Crystal Passion (The McClellans Series, Book 1) Author's Cut Edition Page 15

  She turned her face toward him. Her breath was warm as it brushed his ear. "Please." The single word seemed a husky invitation to Salem, and his response was to taste the lips that had issued it so sweetly.

  His mouth was gentle on hers, probing rather than demanding. He planned his course carefully, sipping lightly at her upper lip, wetting it with the tip of his tongue, then tugging at her full lower curve and nipping the soft inner tissue with his teeth. Her mouth parted slightly, then wider, allowing him access to kisses that were at once rough and tender. He sensed the beginning of a response in the tentative pressure of her lips on his, the hesitant touch of her tongue against him, returning the kiss. His eyes closed as he savored the echo of his intimate caress, then he began encouraging an answer that would have a voice of its own.

  His kisses teased her, played with her, brushed the corner of her lips until he was certain he felt her hands at the back of his head, pulling him closer so that she could have the hot pressure of his mouth hard on her. An eager little groan proceeded his compliance, and the kiss that melded them was a breathless surrender of their senses.

  As the kiss deepened his hands removed her shawl and caressed the swollen curves of her breasts where they rose above her bodice. The additional liberties he took had her pulling away from him again. "You want taming, little filly," he said softly. "But it requires a surer hand than I have at the moment. Don't fight me now."

  He relaxed as she immediately quieted beneath him. Vaguely he understood that she was afraid of hurting him, and the idea made him smile.

  He took advantage of having found her weakness and wasted no time in divesting her of the patched apron and scarlet dress. His own clothes had conveniently disappeared, and soon their entire wardrobe was discarded at their feet. Looking at her now he knew he had lied when he called her lovely, yet he had no word that would describe the way nature had formed the woman in his arms. She was touched with a whisper of something wild, something elemental that defied naming. It was this hint of inborn passion that took Salem's breath away, not the taut plane of her stomach or the slender roundness of her thighs. He ached to have this woman open to him, ached to fill her and in turn be filled.

  She shied away from him as his mouth sought out the tip of her breast. He felt the wild thing in her and knew a moment's heady triumph when passion stirred and conquered. His lips lifted to hers when she whimpered her surrender. Salem's hands smoothed the warm flesh of her thighs while his leg that had formerly kept her prisoner simply rubbed against her.

  He kissed her chin, her jaw, placed tiny tickling kisses along her slender neck and warmly brushed the hollow of her throat. His attention was drawn downward to the faint scar on her left breast. He kissed her there. He thought he heard her sob.

  Wanting to heal the hurt, his mouth slid away from the scar and caught her budding nipple. The rough edge of his tongue flicked the aroused tip, causing it to harden further, and this time he imagined her sob was of a different nature. He laved the tip of her breast until the next sounds were trapped in her throat.

  Salem's hand at her thigh touched her moist heat, and he knew she was ready for him. Still, some sense of gallantry made him plump up the hay around them, seeking her comfort and insuring their privacy in the action. His knee nudged her thighs apart, but when he went to lift her hips, he found his injured arm would not oblige his intentions.

  "Shh," he whispered as he twisted around and lay on his side, fitting her silky back to him spoon-fashion. "Shh. Don't fret. There are other ways."

  His leg insinuated itself between her thighs again, and he guided himself to the warm cleft. His swollen sex nudged her opening, and she tried to jerk away. He brought her back hard and thrust forward while his arm wrapped around her waist so there was no escaping him. She resisted him for a moment, then sank back, taking him fully into her. She sheathed him in moist heat, and as he moved she contracted as if to hold him tightly. The rhythm they developed as he cradled her slender hips warmed him, and he kissed her naked shoulder and the nape of her neck. The hand at her waist moved upward to caress her breasts.

  He rocked her gently at first, but when the small cries she could not suppress reached his ears he pressed harder. Her hand searched behind her to touch his back and buttocks, and the light sweep of her fingers across his heated and perspiring flesh was all he needed to peak. His entire body stiffened as the force of his passion spilled into her.

