Part 31 (1/2)

She cried out, twisting around him so sinuously that he half wondered if she'd found her release already. Lord, she was tight, in the velvety way that could drive a man mad. He drew back and she trembled, and when he plunged back into her she was rising up to welcome him as he ground himself into her, against her, around her lush body.

Over and over he drove into her, over and over she met him, matching his rhythm and adding her own rocking and twisting and s.h.i.+mmying that drove him harder, hotter, almost mad with wanting her. She clung to his sweat-sheened shoulders, lavis.h.i.+ng kisses on his skin that quickly turned to fierce little nips to echo his thrusts.

Higher and higher he pushed her, higher and faster as if they were each riding the howling storm around them as much as each other's pa.s.sion. Higher and hotter and he thought it would never end and he never wanted it to and then he was exploding into her, more of himself than he'd ever given any woman because it was Francesca, his one love, his wife, his life, and all he had left. He heard her peaking cry, a gulping version of his own name as she convulsed around him, and with one last thrust he collapsed with her onto the bunk.

He couldn't say how long they lay like that, their arms and legs still tangled together, the s.h.i.+p still tossing and the wind still howling and the sea still pummeling at the sides of the s.h.i.+p, knocking at their little world inside the bunk. He could tell by how the sloops' timbers were groaning and creaking that the Antelope had settled deeper into the water, wallowing in the troughs of the waves rather than riding their crests.

He pulled the coverlet over them and with a sigh she curled her body into his, and as he settled his arm around her waist, he tried to think only of how warm and soft she was to hold and how impossibly dear she was to him, and not how soon it all would be dashed apart.

”My dearest Francesca,” he said, gently pus.h.i.+ng aside a damp lock of her hair to kiss her. ”My own sweet wife.”

She s.h.i.+fted over him, lying across his chest, and he wished he could see her face now, to see her smile down at him as he knew she must be. ”Non ce nes-suno come te, mio caro.”

”You'll have to translate, la.s.s,” he ordered, though he really didn't care if she did or not. From her the words rolled over him like a caress, filled with affection and joy, no matter what they meant.

” 'There's no one like you, my dearest,' ” she repeated in English. ”Though it sounded much better in Italian.”

”Agreed,” he said. ”Everything sounds more romantic in Italian.”

”Then I shall have to teach you to speak it to me, eh?” She traced a fingertip lightly around his lips, both of them pretending that they'd have a future where such lessons could happen. ”Senza di te non ce sole nel cialo.”

Was it the words themselves, or the bittersweet way she said it? ”Cielo is heaven, isn't it?” he asked. ”You say it often. As in santo cialo, meaning 'Edward, you provoking clod, how I'd like to take a belaying-pin to your head directly'.”

She laughed softly, but when he reached up to cradle her cheek he felt the tears she didn't try to stop. ”Santo cialo means 'saints in heaven,' to whom I should be praying now instead of lying here with you.”

”Then tell me what you said before, sweetheart.”

” 'Without you there's no sun in the heavens,' ” she whispered, and now her tears were spilling so freely that he felt them begin to drop onto his chest, warm and wet. ”Moriro senza di te, carissimo mio sposo. 'I'd die without you, my dearest husband.' ”

”Oh, la.s.s,” he groaned, pulling her closer. How could he possibly answer that, in English or Italian?

”Moriro senza di te, carissimo mio sposo,” she said, her voice breaking. ”E moriro con te. 'I'd die without you, my dearest husband, and-and I would die with you.' ”

”Don't say it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. ”Better that I tell you how much I love you, Francesca. Aye, I do. I love you.”

”E ti amo, Edward,” she whispered. ”I love you, and always will, however long that always may be. Now hold me, if you please. Just-just hold me, my dearest, and don't let me go.”

Silence.

It was the silence that woke Edward, jarring him awake with the same force as a gunshot. The incessant roar of the wind, the creaking and groaning of the sloop's timbers, the rus.h.i.+ng and cras.h.i.+ng of the storm-waves were so completely gone that their absence left a muted ringing in his head, as if his ears refused to accept such an unfamiliar void.

Instantly awake in the habit of sailors, he sat up in the bunk, taking care not to disturb Francesca, still sleeping beside him. He wouldn't wake her until he was sure, until he had only good news to tell her, but already his heart was racing with possibilities and fresh hope. Not only were the sounds of the storm gone, but for the first time in days a faint edge of light outlined the closed door to their cabin. Could it truly be daylight, sweetest, most miraculous daylight, a beam he believed he'd never live to see again?

Swiftly he slipped from the bunk, muttering an oath as he stepped into the icy seawater still puddled there. He'd search for his boots and coat later. Hastily he stuffed his s.h.i.+rt into his trousers and b.u.t.toned the fall before he carefully opened the door just widely enough to ease through. Sure enough, an anemic daylight was filtering down the steps of the companionway, the hatches removed now, and he allowed his hopes to rise another notch. An end to the storm wouldn't solve all their problems, of course, for the Antelope was still riding dangerously low in the water, her mainmast shattered and her boat useless. But at least they'd have a chance now, a reprieve from the end that had seemed so hideously unavoidable last night.

He glanced back into the cabin, where a slice of that glorious pale light fell across Francesca's face. She was sleeping as soundly as a child, turned on her side with one arm flung back and her unbraided hair like a wild dark cloud of curls around her face and tumbling over her shoulders.

No, not a child, he decided, smiling, but that wicked little nymph with the centaur, now sated and blissfully content thanks to her equally sated husband. Her lips were parted, her features relaxed with sleep, and he flattered himself that last night he'd been able to give her that peace along with his love. G.o.d knows she'd given it to him. Who would have guessed they'd both fall asleep with near-certain death howling across the deck overhead?