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“Never-never land, perhaps. I always wanted to be Peter Pan and sail the heavens on great adventures.”
His soft laughter, aimed at himself and a boy’s foolish dreams, broke through the ice dam and touched her heart.
Jean-Paul was known as something of a rebel and one of the world’s most sought after bachelors, but here was another side to him that was usually hidden, one that was whimsical and tender with dreams that could never be realized.
She’d sometimes felt like that.
A bond, she realized, and wondered if he felt it, too, and if that had prompted his confidence. His next words dispelled that notion.
“Sit down before you fall overboard,” he ordered, his tone sardonic, as if it wouldn’t bother him at all if that should happen.
She ducked as the wind grabbed the sail and the boom shifted. Jean-Paul swung them around so that they ran with the wind. He motioned for her to sit on the bench with him.
The wind snatched her hair from the circle of flowers that secured it to the back of her head, and blew tendrils around her face. Her breath nearly stopped when he reached over to her and began pulling the long pins loose and tossing them over the side.
When she glanced at him, no smile lit his lean face. Instead he appeared thoughtful, almost angry as he frowned at some conflict that showed briefly in his eyes then was hidden from her.
Confused, she watched as he lifted the circlet of flowers, studied it for a long moment, then brought it to his lips the way a lover might who mourned his lost love and tossed it into the night.
Her heart clenched so tightly she thought it would explode from the pressure as she watched the wreath land in the dark water, catch a moonbeam and float out of sight. She pushed the hair from her eyes and held it back with hands that trembled ever so slightly.
With another glance she didn’t understand, Jean-Paul turned the ship once more and sailed on a tack into the wind. Tendrils of hair blew back from her temples.
“Let it go,” he commanded.
She slowly dropped her hands to her lap. He lifted one hand and slid his fingers into the tangles.
“Like silk,” he said in a low tone that stirred turmoil within her.
When his hand dropped to her bare shoulder, she started, then retreated behind the icy facade.
“I’ve wanted to do this all evening,” he continued, and stroked across her back, along the edge of the silk, until his arm was around her. His fingers caressed slowly up and down her arm, causing chills, which he then smoothed away.
Disappointment swamped her when he withdrew his arm and set the vessel on a different tack across the wind. She watched the shoreline as they raced parallel to it. At last he spilled the wind from the sail and engaged the engine again to push into a small cove similar to the one at Penwyck where she’d learned to swim and sail years ago.
“You seem to know these waters well,” she said.
“Yes.”
Sudden, intense jealousy flamed in her, then died as she further retreated from emotion. She was nothing to him; he was nothing to her. There was no need for this reaction.
“I love the sea,” she said to distract herself from his allure. “At home, we have a private place, a cove behind the palace where we played and learned to swim. The bay there is small, but it was a world to us, a place of freedom…”
She let the thought trail off, aware that she gave too much of herself away to this worldly man. What did he care about her need for freedom, to secret herself away from the rest of civilization and live her own fantasy?
He watched her, a slight puzzlement in his eyes. “Who are you?” he asked in a quiet tone.
A current ran along her nerves at the question that was as whimsical as his desire to sail off into the moonlight. The bond grew stronger…more urgent.
“Megan,” she finally answered, a hitch in her breath as possibilities opened to her. She wanted…she wanted…oh, stars and moonlight and rapture.
Foolish, foolish Megan, the Ice Princess scolded.
“Not your name,” he corrected. “The real you. Ah, yes, the Quiet One.”
She tensed at the nickname, but he said nothing more, only watched her from eyes hooded by thick lashes, the lean planes of his face harsh and forbidding. She shivered.
He stood, then quickly threw out the anchor and furled the sail. He went into the hold. In another minute, soft music swelled into the darkness. He returned and held out his arms in invitation to dance.
The first time they’d danced had been at Meredith’s birthday ball. Jean-Paul had politely danced with all the royals, starting with the birthday girl, then the queen and finally her. Anastasia had attended the dinner, then been sent to bed, but Megan had been allowed to stay. Those moments in his arms had seemed filled with magic.
This evening was to be a seduction, she realized. That was what he had decided she wanted. He, with his vast knowledge of many women, knew nothing of her. Looking at the challenge in his eyes, she was tempted, so very tempted.
But this night wasn’t for her. She shook her head.
“No?” he mocked.