  Neither of them moved for a moment. He withdrew from her and lay on his back. The sound of their breathing seemed strangely muted to his ears, and he wished she would say something that would clear the muzzy silence. He turned his head in her direction, but night was darkening the edges of his vision. He couldn't see her clearly any longer. He caught a hint of the fragrance that had teased him before: field flowers and musk.

  He returned to unconsciousness, unaware of the girl who huddled at the foot of his bunk, naked save for a thin sheet she had managed to drag with her. He never heard her piteous cries as she sobbed into trembling and icy hands. He could not have known that at that moment she wanted to die.

  * * *

  Ashley sat in the cabin's straight-backed chair, her stiff spine not quite touching the supports. She stared blankly at the delicate webbing of blue veins in the backs of her hands as they lay in her lap. Her face was without expression. There was no particular tightness about her mouth nor any dullness in her eyes to indicate she was disturbed. Only the faint bruising fanning out from her lower lashes showed her night had been virtually sleepless. The purplish shadows looked particularly dark against the fairness of her complexion.

  She had no choice but to dress in the same drab gown she had worn for the last two days, preferring not to use all of the underskirts, thinking they might serve better as nightwear. She wore her hair loosely about her shoulders, realizing she had lost her pins some time back. The long ebony waves draped one side of her face, obscuring her vision of the bed and the man who slept there.

  Except for the disarray on the bunk the room had been restored to its spartan neatness. Salem's boots stood stiffly by the trunk. The few articles of clothing that had not dried and those Ashley had recently washed were carefully laid out on the lid.

  Ashley's mind was serenely blank. She had drawn into herself with such a vengeance that it required several moments for her to understand the pounding she heard was not her heart.

  She found Harris waiting on the other side of the door, and she adroitly turned her back on the startled expression of concern that greeted her. Harris followed her into the room, his eyes narrowing on the stiff line of her back and the rigid set of her shoulders. He doffed his hat and threw it on the chair.

  "It doesn't appear either one of you had an easy night," he said, risking a glance at Ashley's bruised eyes then scanning the disheveled bunk where Salem slept. Although Salem was adequately covered with blankets, he had obviously kicked at them repeatedly. Harris saw bits of straw at the edge of the mattress where the sheeting had been torn. "You should have called for help, Mrs. McClellan, when the fever gripped him." Frowning, he reached for a damp cloth and began sponging his patient's face. He told himself Ashley had been too exhausted to see to her husband's care this morning, yet yesterday he would have sworn nothing could have stopped her. "Were you able to feed him?"

  "Some. A bit of soup and hard tack."

  "Has he had anything this morning?"

  "No."

  "Captain Holland said to tell you you both are welcome to whatever you need."

  "That's very generous of him," she said without inflection.

  Harris shrugged. "Brady and I think you've paid for it several times over. I'll send down the captain's boy with breakfast. You have to try to get your husband to eat, ma'am. And I think after your struggle with him last night you could use some nourishment."

  Ashley nearly choked. "Struggle?"

  Harris drew up sharply while straightening the bedding and blankets. "I can see for myself that he's cla
wed the mattress all to hell, and there's blood on the sheets. Yes, I'd say you had your hands full keeping him quiet."

  Ashley blanched but managed to keep her voice very even. "He had a nightmare. I think he was remembering prison. His wound bled a bit."

  "More than a bit from the looks of it, though you seem to have managed to put it to rights. The swelling has lessened and his fever has broken."

  "Then he's going to get well?"

  "As to that, we'll have to wait and see. He needs your care, Mrs. McClelland. Rest, nourishment, and proper care." He chastised her gently for not making her husband more comfortable in his bed. "If it becomes too much for you, then ask for help. Especially if he has another violent nightmare. I don't want him to hurt himself or you." Ashley nodded, looking suitably reproached. "Don't fret so. Your husband's color is better today, and while he's not out of danger, his recovery seems more certain. When breakfast comes, so will some fresh bedding. The boy will help you with it." Harris whisked his hat from the chair and made a little bow. "Your servant, ma'am."

