Date with a Regency Rake. Marguerite Kaye
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beginning to think that you’re more of a prize than I realised. But rest assured I wouldn’t get wet myself. I would send John in. Or more likely I’d pull you back with the boat hook I use to haul less alluring catch on board.’
‘Well, I’m flattered indeed to be held more attractive than a fish, my lord,’ Clarrie said with a grin, but her words were lost in the sudden gust of wind that swept in from the sea.
‘Tide’s on the turn, Master Kit,’ John said, ‘we’d best be going.’
The Sea Wolf, riding high against the jetty, was straining at the ropes that held her. The constraining hawsers creaked. John was looking anxiously at Kit, keen to be away. He had a bad feeling about this trip, and it wasn’t just because of the close call with customs a few weeks ago. Someone was informing on them, he knew that. Bringing a woman on board, obviously one of Master Kit’s flighty pieces, was a new departure, and one he could well have done without. He didn’t hold with women on board unless absolutely necessary. They got in the way, to say nothing of bringing bad luck.
Standing at the foot of the gangway, Clarissa was shaken by a sudden attack of nerves, unable to move, one hand on the rail, but both feet still firmly on shore. Boarding this ship was madness. What was she thinking? The wind ripped across the bay, making the yacht pull, anxious to get away now that the anchor was up. The riggings creaked and moaned, and the gangway shifted, to Clarissa’s eyes, treacherously.
‘Last-minute qualms, brave Clarissa?’ Kit’s words were mocking.
The taunt was sufficient to urge her to action. With a defiant toss of her head and a silent prayer, Clarissa put first one foot, then the other on to the slippery walkway, and boarded the Sea Wolf. Feeling none too steady, for the deck rocked and swayed even though they were still berthed, she stood still for a moment, trying to find her balance. Aside from a curt nod, Captain John ignored her, making his resentment at her presence clear.
Carefully clutching the cloak around her, and taking care to avoid the plethora of ropes, boxes, and goodness knows what else that made the deck an obstacle course, Clarrie found her way to stand by Kit at the wheel. A distracted smile was all she received, for they were in the process of putting to sea. John was casting off, making the ropes safe, loosing the sails, and in an instant the yacht responded to her freedom and leapt towards the open sea, riding the waves effortlessly.
As they left the cove behind, tacking to catch the wind, the waves rose higher, the spray soaking their faces, the Sea Wolf tilting up, then down, in a rhythmic, lulling motion that filled Clarrie with a wild joy. Lifting her face to the wind, she looked up at the stars with a strange, exhilarated expression on her face. This was what freedom must feel like. Freedom from all the trammels of her mundane life. Freedom from her mama, from Amelia, even from her staid Aunt Constance. Freedom from her past and her depressing future. There was only here and now. This man. This open sea. These stars.
A gust of wind blowing directly over the starboard side jolted the yacht, and would have knocked her over but for an iron grip on her arm. Looking up to thank Kit, Clarissa caught an unguarded expression of pure, unadulterated lust on his face and blinked at the sheer force of it. She blinked again and it was gone, replaced by his usual sardonic expression.
‘You should go below. The crossing is likely to be fast but vicious, and I have to give my full attention to the Sea Wolf—I have not the time to be constantly making sure that you are safe.’ Nor the time to be constantly distracted by the wild joy on the beautiful face beside him, if truth were to be told.
Deflated by his cold words, Clarissa turned to hide the hurt on her face. She had expected to stay above decks in order to see and experience everything to the limit. Being confined below was not her idea of an adventure. But she was too sensible to argue, for she could quite see that the stormy conditions were likely to be taxing. Quelling an instinctive protest at the command, therefore, she bit her lip and turned obediently towards the stairs.
Her obvious disappointment was too much for Kit to bear. He felt like an ogre stealing sweets from a babe. He had been watching her face more closely than she had realised, gratified to see the look of unadulterated pleasure that suffused it when the yacht set sail. Gratified and aroused to perceive his own feeling of joy at the freedom of the open sea reflected there. And disturbed, too, for it was not an emotion he had expected to share with a woman. And now she was thwarted yet uncomplaining.
‘Clarissa.’
She turned at his call, a hopeful smile curling her full mouth, her skin bright with the sting of salt, her curls entrancingly dishevelled around her heart-shaped face.
‘Kit?’
‘Once we are settled in to the journey, I’ll hand over to John, and you can come back up on deck, then, if that is what you wish.’
She clapped her hands with excitement, leaving him in no doubt.
‘Contain yourself. If the weather worsens, you must stay below. Now go, before I change my mind.’ He turned from her as she made her way gingerly below decks, before he could call her back regardless of the danger. Having Clarissa by his side at the wheel felt just a bit too right for his own comfort. Some space between them was a sounder idea.
The spartan cabin was built on practical rather than luxurious lines, with few fixtures other than the bunks that doubled as seating. Not a place for seduction, that was for sure. In fact, Clarrie thought with wry humour, as the yacht rolled with the waves, they would like as not end up on the floor, even had they managed to cram two bodies on to the narrow bunk. Still, having nothing else to occupy her mind for the while, she gave some time over to imagining how such adversities could be got over. She had just concluded that with determination two people could overcome such difficulties as a narrow mattress on a heaving yacht, when the door opened and Kit entered, bringing with him a cold gust of air.
Blushingly thankful he was not privy to her thoughts, Clarissa stood rather hurriedly, her foot catching in an uneven board, and fell unceremoniously on to the opposite bunk. Lying sprawled there, presenting Kit with her deliciously rounded posterior, Clarrie managed a soft laugh at the indignity of the situation. Her attempts to scramble to her feet were hampered by the continued rocking of the boat, and her sense of humour finally got the better of her. She succumbed to laughter, and lay for a few moments helpless, face down on the bunk.
‘Kit, help me up, for goodness’ sake. Now I know you’re no gentleman, standing there and watching me.’ Another abortive attempt had her on all fours on the bunk.
‘You present such a very attractive picture that I’m loath to move, Clarissa. Your position may be uncomfortable, but I should tell you that it displays your curves very well.’ Extremely well, in truth. His body was reacting rather vigorously to the display. Had it not been for the circumstances …
Restraining an urge to lift her dress above the bottom so pertly presented and thrust himself into her sweetness there and then, Kit reminded himself that John was above decks, and they were in the middle of the English Channel in a storm. That there was a cargo awaiting them in Normandy. That there was likely to be an excise cutter waiting for them on their return. That Clarissa was a perfidious, scheming actress. That … None of it worked.
Like an automaton, he moved towards the tempting bundle sprawled in front of him and grasped her by the waist, pulling her rear into his hard body, noting her laughter change to a surprised gasp, and then a soft, accepting moan. Clarrie wriggled slightly against him, causing him to throb almost uncontrollably. His hands tightened on her waist to pull her close, and his breathing quickened, coming in harsh gasps in the confines of the cabin. Steadying his knees against the base of the bunk, he allowed one hand to trace the line from her tiny waist along the curve of her spine, and to cup one soft buttock through the wool of her dress, aware, from the soft panting of her breath, that she was as aroused as he. Bracing himself more securely, Kit moved to the hem of her dress, preparing to lift it up over her in order to grant him the access he craved. He met with no resistance.
The sea saved her. A violent movement that sent them both sprawling, as John called urgently for help. Kit was gone at once, leaving