazing out at the Thames.

Her cheeks
warmed as she recalled her scathing rebukes of him, and after a few measured
breaths, she calmed her raging heart.

Approaching his
tall figure, she settled beside him.

“I needed air,”
he said in a flat vein, clearly guessing her thoughts. He handed her the cabin
key. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

She took the key
from him, rubbing the metal between her fingers. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

Quincy turned
his deep blue eyes toward her, and though they were bloodshot, and his voice
was hoarse and surly, she knew he would be all right, really all right, because
for the first time in two weeks he
saw
her.

“You look
tired,” he murmured.

A light wind ruffled
her already tousled hair, and she brushed the stray tresses behind her ear. “I
look like a fright.”

“No.” He thumbed
her check. “You look like a siren from the sea.”

She shuddered
under his gentle caress and heady words, her skin tingling with gooseflesh. She
had longed for his tender touch, his intimate endearments, and she closed her
eyes, pressing her cheek into his warm palm, sighing with pleasure as he
stroked her jaw . . . her lips.

Her breath
hitched. He thumbed her mouth in light yet sensual sweeps, and her heart
pounded again.

Her lashes
fluttered. She met his smoldering stare. He reached for her. She parted her
lips . . . but he pulled her into his arms.

Holly sighed
again. Not in disappointment, though. The man’s strong embrace comforted her as
much as his healing kiss, and she clinched his waist in return, laying her
cheek over his strapping chest. At the sound of his thundering heart, her
relief intensified.

I didn’t lose
you.

A sob welled in
her throat, the anxiety she’d suppressed for the last two weeks now bursting in
her breast. She hugged him even harder, and he smothered the crown of her head
with his mouth, soothing her in a hushed tone.

“How can you
heal others, but not yourself?” she wondered when her nerves stilled and her
fears faded away.

“I don’t know.”
A pause, then, “I still have night terrors.”

“And you’ll have
to face them without the opium.”

“How is that
better?”

She looked up at
him, connected with his troubled gaze. “Because now you’ll face them with me at
your side.”

His uneasy
expression softened. “With you?” 

“Aye.”

Grazing her
spine with his fingertips, he rubbed the length of her backside over and over
until her blood swelled with want and heat.

“Why don’t you
go below and rest?” he whispered in a throaty voice.

“I don’t want to
leave your side. I’m so thankful I didn’t lose you, too.”

“Too?” His eyes
widened. “Emma . . . ?”

“Emma is fine,”
she swiftly assured him. “Mirabelle sends word of her progress every day. She’s
already up and about, taking strolls through the garden.” She hesitated. “I meant
my father.”

The pain she’d
smothered while nursing her husband now slammed against her ribs, taking her
breath away. She still heard her father’s plaintive voice in her mind:
Holly,
trust me. I will make things right.
And she still heard her cold rebuff:
No,
I do not trust you anymore, Papa.

She trembled at
the memory and tears filled her eyes.

Quincy wiped the
drops from her cheeks, smearing the briny moisture. “What happened to your
family?”

She turned her
head and observed the fiery sunrise reflecting across the Thames. “I had a
happy childhood. Mama and Papa were always joyful, full of life. They hosted
parties almost every week.” She smiled in nostalgia, but her lips soon slipped,
and her frown returned. “Papa, like every other lord, enjoyed a good card game,
winning a few hands, losing others. But his pastime turned obsessive when he
lost too many hands in a row. He was determined to regain every shilling. He
couldn’t, though. With each attempt, he lost more. And more. He grew
desperate.” She sucked in a frantic breath. “He wouldn’t stop.”

The set of arms
around her tightened, squeezing the panic from her heart.

“He lost
everything, I assume,” said Quincy.

She nodded.
“Even his life.”

“His life?”

Her throat
constricted as she resumed the tale. “He took his life with a pistol.”

“I’m sorry,
Holly.”

“I am even
sorrier.” Her watery eyes lifted. “We argued the night before his suicide. I
pleaded with him to stop gambling. He pleaded with me to trust him, that he
would restore all that he’d taken from us.” Her voice ragged, she stuttered, “I
didn’t trust him anymore, though. And I turned away from him. He died the next
day. Because of me.”

He furrowed his
brow. “How is it your fault?”

Her tears fell
quick. “When I lost faith in Papa, I took away his hope. He had no reason to
live after that.”