  After Harris left Ashley returned to her seat, high color in her face. How dare he reproach her for not caring for Salem! She glanced at the bunk where Salem still slept peacefully. Why did the man have the quiet, unlined features of an innocent when she knew him to be guilty of rape and incest?

  Ashley shuddered. If she hadn't been afraid that darkness and despair would bring the night's work too vividly into her mind, she would have buried her face in her hands. For the briefest of moments she admitted she was fearful of remembering too clearly because she might have to accept some of the blame. She fixed her eyes on a point on the far wall and kept them there even while her vision blurred. The deep concentration effectively closed her mind to unpleasant memories. She remained in just such a position until the arrival of breakfast and fresh linens.

  Following the morning meal, and for the next three days, Ashley devoted herself to Salem's care. She sponged his perspiring body, covered him when he grew chilled. She forced him to eat and drink on the few occasions he roused himself, and when he did not, she held his nose and slipped broth into his mouth when it opened. She read to him for hours from a book Brady had given her, Homer's Odyssey, and when she was occupied with other chores such as rinsing clothes and linens or mending, she hummed softly to herself. She substituted activity for thought, and in this way she survived the daylight hours.

  Each evening she slept on the floor of the cabin, wedged between the trunk and the wall and huddled in her cape. She closed her ears to the sound of her own teeth chattering and rigidly denied herself the warmth she could have found in sharing the bunk. By trading comfort for safety she survived the night, and if the visitors to her cabin noticed the bruised and haunted look in her eyes, there was never any mention of it.

  When Salem's eyes finally opened with a degree of awareness, Ashley was sitting in a copper tub with her back to him. Her white shoulders were glistening with tiny drops of water as she combed her damp and fragrant hair. He was sorry the moment she dropped the comb and twisted her hair into a knot that she secured haphazardly with an ivory pick. Without glancing behind her she rose gracefully from the tub, unaware that Salem's eyes were appreciatively studying her narrow back and gently rounded buttocks. Stepping out of the water, she dried herself in motions that were unintentionally provocative, nearly bringing a groan to Salem's lips. He ordered himself to close his eyes, then ignored the command. He followed her every movement as she slipped into her thin undergarments and then into her shabby but scrupulously cared-for dress. She sat in the chair to put on her stockings, and now Salem did close his eyes, afraid she would lift her head suddenly and guess the direction of his thoughts for the last minutes. Because he had no desire to cause her a moment's embarrassment he feigned sleep until someone came to take away the tub.

  "You thanked him very prettily," he said when he heard the door close. He frowned deeply when he saw Ashley's shoulders stiffen and her hands fold in white-knuckled fists. He could not help but notice that she took a bracing breath before she turned to face him. When she did, it was his turn to stiffen. She was gaunt. He could think of no other word to describe the hollow features of her face. Her cheekbones were too defined, stretching her pale skin tautly. Her eyes had no sharpness and no depth. Her neck appeared too fragile to hold the weight of her head, and even the modest cut of her gown could not hide the carved appearance of her collarbones. Had she risen from the tub and faced him Salem knew he would not have been able to quell his gasp; he also knew the gasp would have been one of shock, not desire.

  "What have you done to yourself?" His demand was made harsh by concern.

  The curve of Ashley's lips made no impact on her eyes. She had dreaded this moment as much as she had prayed for it. As often as she had wished for her own death, she had never hoped for his. She made one pact with herself while she nursed Salem to his recovery: If he truly had no knowledge of what he had done, she would never speak of it. Now she waited for some indication that he would remember the evening she had shared his fevered dreams. When his look remained only narrowed and troubled, with no hint of insight or memory, she relaxed visibly and it was as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes.

  "That's a fine greeting coming from a man whose face is the color of a morning mist. And what of that very shabby growth of hair on your chin? You are hardly in a position to cast stones."

  "There's nothing wrong with your tongue." He grinned, running the back of his hand along the rough contours of his beard. "But you're not slipping by my question so easily. I repeat, what have you done to yourself?"

  She knelt at his bedside and folded her arms on the edge of the mattress. "I was worried about you," she answered honestly, if not with the entire truth.

