The Curse [Legend of Blackbeard's Chalice Book 1] Page 8

  And she'd never once felt whole in her life.

  His thrusts were even and rhythmic and she responded just the same, as if participating in a timeless dance, building to the pinnacle with an increased pulsation of their fused bodies until they were two no more, but one being, one heart, one soul—coupled within a circle of time.

  Claire let her fingertips glide over his back and up to caress his strong shoulders and suddenly felt an awareness of Jack's body that startled her. An almost frightening sense of déjà vu enveloped her as his body overpowered her, as if they'd danced this same dance a thousand times before. And she wasn't quite sure they had not.

  Throwing her head back deep into the pillow, she tensed as the cresting waves of pleasure overtook her body. Short bursts of hot breath exited her lips against his shoulder. With one last forceful thrust against her, Jack trembled and mumbled her name.

  "Hannah."

  How he'd known her real name, she didn't know, but she'd let him call her that all night. Hannah.

  The name she'd hated as a child suddenly seemed sweet and lovely when spoken from his lips in heated passion. She was safe, secure and, oh, so glad to be away from Rick. So glad she had escaped the previous night's terror. And he'd come for her.

  Jack had come back for her, and he would protect her always.

  That she knew for sure.

  * * * *

  She opened her eyes, finally really opened them, and glanced about her surroundings. Throughout the night, the darkened room allowed only a subtle radiance to glow between them. But now, she could see around her, and what she observed was somewhat disturbing. Lying on her left side, with Jack's body pressed against hers like a spoon, she felt herself coming fully awake, glanced around what seemed to be some type of a small cabin.

  Perhaps a hunter's cabin? A fisherman's retreat? She didn't think so. It seemed simple, but yet the furnishings were not quite what one would expect in a fisherman's cabin. They looked like ... antiques?

  Primitive antiques.

  But somehow it all seemed strangely familiar. It was a small wooden structure with one room. The bed they were lying on took up a good third of its area. Looking down beside her at the strange ticking over the mattress, she ran her hand along its edge. Occasionally her fingertips grazed over tiny sharp points sticking out of the thick ticking. She remembered the same sensation at her back throughout the night. Picking at one of the points, she tugged at it and pulled it out.

  Straw! They were lying on a mattress filled with straw?

  As she rose on one elbow, Jack's arm slid to her hips. She glanced about the room. Small windows, all boarded shut except one, opened to the morning's light. Glimpses of wispy clouds drifted by on a baby blue sky. There was no glass in the window opening, only air. Another quick perusal of the room told her that there was no bathroom, no running water, and no signs of electricity. Some type of oil lamp sat on a small table near the bed; another on a larger table across the room. A pitcher and basin sat on a crude oak table.

  There were hooks on the walls for clothing—Jack's clothes, strange as they were—and a large ornately carved wooden box, some type of chest she assumed, sat across from her. Another chest with drawers sat to its left. Candle sconces adorned the walls, two plain ladder-back chairs graced opposite sides of the table, a stone hearth and fireplace stood at the far end, and other than a few odds and ends, there was nothing else in the cabin worth noting. Unusual, she thought, for a fisherman's retreat. Where were the fishing poles?

  And she couldn't hear the ocean.

  Lying back down on the bed, she listened to Jack's even snores as her thoughts returned to the previous night. After her leap from the staircase, she must have lost consciousness. She barely remembered the sensation of falling. A bright light had enveloped her as soon as she'd landed in Jack's arms, blinding her. Vague remembrances of being carried away on a fleeting steed nagged at her.

  Had he carried her off on a horse?

  The only thing she knew for certain was that she was safe. He would protect her. Jack would protect her. That feeling, she was sure, would never be duplicated. The feeling of rightness, the protection she'd felt, would never be matched, unless of course, when they made love. And that was totally indescribable.

  When he took her the first time, she'd known that what they'd shared was nothing like what she'd had with Rick. And she'd thought, at one time, that she loved Rick.

