The Buccaneer(60)

Catherine woke in terror, turning and tumbling from the bed so fearful was she of his scream. She got to her knees and peered over the edge of the bed. "Lucian?" she asked softly, wondering if he remained in the throes of his nightmare or if he had awakened.

He shook his head and looked beside him. "Catherine?"

She scrambled back into the bed. "I'm here," she said, offering her hand to him.

He grasped onto her, pulling her into his lap and hugging her almost breathless. "I frightened you?"

"A wrenching scream tearing through one's sleep would have that effect."

He squeezed her to him again and laughed. "Oh, angel, you do save my sanity at times."

Catherine snuggled against his chest, her small fingers rubbing his taut warm muscles. "And cause you madness at other times."

His voice was a bare whisper. "I cause my own madness."

Catherine could only imagine the horrors he had endured while captive to a madman. She wished she could make him forget just for the moment.

She gave no thought to her action. He needed her; she felt it in his tense muscles, in his rapid heartbeat, in his heavy breathing. And she could not deny him.

She kissed his chest lightly, her lips barely brushing his flesh.

"Catherine." Her name was issued after a sudden intake of breath.

An answer wasn't necessary. She continued, her lips gently pressing kisses against his warm flesh until she found his nipple and took it between her teeth.

"God's blood, woman, this is madness," he said in uneven breaths.

Her tongue circled his nipple while her teeth held him captive. The hard orb tasted as she thought, warm and salty like the sea. She moved to his other nipple to treat it likewise, pushing him back aggressively until they both lay stretched out on the bed.

His hands found her bottom and hoisted her over him, her nightdress the only thing between her and his nakedness.

Catherine spread herself over him, feeling the rough kneading of his hands on her buttocks, feeling the strength of him anxious beneath her, feeling her very center burn with desire.

"Catherine," he moaned again, pressing her against him, urging himself into her and cursing soundly her night dress that separated them.

She continued to pleasure him with her tongue, losing all reason, all sanity.

"I need to feel your flesh in my hands," he moaned, and ripped at the bodice of her shift, tearing the fine material away.

The long strand of pearls fell free and tumbled on his face. He cursed them. And lifted them to slip over her head. "Off with these, I'm sick of seeing them."

Catherine froze, staring at him wide-eyed.

He stared back as if for the first time realizing the consequences of their actions. "Second thoughts, madam?"

Her voice failed her. Her limbs failed her. Her senses failed her.

Lucian regained his senses for them both and, grabbing her shoulders, eased her off him. He swiftly drew the covers over himself, hiding away his need for her.

"Go to sleep, Catherine," he said coldly.

Catherine turned on her side, hugging her pearls and her torn night dress. Silent tears ran down her cheeks. Tears of regret, for it was just a matter of time before her passion destroyed all her plans and sentenced her father to death.

Lucian lay still, his arms pillowed beneath his head, his eyes staring into the darkness. He was still hot, still hard, and still heavy with passion from Catherine's innocent assault.

Innocent.

He laughed silently. She was no innocent.

Fool.

A fine sweat broke out across his brow as his nightmare returned and he glimpsed once again the face of the man who swung the lash.

It was himself.





Chapter Sixteen



Lucian had kept his distance from Catherine for three days. He took his meals alone and slept on the deck. His back pained him. His neck pained him. And he pained the crew with his curt temper.

The weather even appeared to mimic his mood. Dark clouds raced overhead while mild thunder rumbled in the distance. Lucian wasn't worried about a severe storm — some thunder, some rain, but nothing worse.

He had more of a problem with the crew. Several of the men walked around grumbling about sick stomachs and blamed the cook.

Serving on a ship from hell, he had learned to steel his stomach against the worst food and still survive. But there had been times the food had been so rancid that nothing helped but to rid yourself of it.

He had lacked an appetite last night and had eaten nothing but a few pieces of cheese and bread, electing to forgo the fresh fish. The fish was more than likely the culprit and he had quickly ordered the cook to prepare simple meals for the next few days.

Now his problem consisted of securing the deck with a limited crew. Santos hadn't shown his face all day and he had assumed he also enjoyed last night's fish and was now regretting it.