To Chase the Storm Page 9

  Rafe cursed, slamming his fist against the unyielding stone of the dungeon wall, raking the skin from his knuckles. "I am Rafael Santadar, once captain of the Lady of Hidden Sorrows. I am a Spaniard, milady. A Spaniard, with no taint of English blood."

  Tessa glowered at him, the sympathy she had felt changing into anger. "Aye, you're a Spaniard—stiff-necked, arrogant, with the world beneath your heel! Even as she was dying, your mother sought to save you, God knows what she suffered. But you—"

  "Tessa." It was only her name, yet more menacing than the darkest of oaths.

  "Nay, you'll hear this, and your pride be damned!" she said. "You are so high and mighty that you'll throw your life away rather than use the one key that might save you from the queen's wrath. Why? Because you might have to admit that your mother was English? Are you ashamed of her now, Rafael? Ashamed of the mother who sacrificed so much for you?"

  "Enough!" he bellowed, his face white, his fists clenched.

  For an instant, Tessa half expected him to strike her, but he only turned around, his glare burning into the wall. He was trembling with fury. Tessa could see, feel, taste his rage. And she could sense as well that she had dealt the proud Spaniard the most masterful of sword strokes, cleaving his defenses.

  Pain? Aye, she knew well the suffering her words had inflicted, but that was small price to pay for Rafe's life. Years of learning to be careful and canny had taught Tessa when to leash her tongue. She forced herself to remain silent and let her words gnaw at Rafe's conscience.

  Shaking back her hair, she curled up on the straw and pillowed her face upon her folded hands.

  "What the devil are you doing?" Rafe snapped.

  "I'm going to sleep." Her eyelids fluttered shut. "I am weary of your arrogance and idiocy."

  She lay there a long time, feigning slumber as she listened to Rafe muttering harshly in Spanish, and she was glad she could not understand a word he said.

  Rafe stared at the guttering torch, the wound in his leg paining him not half as much as Tessa of Ravenscroft's harsh accusations. Curse the witch—she had clawed open wounds Rafe had tried all his life to heal. She had laid bare the foul pride that had driven him even so far as to deny the woman who had endured such pain for him—his mother.

  The image of her face made Rafe's heart ache, a hundred tender caresses and kisses sweet as honey rising in his mind. Tessa had jeered at him, goaded him, scorned him for having betrayed his mother's love. And damn her to blazes, the woman had been right.

  Was he so blinded by arrogance that he would disown the woman who had borne him rather than discover she was of his enemy's blood? Was his love for her such a fragile thing?

  Rafe's fists knotted, his fingernails digging deep into his palms.

  Was he one with the pirate sea dogs who roved on Elizabeth Tudor's leash? Was he the spawn of some thrice-damned English earl?

  "It would be better to think myself bastard born," he murmured.

  Never to have known your mother's touch? Never to have run among the lemon trees and grapevines? Even his thoughts mocked him in Tessa's voice.

  His gaze moved to where she lay, infuriatingly serene, totally oblivious to the blaze she had started within him.

  Oblivious? His lips curled in a scornful smile. He doubted it. The little witch had known exactly what she was doing when she scalded him with her words. And then she had closed her eyes, leaving him alone with thoughts that would give him no peace.

  He had wanted to wake her many times during the hours that followed, but instead, he had only fumed inwardly, hating the fact that she had spoken the truth, hating even more the way her hair fell, like curtains of night, over her face.

  He shifted, gritting his teeth as he maneuvered his leg into a more comfortable position. What was it about her that drove him to madness? Intrigued him, entranced him, infuriated him? Was it her beauty? Her spirit? The temper that could wax white-hot even beneath the blaze of his own formidable rage? Despite her seeming fragility, there was strength in her. She was like the finest rapier wrought by the masters of Toledo. And she had cut to the heart of him, burying herself deep.

  "Wildwitch." He whispered the name he had given her, remembering the cherubic innocence upon her face as she had feigned sleep. Not even his ship's cook could have been oblivious to his tirade, and the old Castilian had been stone deaf, Rafe thought wryly. Yet Tessa had lain there, so peaceful he had felt an urge to splash her with what little water remained in the flask, startle her to wakefulness so that he could rail at her.

