Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Captain Arrow had a glint in his eye, a bold, take-no-prisoners look, as he wended his way through the small crowd gathered around Jilly.

“You’re coming with me,” he said in her ear.

Without hesitation—for she felt terribly uncomfortable with all the sudden interest in her—she put her hand through the crook of his arm.

“I’m sorry, I must go,” she told the people staring at her and murmuring things about her royal Celtic origins.

It was such a relief! She still wasn’t exactly sure how the diversion had happened, but Captain Arrow had made clear with that look earlier that he’d had everything to do with it.

He looked down at her now, his expression smug. “We’ve something to attend to in the garden, and this time I won’t take no for an answer.”

He was acting like a naval officer again, expecting instant obedience.

“I’m not one of your sailors,” she retorted.

“Thank God,” he said softly.

The inscrutable look he gave her then made her heart race. “Don’t think—”

“That’s right,” he said, walking without hesitation through the flung-open doors to the garden. “Don’t think.”

She was confused. And tired.

And blast the man, intrigued.

He took her by the hand, and she stumbled after him through paths of stately trees and beautiful flowers. “Captain,” she whispered. “I know what you’re doing. But we can’t. I can’t.”

He said nothing until they reached the darkest corner of the garden, where he stopped, turned toward her, and put his hands on her shoulders.

“You,” he said firmly but gently, “need me.”

She opened her mouth to say he was mad, but at that exact moment, he pulled a tendril of hair off her face. And then he gave a small tug and she was in his arms, her cheek pressed against his chest.

“And God knows I need you,” he said.

She was ashamed at how moved she was by that eloquent yet simple speech, and by how quickly she submitted. She fell limp against him and let him caress her back, all while she stared at the outline of a small statue of a goddess holding an urn, and behind that, a cluster of lilac bushes.

They needed each other.

“You did amazingly well tonight,” he murmured in her ear. “Starting out with that awful bitch Tabitha, and then being thrust into the situation with Prinny with no warning as to what the plan actually involved—”

She said nothing. She couldn’t. She was letting herself drift. When one drifted, one took no responsibility.

One … let things happen.

She closed her eyes. He laid a kiss on her temple, a soft, slow, thoughtful kiss. When he pulled back, she sighed, and he nuzzled her neck then, moving her hair aside with his mouth, lingering on the soft spot below her ear and then her throat. She let her head fall back.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured.

She let a desperate little giggle escape. “I’m not perfect.”

Not only that, she was in far, far too deep waters.

He put his hands on the wall on either side of her head and made her look into his eyes. “You’re perfect,” he said in a serious voice. “Accept it and move on.”

He stared at her a moment, daring her to defy him.

“All right,” she said, and, in an insane move, lifted her hand to his cheek. “You’re perfect, too,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes and then opened them. “Perfect for now, right?” His voice was gruff, but his mouth lifted at the corner.

She couldn’t help a small smile, too. “Yes.”

“That’s fine with me.” He wrapped both his arms around her waist and spun slowly around with her.

She looked up into his eyes and was lost.

Lost.

“Captain—”

“Stephen,” he whispered.

“Stephen,” she said.

But she couldn’t say anything else. He was still the insouciant rake. But tonight he was something more.

So was she.

She could feel it humming around them, through them.

He looked down at her, and without a second’s hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

And he kissed her back.

She was caught in a heady, buzzing garden of delight, wrapped in his arms, tasting his mouth, smelling his skin, his coat, the lilacs—hearing the moans of pleasure emitting from his tanned, masculine throat.

This was what she’d imagined kissing to be.

This was heaven.

Stephen picked her up then, and she wriggled as close to him as she could, her mouth never leaving his.

“Miss Jones,” he said in a husky tone. “I knew you’d be unforgettable. The very first time I kissed you, I knew.”

“Jilly,” she told him.

“Jilly,” he murmured. “I need to get my coat off.”

She helped him, and somehow they kept kissing.

He dropped the coat on the grass and laid her on top of it, their lips still locked. He endeared himself to her by doing his best to spread the coat out beneath her.

“We don’t want to muss your lady’s-maid costume,” he said, grinning against her lips. “You’ve got to wear it again for Prinny.”

She grinned back, but he kissed the grin right off her mouth.