Holly sensed the
moment her husband’s posture toward her changed, shifted with an uncertain
tightness.

“Is that why you
came to me?” he asked, voice guarded.

“I came to help
you.”

He stepped back,
releasing her, and that familiar panic surged in her breast, the same panic
she’d battled as a young woman, when she’d realized her father had squandered
the family’s fortune.

“What’s wrong,
Quincy?”

“I just thought
. . . No, it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it
matters. Tell me.”

An unexpected
melancholy entered his beautiful eyes. “I thought you’d come aboard ship
because you cared for me.”

There was a
rawness in his voice that smacked of hurt, starling her. “I
do
care for you.
How can you think otherwise?”

“No, you care
about your guilt. You came aboard the
Nemesis
looking for absolution.
But I am not your father, Holly.”

Her thoughts
reeled. Her blood raced. Wavering, she reached for the ship’s rail. “I don’t
understand.”

“Let it be,
Holly.”

He turned and
sauntered away.

“Wait!” she
cried, feeling dizzy, strapped for breath. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going
home.”

“What’s
happened, Quincy?” Her lungs ached for air. “Why are you walking away? I—I love
you!”

He hardened in
his tracks.

She heaved under
the incredible weight of those words. As she stood there, alone, watching her
husband leave, imagining a life without him, the load intensified, and a fierce
need possessed her.

“You are my
husband. And I love you, Quincy Hawkins.” She moved away from the rail and circled
him, glaring right into his confused eyes. “Don’t you dare push me away with
that infernal excuse. I’m not here looking for absolution. I’m here because I
love you, and I don’t want to lose you.”

“Like you lost
your father?”

“Yes! Yes, like
I lost my father. I should have helped him all those years ago. But I didn’t.
And that is
my
pain. But I can help
you
. I can be here for
you
.”

He raked an
unsteady hand through his hair, still perturbed, unbelieving.

“Why are you so
afraid of me?” she demanded.

He reared his
head. “What?”

“Trust me. Touch
me.
Be
with me.” Her voice faltered. “We can be happy together, I know
it.”

At the turmoil
still swirling in his eyes, she knew she hadn’t convinced him of the truth—and
that sparked a flash of anger in her.

“Fine,” she
snapped. “Be alone. I will still love you, you damn pirate.”

And she stalked
away.

CHAPTER
20

Slumped in an
armchair, a glass of brandy in his hand, Quincy stared at the unfinished
self-portrait of Holly. He’d wandered into her art studio, unable to sleep, and
had found the charcoal sketch still perched on the easel. And still
mesmerizing.

A burst of
lightning filled the room, followed by roaring thunder. He rubbed his burning
eyes and turned away from his wife’s haunting likeness, downing the remaining
brandy.

When he’d
arrived home earlier that day, a cheerful Emma had received him, followed by a
proud Mirabelle, and for the first time in a long time, he’d felt grateful to
be alive, that he had been there to help the girl.

His wife had not
been there to welcome him, though. According to his sister, Holly had returned
to the house, escorted by one of his shipmates, and after greeting her kin, had
gone straight to her room where she was still secured. His sister had left
thereafter, sensing the discord between the newlyweds. But Quincy had not
approached his wife’s room. It was after midnight, and he still had not neared
her chamber door. In truth, he also felt like a canon ball had rammed him in
the gut.

He pushed out of
the armchair. Surrounded by shrouded canvases, he had an overwhelming urge to
unmask them and stripped away the drapings, revealing painting after brilliant painting.
Still, the need to unveil his wife consumed him. He ransacked her paper sketches,
sifting through portraits and stills and abstract designs. Her talent was
boundless, undeniable, but his need to expose her went unsatisfied. He’d
already recognized her scope as an artist. What was he really searching for?

Proof.

He slumped his shoulders
at the dismal revelation. He was searching for proof that she loved him. He
hadn’t found it, though. There were no moonstruck images of him amongst the
piles of papers, no dewy-eyed oils. The one nude she’d produced of him had been
for profit, and not a sentiment of her true affection for him.

There was
nothing in the studio to support her declaration of love.

“Damn it.”

He leaned
against the wall and closed his eyes. Fear filled him. A fear of what, though?
And how had that fear just sprouted in his breast?

