The Very Daring Duchess Part 31

She cried out, twisting around him so sinuously that he half wondered if she'd found her release already. Lord, she was tight, in the velvety way that could drive a man mad. He drew back and she trembled, and when he plunged back into her she was rising up to welcome him as he ground himself into her, against her, around her lush body.

Over and over he drove into her, over and over she met him, matching his rhythm and adding her own rocking and twisting and s.h.i.+mmying that drove him harder, hotter, almost mad with wanting her. She clung to his sweat-sheened shoulders, lavis.h.i.+ng kisses on his skin that quickly turned to fierce little nips to echo his thrusts.

Higher and higher he pushed her, higher and faster as if they were each riding the howling storm around them as much as each other's pa.s.sion. Higher and hotter and he thought it would never end and he never wanted it to and then he was exploding into her, more of himself than he'd ever given any woman because it was Francesca, his one love, his wife, his life, and all he had left. He heard her peaking cry, a gulping version of his own name as she convulsed around him, and with one last thrust he collapsed with her onto the bunk.

He couldn't say how long they lay like that, their arms and legs still tangled together, the s.h.i.+p still tossing and the wind still howling and the sea still pummeling at the sides of the s.h.i.+p, knocking at their little world inside the bunk. He could tell by how the sloops' timbers were groaning and creaking that the Antelope had settled deeper into the water, wallowing in the troughs of the waves rather than riding their crests.

He pulled the coverlet over them and with a sigh she curled her body into his, and as he settled his arm around her waist, he tried to think only of how warm and soft she was to hold and how impossibly dear she was to him, and not how soon it all would be dashed apart.

"My dearest Francesca," he said, gently pus.h.i.+ng aside a damp lock of her hair to kiss her. "My own sweet wife."

She s.h.i.+fted over him, lying across his chest, and he wished he could see her face now, to see her smile down at him as he knew she must be. "Non ce nes-suno come te, mio caro."

"You'll have to translate, la.s.s," he ordered, though he really didn't care if she did or not. From her the words rolled over him like a caress, filled with affection and joy, no matter what they meant.

" 'There's no one like you, my dearest,' " she repeated in English. "Though it sounded much better in Italian."

"Agreed," he said. "Everything sounds more romantic in Italian."

"Then I shall have to teach you to speak it to me, eh?" She traced a fingertip lightly around his lips, both of them pretending that they'd have a future where such lessons could happen. "Senza di te non ce sole nel cialo."

Was it the words themselves, or the bittersweet way she said it? "Cielo is heaven, isn't it?" he asked. "You say it often. As in santo cialo, meaning 'Edward, you provoking clod, how I'd like to take a belaying-pin to your head directly'."

She laughed softly, but when he reached up to cradle her cheek he felt the tears she didn't try to stop. "Santo cialo means 'saints in heaven,' to whom I should be praying now instead of lying here with you."

"Then tell me what you said before, sweetheart."

" 'Without you there's no sun in the heavens,' " she whispered, and now her tears were spilling so freely that he felt them begin to drop onto his chest, warm and wet. "Moriro senza di te, carissimo mio sposo. 'I'd die without you, my dearest husband.' "

"Oh, la.s.s," he groaned, pulling her closer. How could he possibly answer that, in English or Italian?

"Moriro senza di te, carissimo mio sposo," she said, her voice breaking. "E moriro con te. 'I'd die without you, my dearest husband, and-and I would die with you.' "

"Don't say it," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Better that I tell you how much I love you, Francesca. Aye, I do. I love you."

"E ti amo, Edward," she whispered. "I love you, and always will, however long that always may be. Now hold me, if you please. Just-just hold me, my dearest, and don't let me go."

Silence.

It was the silence that woke Edward, jarring him awake with the same force as a gunshot. The incessant roar of the wind, the creaking and groaning of the sloop's timbers, the rus.h.i.+ng and cras.h.i.+ng of the storm-waves were so completely gone that their absence left a muted ringing in his head, as if his ears refused to accept such an unfamiliar void.