  "Oh, Ashley, I don't think I'm deserving of your worry."

  She eyed him warily. Had he remembered something? "What an odd thing to say. Of course you are."

  "And you're an angel to say so, but now that I'm feeling fiddle-fit I think I can take care of you."

  Her laugh was short but genuine. "You don't look as if you'll be able to do much of anything for some time to come. I shall enjoy bending you to my will now that you are awake. I shall plague you with all manner of remedies to make certain you recover your former fine health."

  "Minx," he said fondly. "And what would you plague me with first?"

  "A shave, I think. 'Tis a shame to have that handsome visage so bristled."

  "Ah. You really do have it in for me, don't you? Have I been such a bother?"

  "The worst." She grinned cheekily, tapping his chin with her forefinger. He made a move to capture her hand, but she easily eluded him and spent the next few minutes humming to herself while she gathered the razor and brush and mixed a soapy lather for his face in a chipped mug. "There's no need to look stricken. I watched Mr. Brady do this to you the other morning, and I'm certain I shall manage quite credibly."

  "No one hopes so more than I, madam."

  "Wretch." She laid a towel beneath his chin and brushed lather on his face. "Now don't flinch or I shan't accept blame for the consequences." She smiled as Salem mumbled something in reply. He accepted her ministrations stoically, waiting until she wiped the last bit of lather from his face before he dared to speak.

  "I admit to feeling somewhat more human."

  "And looking it too. How else may I be of assistance?"

  Salem fidgeted for a moment, not quite meeting her eyes, then blurted, "You could leave the cabin so I could avail myself of the chamber pot." His discomfort was alleviated by the heated color that spread from Ashley's neck to the roots of her dark hair.

  "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't—never thought you may want—I'll leave you." Hurriedly she cleaned and put away the shaving implements. Her flushed flurry as she left the cabin caused Salem to chuckle. When he called for her return she was still awkward with embarrassment. She went straight to the commode where the chamber pot was kept, intent upon emptying it, but Salem
stayed her hand as she passed the bed.

  "I've already taken care of that." He pointed to the port window still slightly ajar. "I suppose that living at close quarters will cause us some discomforting moments if we do not speak of our needs openly."

  "Please—"

  "When I am feeling better, this won't be a problem, but for now—"

  "I quite understand." She rolled her eyes heavenward and wondered aloud: "How ever did I come to such a pass?"

  "You don't regret your decision, do you?"

  Ashley focused on a point just beyond his shoulder so that her eyes would not give her away. "No, I regret nothing. It's right that I should be here with you."

  "Good." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze then released her. "Have I thanked you for taking care of me?"

  "Don't. It would be the outside of enough for you to do so."

  "Now don't go all huffy on me. I know from experience that I am not a good patient. My mother says she would rather spend hours caring for any of my brothers and sisters than spend one minute with me when I am ill."

  Ashley sat down, making no effort to hide her shock. "That's really too bad of her to say so."

  Salem grinned. "No need to take up cudgels for me. Perhaps when you meet my mother she'll relate the tale of my bout with the mumps. She relishes the story. You'll wonder how she let me live to see my fourteenth birthday."

  Ashley would have liked to have heard about Salem's family. Even when he spoke of them in passing, it was clear he cared deeply for them, and she wondered if she would come to feel about them that way and if they would return the sentiment. She bit her lip to keep her questions unasked. It was clear from Salem's heavy lids and slowed speech that he was in need of rest. She resigned herself to waiting for another time when she could learn about his family—and hers.

  Ashley thought Salem's recovery was remarkably quick. He teased her that it was her constant plaguing that saw him up and out of bed in so short a time. Inside of two weeks he was pacing the cabin and seeking opportunities to be on deck. Ashley rescued him by speaking of the matter privately to the captain. She was able to make Holland understand the cabin was in some way as confining to Salem as his Newgate cell had been. Since she and Salem could not mingle freely with the few other passengers, it only made sense that Salem be allowed to mix with the crew as a member. Holland listened to Ashley's forthright little speech, scratched the back of his head thoughtfully, and agreed.