Part 13 (1/2)

Bennett dozed lightly in the cabin. He and Kallas were taking turns at the wheel, spelling each other in three-hour increments. They hadn't the time to find a beach, drop anchor, and sleep through the night. The Heirs would follow, that much was certain, so it was a matter of staying ahead of them as much as possible. One day, there would come a reckoning, but Bennett would rather it to be some time in the future, preferably with London safely out of the way.

Across the pa.s.sageway, she and Athena shared a bunk. Both women had protested when Kallas and Bennett agreed to split the time at the helm, leaving them out. Yes, there were women Blades, capable women, but the idea of leaving London and Athena alone on deck in the middle of the night was untenable. So, grumbling and complaining, the women went below to a cabin to pa.s.s the night rebuilding their strength. All the spellcasting had taken a toll on Athena, and London had been through h.e.l.l over the last few days.

Bennett s.h.i.+fted on the narrow bunk, trying to sleep. He punched the wafer that pa.s.sed for a pillow, but it didn't help. He grumbled in frustration. He'd need his wits about him tomorrow and the days that followed. Falling asleep was never a problem. He could catch a handful of sleep on a bed of broken gla.s.s, and find himself refreshed.

Of course, he'd never had London Harcourt asleep across the pa.s.sageway before. He'd already seen her asleep, and just picturing her soft and warm and lithe made him hard. Even the rocking of the b.l.o.o.d.y boat called to mind the rhythm of two bodies moving together. A d.a.m.ned good thing that Athena shared her cabin, playing Argus.

In times like this, he'd normally take matters into his own hand. But this was Kallas's cabin, and Bennett would be d.a.m.ned if he had a w.a.n.k in some man's bed. A gentleman had his honor. Other measures were needed. He tried to lull himself into sleep by reciting Latin names for plants. Somewhere around campanula persicifolia campanula persicifolia, a slight noise at the cabin door sprung him into alertness. Kallas knew enough to announce himself.

”Don't skewer me!” squeaked a female voice.

He lowered the throwing knife. ”h.e.l.l, London,” he muttered, stuffing the knife back under his pillow. ”A little warning, if you please.” He propped himself up on his elbows to look at her.

”I didn't expect knives.” She shut the cabin door behind her and leaned against it. The single porthole let in only more night, so the cabin was a small, black velvet-lined box. He smelled her, her warm female scent, close about him. His head spun. ”Next time,” she said, ”I'll come in banging the kettle.”

He rubbed at his face. ”You should be asleep. Just a moment. I'll light the lantern.”

”No, don't,” she said. ”What I have to say...I need the darkness.”

He tensed. This could be when she told him to stay the h.e.l.l away from her, that she loathed the sight of him, she despised his touch. A swift, sharp pain lanced through him. He didn't think he could stand it, if she hated him.

At last, her voice came from the darkness. ”When they told me Lawrence was dead,” she began, ”it was awful.”

G.o.d, how could he lie here and listen to this? It was like having his heart slowly torn out of his body.

”London-”

”Let me finish.” She ran her hands down her skirt, smoothing the fabric, but it was a gesture of momentary deferment. She drew air into her lungs. ”It was awful because I had to hide from them how I truly felt. I had to pretend. For two years I had to mourn Lawrence, keep myself shut away, and playact that I was a grieving widow.” She was silent for a moment. ”I didn't want him dead dead, but...I was...glad.” She sucked in a breath at her own admission, but seemed to gain strength from it. ”Glad I was free of him. He hated it whenever I a.s.serted myself. I had to keep my study of languages a secret from him, because he would have burned all my books if he had known.” Her voice turned corrosive. ”He wanted only a pretty ornament for his home, and I could never be that.”

Emotion clogged her throat, and she paused to collect herself. He wanted to go to her, hold her, but kept himself on the bed, knowing it was too soon. There was more.

She continued, ”I wasn't supposed to be relieved that he'd died, yet I couldn't help myself, and then I would just feel even worse. That makes me a terrible person.”

It took some time for what she said to penetrate Bennett's brain. He wasn't a religious man, but any part of him that held an iota of spiritual feeling sent thankful benisons to the G.o.ds. She didn't blame him. She didn't miss her rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a husband. He wanted to climb the mainsail and shout his relief.

”I think,” she continued, ”that when I was so angry with you earlier, it was because I was angry with myself for how I felt. And I turned it on to you. It was easier. Not right, but easier.”

”London,” he said, and his voice in the dark of the cabin was a beast pulling at its chains, ”when I found out who you were, it scared the b.l.o.o.d.y life out of me. Especially after I kissed you. Because I wanted you so G.o.dd.a.m.ned much, and I thought you'd hate me.”

”I don't hate you-”

”Now you let me me finish.” finish.”

