Secrets of Sin (20 page)

“No, this.” She tore herself away from him, stood, and turned. Walking deliberately toward Connor, she placed her hands on his knees to spread his legs farther apart. She sank to the floor and began working the buttons of his breeches. In the blink of an eye his shaft was free of its confines and her fingers trailed over him.

She’d spent so long feeling jealous of their friendship. Now it was Reinier’s turn to be the one left out. Time to show him she didn’t need him, that any man would do just as well—even one she disliked.

Emiline took her time, determined to learn every inch of Connor’s member. He was darker and thicker and not quite as long as Reinier, but his skin was just as soft and warm in her hand when she wrapped it around the base. His scent was pleasant and she licked along the head first, savoring the poignancy of the slightly salty tang under her tongue.

Every touch of her fingers, her lips, and her tongue had Connor’s breath change, and each gentle gasp from his lips flashed through her mind with a blaze of iniquitous enjoyment in its wake.

His body rose to her suckling lips. He gasped when she ran her tongue from base to tip several times, hissed when she engulfed just the tip, her tongue circling it with rapid flicks. Connor hummed a low moan when she took him deep and sucked hard; he held his breath when she opened her mouth and laved him with her tongue and teeth. Looking up, she saw his lids lowered over dilated eyes.

Then she dared a glance at Reinier. His jaw was set tight and his eyes narrowed at her, a dangerous fire burning in them. When his gaze moved higher, she knew he witnessed Connor’s bliss and the pleasure he took in her talented mouth.

Oh yes, any man would do.

Feeling like she’d made her point, she put all her concentration into her task—suckling, laving, licking Connor like Reinier had once taught her.

She never saw Reinier move, but just as her mouth loosened so that only her tongue could flick the small slit on the tip, she suddenly sensed him behind her. In one swift, rough motion, his arm went around her waist to position her higher on her knees. The next instant she heard a rip in the precious fabric of her beautiful skirts. The cooling air of the room whispered over her backside.

He thrust into her, stretched and filled her with more force that she’d ever felt.

Emiline moaned. Her mind was ravaged by desire for him and only him, her blood boiling, the lust reeling and hissing like a venomous snake in her veins. Her hands gripped Connor’s thighs, blindly searching for stability under Reinier’s rough and hard thrusts. She knew she’d be lost in no time as she was pushed closer and closer toward something she wasn’t even sure she wanted.

Connor’s commanding hands closed around her head, taking her away from her task, but Emiline barely noticed. As soon as his hard length was freed from her lips, Connor nudged her away from him, stood, and moved her hands to the arms of the chair. He was leaving them, she thought, but she was in no condition to wonder about that now. Her arms moved farther into the chair, stretching her upper body completely as she opened herself wider for Reinier’s assault.

His hips jolted her, his violent strokes hard and ruthless. He drove into her again and again with a ferocity unseen before. His fingers dug into her cheeks, spreading her flesh even more. Each stroke was fiercer than the last; each one felt like it would tear her apart.

Emiline didn’t care. She wanted it, needed it. Her wrath was out of control, out of boundaries. She wasn’t afraid of his rage; she had her own and it fed from his. She was burning—bright and strong, with fury, with lust, and with despair as well.

Her closed eyelashes were dotted with moisture. All her frustration, all her rage flowed into her answering thrusts. She swayed back, taking all of him in, impatient to feel him, hating herself for that irrepressible craving. She detested and reveled in their rough, driving passion.

When her orgasm hit, Emiline threw her head back with a mindless scream. It shocked her with its intensity, ripped through her like a violent torrent, and crested in a blinding explosion blending with Reinier’s hoarse, climactic bellow.

In the ensuing stillness, she felt his hot seed dripping down her backside just like the silent tears that rolled down her cheeks.

Her shame, will, and reason were all hushed.

That disgraceful passion, that humiliating affection she felt for him…it would never stop, no matter what. No matter if she had her divorce—which she would. No matter how long he stayed away—which she hoped would be forever.

She hated him so much; hated him because she could never be free of him.

She was doomed.

She was his.