  Until now.

  Until Jack.

  But, as much as this cozy little scene appealed to her, she had to get back to her cottage. Not really wanting to, but realizing that she couldn't very well lie around naked all day with him—or could she?—no, she couldn't, she was going to have to leave to at least get some clothing. Her satin gown was all she wore, and it was ripped, thanks to Rick. Besides, she was going to have to converse with Jack—while fully clothed—if she stayed.

  Suddenly, that notion was incredibly frightening.

  What would she find out? What if he was married? What if this was just a casual fling for him? What if...?

  Slowly, she turned to face Jack. Looking fully into his peaceful face, for the first time really, she studied him. Thick lashes, dark as the long straight hair that covered his head, rimmed his closed eyes. His brow was a solid sturdy ridge over his forehead. High cheekbones and smooth, tanned skin—covered by the slightest stubble of beard—complimented his chiseled facial features, and the firm line of his lips accentuated the lower portion of his face.

  She swallowed. Those lips had done wondrous things to her body last night. But they'd communicated only silently before this, how would they ever be able to talk? Would they be able to communicate?

  She'd not heard but one word actually spoken from those lips—Hannah.

  On his breath her name was beautiful, soft, sensuous. That's why Claire, her middle name, was the name she'd chosen to use professionally.

  Hannah.

  She rather liked it from him. She'd let him continue to call her that. It suited him. Perhaps it suited her as well.

  Reaching out, she lightly caressed his lips. His eyelids fluttered and he gazed back at her. There, in the full light of the day, they lay with their eyes searching, connecting, and reaching out to one another. For several moments, heartbeat after heartbeat, they stayed that way, neither daring to break the spell woven around them, the comforting web of closeness.

  But then, his lips moved. She watched as he ran the tip of his tongue seductively between them. And he spoke with choked words.

  "Hannah ... I cannot believe it is you."

  Not really understanding, she only nodded. “It's me."

  His eyes searched her face and he pulled her closer. His lips held hers with fire, all consuming. She wanted him to take her into his body, keep her there always. She liked the notion of it.

  Breaking the kiss, she tilted her head back. “Jack...” She spoke softly. His eyes closed. One of his hands made its way to her breast and he palmed it softly.

  "Umm?"

  She breathed deeply. How did one do this? She'd never had to face the “morning after” before. How was she supposed to handle this “one night stand” kind of thing? She really didn't want to leave him, but she'd left the cottage unlocked, she had to get some clothes and ... what if Rick was still hanging around there? Maybe she should ask him to go with her.

  "Jack ... we need to talk."

  The circling motion he trailed lazily over her breast stopped. His eyes opened. “Talk?"

  "Yes. I need to know ... I mean, well, um..."

  His puzzled face stared back at her. “What is it, darlin'?"

  "Well, I need to know, is this, was this just a ... a one night stand?” There, she'd said it. She needed to know if he wanted more out of this relationship than a night's pleasure. She had to know.

  "A one night stand?"

  "Yes, you know, is there more? Will I see you again? Are you married for God's sake?” She needed answers.

  He leaned u
p on one elbow, a serious look on his face.

  "Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Hannah. You know it is not becoming in a woman."

  He is. He's married. I know it. That's why he's avoiding the question.

  Claire stared at him. Hard.

  "You are married, aren't you?"

  "Married?” Jack's expression transformed from serious into amused. “Why, of course I'm married, Hannah. I'm married to you."

  The look of fear on her face must have astounded Jack because suddenly the smile left, his lips turned into thin, rigid lines, and his eyes widened.

  "No, Jack,” she whispered and watched his face turn pale. “We're not married."

  His frozen gaze searched hers for several more seconds. Then slowly, assuredly, he reached between them and grasped her left hand. As he pulled it up to the space between them, Claire felt a chill travel up her spine and settle in her chest. She knew exactly what he was about to do and say.

  His thumb and forefinger grasped the circle of gold around the third finger of that hand.

