Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1 Read online

  Never spurn a gift freely given.

  Ignoring his leather jack of ale, he finished her wine and handed her the emptied glasses along with the corked bottle, then on second thought gathered a cloth napkin full of bread and cheese to sustain their strength through the night ahead. He tucked his knife into its sheath, caught in a crimson sash worn over the waist of his fashionable but damnably snug new breeches. He added his pistol, then slapped his tricorne on his head, robbed a candle from the brace that lit the wall behind him, and headed for his room, one of the few private ones to come by in Charlotte Amalie and a welcome respite after weeks at sea.

  Justin shortened his stride when the wench fell behind. Listening to her clunking footsteps, he paced himself and took the stairs one at a time. Opening his door, he thrust the candle past the threshold. Satisfied that the room was as he left it, he stepped back and allowed her to enter first.

  She stopped just inside the door. Moving past her, Justin crossed the scrubbed wooden floor to the far side of the room. He lit a pair of tapers on the bedside table and blew out the flame of the first, ignoring the burning sting of wax that dripped on his hand. The silver buttons on his deep cuffs glinted in the precious light as he set down the food and withdrew his sheathed knife and pistol, laying them by habit within reach of where he’d sleep.

  If he slept. The black haired wench had aroused more than his curiosity.

  Hanging his hat upon the bed’s corner post, Justin glanced at the blue woven counter-pane, smoothed over a thankfully new mattress. Filled with straw and herbs, it was worth the coin he’d gladly paid rather than suffer the sharp scents and unwelcome pests left by a hundred others. He was about to remark on its pleasing fragrance when he noticed that his companion still hovered by the door like a female Ganymede, clutching the wine bottle and glasses, listening to the hounds baying below.

  Unless he missed his guess, she was relatively new to this—or someone had abused her. The thought chilled him, especially when he looked at her fine-boned face and saw how small and delicate her hands were, even unfashionably gloved.

  Aware that he’d frighten her with a grim look, Justin offered his softest, most beguiling smile and motioned toward the bedside table. “Set them here, mademoiselle—and rest assured that any business between us tonight will be to our mutual satisfaction.”

  Brushing past her to bolt the door, he heard the bottle of wine thunk heavily and the crystalline clink of glasses as she did his bidding. When he turned around, she was removing her cloak to reveal her strumpet’s gown. Tawdry and somewhat large on her lithesome frame, its vulgar cut exposed more than she was comfortable with, judging by the way she tugged at the neckline with one hand. The other was weighted down by a heavy réticule dangling from her wrist. Once she’d succeeded in covering her modest amount of cleavage, she carefully extricated the purse from her arm and hung it on the room’s single chair.

  Justin returned to stand by the rope bed, but she made no move to join him there. Instead this intriguing fille de joie remained where she was, her bare head bowed and her gaze lowered, her black hair gleaming with red highlights, like midnight fire, her fine green eyes seductively shielded by a brush of thick, dark lashes.

  Something in the girl’s pose touched him as genuinely self-conscious, as if she felt naked without a proper head covering. My, but she was new, he thought, determined to show her that nakedness was beautiful and that not all men were to be feared.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Parlez-vous français?”

  The resonance of Vallé’s baritone voice was unbelievably enticing, unbearably seductive, a whisper of velvet on Christiana’s skin that made her pulse leap, her every instinct come fully alive. She felt Vallé’s beckoning gaze on her but dared not meet it, lest he see the power he wielded over her with mere words.

  “Oui, capitaine,” she murmured. “Je parle un peu français.” Actually, she spoke more than a little French, plus English, Gaelic, and a smattering of Dutch, Spanish, and German, but she hesitated to reveal too much.

  Vallé blew out softly. “Bien.” Hearing the pleasure in his voice, she cleared her throat, intending to discuss O’Malley’s rescue. At that moment, a raucous shout rang out below, followed by a chorus of laughter and an announcement that burned her ears and warmed her cheeks.

  The swallow-cock had surpassed her old record and was still going strong.