E
miline’s mind hadn’t let her find more than a fitful slumber. Walking through the harbor now, she felt numb. She scarcely remembered Justine waking her or when she’d gotten dressed. She couldn’t even remember if she’d eaten that morning. She only knew she needed to get away, and there was only one place she could think to go. It was the one place where she might be able to sort through it all, where she could be alone with her thoughts and those haunting images that taunted her.

The island was still asleep but gradually coming awake with birds lazily twittering their morning prayer, accompanied by the soft hymn of the gentle waves washing against the pilings of Ronde’s harbor. Emiline’s gaze was drawn to the mesmerizing sight of the golden sun slowly rising from where the sea met the sky.

It seemed as if she were the only person alive. Only the rhythmical cracking sound of the
Sirene
’s and the
Coraal
’s hulls bid her a good morrow. The
Sea Gull
was anchored farther away simply because Ronde’s harbor was a small one.

Sighing, she kicked a pebble out of her way before she stumbled over it. Instead of the soft sound of the pebble tumbling over the planks as she expected, the sound of splintering wood nearly frightened her out of her skin. The deep timbre of a man’s voice soon followed.

“Why do I feel so awful? Dammit!”

Another crack sounded, followed by a frustrated growl. Suddenly, Emiline saw Connor’s black hair flash into sight, then vanish behind a crate again.

“I didn’t even come. Damn it all to hell and back! I didn’t cheat on her. I didn’t!”

Emiline’s eyes widened as an almost empty flask came flying toward her, rotating in the air and spilling its contents merrily all over the place. If she hadn’t stepped aside in time, it would have hit her and not shattered next to her on the wharf, drenching the wooden planks. By the smell of it, it was some of her finest rum.

Another loud curse came from Connor’s direction. Thank goodness being mistress of the island had gotten her used to sailors and their excessive and expressive swearing, or Emiline’s ears might have fallen off.

Looking around, she debated what to do. Emiline had her own problems and she should leave him to his. The sound of splintering wood caught her attention and she turned to see Connor punching an empty, defenseless crate.

“There’s no such thing as cheating on a…a…wh—”—Connor stepped from behind the crates and Emiline saw him gape at her just like she goggled at him—“
hóigh
is what I meant to say.” He bowed awkwardly, slightly swaying as his head was almost down to his knees.

“Connor?” Emiline gasped. He’d shed his coat. The shirt he wore was torn in some places, streaked with dirty smudges in others, and halfway untucked. The collar was partly ripped open. His jet-black hair wasn’t shiny as silk like it had been the evening before and it stood awkwardly in places, waving wildly, part in, part out of the braid. “Dear Lord, what’s happened to you?”

When he straightened again, he lost his balance and his shoulders hit the man-high stack of wooden crates behind him just before the back of his head connected with an evil thump. He gave up struggling and let his body just slide down the crates that had escaped his wrath until he was sprawled on the dock.

“Nothing,” Connor mumbled, shaking his head to emphasize his point while rubbing the back of his neck.

Emiline approached him with caution. She stood over him, giving him an austere scowl. “Are you drunk?”

His laugh was filled with despair when he examined the small cuts on his knuckles. “Wish I were. I only had a glass of your excellent rum. A glass or two maybe. No more.” His eyes flicked around; he seemed to have difficulty focusing. “Wouldn’t want to fall into one of my dark moods. Not here, anyway.”

His murmur was probably not meant to be heard. “Dark mood?”

All of a sudden, more images of the previous evening sprang up and she caught her breath. “It…it isn’t because…I mean…it doesn’t have anything to do with—”

“No, no, milady.” Connor’s face puckered and he waved her concerns off as negligible.

She exhaled with relief. Heedless to the damage to her dress, Emiline plopped down onto the dock beside him. Leaning forward, she placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. “Connor, I do believe that after last night you have every right to call me by my given name.”

His shoulders slumped. When he looked up at her, his eyes were bloodshot with dark circles under them. He really did look awful. Had he slept at all? The expression on his face was enormously gloomy. His misery was almost palpable.