Instantly awake in the habit of sailors, he sat up in the bunk, taking care not to disturb Francesca, still sleeping beside him. He wouldn't wake her until he was sure, until he had only good news to tell her, but already his heart was racing with possibilities and fresh hope. Not only were the sounds of the storm gone, but for the first time in days a faint edge of light outlined the closed door to their cabin. Could it truly be daylight, sweetest, most miraculous daylight, a beam he believed he'd never live to see again?

Swiftly he slipped from the bunk, muttering an oath as he stepped into the icy seawater still puddled there. He'd search for his boots and coat later. Hastily he stuffed his s.h.i.+rt into his trousers and b.u.t.toned the fall before he carefully opened the door just widely enough to ease through. Sure enough, an anemic daylight was filtering down the steps of the companionway, the hatches removed now, and he allowed his hopes to rise another notch. An end to the storm wouldn't solve all their problems, of course, for the Antelope was still riding dangerously low in the water, her mainmast shattered and her boat useless. But at least they'd have a chance now, a reprieve from the end that had seemed so hideously unavoidable last night.

He glanced back into the cabin, where a slice of that glorious pale light fell across Francesca's face. She was sleeping as soundly as a child, turned on her side with one arm flung back and her unbraided hair like a wild dark cloud of curls around her face and tumbling over her shoulders.

No, not a child, he decided, smiling, but that wicked little nymph with the centaur, now sated and blissfully content thanks to her equally sated husband. Her lips were parted, her features relaxed with sleep, and he flattered himself that last night he'd been able to give her that peace along with his love. G.o.d knows she'd given it to him. Who would have guessed they'd both fall asleep with near-certain death howling across the deck overhead?

Carefully he closed the door again, climbing up to the deck two steps at a time. If they did indeed have a fresh chance at salvation, he'd wake her, and together they could celebrate in the best way possible. That noisome little cabin was hardly the elegant suite of rooms in London that he'd envisioned for their honeymoon, but he couldn't imagine a more enthusiastic way to become husband and wife. He'd never experienced anything like it, and he felt himself growing hard again at the memory. Who would have guessed he'd find so much pa.s.sion combined with so much love, and in his own wife at that?

He hated to agree with the rakish officers who'd bragged about their conquests among the local women in Naples, especially regarding his wife, but Francesca was different from the English women he'd bedded, uninhibited and ardent, so much so that he marveled that she'd been able to wait as long as she had, night after night on the voyage from Palermo. Perhaps there had been a benefit to those brothel-paintings by her old satyr of a father after all, though as her husband, he intended to be the only gentleman who knew it.

"Captain Ramsden, sir!" called Pettigrew excitedly as he hurried across the deck to Edward. "Have you seen anything like it, sir? In all your born days, sir, have you ever seen the like?"

Edward followed the lieutenant's pointing hand over the starboard rail, or where the rail used to be. The sloop's small crew stood gathered there-a bedraggled a.s.sortment, as bruised and battered as the Antelope herself, and with three days' beards on their jaws as well-grinning and slapping themselves on the back as they, too, stared out across the water. The sky was still overcast, the weak winter sun working hard to force any light through the low, gray clouds, but it was still bright and clear enough to see the narrow dark band of land on the horizon, rooftops, a church spire, the sails and masts of small boats or s.h.i.+ps in a harbor.

"That be Folkestone, sir," said Pettigrew, nearly cackling with delight. "I know it well, my mam being born in Dymchurch parish. We've been blowed clear into the Straits o' Dover, sir, as neat as if we'd asked it. Can you fancy that, sir? The very Straits themselves!"

Edward could fancy it quite easily. They'd not only survived; they'd triumphed. They were within a mile of a friendly port, which was likely already putting out boats to come to their a.s.sistance. They'd been blown not off their course, but exactly upon it, the winds of the storm carrying them faster than they could ever expect in fair weather. He and Francesca could well be in London the day after tomorrow.