  Flustered, Christiana tore her gaze from the door—and immediately wished she hadn’t when she saw Vallé’s intense blue eyes focused on her own mouth. He lifted one hand. Long, strong fingers, as elegant as a magician’s, motioned her to come closer. She remained rooted, torn, knowing she should speak, should tell him what she’d come here for, but frozen by hesitation. Vallé tilted his head and smiled a little. The curve of his mouth was both sensual and tender; the beckoning warmth in his gaze melted her resistance. He’d always possessed infinite patience; now he exercised it, clearly wanting her but waiting for her to come to him.

  As if she had a choice. After all these years of wanting him, it seemed a shattering miracle that he should want her, too.

  Christiana felt the passion she’d suppressed so long rise up to meet his own. Sensing it, his eyes burned with blue fire, startling in its intensity. He held her captive in his gaze as he pulled off his justacorps. He laid the coat aside, then reached for the buttons on his sleeveless vest. One by one, they fell away while her mouth grew drier and drier. She swallowed hard and wet her lips. Swallowed again when the vest came off and he smiled wider, sending a hot surge of molten fire that flooded her veins and pooled in her loins.

  “Come, chérie,” he crooned, a sweet, dark promise in his eyes. He was temptation personified, a fallen angel cast down to earth to lead lesser mortals astray. Knowing what he wanted, thinking of what he would ask, Christiana fought to stay where she was, beyond his reach. Acutely aware of her vulnerability where Justin Vallé was concerned, she had wondered if she were strong enough to say no after years of dreaming of him; now she chided herself for ever thinking otherwise.

  He was handsome then and handsomer now, a man who lived by his wits and daring and was still a prize for most any woman. But time had taught her that the game was all, that men enjoyed the thrill of the chase as much as the final conquest. To give in too quickly was to invite defeat, and although she might not be a quaking virgin, neither was she a fool.

  She watched him, sensing motion within his stillness. His gaze grew languorous. His respiration deepened. His nostrils flared, as if inhaling her essence might draw her to him, but in truth, it was his scent—clean, male, uniquely Vallé’s—that made her lean towards him.

  Ah, but the joys to be had along the way….

  Vallé kept his piercing blue gaze fixed upon her, a silent question in his eyes. Desire, sharp and certain, arced between them. Slowly, slowly, he reached for her, touching her gloved hand, sliding his fingers up to encircle her wrist. He held it, simply held it, loosely enough that she could draw free but silently asking her to put herself into his hands. To trust him.

  Holy Mother.

  She nearly smiled—not at him, but at the irony of it all, that she should come to him, hoping he would not recognize her, and now she nearly wished he would, instead of devouring her with his eyes and stealing her breath, rendering her helpless to break the spell he still had the power to weave around her. A master storyteller, always with a marvelous tale on the tip of his tongue, he’d brought a touch of enchantment to the grim reality of her life, had shown her beauty around the most beastly of men.

  Christiana closed her eyes, feeling robbed of breath, unnerved by her body’s response, and torn by mixed emotions. She was afraid of disappointing him, but—worse—she was fearful that he’d stop, that he’d recognize her despite all the years that separated them, that he’d finally have revenge for the day she’d marked his countenance.

  But she’d never been a coward. Slowly she opened her eyes, lifted her gaze…and saw neither judge nor j
uror but a man who’d been to hell and back, each tortuous step etched in the lines that creased his ruggedly handsome face. He stood by the bed, watching, waiting, ready to take her to the only paradise she might ever know. Life was short, death around every corner. She couldn’t imagine meeting it without knowing what it was like to be loved…and she couldn’t imagine giving herself to anyone other than Vallé.

  “Ma belle,” he whispered hoarsely, and suddenly there was only Justin Vallé and all the years of unrequited love she felt for him, all the years of fantasies, when she’d dreamed that he loved her, too.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and drew her to him, to stand between his legs. The muscles of his thighs felt as hard as oak through the layers of fabric that separated them. Taking her gloved fingers, he pressed his lips to the softly tanned leather, kissing the palm of each hand before placing them upon the firm width of his shoulders.

  “Ma belle,” he whispered again, then reached to cup her head, pulling her face down and slanting his to a corresponding angle so that their lips met perfectly. He brushed his mouth across hers, hard enough to graze her with the light growth of beard that he would likely shave in the morning. The feel of it was alien to her, foreign yet familiar. Unable to resist the exotic appeal, she drew back slightly and touched his face, cradling his jaw and rubbing lightly, smiling softly at the sound it made against her gloves.