He sighed. “Emiline, you do not want to burden yourself with my poor state of mind, believe me.”

“Oh, you have no idea about the burden on my mind, so by all means, distract me with yours.”

With a slight hesitation, Connor stared at her as if he was making up his mind. “Very well, then. I’m cursed.”

Emiline gave him a look that was more curious than anything else. “Cursed, you say?”

“Yes,” Connor nodded, a doleful expression on his face. “I’m bewitched by an Irish goddess with emerald eyes and flaming hair.”

Emiline suppressed the understanding smile she felt. Love could, indeed, feel very much like a curse when it took you unawares. Poor Connor. He wasn’t aware that he’d fallen in love.

To a certain extent, the two of them were in the same boat. It felt good to push her own deep concerns aside for the moment.

“Do you love this woman?”

Again, Connor shook his head. “That’s not the point—”

Emiline snorted with a cheerless laugh hinting at her heartbroken state of mind. “It’s the only thing that really matters. Unfortunately, love is the only thing that can make us utterly miserable or entirely happy.”

She held her breath. Hopefully, he was still too drunk to see how closely her statement hit home.

His mouth twitched into the parody of a smile. “And lust is but a fleeting moment. Fickle passion!”

Shaking her head, Emiline contradicted, “Not if love’s got her hands in it.”

Something akin to understanding flittered over his face, making his deep blue eyes glitter for an instant. She asked herself if he was really as drunk as she’d assumed at first. His gaze was too sober, too intense to mistake it for a drunkard’s delirium.

“Like you love Reinier?” Connor cocked his head.

Emiline looked down, crossing the fingers on her lap.

“Did he ever tell you how we met?”

She glanced up just long enough to harrumph as a sign Reinier hadn’t.

“In a way, this is all my fault,” Connor started out with an apologetic shrug. “You see, I found him in a tavern in St. George’s. He was in bad shape and his mood was even worse. When I’d watched him sipping at his watered-down ale for an hour, staring into nothing but his tumbler and ignoring the rest of the world, I sat down next to him and poured him a glass of rum.”

He shrugged, letting his head fall back against the crate, and stared up into the sky with a distant look in his eyes. “I knew he’d been there for the first time. His skin was pale, like white linen. Nobody who’d been at sea for long and in the Caribbean for longer would have had that light coloring. With his complexion, he would have suffered a sunburn at least.”

Connor chuckled and Emiline smiled with him. She’d never heard that part of their story and strangely, she didn’t mind hearing it. He’d known Reinier longer—and better—than Emiline had. Ever would, she mentally corrected herself.

Looking straight into her eyes now, Connor continued, “I insisted he have a taste of the finest rum in all the Caribbean. It came, I told him, from a tiny island just north of there, owned by a wealthy African pirate who’d bought the whole bloody island with its stunning villa and lush green hills for his lovely French wife.

“He was so intrigued by that story that as soon as he got the chance, he came here. To a ball. Where he met you.”

What did he mean? Did he insinuate if it weren’t for her, they’d still be happily whoring around the Seven Seas? Or was this his way to say he felt responsible for the way things had turned out and what she was going through right now? It would entail that Connor had more of a conscience than she gave him credit for.

On seeing the sadness tainting his expression, it occurred to her that perhaps Connor wasn’t the total villain she’d made him out to be.

Leaning his head to the side, his gaze felt very much as if he was reading her like an open book. “You cannot understand him unless you comprehend how he came to be that way. It’s hard to love him, Emiline. The call of the sea will always tear at him.”

Caught unawares, she felt defensive and didn’t try to hide the frustration. “What is it about the bloody ocean that draws men like cattle to hay?”

Connor’s smile was indulgent. “It not about the sea itself. It’s about freedom, Emiline. And for Reinier, part of that freedom is to love on his own terms.”

Emiline crossed her arms and glanced sideways at the Irishman. To her, love was feeling some responsibility for the other person, and that meant you weren’t free to have everything on your own terms. You had someone else’s needs to consider. There had been times in the last few days when she felt they were doing just that. But if there was always something or someone that he wanted more…

Connor interrupted her rambling thoughts. “Give him something that he feels stronger about than his most precious freedom, and his heart and mind will follow.”