Quincy stalked
toward the door—then stilled. At a certain angle, the charcoal portrait of
Holly stared straight at him. Before, it’d appeared as if she was looking sidelong
to some distant, unnamed point, but standing where he was now, he met her eyes
dead-on.

His heart capered,
and that unnamed fear revealed itself: what if she didn’t truly love him?

What if she was
using him to make peace with her past? What if he was just a substitute for her
father, a means of reparation and reconciliation? Once, such a thought would
not have troubled him. But now . . .

Quincy inhaled a
desperate breath. As he gazed into her sooty eyes, filled with myriad emotions,
he longed for her love because . . . because he loved her.

He shuddered
under the force of those words; they permeated his soul until he pulsed with an
insatiable desire for Holly. But that fear still gripped him. What if her
professed love for him wasn’t real? He couldn’t imagine a greater hell than to
be in love with his wife and not have her love in return. Or what if she
rejected him after their morning quarrel? What if he was too late, and she’d
hardened her heart against him?

Quincy steadied
his irregular breathing. He couldn’t remember a more critical battle than the
one raging in his heart right now. And he realized there was no winning the
battle by scouring the art studio or torturing himself with endless questions
of doubt. There was really only one thing he could do—surrender to his love for
Holly, consequences be damned.

~ * ~

Holly wrapped
her arms around her bare shoulders, a light breeze in the humid air. She stood
on the balcony in her night rail, watching the moon-washed garden below. Soon the
celestial light faded as storm clouds encroached. She listened to the angry
thunder still miles off and travelled away in her thoughts, escaping the dull
ache in her breast.

Her husband’s accusation still rattled
in her head:
you care about your guilt . . . absolution . . . I am not your
father.
No, he was not. And she wasn’t striving to change the past. Her
father was dead, and she was left with two disjointed sentiments: asking his
forgiveness for her weakness and forgiving him for his. She’d not known about
the power of hope or encouragement, that a lost soul could be guided home with
a loving hand. But she understood the lesson now. And she’d
no
regrets
helping her husband. Her only regret was growing attached to the man.

Quincy had told
her time and again he wanted a marriage in name alone. She should have believed
him. She should have helped him overcome his obsession without wishing for
more.

She was a fool
for dreaming. And now she was a fool in love.

“Damn.”

The sting of bitter
tears blurred her vision, and she wiped away the annoying droplets, vowing
never to weep over the pirate again.

A gentle rain
fell, a mist really, and she closed her eyes, allowing the spray to bathe her,
perhaps wash away her sorrow.

Holly tensed.

A draft stirred
at her backside. Her languid heart jumped. And a shiver skittered along her
spine.

She grabbed the
iron rail for support. She was confused. And ravenous. Fearful. And hoping.
Always foolishly hoping.

He stepped
through the balcony doors, silent, and the fine hairs on her arms spiked. She
flexed her fingers, then grasped the rail again. Tight. So tight. She waited
for him to speak, but he remained still—earth-shatteringly still.

The longer he
stood behind her, his primal gaze burrowing into her, the more her senses
roared with life. But she would not confront him. He had come to her. In the
dead of night. Why?

“W-why are you
here?” she stammered.

Quincy took
another step toward her.

Her breath
hitched.

“I saw the light
under your door,” he murmured.

“That’s not an
answer.” In a strangled voice, she asked again, “Why are you here?” 

She strengthened
her hold on the rail, her knees weakening. The rain now poured. And the
pressure in her chest ballooned until she was sure her heart might fail her.
She had never waited with such anticipation, such dread, such miserable hope.
She almost whirled around and smacked him for making her stand there in agony.

Again, he moved
toward her with heady intent. Oh, heavens! She couldn’t feel her fingers
anymore, she was holding the iron barrier so hard. Her heart pounded in her
ears. She trembled. Her lungs throbbed for air. A powerful yearning coursed
through her veins.

Please, don’t be
a dream.

When his hips
brushed hers, she gasped. An almost electric shock passed through her. In the storm,
she might’ve believed lightning had pierced her soul, but she knew it wasn’t
the turbulent sky that’d ravaged her—it was her husband.

Holly remained
taut as he nestled more firmly against her backside. At last she relaxed into
him, consuming the strength, the warmth, the intimacy he offered her in that
moment. But he had not confessed his intentions. Aye, his body whispered his sensual
desires, but his lips had yet to reveal the true workings of his heart. Had he
come for a mere tussle? Or had he come searching for something more?

