Master of Paradise

Katherine O’Neal

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 1995, Katherine O’Neal

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For Bill and Janie

and my fabulous Ruffles

And my thanks to

J.W. Manus, ebook creator

extraordinaire

Calling
The Last Highwayman
“a
sophisticated, sensual read,”
New York Times
bestselling
author Jayne Ann Krentz said, “Katherine O’Neal is an exciting
writer with a fast, intense and very polished style. She has found
a way to use the hard-edged glitz of Jackie Collins and set that
against a historical backdrop. It could be the start of a new
genre.”

“A whirlwind of adventure/romance that
seethes with dark, intense emotion and wild,
hot
sensuality.”—
Romantic Times

“Katherine O’Neal is the queen of romantic
adventure, reigning over a court of intrigue, sensuality, and good
old-fashioned storytelling. Readers who insist on strong characters
with intelligence will appreciate her craftsmanship.”—
Affaire de
Coeur

“O’Neal provides vibrant characters and
settings, along with plenty of intrigue, daring escapes, 11th hour
twists and steamy romance.”—
Publishers Weekly

“Sensuous and
spine-tingling...Superb.”—
Rendezvous

Bedfordshire, England

6 JUNE 1824

Gabrielle raced along the sprawling grounds
of Westbury Grange, dressed in the starched black maid’s gown with
its pristine apron tied to her waist and the hated white cap upon
her head. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of the party
drifting out from doors opened to the summer night—music, laughter,
the clink of fine crystal. She should be there, serving champagne
to guests from a heavy silver tray, smiling vacantly at the
gentlemen as their ladies inspected her with curiosity and
disdain.

But she was free from all that now. As she
sped along, the sense of liberty was delicious. In only moments,
she would finally be with Rodrigo.

Rodrigo!

All evening, they’d carried out the charade,
pretending they were nothing to each other. He’d stood there with
his elbow resting coolly against the mantel, swirling his drink—a
tall, golden Portuguese god with dark blond hair that occasionally
rebelled and tumbled over his wide forehead. He hadn’t glanced at
her even once. Until the moment when he suddenly looked her way,
giving her the signal—his lion’s eyes smoldering with a brazenness
that sucked the air from her lungs. Then he quietly slipped
away.

She couldn’t abandon her post for some time.
The delay had been agony, knowing he was out there, waiting for
her. It was the last time she would see him for perhaps as much as
two years. He’d just graduated first in his class from Haileybury,
the exclusive training academy of the British East India Company,
and was shipping out the next day to India—his first assignment as
an officer of the Company. This was his farewell celebration.

She remembered the first time she’d seen him.
He’d been brought to Westbury Grange at the age of thirteen—a
strange boy with dead eyes, snatched from his home in the Indian
Ocean, the son of a notorious pirate who’d been hanged before his
eyes. To be taken in by the duke in a grand gesture of magnanimity,
educated in the finest schools, and molded into a perfect Company
man. There was now little of that boy in his appearance. He looked
very much the English gentleman, his features as classic as those
of any aristocrat, with his handsome chiseled face, Roman nose,
tapered jaw, and full, sensual mouth.

They’d been drawn to each other from the
start. Their family roots were each deep in the colonies of the
Indian Ocean, though she, the duke’s bastard daughter, had never
been there herself. They recognized in each other a yearning for
that distant lost paradise. As children, on the occasions when he
was living at the Grange, they’d sneak off together and play games
that made them both forget the hell of their existence. She saw him
less after he left for school; but when she did, the bond was
immediate and electric. She only had to look at him to feel the
exuberance bubbling inside, to envision the freedom of escape his
presence would provide. They’d grown up playmates, but in the last
year their friendship had followed its natural course and blossomed
into a deep and passionate secret love.

Now she ran to him through the sultry night,
over gently rolling hills, through a thicket of apple trees, to the
sloping bank of the river beyond. He was there, with his jacket
open, his cravat tugged low, the top stud of his shirt undone. He
was so exquisite, standing in the moonlight with his face angled
upward, sniffing the sea air. Everything she’d ever longed for in a
man—exciting, romantic, the spawn of an adventurer. A man who could
sweep her away from this life of misery.

She stopped a few yards from him, content to
watch him, to feel the unspeakable jubilation of knowing this time
was theirs, that no one could take it away. He sensed her presence
and turned. His eyes were heavy, hooded, scorching her from afar.
Soundlessly, he stalked forward, giving her the impression she was
being dominated by the very maleness of his presence. She felt
small before him as he grasped the sides of her face and crushed
her mouth to his, conquering her with a sizzling open-mouthed
kiss.

His mouth moved like a cyclone, leaving her
parted lips, skimming her cheek, dipping to burrow into the hollows
of her throat. As if by magic, her starched blouse melted beneath
his fingers, and his hands were shoving it down, his lips traveling
in a delectable trail to her shoulders, her collarbone. He jerked
her uniform down, baring her breasts to the night air. At once his
hands were on them, kneading skillfully, lifting a globe to better
accommodate the eagerness of his mouth. He teased a nipple with his
restlessly flicking tongue, then sucked until she felt her knees
buckle beneath her.

