Page 125

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. His voice was hoarse and his hands hovered above her, as if he were afraid to touch her. “Ripe and delicate and as beautiful as a rose.”

They didn’t have time for poetry. So Isidore caught him by the hair and said, “Simeon.”

He looked at her, his eyes dark as a moonless night. “Kiss me,” she commanded.

“Like this?” he asked, a glimmer of laughter in those wicked eyes of his. He dropped a polite little kiss on her nipple.

She shook her head.

“Like this?” he inquired, giving her a tiny lick.

Her hips bucked, but it wasn’t enough. “Simeon.”

So he laughed and suckled her, shaping her other breast with a rough hand. All thought of possible interruptions flew from her head.

It wasn’t many minutes later that Simeon found himself on his knees before Isidore. Her skirts were thrown up and she was lying back on the chaise-longue, making the sort of moans that only a woman in a very, very pleasurable state might make.

She was so beautiful. Her hair had toppled out of its coiffure of elaborate curls and puffs, and fell about her shoulders. Her lips were a deeper red than any ruby; her skin was peaches and cream. She tasted like nectar, but the true aphrodisiac was the look in her eyes.

He drew his fingers down over creamy flesh and began sweetly circling a bit lower. She trembled and then begged, finally propping herself up on her elbows and scowling at him, which was just what he wanted.

He loved her scowl. So he dipped his head and gave her exactly what she wanted, drove her to the very edge of abandonment, kissed her until cries tumbled from her lips like a song…and pulled back.

Sure enough, he got the scowl back. “You’re trying to make me addled,” Isidore said, catching her breath.

He soothed her with his fingers until she writhed under his touch. “I’m just making sure that you know who I am.”

“Simeon,” she breathed. “My husband.”

It was at that moment he heard a dim banging noise behind him. He ignored it, concentrating on giving Isidore exactly what she wanted. Sending his beloved toppling into the kind of chaotic bliss that poets dream of. Except—

It was more than a distant annoyance. There was a chaotic shouting and crashing from the boat deck. And then the pounding was on their very door. “Come out!” a voice called out, high and alarmed. “The prison ship, the hulk, hit the yacht and prisoners—”

“What?” Simeon said sharply, lifting his head. One had to expect that at some point the king’s servants would desire entrance and he meant to deny them. But this sounded more serious.

“He said something about prisoners,” Isidore said, her breath catching in a little pant. “A prison ship. Simeon…don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

But his entire body had gone on alert in the time it took for her to say the sentence. “Up,” he commanded, jerking down her skirts as he spoke.

“What?” Isidore stood up, but her legs were wobbly and she clung to his arm.

“One of the prison boats moored in the Thames must have struck this yacht. Or we struck it.” He wrenched on his breeches.

“Oh.” Isidore stood for a moment, trying to catch her breath. “I suppose we’d better leave then.” She found one of her shoes and turned it right side up.

“Can you run in those?” Simeon was listening at the door.

“No.”

“Leave them.” He tossed Villiers’s beautiful coat into the corner.

“But the diamonds—” Isidore looked about swiftly, and then flung her shoes under the sofa. She could always retrieve them later.

Simeon pulled the chair out of the way. “I think from the noise the prisoners have escaped and are getting onto the yacht,” he said. “We need to get out of here.”

“Couldn’t that chair protect us?” Isidore asked longingly, running her hands up his chest.

“Not if they fire the vessel.”