Footsteps in the hallway warned her that someone was coming. She jumped from the tub and hurriedly swathed herself in one of the linen sheets from the bunk. The footsteps were coming too slowly, making every fiber of her body dance in curious alarm—and fascination. She raced to the rum bottle for another long swallow—and was caught in the act when the door opened and Sloan stood there. He eyed her coldly for a minute, then turned his face from her as he closed the door and bolted it.
When he faced her again, she was clutching the rum bottle close to her, and a sardonic grin touched his lips.
“Sustenance, Brianna?”
She shrugged defiantly, her fingers twining close about the bottle. He moved into the cabin, unbuckling the sword he seldom seemed to be without, and casting it down on his desk. He sat to remove his boots, and then, without taking his eyes from hers, began calmly to disrobe, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing that, too, carelessly onto the desk.
He grasped the rum bottle and shook it slightly to remove it from her grasp. “May I?” he inquired politely.
She released the bottle and backed away from him. He took a long sip of the rum, then ordered, “Come here!”
“Come here! Just like that!” she shrilled defiantly. “You’ve nothing to say, no apology, no shame—”
“Nay, I haven’t a word to say. Come here.”
She did not; but he didn’t seem to notice. As she backed away he followed her until she could go no farther. And then his hands caught hers, pinning her to the wall, and her hold on the sheet was lost. It drifted to the floor. She saw his eyes, the richest jade, and then his mouth touched hers with neither fury nor fever, but gently, heated and moist and seductively, until she gave in. She tasted the rum again, and she tasted him, warm and male, and she began to tremble inside with an uncontrollable yearning. His chest pressed to hers and hard muscle crushed against the softness of her breasts, taunting and wonderful. She felt the hardness of his hip against hers, the strength of his thighs. And his tongue, playing deeply in the recesses of her mouth, seeking hers, filling her with a burst of sweetness that she could not fight.
He moved quickly, drawing his lips from hers, lifting her in his arms and staring into her eyes as he carried her to the bed. She felt as if she could barely move, so entranced was she. He shed his breeches, watching her all the while. Nervously, she waited for him and for her life she could not have said if it was with dread—or with anticipation.
He covered her body with his own, his hard-muscled legs wedging hers apart. And he took her hands again, holding them as he looked at her. She moistened her lips, already wet from his kiss.
“I’ll hate you for this,” she told him, but her wavering voice betrayed her words. His lips found hers again with an explosive hunger that brought a moan from her. Pleasure raged to a soaring desire with the sure and eager touch of his hands on her, caressing her breasts, cradling and arousing them. His body moved against hers, teasing it, and his mouth left hers to trail erotic patterns over her flesh, kisses that burned and made her quake.
But still he did not take her.
She closed her eyes determined that she endure—not enjoy. But his assault upon her senses continued; his tongue teased along her feet and her ankles and she shuddered from the effort to quell the churning rise of passion that lit a hot fire within her.
His touch moved along her thigh, and he stroked her, watching her face. She felt his eyes and, so compelled, opened her own, wishing she might wrench herself from him and hide her ragged breathing, her writhing body.
He came to her, leaning beside her, holding her breast again, moving his hand to her hip. “Do you really hate me?”
“Aye!” she cried out. It was not, then, the skillful play of his hands on her but the demand in his eyes that made her cry again. “Nay—nay, I do not hate you!”
“Then love me,” he commanded her fiercely. “As, so help me, I love you.”
She threw her arms around him, meeting his lips with her own, starving for the beauty of his tenderness—and passion.
Her hands threaded through his dark hair, her fingers traced the fine lines of his cheeks, and she drew away from him, searching out his face and his eyes.
“I love you,” she whispered fervently again. “I love you and I want you. Please, Sloan, now!”
“I thought that you would never ask,” he told her hoarsely, and with a thrust of silk and steel, they were one.
How long did love last? For it seemed an eternity of sweet reaching. Yet that which she sought came too soon, though she could not have borne another minute. It seemed that the ship left the sea, sailing amidst the stars, and at the end they touched the depths of the endless sky.
But even as she lay beside him, tears suddenly filled her eyes. And he, stroking her cheek, quickly sat up, harsh again as he spoke to her.
“By God, I never meant to hurt you again! I just wanted you to live! Have sense, Brianna. I did not take your Robert’s life, nor did you. He was dying, Brianna, even before they took him! You never harmed him; he loved you and he loved the time he had with you. I know what you feel—whether you can believe me or not! I have loved, though it’s not the same, and it hurts, by God, it hurts! But life goes on for us, and I will not let you strip us of a future!”
She shook her head, reaching up to touch his cheek. “I—I’m crying because I’m—I’m so sorry, Sloan! I don’t know why I could never see it! I railed against you even when you had saved my life a third time! I know that you did all you could for Robert. I could not see it before because I did not wish to. I just felt so horrible…Sloan, I did love you all the time. That was what hurt so badly.”
He caught her fingers, and kissed them gently. “You never hurt him, Brianna.”
“I’m not so sure,” she murmured.
“You did not. You gave him what joy he had in life. Brianna, he wanted us to go on. He begged me to promise I would make you happy.”
The tears stung her eyes. “He did?”