  "We're married, Hannah. I put this ring on your finger over a year ago when we said our vows. You're married to me, Hannah Porter. And there you'll stay till there's no breath left in me."

  Slowly she withdrew her hand from his grasp.

  Dreaming. She was still dreaming. She would open her eyes soon and this whole episode, the whole past month or so would have been an incredibly long dream. When she woke, she'd be back in her bed at her apartment in Cincinnati, getting ready to rise and dress for work.

  But somehow she knew she'd be very disappointed if that were indeed true.

  "Hannah?” His breath fanned against her cheek, only slightly above a whisper. She realized she'd been staring at him in a frozen state of confusion.

  Blinking, and then slowly focusing on his face, she recognized the inevitable. This was no dream. This man lying beside her was real. She was fully awake. Last night was definitely not an erotic fantasy. No way. It happened. Every second of it—but there were some things wrong with the picture before her.

  Very wrong.

  "I don't understand.” She breathed the words.

  He reached out, touched her cheek and nodded. “I know. I don't understand it either, but I'm not questioning it. I'll take what God chooses to give me and give thanks in prayer every day for the rest of my life for it.” He then paused for a heartbeat while he looked steadily into her face. Claire watched as a small streak of panic crossed over his. “You are a gift of God, aren't you? And not that of the devil? Your not a witch, are you?"

  Uh-oh...

  Witch?

  Alarmed, her heart jumped in her chest. Demented thoughts swirled throughout her mind.

  Oh my God! I'm not the crazy one, it's him! The best night of lovemaking I've ever had in my life, and the man is crazy. He's probably an escaped mental patient or something. Oh damn! That explains the funny clothes, the strange inflection of his voice, his insistence that we're married. And now he wants to know if I'm a gift of God or of the devil? A witch? Uh-uh, Claire. You better get your fanny back to where you belong and pronto before this man rubs off on you too much and you decide you like a fantasy world better than the real thing.

  But you did hear his voice in your head, Claire. You talked to him. Maybe you are a witch. Maybe he is...

  Pushing off his chest, she scrambled backward off the bed.

  "Where is my gown?” Pacing around the bed, she picked up the corner of the sheet and looked underneath. “Where is it? Where did you put my gown?"

  "Didn't put it anywhere, Hannah. Why don't you forget it and come back to bed with me where you belong."

  She stopped pacing, stood directly in front of him with clenched fists, and glared.

  Where I belong? Where I belong? Where in the hell do I belong?

  "I want my gown."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm leaving."

  "Oh, you are? Now where you be going?"

  "I be going home. Now give it to me." Drat, now I'm even talking like him.

  She watched as his expression turned from serious to amused. Then with one flick of his wrist, he pulled the covers back off the bed exposing the entire length of his naked, muscular body. Gasping at the sight of him, then gulping in breaths of air to keep her breathing, her gaze traveled the length of that magnificent body from his Cheshire cat smile to his shoulders, his broad chest, his narrow waist, his...

  She took another deep breath. He was incredibly beautiful. Her nipples puckered. Her abdomen contracted. Bypassing the proof of his masculinity, she quickly let her gaze travel down the well-formed, muscular legs, and there, pooled at the foot of the bed, underneath his feet, was her gown.

  A slight movement caught her eye and her gaze traveled again to his pelvic region. Under her scrutiny, Jack's desire had become apparent. She watched the length of him leap hard and massive under her gaze. She felt her tongue rake across her lips, her body started to sway forward.

  No! The man's insane, remember, Claire? Insane. Got it? Get your gown and get out of here!

  Lunging for the gown, she managed to get one finger on it before Jack seized both her wrists in his and wrestled her down onto the bed. Claire's chest swelled as her back hit the ticking and he straddled her body. He didn't say a word. He just lay over her, his black eyes boring through her. Somewhat frightened, and yet, somehow not, she glared back at him.