Catching her in a swift motion, he hoisted
her into his arms, greedily tasting of the sweet summons of her
breast as he strode toward the waiting boat. The only sounds they
heard were the lapping of the river and her rapid breathing. He
stepped into the flatboat like a man born to the sea, unmindful of
the rocking jolt beneath their weight. Bending, he settled her on
the hard seat with a final lingering taste of her breast. As he
tried to straighten, she grabbed his broad shoulders and pulled him
back.

“Rodrigo,” she panted in a husky voice,
“don’t leave me now.”

“Do you want me to take you right here, in
this boat?” he asked in a deep voice that still carried traces of a
Portuguese accent.

She was grateful for the darkness, so he
couldn’t see the sudden flush of her cheeks. The realization that
this was their final night together crackled between them like a
covenant of things to come. She felt wild with anticipation.

Her heart fluttering, she said, “No, darling.
I can wait to reach our island of love.” Their own private island,
that magical place where the only happy moments of her life had
been spent.

He read the promise in her eyes and gave her
an ardent gaze. Her body tingled with an awareness of his
intentions—and her own. She couldn’t wait to give herself to the
only man she’d ever loved. Here, in the moonlight, one last time. A
lovely memory to take with him on the lonely voyage across the
seas.

“Hurry,” she prompted.

His lips curved in a rare smile. “Usually
it’s I who am impatient.”

Her toes tingled at the implications. That
this wonderful man was impatient for her gave her a warm feeling of
well-being. It was what he’d always given her, even as a boy: the
knowledge of what it was to be wanted for the first time in her
life...

He took up the long pole and, submerging it
in the river, gave a mighty shove. They surged into the water. Even
in the fragile light, she could see his shoulders bunch and strain
beneath the confines of his jacket. She loved to watch him work the
pole as they floated gracefully through the current. They’d started
meeting here in the first place because he never wanted to be far
from water. He seemed at home on a boat, at ease with himself, sure
of his actions, master of all he surveyed. She felt a thrill shiver
through her. Watching him, she thought of his pirate father and was
certain there were hidden dimensions to Rodrigo that even
she
couldn’t guess.

It wasn’t a long trip. The island glistened
halfway to the opposite bank, a small reef less than fifty yards
across. They called it Willow Island because of the protrusion of
willows that adorned the perimeter, draping their lacy leaves
poetically to the soft, moist banks. As children they’d played here
with her younger brother, Cullen, tagging along behind. They used
to swim to the island, pretending it was a smuggler’s cove, and she
a titled lady captured by Rodrigo’s brigand and imprisoned on an
island far from the reaches of the law. Here they’d laughed and
howled at the tops of their lungs, trudging through the muddy banks
of the river with feet bare and heads hatless against the summer
suns—blithe spirits away from the austerity of the duke’s
household. Here, they’d dreamed their dreams. They were the only
happy times of Gabrielle’s life. Rodrigo would spin fanciful tales
of how he’d grow up to be a pirate like his father and carry her
away. She’d known the stories for what they were; but a part of
her, even now, still believed.

He anchored the boat onshore with efficient
motions, then came to carry her from the boat and set her feet on
the ground. There, in the luminescence of the moon, beneath the
shelter of dangling leaves, she finished what he’d begun, removing
her cap, stripping off the uniform she so despised, and dropping
each piece to the ground. Slowly, as he’d taught her. Everything
slow. Like a cat stretching in the sun. Rodrigo watched with
sweltering eyes as he, too, shed his clothing to reveal a body of
tempered steel.

Gabrielle preened before him, glorying in her
autonomy, in the liberation of her real and naked self. She reached
up and unbound the curls of her chocolate hair, allowing it to
tumble free. At seventeen, she was soft and curvy, voluptuous in
the way he preferred. Her breasts just filled his large hands. Her
rounded buttocks spanned the breadth of his palms. As she heard the
intake of his breath, she felt a familiar heat.

She sauntered toward him with a seductive
air. Caressing the muscles of his shoulders with light fingers, she
brought her lips to the sculpted power of his chest. Nibbling him,
she worked her way down the taut flesh, dropping slowly, as she
progressed, to her knees. There, she took him in hand, stroking him
adoringly. She leaned over and kissed him with moist lips, heard
his gasp as she felt him grow and swell beneath her hand. He was
tremendous, always larger than she remembered, alive and throbbing
beneath her lips.

“You’re magnificent. I never dreamed a man
could be as beautiful as you.”

Dropping to her level, his hairy legs bending
fluidly so they caught the shimmer of the moon, he kissed her
deeply as he stroked her with practiced hands. She felt wicked, a
woman of forbidden delights, kissing him in the moonlight with
nothing between them to protect her from his assault. As he kissed
her, her head began to spin, as if she were drowning in his
heat.

Trailing his lips to her cheek, her ear, the
back of her neck, he turned her so her back was to him. She felt
his hot tongue on her shoulder blades, moving down her spine. At
the same time his hand found her between her legs. She whimpered
with a need so intense, she thought she’d faint. As he followed the
path of her spine he bent her slowly, so that by the time he was
nibbling at the back of her waist, she’d shifted forward on her
knees, supporting herself with outthrust hands.

Then, all at once she felt him behind her,
hard as a shaft of steel against the soft, dewy moisture his
fingers had aroused. He lifted her hips in a single savage move,
preparing to enter from behind. Suddenly the tutored gentleman was
gone. In his place was a being as dark and fierce as any pirate
vision she’d ever had. Gone was any pretense of deportment. He
seemed suddenly barbaric, relentless and unmercifully resolute.