His broad hands
slipped between their heated bodies and he unraveled the stays of his shirt,
pulling the garment over his head and tossing it to the ground.

She took in a
ragged breath. “What are you doing?”

And if he stated
the obvious, she
would
turn around and clout him.

He next
unfastened the flaps of his trousers, the subtle movements whisking across her
lower spine, making her quiver.

“I’m giving you
my body.”

Her heart
seized. In a near inaudible voice, she whispered, “Why?”

He curled his
naked form around her, and she opened her mouth in silent ecstasy, unable to
utter a sound. His every muscle throbbed with indisputable want—for her—and she
raked her teeth over her bottom lip, resisting complete surrender. She just had
to know . . .

“Why?” she
demanded, still waiting to hear words that might mend—or further tear—her
heart.

His fingers
trailed up her rigid arms, slick with rain and peppered with gooseflesh. He
caressed her shoulders, pressed his thumbs deep into her shoulder blades,
forcing her to arch backward. At the unexpected pleasure of his manipulating
touch, she cried out.

He then dropped
his wet brow and rested it on the crown of her head, his rough voice rumbling,
“Because I love you.”

A sob of joy welled
in her throat. Hope sprouted anew. Still, she was unsure about his admission.
“I thought you didn’t want—?”

“I was wrong,”
he said hoarsely. “I want you, Holly. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted
anything in my life.”

As tremors pulsed
through his hands, vibrating down her arms, she sensed his misgiving. After all
they had been through, would she accept his love?

Tears filled her
eyes again. She appreciated all the more his sincerity, his bravery in the face
of uncertain rejection.

He belonged to
her, she accepted in that moment. Truly, he belonged to her. And she belonged
to him. Forever. And not because of a scandalous painting or a forced marriage,
but because he loved her, as she loved him.

“Sweet Holly,”
he seduced in a hushed tone. “Be my wife.”

And she sighed between
falling tears to
finally
hear him call her “sweet” again. “I should
wallop you but good for taking so long to give in.”

A chuckle resounded
in his chest, making her smile, too. “I will spend the rest of my life making
it up to you, I promise.”

The energy
between them changed, shifted from wavering doubt and hope to cardinal desire.
Without hesitation, he hooked the straps of her night rail around his thumbs,
dragging them off her shoulders. “Starting tonight,” he breathed into her ear.
“Our wedding night.”

Our wedding
night.

She shut her
eyes at the cherished, long sought after words. An anxious want filled her
belly and spread throughout her essence as her breathing grew swift and
shallow.

Since her garment
clinched her body like a second skin, he peeled away the soaked linen until it dropped
to the ground, leaving her naked in the stormy night. Water pelted her skin. She
shivered under the stimulating taction.

“You’re so
beautiful,” he rasped.

Her blood
swelled. Her lips, her breasts felt fuller, more sensitive. She wasn’t even
abashed at the admiration in his gruff voice; it offered her nothing but
delight.

“You’re
beautiful, too,” she returned softly, perhaps a little wickedly. “I’ve already
had the pleasure of seeing you in the buff.”

He grunted at
her impudence. “Wench.”

But her grin
faltered when he brushed aside her damp hair and nuzzled the crook between her
neck and shoulder, bussing the tender flesh while circling her waist . . . and kneading
her breasts.

Holly moaned. Her
heart rammed against her breastbone in arousal, such wanton arousal. She had
never experienced more rapture or beauty. As her husband stroked her aching
nipples, sucked at her supple throat, undulated at her bare back, she nigh
dropped from the assailing sensations.

“Hold the rail, Holly.
Tight.”

A violent
shudder wracked her limbs. She obeyed, squeezing the iron bar. His knuckles traced
the knobs of her spine. Water sluiced her body. And then his robust fingers slipped
between her buttocks.

She arced on pointe
at the man’s probing thrusts, at the intense titillation. An exquisite tension
gathered between her thighs, and her quim—oh, heavens—her quim wetted with fierce
need.

In instinct, she
spread her legs apart, wanting more.

So much more.

With a feral
longing that matched her own, Quincy grabbed her hips, pulled her arse closer toward
him, and penetrated her core in one hot, hard stroke.

Sweet heavens!