  In a matter of seconds his lips were upon hers. Soft, and as sensual as before, seductively drawing her in, his tongue dipping and urging her lips apart. She resisted, a little. She couldn't do much more than that. He'd ruined her. That was all it was to it. There was no way to fight what was between them. Maybe they were both insane. There was no way for her to resist this man.

  I am ruined.

  "You're an angel, aren't you?"

  His blissful voice and passionate ministrations almost convinced her that she indeed was in heaven. Maybe she was an angel? Maybe she hadn't survived that fall in the lighthouse. Maybe—maybe she was dead?

  She stared up at him as he continued to straddle her body. His tongue had ceased its conquest and now he sat back on his haunches, a full view of his masculinity displayed before her. She closed her eyes and sighed. It took only the sight of that body to arouse her fully. And she was indeed aroused. No, she couldn't be dead and feel like this.

  Could she?

  "Why do you say that I'm an angel?"

  She watched him twist away and reach behind him to grasp her gown. Leaning forward, supporting himself on his elbows, he stroked the satin silkiness of the gown against her face.

  "'Tis the fabric of angels. Soft and gossamer. Like an angel's wings.” He leaned even closer to her and Claire caught a breath in her throat. “Never have I seen another like it."

  "It's just a simple satin gown,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “No, my angel, there is nothing simple about it. ‘Tis the stuff of the gods. You wore it the first time I saw you with the magic. You were an angel then, you be an angel now. There is no other explanation. You are my angel come back to me. I ask not why, I only take without question."

  What the hell is he talking about?

  And then it didn't matter.

  His hands, buried in the satin fabric, caressed her body. He rubbed the gown over her breasts with his fingertips and she felt her groin tighten. He toyed with her pebbled nipples and then massaged her stomach with deft hands. He leaned forward even more and pressed against her, the hard ridge of his masculinity pressed against her mound. His lips brushed her earlobe and a hushed breath exited her lips.

  "My angel,” he breathed into her hair. “My golden-haired angel."

  He shifted his body lower, trailing the gown along hers. She moaned softly as the silkiness caressed her inner thigh. His fingers worked their way up through the slick fabric to caress her intimately.

  She whimpered.

  "J-Jack.” She didn't care who he was or why he said strange things.
She didn't care anymore. She needed this. She wanted him more than anything else in the world.

  He opened her, splayed her wide and her legs fell back, allowing him access. He teased and rimmed her entrance with one finger while his thumb taunted her swollen nodule. His other hand smoothed along the crevices of her thigh and leg, stroking her until her head felt light and a growing dizziness spun inside.

  Reaching for him, curling her body upward, she threaded her fingers in his hair. “Jack,” she croaked. “Oh, my ... oh, Jack."

  His tongue replaced his wandering fingers then and probed through the satin to her delicate bud. She collapsed back on the bed feeling like a rag doll thrown down in disarray, opening her body to him. Jack smoothed the satin over her soft mound, teased and bit with his teeth. Utter pleasure wracked her body, and just as she was on the verge of breaking over the edge, he ripped the gown away and plunged his mouth against her, his tongue penetrating and tickling, his lips suckling, her body writhing and pulsating in response to his ministrations.

  His hands grasped her buttocks and pulled her closer to his pleasure giving mouth.

  She crested the waves and he kept his mouth on her, filling himself of her release, letting her pour into him. Then he plunged into her with a long, thorough stroke. Deep. Inside her. For what seemed the thousandth time that night, he took her. Thrusting into the center of her being, her very core of femininity. And like a wild woman, she answered his need and satisfied her own, grasping and clawing as if he would disappear should she let him go.

  Jack's body tensed and rammed against her one last time, and with a shout and a violent shudder, he collapsed against her. “Hannah, my love,” he whispered finally in the valley of her breasts. “My angel, my Hannah."

  For a long while, she lay there, soaking in all that they were. She didn't think. Just took in the pleasure that they had shared. The wonder of it all.

  Until the confusion bit at her again.