He of all people offered her advice on how to love Reinier? That was way too hard to believe. And how could she ever trust that there wouldn’t come a day when Reinier’s feelings changed like they had before and he’d be gone again?

No, she couldn’t take that chance. She’d had divorce papers drawn up. There was no turning back. Not at this point. “That’s a challenge I’m not sure I’m prepared for, Connor.”

Shrugging, he smiled secretively. “Maybe. But it would be worth it in the end. Don’t you think?”

Frankly, her mind was too overloaded with everything that had happened since Reinier’s return. This new bit of information only added to her confusion.

Did she really have the means to make things right, to have a happy marriage with Reinier?

A horse’s whinny made her look up, and she followed Connor’s gaze to see her mare galloping happily in the direction of the fields. John, the groom, followed her, swinging some rope frantically as he ran.

“Hmm.” At that contemplative harrumph, Emiline’s attention snapped back to Connor. He pursed his lips in thought. “Perhaps you should find another groom.” He pointed his hand to the boy chasing the horse, his palm up, stating without words the obvious.

“I know.” Emiline let out a grave sigh. “John is a sweet boy, but he has no hand for horses.” She’d had that thought once or twice already, but she would have never believed she’d admit it. Funny how easily the words had now tumbled out of her.

“My brother’s neighbor breeds horses. The finest horseflesh far and wide. I’ll take the liberty of sending you some.”

“No, there’s no need to—” She waved her hands in protest, but Connor cut her off.

“Please. I insist, Emiline.”

Surprisingly agile for his supposed hungover, sleep-deprived state, he scrambled up and held his hand to help her stand also. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll try to get some sleep. I must look like the devil incarnate.” After an apologetic smile, he bowed over her hand, turned, and walked toward his ship.

Emiline’s gaze followed him as he strolled away. She couldn’t help but concur. He did look very much like the devil already on his knees but still desperately fighting a goddess’s lure. It was no secret what happened to those who got involved with the gods. They always got burned.

Someone was building a ship inside Reinier’s head. The pounding of hammers, the gnarling whine of saws, and the shouting of commands were never ending. Even the willow bark tea he’d choked down with his toast for breakfast had done nothing to stop that awful clamor.

Normally, he prided himself on the amount of spirits he could consume, still have his wits about him through the night, and feel relatively normal in the morning, but the copious amounts of rum it had taken for him to find sleep after the nightmare of the evening before was somewhat ridiculous—even for him. And now there was a booming shipyard in his brain, along with all the same emotions he’d wanted the rum to wash away.

Reinier was furious at them all: at himself for pushing her, at Emiline for driving him to do it, and at Connor for his horrible timing at daring to show up—never mind that Reinier had asked him to. His guilt for all those things made the anger that much sharper.

His frustration and pain grew even worse the longer he searched the manor for his wife and didn’t find her. She wasn’t anywhere in the house now, and Reinier knew for a fact Connor hadn’t spent the night there. He’d seen the lantern light from the captain’s stateroom on the
Coraal
glowing toward him like a beacon as he walked the docks, bottle in hand. But its call had held little appeal compared to that of the dark windows to the mistress’s suite.

Images of Emiline and Connor together the night before flashed in his mind: Connor’s mouth locked on her dark nipple as she moaned, his blissful expression as Emiline’s succulent mouth engulfed his cock. The pain in Reinier’s chest now made the pounding ache in his head seem like cotton bouncing on fluffy clouds.

What if the light bobbing on the water had been for her? What if his stupidity and rage had driven them both away from him and to each other?

Reinier was almost crippled by his roaring emotions when he finally found Justine picking lavender in the kitchen garden. “Where the devil is your mistress?”

A small, flat basket hanging on her arm, Justine continued at her task, not even bothering to greet him after his stern, commanding question. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

“And I am sure you do.”

The maid flinched at his obvious temper but stood her ground as she turned to face him, chin high and her free hand on her ample hip. “Why would I tell you?”