  If he’d have let her, she’d have taken them off and felt his stubble with her fingertips, but a low growl filled his throat and Vallé plunged his hands into her hair, drawing her face down for an openmouthed, carnal kiss that blatantly imitated lovemaking. His respiration grew harsher, lungs laboring while she was rendered speechless by the power of his passion.

  Christiana followed him down easily when he pulled her onto the bed. Wrapping his arms around her and crushing her against him, he kissed her again. For a moment, panic threatened, and she reminded herself that this was Vallé. Vallé. A low moan vibrated in his throat as he slid a hand to her hip and held her fast, thrusting his arousal against her, letting her feel the strength of his desire.

  Christiana exhaled softly, shakily, and spread her fingers, felt the corded strength of his neck, his shoulders, his sculpted upper arms. Pressing kisses along his stubbled jaw, she ran her gloved hands over his shirt, then beneath it, mapping the contours of his chest. The brush of her fingers over the hardened brown tips of his masculine breasts elicited a sensual growl that merely encouraged her to do it again.

  “Enough,” he gritted, and in a move that made her dizzy, reversed their positions until he was on top. Sitting back on his heels, his thighs bracketing her hips, he deftly unhooked the stomacher of her silk overdress, spreading it apart and grinning when he found that she wore no corset.

  “Vixen.” Bending his head, he kissed the swell of her breasts. She released the breath she’d been holding and chastised herself for having worried about her figure. Although she possessed something of a female form, she had wondered if he would take one look at the slight flare of her hips and be thoroughly repulsed.

  But he wasn’t. He wasn’t. Vallé kissed her, cupped her, kneaded her flesh with one hand while she helped him draw the overdress off with trembling fingers. Letting it fall to the floor in a soft bump of cloth-covered stays and the seductive whisper of silk, he flicked off her shoes, untied her garters, and slid down her stockings, leaving her clad only in two petticoats and a chemise.

  He stood then and shed his clothes, jerking off his boots and stockings, peeling off his breeches and shirt and flinging them aside. When he stretched out beside her, she could feel his arousal: hard, hot, velvet-covered steel that insistently nudged her hip. Propped on one elbow, he leaned over her, spanning her jaw with his long fingers and kissing her fiercely, hungrily, filling her mouth with his tongue, stroking the roof and leaving nothing untasted.

  “Kiss me,” he whispered roughly, and met her parted lips with his. He welcomed her tongue into his mouth, suckled it, stroked it in cadence with the flexing fingers that lay claim to her breast, inciting her senses to riot. She clung to him, panting fiercely, her hips undulating to the rhythm he set above. He flung a leg atop hers; his knee insinuated itself between hers and pressed upwards. His hand slid down, skimming her torso. His fingers slipped unerringly into the notch of her legs, pushing deep against her petticoats to find her moist and swollen.

  Vallé lifted himself above her, breathing fiercely, eyes glittering, his mouth curved in a pirate’s smile. “Here, in this bed, I require but one thing of you,” he told her, wedging his hand in deeper and taking distinctly masculine satisfaction in the way she gasped and arched to meet him. “I want no lies between us. When I am deep enough inside you to touch your soul and I hear you cry out, it will be because I have made you, comprenez-vous?”

  Christiana caught her breath at the silent promise in his eyes and nodded. Although he had always been the man of her dreams, Justin Vallé was not a man to be crossed.

  “Bien,” he whispered, then: “Touch me….”

  In a skim of contact, Christiana felt the latent strength in his arms, measured the span of his broad shoulders, and marveled at the symmetry of a man in his full glory. He was beautiful, impassioned, his maleness evident against her thigh and his magnificent chest expanding as he hung over her. Its mat of golden curls deliciously abraded her breasts, rubbing her nipples into hard, tight peaks. She wanted to feel the ripple of skin, the play of muscle, the dusting of hair, but when she started to remove her gloves, Vallé stopped her with a wicked grin.

