Lord Trent: Love's Price Part 27

His color was very high, and she cringed, worried that he might strike her. Instead, he shoved her away and went to the window to stare out. She scurried to the other side of the bed, using it as a barrier between them.

An awkward impa.s.se ensued, where she wondered what he was thinking, but she couldn't guess.

Had she pushed him too far? Would he finally fire her?

At the notion that he might, she was unbearably sad. She'd sacrificed everything to be with him, while he'd given up nothing at all.

She should have been wiser, should have protected herself, but she hadn't been able to resist the excitement he brought to her life. Yet if there was to be joy at one end of the spectrum, there would be anguish at the other, and though she'd recognized there would be consequences, it had never occurred to her that they would be so wrenching.

He glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes glittering with emotion.

"My brother has been lost at sea."

She gasped. "What?"

"I just received the news. His ship was attacked by pirates; he was set adrift."

"Is he...he...?"

Gad, she couldn't say it. She'd been accusing him of flirtation and seduction, while he was staggering under the weight of the worst tidings he would likely ever hear.

"He is presumed to be deceased," he tersely replied.

She collapsed against the wall, not certain her legs would support her.

She'd been struggling with the same type of devastating information: a missing sibling, an unknown fate. It was an impossible burden that levied incalculable guilt.

Could she have prevented Harriet's disappearance? Should she have realized sooner that something nefarious had transpired? If she had known, would it have made any difference?

"So you see, Helen"-rage wafted off him-"as opposed to how you a.s.sume I was scheming with my brother's fiancee, I was actually telling her that he was dead."

"Oh, James..."

"Dead, Helen. Dead and gone-like that." He snapped his fingers, the sound echoing off the high ceiling.

"I am so sorry." She stumbled over to him. "I am so, so sorry."

She reached out a hand, and for a moment, he simply glared at it, then he clasped hold and dragged her into his arms, and he was kissing her and kissing her until she was dizzy and breathless. He was like a wounded animal, needing to lash out, to hurt someone as he was hurting.

"Forgive me," she begged. "Please forgive me. I didn't mean a word I said."

He tumbled her onto the bed, rolling them until he was on top and pressing her into the mattress. His hands were on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, fiercely kneading them. He was being forceful and rough, dominating her in a thoroughly male fashion that was feral and untamed, a drive that had to be a.s.suaged, an anger that had to be quelled.

He grabbed the front of her dress and ripped it down the center. Her petticoats were next so that-in a thrice-she was clad only in corset and drawers.

With no finesse or preparation, he fumbled with his trousers, then thrust inside her. At having him enter her so quickly and completely, she arched up and cried out. He hadn't harmed her, but she was just so surprised.

His behavior called to a deep feminine instinct, making her want to surrender, making her want to submit to his every wish and command.

She spread her legs, holding on, feeling as if she was riding a wild horse, as if she was on a ship without sails or rudder.

Much too rapidly, his ardor rose and crested, and he spilled himself. The instant he was finished, he withdrew and flopped onto his back, not touching her, an arm flung over his face.

She was quiet, watching him, not having a clue as to what she should say.

He teemed with emotion, his demons roiling out of control. What were they? How could she best expel them?

"I loved my brother," he finally murmured as his respiration slowed.

"I know you did."

"I don't believe he's dead. I can't believe it."

"Then you shouldn't give up hope."

"I paid to have a search launched."

"Good for you. I'm glad."

"The man I hired said I was a fool."

"You're not a fool."

Tentatively, she placed her palm over his heart. His pulse was still racing. He wrapped his fingers over her own and pulled her close.

"Can you actually suppose," he asked, "that I would rather have Miranda than you?"

"I was being an idiot."

"Yes, you were."

"I was mad with jealousy."

"Really?" He peered over at her. "You were jealous?"

"Yes."

He snorted, then laid back and stared at the ceiling.

"If Tristan has truly perished, if we never find him, I don't know what I'll do without him."

"Don't worry about it now. Let the news settle. We'll deal with it after we've had more time to adjust."

"He was my only friend."

Dare she say it? Dare she point out the obvious?

"I am your friend, too."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Then don't leave me," he said.

"I won't," she vowed. "I will never leave. No matter what."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Harriet walked the beach, near enough to the surf to get her toes wet with each lapping wave. Seaweed stretched down the sand, and when a shiny object caught her eye, she sifted through the green strands, delighted to retrieve a b.u.t.ton from a gentleman's coat.

She had found many functional items: a dish, another fork, a comb. One morning, a chair had washed up, and whenever she sat in it, she liked to imagine how it had come to be in the water.

Had someone on a ship thrown it overboard? Had someone taken it to an oceanside picnic, but lost it to the incoming tide?

She had difficulty recollecting that there was another world out there. They'd been stranded for ages, each day blending into the next in a slow, pleasant rhythm. It had begun to seem as if she'd always been on the island with Tristan, as if she'd never lived anywhere else.