"Che miracolo," he murmured, hardly believing what he saw.

"Beg pardon, Captain Ramsden, sir?" asked Pettigrew, perplexed. "Ah, but sir, here's Lady Edward, come to see for herself!"

Eagerly Edward turned, taking her hand and slipping his arm around her waist to hold her steady. She'd barely dressed-he could feel that she was naked beneath the long cloak she clutched tightly together, a fact he hoped none of the other men would realize-and her long hair remained untied and uncombed, blowing around her face. She still looked half asleep, her face without its usual rosy glow, her expression bewildered.

"You left me, caro mio," she said plaintively. "I woke, and you were gone."

"But not far, la.s.s, not far." He bent to kiss her quickly by way of apology before he gently turned her to the starboard. "And for the best of reasons! Look, Francesca. That's England, there, not a mile away. Folkestone, to be precise."

Dutifully she looked, holding her hair back from her face with one hand. "Folkestone," she repeated slowly. "England. We are safe then, Edward? The storm is finished? We will not die?"

He chuckled happily. "We've been saved to sail another day, sweetheart." He could wish she'd show a bit more emotion, but then the shock of all that happened to them would likely take its toll on any woman. "We could well be in London the day after tomorrow."

"Oh, Edward," she said softly, with a sadness he couldn't comprehend. "Che miracolo, eh? Che miracolo."

So this was London, the grandest city in England.

Francesca stood alone, apart from the other pa.s.sengers crowding at the rail of the Folkestone packet. The packet moved slowly along the crowded river, the pilot picking his way among the skiffs and barges and boats and ferries, navy s.h.i.+ps and merchant brigs. If London was in truth the grandest city-home to a million citizens was the proud claim-then the Thames was her most traveled road, a constant parade of people and cargo, troops and market goods.

Yet to Francesca there seemed precious little grandeur to be found in London this morning. The river was dirty and murky, as full of rotting garbage and dead dogs as it was boats, no comparison at all for the clear blue waters of the Bay of Naples. The city that streamed endlessly along the river's banks was scarcely more appealing, the buildings crowded together and blackened with the soot and smoke of countless chimneys, either brick or gray stone so somber it made her ache for the joyful candy-pink of her old house, bright as a flower in the warm Neapolitan sun.

There'd be no warmth here, not from this sorry excuse for a sun, and though Francesca pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, she still felt the chill deep in her bones. She'd been cold since the Antelope had been blown into English waters, and she feared she'd never be warm again. No wonder her father had fled this grim, gray city. She couldn't imagine his gleeful spirit trapped among these bleak walls and streets, any more than she could imagine her own finding real happiness here, either.

With a s.h.i.+ver that had little to do with the cold, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself in Naples instead, her old Naples, where the air was scented with flowers and the salty clean air of the bay, where every street was filled with music and laughter and neighbors calling merrily from one open window to the next, a carefree place where the sun had always s.h.i.+ned in the day and the stars were bright as diamonds in the night sky.

A place now lost to her forever, a place where she'd been so certain of herself and her dreams, before she'd let Edward Ramsden into her heart...

"Here you are, sweetheart," said Edward heartily as he joined her. Because of the size of the packet, there had been no private cabin for them, with Francesca sharing a s.p.a.ce with several other women and Edward with the men. This was the first time since they'd left the Antelope the day before yesterday that she and Edward had been able to speak with any privacy, out of the hearing of others.

"I thought you were still below," he continued. "But I can't blame you coming on deck, not with a view like this. The glories of London are hard to resist, aren't they?"

She could not say much in favor of London, but certainly the glories of Edward were on full display. Peart had labored long and hard in the cramped quarters of the packet to make his master ready to face an entire fleet of admirals. Every bra.s.s b.u.t.ton had been polished like a tiny mirror, every inch of gold wire and enamel-work on the hilt and scabbard of his dress-sword glittering, the perfect broad-shouldered ideal of an English hero. No wonder the other pa.s.sengers hung back from so great a personage, staring at Edward with wonder and awe.