She fell silent.

”Then I came to know you, who you were-not Edgeworth's daughter or Harcourt's widow, but you you, London. And what you just said...for the first time, I'm glad I'd killed someone. I'm sodding happy happy that Harcourt's dead, and that I'm the one who'd ended his miserable life. Because of what he'd done to you. Because you're free now.” He felt his heart slamming in his chest, the caged animal trying to free itself. that Harcourt's dead, and that I'm the one who'd ended his miserable life. Because of what he'd done to you. Because you're free now.” He felt his heart slamming in his chest, the caged animal trying to free itself.

”Free,” she repeated. ”That is what Athena said. That I'm free to do what I like, to please only myself.”

”That's right. Only you.”

He could almost hear her thinking, the complex machine of her mind turning and processing. It was difficult to remember, sometimes, that women were held to different standards than men, that they were almost never in control of their own lives. Yet, here was London, liberated at last. What would she do, now that she had freed herself?

”If that is true,” she began, ”then what would please me is...you.”

Exaltation and desire roared through him. Only ruthless control kept him from leaping toward her. He edged closer to the bulkhead, making room for her. ”Come here.” He held out his hand.

She took a step, putting her hand into his, then froze. Her uncertainty vibrated in the tiny room. ”I don't...this is very new,” she said.

”I'm an excellent guide. London.” Just saying her name sent hot need shooting through him. He sat up and put his hands on her elbows, drawing her nearer. Her breath hitched. So did his. ”I want you so much.” It frightened him a little. He couldn't remember needing a woman as he needed her.

He slid his hands up her arms, feeling her s.h.i.+ver at his touch, then over her shoulders, until he cupped her head. His heart threatened to beat right out of his chest, her hair rough silk, the creamy skin of her jaw. He drowned in a thousand details-the rustle of her dress, its fabric brus.h.i.+ng against his legs, the slight s.h.i.+ft of her weight from foot to foot in time with the boat's motion.

Their last kiss was rushed, a bare glimpse of what could be. He would take his time. But he couldn't seem to make himself take a leisurely pace.

Only the slightest urging, and her mouth met his in a kiss. Such a mouth she had, sweet and soft and meant for languid, thorough kisses. Slow, slow, he ordered himself. He needed that, for both of them. Yet the first soft brushes of their lips together burned away the control he desperately sought. He pulled her closer so she stood between his legs as he sat. He kissed her deeply, and her shyness melted across his tongue, turned to something altogether bold. She threaded her fingers into his hair, holding him as tightly as he held her.

He tore his mouth away long enough to breathe, ”Your hands.”

”Athena,” she panted. ”Made a poultice. Things from the galley.”

”Thought I smelled honey.” But it was she who carried the fragrance of woman and sea air and desire, so he consumed her, devoured her with his demanding mouth. Perhaps she had been uncertain moments earlier, but there was nothing uncertain in her now as she sighed and made soft noises of pleasure, pressing herself against him. He felt her loosening, freeing herself from the cage of society and decorum. She was so d.a.m.ned responsive it nearly made him burst into flames.

Bennett ran his hands down her, learning her. He traced the lines of her collarbone through the fabric of her dress, then went lower, stroking her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Small and full, they just fit his hands, the tips hardening as he brushed his thumbs over them. She moaned, or maybe he did, or both of them. It didn't matter because he was touching her, kissing her and that's all he knew or cared to know.

One of his hands moved down to the curve of her waist-she still wore her corset, so some veneer of society clung to her, he'd have to do something about that-then circled to cup her bottom. Sweet, she was sweet all over, everywhere meant for his touch, and she knew this, too, the way she met him at every caress.

His jacket and waistcoat were gone, somewhere, and her hands left his hair to smooth their way along his shoulders. She shoved at his braces. He shrugged them down, reluctant to break contact with her for a moment; then she felt him everywhere with the small masterpieces of her hands. She discovered him, mapped him, the width of his shoulders, the tight muscles of his arms, the planes of his chest that heaved like the deck of a storm-tossed s.h.i.+p under her touch.

When her hand slid lower to caress him through his trousers, an animal growl clawed from his throat. She pulled away a little, suddenly unsure, but he pressed her back with his own hand. Together, they stroked him. His hips rose from where he sat on the bed as she explored. His c.o.c.k pounded, ached, under her exquisite torture.

”Stop, stop,” he groaned, stilling her hand.

”Does it hurt?”

”No-too good. I'll spend in my trousers like a boy.”

A warm puff of air tickled his face as she laughed. ”Ah, too bad.”

”You like torturing me.” He brought their mouths together.

”Yes, but no,” she said between open, greedy kisses. ”Do I torture you?”

”Painfully.”