“I want to be alone,” she said, turning his earlier statement on him and allowing no emotion to show on her face. Rising, she made her way to the bow and stood watching the luminous rush of shallow waves to the beach.
Disappointment raged through her, although she wasn’t shocked. She didn’t know what she’d expected from her impulsive action, but it hadn’t been this blatant invitation to pleasure, given without words or tender feelings, an intimate meeting of strangers, as it were.
The engine throbbed to life under her feet. Slowly he turned the ketch until they were safely away from the rocky shore. He was returning her to the marina.
She wasn’t surprised, she wasn’t even hurt, but she did regret her rashness in following him.
With the sail up, they tacked against the wind once more, sailing westward rather than eastward toward the port.
Turning, she studied him at the helm, his touch sure and experienced as he guided them out to sea. She wondered if he headed for Gibraltar and the vast ocean beyond. They would sail to the new world…or perhaps all the way home. His or hers?
The island principality of Drogheda was twenty-six miles from her father’s kingdom of Penwyck. Jean-Paul’s uncle was the ruling prince, his father a powerful duke. Jean-Paul, as heir apparent, had been named Earl of Silvershire at twenty-one, much as the future king of England was vested as Prince of Wales when he came of age.
An earl was a suitable husband for a royal princess.
The idea shocked and excited and saddened her. If they married, it would be an official marriage, a merger between two ancient enemies who had tried to conquer each other since the time of Arthur Pendragon and his knights.
She faced the wind and let it blow the silvery webs of longing from her heart. She would never marry. It wasn’t in the cards.
“The sea is getting rough,” Jean-Paul called to her. “Come astern now. Grab a life preserver from the locker.”
She reluctantly did as told and rejoined him at the helm. He had removed his tuxedo jacket, shoes and socks, she saw. His shirt was open to the waist. He’d rolled the cuffs up and out of his way.
He motioned for her to sit, then dropped a rain slicker over her head and arranged its folds to cover her evening gown. His glance at her feet reminded her of the silver sandals she wore. She kicked them off and tossed them down the hatch into the hold.
He grinned and secured the hatch against the squall that was coming up. “I know a place,” he said, as if to reassure her he knew what he was doing.
She nodded.
Just as rain and the first rough wave broke over the bow, he turned the sailing yacht toward a long sea wall, scooted around its end and into a protected cove.
In the sudden stillness, Megan felt her heart pound. Her mouth went dry. They would most likely have to spend the remainder of the night here. She couldn’t decide how she felt about that.
Did she want to be seduced? Was the unconscious wish for fulfillment the driving force behind this strange adventure? Ever honest, she tried to answer, but soon gave it up as hopeless.
After he secured the ship, he opened the hatch and gestured for her to precede him. She went down the steps and stopped. He lifted the poncho over her head and hung it on a hook, then did the same with his shirt. From a cabinet, he removed two towels and tossed one to her. When he dried his hair, she did the same to hers.
The narrow space of the galley was much too restrictive for two people. His elbow bumped hers. His hip touched hers when he tossed the towel on the hook over his shirt, then moved past her to the galley stove.
“Coffee?” he asked, already starting the preparation.
She nodded, then said yes. “Please,” she added.
He paused in measuring water into the pot and stared at her for a breath-catching ten seconds. His smile warmed her as he bent to his task once more. “I love to hear a woman beg,” he murmured with wicked amusement.
“Don’t,” she requested. “I don’t play games.”
He set the pot to brewing, then leaned a hip against the counter and perused her. She smoothed her hair as much as possible.
“Sometimes I don’t, either. Turn around,” he said, and took a brush from a drawer.
He turned her with hands on her shoulders, then proceeded to brush the tangles until her hair hung smooth around her shoulders. He brushed his own dark locks in a few impatient strokes and tossed the brush back into the drawer.
“Beautiful,” he said as if he spoke to himself.
He ran his hand down her hair from the crown of her head to the ends, then he let his hand glide down her back. Goose bumps sprang into being all along her arms. When he guided her so that she faced him once more, she let him.
Their eyes met and held, his intensely blue, confident, arrogant even, hers green and unsure because that was the way she felt. Her heart questioned what was happening, but she shied from the answer. She really didn’t know.
He gave his head a little shake, and she realized the questions were in him, too. Neither of them quite knew why they were together, why they were alone on a ship in a storm, why the night seemed different.