  Sí, and be masterfully outmaneuvered again? he mused. He had already suffered humiliating defeat at Drake's hands. He would scarce lock into battle again with this wisp of a woman who would most likely best him.

  His gaze traced the pure line of her throat, the stubborn curve of her chin. Thick lashes the hue of sable lay in rich crescents on her rose-blushed cheeks, while her lips... berry red they were, and thrice as sweet.

  They parted, the tiniest of sighs drifting from her, and Rafe's mouth went dry. What would it be like to brush those lips with his own? How would it feel to see those eyes, bright as onyx, blaze not with anger but with heady passion?

  With an oath, Rafe wrenched his mind away from images of Tessa's lips eager upon his, of his hands delving deep into the silken waterfall of her hair. It was blasphemy, somehow, to think of her thus while she lay there trusting as a child.

  "Are you through, yet?"

  The low voice made Rafe jump, his gaze flashing to where tip-tilted eyes glinted up at him, touched with amusement.

  The lips he had been contemplating moments before softened into a smile.

  "Have you ceased your rumbling?" Tessa stretched, her lithe body outlined to perfection against the cloth of her gown, her breasts pressing tantalizingly against the thin fabric. "At first I thought the castle was toppling down upon us, but then I realized it was nothing but a foul-tempered wretch in the midst of a tantrum."

  "A tantrum which you took the greatest of delight in bestirring, milady."

  The wood sprite's smile vanished, and the light in Tessa's eyes dimmed. "I can assure you I took no pleasure in it at all." She sat up, curling her arms about her bent legs and resting her chin on her knees.

  He regarded her in silence, uncertain how to deal with this Tessa, devoid of fire, anger, and sparkling wit. A sad-eyed waif, she seemed, lost in shadow.

  "Rafe, I am sorry for hurting you. But what I said was true. And I don't want you to die."

  Something in that tremulous admission made a lump rise in Rafe's throat, filled him with some unnamable emotion, driving him to want to shield her. He had known this instinct with countless women. This need to protect was an impulse born of the honor on which he prided himself.

  Yet with this wood witch, with her devil-dark curls and her angel's face, it was different. For while he wanted to guard her from the rest of the world, he also needed to plunge past her defenses, delve into her spirit until there was nothing left hidden.

  "Tessa." Her name rasped from lips parched for the taste of her. He scarce felt the throbbing in his leg as he shifted to her side, his fingers threading into the lush waves of her hair, his palms framing her face. "Who are you, wildwitch? What sorcery have you worked upon me?"

  She caught at the fullness of her lower lip with her teeth, and Rafe smoothed his callused thumbs across the moist swell until she released its tantalizing curve. He saw her lashes dip over eyes glossed with confusion and longing.

  "It is no witchery." Her breath was soft upon his skin.

  The need that throbbed in her voice unleashed a tempest within him. With a groan, he sought her mouth, his lips tender, yet aching for the sweetness she promised. And she gave it to him, gave him far more than he had ever dreamed possible.

  Velvety warm, her mouth opened beneath his, searching with both an innocence and a wantonness that drove him past endurance. She tasted of courage. She tasted of hope. He eased his hands down from her hair, curving them around
her shoulders as he drew her deeper into his kiss.

  And it was as though the earth tilted upon its axis, swirling away from brutality, ugliness, despair. She whimpered, and for an instant he thought she wanted to pull away from him. But when he started to release her, her hands caught at his shoulders, and the two of them sank back into the straw.

  Had it been the most luxurious of feather beds, it could have seemed no softer, and Rafe could feel in the woman beneath him eagerness, passion. "Tessa..." He whispered her name, kissing her cheeks, her chin, his loins pounding with a need so fierce he could scarce hold it in check.

  And then her fingertips skated over the wedge of flesh bared by his open shirt, and the trails of sensation she left in their wake burned like flames.

  He ground out the oath, his mouth slanting over hers, hungry, his tongue plunging past the barrier of her lips into the hot sweetness beyond. He wanted to devour her, take her into himself, make himself whole again. "You taste like summer," he moaned against her lips.