She didn't know how long they'd been marooned. Quite a bit of time had pa.s.sed before they'd started a calendar, and even then, they'd debated. Was it a good idea to keep track? If months became years, would a record be too depressing?

In the end, they'd agreed to mark the pa.s.sage of time while trying not to focus on what might be occurring in the life they'd left behind.

It was bizarre to envision their acquaintances going about their daily routines as if Tristan and Harriet had never existed. More and more, it seemed as if they'd died without being aware that they had.

If so, death was a panacea, and Harriet hoped she could remain just where she was-with Tristan-through all of eternity.

The afternoon was very hot, and she decided to take a dip in the ocean.

With Tristan's help, she'd grown to be an avid swimmer. She reached for the hem of her chemise and tugged it over her head so she was naked and completely unconcerned that she was.

Six months earlier, she wouldn't have considered such scandalous behavior, but the beliefs and tenets by which she'd previously carried on no longer applied. As she'd learned, when normal conduct was impossible, anything was allowed.

Carefully, she folded the chemise and laid it on a rock. It was still her only article of clothing, and the fabric was bleached white and worn to the point of tearing.

The harsh tropical rays had bleached her hair white too, and her skin had darkened to a deep tan, the bronze shade covering her entire torso. Whenever she went to bathe in the stream, she'd notice her reflection, and she thought she resembled an ancient G.o.ddess.

She waded into the warm sea and dove under a wave, and she floated for awhile, then walked back to the sand. She tarried in the breeze, letting it dry her body.

Off in the distance, on the cliff that was the highest part of the island, Tristan was adding a log to their signal fire. They kept it burning constantly, but so far, the smoke had brought no rescue vessel winging in their direction.

Feet braced, hands on his hips, he gazed toward the horizon. The wind was stronger up where he stood, and it whipped at his drawers that were becoming as tattered as her chemise. He was much thinner than he'd been and tanned all over, too. His hair hung past his shoulders, and it was lightened so it looked more red than black.

He could have been a native savage, and he was so altered from the groomed, dapper ship's captain he'd been that it was hard to remember he was the same person.

Turning, he smiled at her, then started down the hill, and as she observed him, a powerful burst of affection surged through her. She hadn't meant to fall in love with him, but how could she not have?

He was intricately connected to every facet of her being, like the sun to the moon, like the earth to the stars. He fed her and watched over her and kept her safe and calm. Who wouldn't love such a man?

If they'd still been on his ship, she'd have known better. If she'd been in London, it would never have occurred to her to let a relationship form. But they weren't on his ship, and they weren't in London, and any restrictions that might have separated them had ceased to matter.

They'd never discussed the topic, but she was convinced that he loved her, as well. He was so kind to her, and he seemed to cherish her in an extreme and fond way that could only be due to heightened regard.

He loved her; she was sure of it, and she refused to think that he might not, just as she refused to suppose that she'd tumbled into a s.e.xual affair without love being the driving force behind it.

He approached and pulled her into his arms, kissing her, lingering, and as always happened when they were together, pa.s.sion flared. It wasn't possible to be held by him and not be overwhelmed by desire.

"h.e.l.lo, my little sea nymph," he said.

"h.e.l.lo, my dear sea captain."

"I can never get used to staring down the beach and seeing you naked. The sight is so refreshing."

"I can't believe I ever wore a corset. Not when it's so much more comfortable to go about like this."

"Can you visualize how interesting London would be if the ma.s.ses went about unclothed? No doubt everyone would be much happier."

"Ew! There are many people I wouldn't want to see undressed."

"Too true."

He grinned and took her hand, leading her back into the water. For most of the afternoon, they frolicked and made love. By the time, they waded out, the sun was dropping in the west, and she was exhilarated but exhausted. Her skin was burned and wrinkled like a prune, and her womanly spots were stretched and raw from their numerous couplings.

All in all, she felt quite grand, and as they strolled to their hut, she whispered a prayer that G.o.d-if He was listening for once-would grant her this one simple wish: Let him be mine. Let him be mine forever.

Tristan could barely keep his eyes open. He was snuggled with Harriet on a soft pallet of leaves, spooned behind her, his large body cradling her smaller one. His phallus was partially erect, intrigued by the intimate placement, and he knew he could roll her over, could initiate another round of carnal activity, but he was content to float in a languorous daze.

"Today was a good day," he murmured.

"Yes, it was."

"I can scarcely recall what it was like in London."

"I can recall it all too well."

"That's right. You were in trouble, weren't you?"

He paused, providing her with a chance to confess what had sent her fleeing onto his ship. After everything they'd been through, she still had never explained. She h.o.a.rded the details of her past like a miser h.o.a.rded his gold.

"Does this feel like a holiday to you?" she asked instead, deftly changing the subject.

"I guess it does, but a holiday usually has an ending date."

"Have you given up hope of rescue?"