Miranda Jarrett - Regency High Society Vol 4 - The Sparhawk Bride / The Rogue's Seduction / Sparhawk's Angel / The Proper Wife

Recklessly she let herself sway against him, her whole body arching with the pleasure that his kiss brought. As she moved against him she felt her breasts tighten and ache from the friction, and, as if she’d begged him, his hand slipped between them to undo the hooks on her bodice. She gasped as his fingers touched her breast, raised by the stiff whalebone stays like an opulent offering for him alone. Deftly he eased her full flesh free of the stays, teasing her nipples with his rough, callused palms until she thought she’d melt with the pleasure of it.

But it was her little moan of desire that changed everything for him. He’d never been with a woman who responded so completely to his kiss and his touch, scorching them both with her fire, and knowing he was the first to awaken such passion in her left him shuddering with the force of his own need. He was the one she wanted: he, Michel Géricault, who had never been wanted before by anyone, let alone a woman as blessed as Jerusa Sparhawk.

His hands slid down the length of her spine, kneading the soft curve of her hips and buttocks as he lifted her against the hot proof of his own want. His world had narrowed inexorably to the girl in his arms, and nothing in his life had ever mattered more than making her his.

Hungrily Jerusa opened her mouth as he deepened their kiss, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. She had never behaved so wantonly with Tom, but then, Michel tempted her in ways Tom never had. Marveling at how well their bodies fit together, she finally understood all that Mama had so carefully explained to her on the day of her wedding. Passion and love, declared Mama, were among the most wondrous gifts a man and woman could share, and now, here in Michel’s arms, Jerusa realized exactly how wise her mother had been.

Strange that she had discovered it not with the man she was to marry but instead with the one who’d kidnapped her, and stranger still to realize, as she suddenly did now, that she loved him. She loved him.

She closed her eyes and smiled as he murmured to her in French, his breath warm on her skin. It didn’t matter that the words meant nothing to her; it was the way he said them that touched her most. Of course he must love her as she loved him, or else how could they be discovering such unbelievable pleasure together? Hadn’t Mama promised that that was the way it happened?

Yet she shivered as he lifted her onto the edge of the bunk, pushing his way between her thighs, and though still she clung to him, her heart pounding, the first flutter of apprehension rose up through her pleasure. He was shoving her skirts high over her legs, above her garters, above her knees, to let his large hands caress her white thighs with long, intoxicating strokes that left her breathless and dizzy with need.

“Ma petite amie, ma chère Jerusa,” he said, his voice rough and his breathing harsh. “Are you ready for me, my own darling Jerusa?”

Impatiently his hands roamed higher, around her hips, as he pulled her closer to the edge of the bunk. She knew what would happen next, for her mother had told her that, too. But when she felt him touch her there, that most secret place between her thighs, she stiffened and instinctively tried to retreat.

“You know I won’t hurt you, Rusa,” he whispered, kissing her again to sway her reluctance. “Only joy, my darling, only pleasure, I swear it.”

His fingers moved more gently this time, gliding over her slick, swollen flesh, and she gasped raggedly as the first ripple of bliss swept across her, as wondrous as Mama had promised.

But what of the warnings and cautions that had come before the promises? Think, Jerusa, think! Are you ready to risk the price of love and passion without marriage to bless them?

“Ma belle Jerusa,” he whispered. “Ma chérie.” Gently he guided her legs farther apart, lifting her knees, and she shuddered at the dizzying pleasure, her eyes squeezed shut and her head arched back.

Will you risk it all for this moment, Jerusa? Shame and disgrace, your belly swelling with a fatherless babe beneath your apron?

Will you bear a bastard child to grow in misery, to suffer as Michel, your own darling Michel, suffered even before he was born?

Think, Jerusa, think, before he decides for you!

“No, Michel, please!” Panting, she tried to twist away from him. “I can’t do this!”

“Yes, you can, ma bien-aimée,” he said, ordering more than coaxing as he began to unbutton his breeches, his fingers shaking with his urgency. “Don’t say no to me now, little one.”

“No, Michel, I can’t!” she cried, her fear cutting through the haze of his desire. He was so much stronger, that if he wanted to take her against her will, she knew she’d be powerless to fight him. “We can’t!”

And though his whole body ached for release, he stopped. She lay trembling before him, her eyes heavy lidded with passion and her lips swollen from his kisses, her bare breasts taut and flushed, and her legs still sprawled wantonly apart. Despite what she said, here was the proof that her body wanted his, that she craved him with the same desperation he felt for her.

Morbleu, he would give ten years of his life to be able to lose himself in her! Unable to keep away, he reached for her again, his Jerusa, his salvation—

Desperately she shook her head, her eyes wild. “For God’s sake, Michel,” she cried, “do you wish me to become like your mother?”

He recoiled as if he’d been struck. Could his love alone do that to her? Drive her to madness and a solitary world of black sorrow, rob her of her happiness and her good name, destroy all that was joyous and beautiful in her life? Could he do that to the woman he loved more than any other?

He wouldn’t stay to be tempted and find out. She wasn’t his; she never would be. Swearing under his breath, he grabbed his shirt from where he’d dropped it, and left.

Jerusa found Michel at the larboard railing, staring without seeing at the pink glow of dawn to the east. He stood with his shoulders slumped and his arms leaning on the rail, his hair whipping back untied from his face and his untucked shirt billowing around his body like the sails overhead. For a man who had spent his life striving to be inconspicuous, such an open display of his feelings was unthinkable, and Jerusa’s heart wrenched to see him like this, knowing that what she’d done had left him so visibly despondent.

Carefully she felt her way across the slanting deck to stand beside him. He didn’t turn to greet her, still staring steadfastly out to sea. She would have been surprised if he’d done otherwise. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say to him, but she did know she wanted to be with him now, and she prayed he’d want her there, too.

She gazed out at the coming dawn, the sun still no more than a rosy feathering in the clouds on the horizon. Despite her seafaring family, this was the first time she’d been on a deep-water ship, and the high-pitched thrum of the wind in the standing riggings, the constant creaking of the ship’s timbers and the rush of the waves were all new to her. After the tiny, close cabin, the wind and spray in her face felt good, helping to clear her thoughts.

Without turning, she dared to slide her hand along the rail until it touched his. “‘Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.’”

“Is that a maxim on all Sparhawk ships?”

“Not on ours alone, no,” she said, glad he’d answered. “You’ve never heard it before? ‘Red sky at morning, sailors take warning, red sky at night, sailors’ delight.’”

He glanced down at how their hands touched. “You English have a clever saying for everything.”