  He wanted to slide his palms over her skin to see if it was indeed the spun satin it seemed. As though they possessed a will of their own, his hands charted a path down to her slender waist, then up again, his thumbs grazing the ripe swell of her breasts. He felt her shudder, heard her gasp against his lips. His eyes opened at the tiny sound, fixing upon her face, flushed with pleasure, eager, willing, so willing, and yet...

  He stiffened as his gaze swept the babe-soft wisps of hair that clung to her delicate cheeks and the eyelashes fanning sweetly against her skin. Innocence wreathed itself about her like the first blossoms of spring, whispering of treasures far too precious to defile. His fingers tightened about her ribs, and he desperately wanted to shove such thoughts away, immerse himself in the sensations she was evoking. But he let his lips soften against hers then slowly, reluctantly, drew away.

  The chill of the dungeon seemed to raise an invisible wall between them, driving back the wonder he had known in Tessa's kiss, leaving instead the certainty that he should never have touched her at all.

  She had endured the death of her mother, the terror of Warburton, and imprisonment, and she might well be forced to stand trial at the queen's hands for having aided him. And now, as if she had not suffered enough, he had taken her with his mouth, his hands, and had brought that look of turmoil to her eyes.

  Her fingers had closed about the fabric of his shirt, as if to hold on to something elusive, and her small knuckles were pillowed against his skin, sending unwanted heat to his already throbbing sex.

  "Stop," Rafe said through gritted teeth, his fingers encircling her wrists, gently pushing her away.

  He saw her flinch, hurt welling in those incredible dark eyes, and he damned himself to the hottest fires of hell. "I should never have allowed that to happen. It was unforgivable."

  "Unforgivable?" The dazed expression faded from her face, the graceful line of her upswept eyebrows lowering with puzzlement.

  "To kiss you, to touch you, to make you want me." He fell silent, his own desire harsh in his throat.

  She lowered her head for a moment, her cheeks staining red. He glimpsed the soft curves beneath the ebony of her satin hair. He saw her draw in a deep breath before she lifted her chin, her eyes meeting his. "It is wrong, then, to want to touch lips that have given me such comfort?"

  He felt her wrist slip from his grasp, his hand suddenly lifeless as her fingertips traced the curve of his lips. "You're so gentle, Rafael Santadar, so good. You almost make me believe... in magic. " The tiny catch in her voice wrenched at Rafe's heart. Her eyes shimmered with tears. "If this is sin, milord phantom, then hell can have me and welcome."

  Rafe arched his head back. He wanted to tumble her back into the straw and make love to her with a fury that would consume them both.

  It was insanity, this wild, deep stirring within him, this lifting of the weight of despair that had crushed him for so long. They were lying in Neville Warburton's dungeon, facing near certain death. Why, then, did he suddenly feel so free?

  He reached out to touch her, tell her how she affected him, but a sudden sound sent raw dread through every muscle in his body.

  Iron grated against iron on the other side of the cell door, and muffled voices penetrated even that daunting panel of iron-bound wood. Rafe scrambled awkwardly to his feet, his wound grinding with pain. He felt the fear in Tessa as she stood close beside him, and knew he would do anything, honorable or no, to protect her from harm.

  "Warburton." Had she whispered the name "Satan" she could have infused it with no more loathing.

  Rafe grasped her chill fingers and pulled her behind him so that she was shielded by the breadth of his shoulders. At that moment he would willingly have bartered his soul for a saber or a dagger with which to defend her. His eyes narrowed upon the door, watching it swing wide upon protesting hinges.

  Shadows dripped over the rich velvets, glowing gems, and white ermine robing Neville Warburton's bearlike form. He stood flanked by two stone-faced guards, his lips curving back from jagged white teeth. Power oozed from every line in his face, and his small eyes glinted with a foul anticipation that made Rafe's blood turn cold.

  "Captain Santadar, I trust you slept well?" the nobleman purred, his thick fingers fondling a ruby that clung to his breast like a gobbet of blood. "I desire that my guests enjoy the finest hospitality Warvaliant has to offer."

  "Your hospitality moves me beyond words," Rafe said. "I only hope I can return it in kind one day."

  The twisted enjoyment in the lord's face deepened. "Unfortunately, I much doubt you'll ever have the opportunity to repay me for this night," Warburton chortled. "But at least, Phantom, you will be gracious enough to share with me the one comfort I did afford you."