  “Leave them on,” he told her, nuzzling her ear, “and I will be your stallion, to ride as long and hard as you please.”

  He rolled to the side and lay on his back, smiling crookedly, inviting her to join his game, one that allowed her to take the lead. The thought made her giddy. Inhaling deeply, she leaned slightly over him, caressing his hair-dusted chest, threading her gloved fingers through the crisp curls and following them down to where they arrowed at his waist. A narrow ribbon bisected the muscled ridges of his flat belly, then grew long and lush at the base of his manhood. Merely looking at it was enough to make it thicken and swell, the rigid flesh thrusting up to meet her hand.

  He hissed through his teeth when she ran the backs of her fingers up and down its length, then wrapped her gloved fingers around the heavy shaft. He shuddered when she stroked its length, pressing himself against her hand while he plucked the pins from her hair. Freed, it spilled down her back and over her shoulder to pool upon his chest.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered, threading his fingers through her black tresses. His piercing blue gaze found hers in the candlelight. He smoothed the length of her hair from her crown to his belly, rubbing it in erotic circles while she slid her fingers along the length of his erection. She squeezed and stroked harder. Sucking harsh breaths between clenched teeth, he closed his eyes and tilted his hips, pushing against the friction of her palm. His hips thrust again, pressing forward in eloquent rhythm. As his pace quickened, Christiana felt his molten tide and the answering changes in her body, the swelling and tightness of her breasts, the growing excitement, the thickening pleasure.

  “Enough,” he gritted, dragging her hand away. He grasped her shoulders and pulled her fully atop him, breathing raggedly, drawing down her head and kissing her with fierce abandon.

  The feel of his hard male body, so magnificently nude beneath hers, made Christiana curse her own clothing. Sharing her impatience, Vallé untied both petticoats and eased them down, far enough that she wriggled free and kicked them clear of the bed without taking her lips from his. Careful not to knee him, she broke their kiss long enough to grasp the hem of her chemise and pull it over her head. Then she was back, kissing him again, delighting in the sensation of skin against skin and the feel of his hands clutching her bared hips to pull her hard against him.

  “Part your legs for me,” he whispered roughly in accented English.

  She did, and felt the heavy length of his
arousal push between them, sliding on the dampness of her nether curls, rubbing forcefully, insistently against the swollen folds that guarded her secrets. Burying his face in her neck, he nipped it with his teeth then licked the hurt, suckling her skin in tiny bites until he reached her right breast. Then came the warm, pulling tug on her nipple, a sensation felt all the way to her womb. He ardently laved the hardened tip, then drew it back into the hot moistness of his mouth, catching it between his teeth and flicking it with his tongue. He did the same with her other breast, sucking rhythmically to the thrust of his pelvis, catching the other nipple between a thumb and forefinger.

  The feel of his mouth, the pull and twist, and throbbing hardness between her legs made Christiana grow rigid with pleasure, made her arch wantonly against him, squeezing her thighs and desperately wishing he would fill her and assuage this empty, aching need. “Please,” she whispered, rubbing against him, pressing a line of kisses along his stubbled jaw.

  Locked in her intimate embrace, he raised his head to gaze deep into her eyes. Holding herself above him, she memorized the way he looked, eyes heavy lidded with passion, the sheen of perspiration on his face, nostrils flaring with each heated breath, bathing her in dragon’s fire. She lowered her face, but when he lifted his chin to kiss her, she turned her head and pressed her lips instead to his cheek while her heart twisted in her chest and her eyes burned. So sorry that she’d hurt him once, she offered a silent apology, kissing the length of his scar before meeting his lips once more.

  “It’s all right, ma belle,” Justin whispered, tasting tears. Touched that this tender girl would cry for a stranger, his own voice was oddly rough. She ducked her head and closed her eyes, but another drop welled beneath her thick lashes, escaping to track down her flawless cheek.

  Cupping her head, he pulled her to him, bathing her cheek with his tongue, tasting salt and woman and banked desire. But only for the moment. Eyelids fluttering, she focused on his mouth and unerringly found it, molded her parted lips to his, and welcomed him inside. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her wildly, thrusting himself between her slim thighs until he was so close to bursting, he nearly spilled his seed.