Slowly she became aware of his heat. His chest was only inches from hers. His thumbs caressed the hollows of her shoulders with gentle strokes that were fiery and wonderful at the same time.
Inhaling was an effort. So was lifting her hands and laying them on his chest. Muscles tensed under her fingers as she moved them restlessly over his hard flesh.
He wasn’t a brawny man, but his masculine strength was evident in the lithe definition of his torso, the ropy musculature of his shoulders and arms. He was a man who worked and played hard.
And for keeps?
She tossed her head at the foolish question. She wasn’t expecting forever. So what, exactly, was she asking for?
“What?” he questioned, his eyes narrowing as if he witnessed the confusion inside her.
“Nothing.”
“I’m going to kiss you,” he warned a second before he did. His lips were intensely warm on hers.
She opened her mouth, but no protest came out. He took the kiss deeper, his tongue sweeping over her lips in long moments of sweet sampling before seeking more.
Fire erupted within her. Weakened by the heat, she leaned into him, experiencing him fully as their chests, bellies and thighs pressed hotly into one flesh.
Her breasts beaded and swelled, pushing against the confines of the support built into the silk.
His hands shifted so that his thumbs caressed just above the material. Then, so suddenly she couldn’t have anticipated it, he dipped one hand inside and lifted her breast into his palm, its tip wantonly seeking his touch.
When he lifted his head, he muttered something not quite audible, but she didn’t need the words. She knew in her soul what they were. She, too, felt the wonder.
They kissed again, more urgently this time. He stepped forward, his thigh making a space between hers so that their caresses became more enticing. She found herself reacting instinctively, knowing without words or past experience all that she needed to do.
After exploring the length of his back, she stretched up on tiptoe and ran her hands over his powerful shoulders, then up his neck and into his hair. He wore it somewhat longer than the current style. She gathered a handful and held on while their kiss rocketed through her again.
At last he caught her hands in both of his and held them behind her back, bending her slightly so he could reach the tingling flesh of her breasts above her gown.
Then he slid one hand to the zipper. And stopped.
When she opened her eyes, he said, “No games, right?”
She nodded.
“Come with me.”
It was a request. She laid her hand in his. They went to the stern, where a bed filled almost all the available space. The bed wasn’t prepared for instant seduction, she saw and was glad.
She helped him spread sheets and tuck them in. The air had grown chill, so he added a comforter. Then he turned to her, placed his hands on the fastening at his waistband and waited for her consent.
In that instant she knew she could never say he gave her no choice. The decision was hers. She turned her back to him and lifted her hair out of the way.
He slid the zipper of her dress down, then helped her step out of the gown. He slipped out of his tux pants and laid the items neatly over the only chair.
In a moment they were undressed. He held the comforter up and let her climb in the bed. He clicked on a soft light and closed the door to the galley, then joined her, his arms enclosing her after he pulled the comforter over them. It was like being in a cocoon of warmth and safety.
The storm reached the cove and rocked the boat, sometimes gently, sometimes vigorously. The rain lashed the sea and all that floated upon it. But nothing penetrated the sweet wonder of their lovemaking.
Before they slept, he rose to turn off the light. For a few seconds, he stared down at her, his gaze fathoms deep, his thoughts unreadable as some emotion moved within his eyes and was gone.
Words rose to her lips, but she didn’t say them. She wasn’t sure what was allowed between lovers.
“Rest,” he said gently, and kissed her eyes closed.
She let sleep take her as she rested secure in his arms. He’d been gentle, this sweet lover. For the moment, the yearning that had plagued her soul was quiet.
Chapter Two
Jean-Paul Augustuve, nineteenth Earl of Silvershire, zipped the final closure on the backpack.
“That’s it,” he said to his friend, Arnie Stanhope, who was also the expedition leader.
He and Arnie had been students together at Oxford and later at the University of Montana, where they’d studied archaeology. They were searching for remains of an ancient civilization here in the mountains of Silvershire.
Last month, a local shepherd had unearthed a burial chamber thought to be over fifteen thousand years old. Inside the mass grave site had been evidence of a ceremonial burial with food, weapons and other artifacts to aid the deceased in their afterlife. The discovery had tantalized scientists with the possibilities of finding a whole village and gaining insights into early man’s way of life.