  Hooded eyes roved slowly to Tessa, and Rafe felt her fingers clench in his.

  "Of course," the nobleman observed, examining his fingernails with diabolic interest, "it was with much reluctance that I sacrificed our little puppet mistress's company last evening. It put me in a most surly humor; my servants will attest to that. My only comfort was in plotting what pleasures I would indulge in when she and I met again."

  "Damn you, Warburton, if there is a wisp of decency left in your black soul, let the woman go." Rafe struggled to reason with the man. "She is innocent of any wrongdoing."

  "Innocent?" Warburton guffawed. "After a night with a rutting dog the likes of you?"

  His eyes were fixed suggestively upon Tessa's breast, and an oily smile snaked over his thick lips. "I have seen you, puppet mistress, your hands moving over your puppets with much genius. Do your fingers dance as daintily over a man's body?"

  "Bastard!" The thin leash Rafe had held on his temper snapped. He lunged at the leering nobleman, heedless of the consequences.

  But at that moment one of the guards drew his blade. The gleaming point flashed out, digging into the flesh at the base of Rafe's throat. He froze, his razor-honed reflexes saving him from impaling himself on the sword.

  "Nay!" he heard Tessa cry. "Don't hurt him! I'll go with you, my lord."

  "Tessa—" She leapt past him into Warburton's reach, and Rafe's gut clenched with frustration and rage as the nobleman's fist tangled in her hair.

  "So help me, God," Rafe said, "if you touch her—"

  "Nay, Rafe." Her words burned him with hopelessness, helplessness. "There is nothing you can do."

  "Most sage advice, my pet, most wise, though it would be diverting to watch the Spanish dog being torn apart by my English wolves." He gestured to his guards. "I think our prisoner could do with a leash of iron, my friends. Though I fear, Captain Santadar, the manacle's embrace will be less entrancing than that of the fair Tessa."

  "Don't do this, Warburton." Rafe heard the plea in his voice, but he didn’t care. He was willing to humble himself before the brutal Englishman if it would spare Tessa the horrors that the nobleman had planned.

  Warburton cocked his head to one side, his upper lip curling, and Rafe could see
in his eyes nightmare visions of Tessa trapped in the brutish man's arms.

  "I intend to dare much this night. Phantom," Warburton sneered. "More than you can imagine."

  As though he had sensed Rafe's deepest fears, the nobleman reached out a beefy hand and closed it over the swell of Tessa's breast. A choked sob rose from her throat, and Rafe saw her face flood with shame and terror.

  "I'll kill you, Warburton!" Rafe strained toward Tessa, felt blood trickle warm upon his skin as the sword point dug deeper into his neck.

  He saw the English lord's fingers move up and grasp Tessa's chin. "Look at him, puppet mistress, this Spaniard who claims you were nothing to him, who says you had no part in aiding him when he crawled up on our English shore. Look at him. He is ready to cast himself to the devil on your behalf. Do you think any judge in the land will believe you innocent of treason once he sees your cursed Spaniard's face?"

  "I do not care what you or others think," she snapped, lifting her chin courageously. "Rafe..." It was just his name, yet it was infused with comfort and deep longing.

  Anguish wound itself like a band of iron about Rafe's chest. His eyes stung at the bravery he saw in her Madonna-like face.

  A laugh rumbled from Warburton's chest, evil as the jeering of Satan. The nobleman wrenched Tessa around and dragged her toward the door.

  In the open doorway he paused, knotting his fingers in Tessa's hair, yanking her around again so that her torment would be branded upon Rafe's soul forever.

  "She is beautiful, Santadar, is she not?" the nobleman snarled. "But I wonder what the night's entertainment will do to this face, this body. It is fragile, for all its delights. And it will suffer—"

  "Warburton!" Rafe roared the name, hate blazing hell-hot within him as the Englishman stalked into the shadowy corridor, dragging Tessa with him.

  Her eyes, velvet black and desperate, caught Rafe's, held them for a heartbeat, and he could feel her fear inside him like a living thing.

  "Tessa!" Never had he thought anything could wound him more deeply than watching his ship sink. Never had he thought grief and terror could torture him more savagely than they had as he watched Bastion and Rique and the rest of his brave crew drown in the sea.