She wanted to wrap up in that coat. She wanted to take his shirt off. She wanted to do so much more. In the confines of Hodgepodge, she’d had the yearning to meld into the man, to lose herself in him, but she’d never known it would overwhelm her to the point that she was greedy, avid, selfish and tugging, like a starving beast.

She looked up at him as she yanked at his shirt. The sickle moon hung above his shoulder for a moment, until he raised both his arms into the air and pulled the shirt off over his head.

She gave a small cry of pleasure when he came crashing back down on her yet managed not to hurt her in the least, his mouth demanding and his hands tugging at her bodice. She lifted her back to make it easier for him to shrug her gown down over her shoulders.

When she was free, he fumbled at her stays, unlacing them while she lay stunned, staring into the night, her hands roaming his back and the nape of his neck.

What was she doing?

Who cares? a wild voice in her head answered.

She let her fingers burrow into his hair as his lips began a slow perusal of her breasts, nuzzling in the cleft between them. But he avoided her nipples, merely slowing to gaze at them, to blow his warm breath over each of them—so delicious on a cool evening—and then moving onward and upward, to her face again.

Damn him for being a tease.

The sensation of her nipples pressed against his hard, sculpted chest while he kissed her mouth drove her even more mad with longing. But she was also happy. Happier than she’d been in years.

He caressed her waist with a hand, and then the edge of her breast and the full underside, all the while teasing her mouth with his tongue. She played back with equal abandon.

Finally, he covered her breast with his large palm and gave a gentle squeeze.

“You’re more luscious than any tropical fruit,” he whispered.

“I am?”

“Oh, yes.” He held her arms trapped while he bent low and slowly circled her nipples with his tongue. She arched upward, and he pushed her down again, firmly but gently, with his thighs and groin.

His torture was exquisite. She wrapped her leg around his, and he took her nipple in his mouth then, suckling her breast.

She felt feral, right, pressed to the earth, to Stephen’s skin—

To life.

She moved her head first left, then right, unsure how to bear the exquisite pleasure thrumming through her, crashing into her like waves at the point between her legs where the captain now steadily pulsed with his thigh. His hands, meanwhile, pulled her gown up her legs so she could do what he wanted her to do, what she wanted to do—

Spread her legs and let him lie between them.

“We’ve got to stop,” she said, almost completely out of breath.

He raised his head from her breasts and looked at her. “Soon,” he said. “But not yet.”

“Not yet,” she repeated, looking up at the sky again, the moon and few stars she could see taunting her with their light and distance.

She should be there. Or somewhere far away from Captain Arrow. In the light of the ballroom.

But, no.

She would defy the moon and the stars. The gossips waiting inside. The minister who’d stood before her and Hector and declared them man and wife, even as she told herself silently that she wasn’t his wife—nor ever would be—no matter what was said in church by a silver-haired gentleman who spoke godly words over them, a Bible in his hands. Her heart—her soul—hadn’t participated in the least.

She thrust herself up to meet the captain—Stephen. She ground herself into his hardness, her hands clutching tufts of grass.

“Your body is all I want,” he whispered. “All I’ve ever wanted.”

And then he went lower, and lower, until those golden curls on his head were brushing her softest spot and his mouth was exploring the creases where her thighs met her belly.

His hands glided up and down her legs, his breath was hot against her womanhood, and she wanted—

Oh, how she wanted!

The heat of his mouth upon her tender core took her by such surprise, she gasped aloud. But he only nuzzled closer, suckling her and licking her with sweet abandon.

She arched again, over and over, moaning without even caring who heard, oblivious to everything but him and her pleasure—

And when the sensation grew too much to hold, she floated away and then back down, enveloped by the musky man scent of his jacket beneath her. She sighed, a sigh that reached to the darkest corners of her being, the places where her fears dwelled, and brushed them away, like cobwebs.

When he lifted his head, Stephen had never seen a more appealing woman. Miss Jones—Jilly—was sated. Relaxed.

Unafraid.

She was dangerous this way. He knew how to handle her when she was obstreperous and unmanageable. But when she looked at him with a face that revealed so obviously that she’d been pleasured not a moment before, his chest tightened.

She was too perfect.

Too beautiful.

And then she smiled at him, a glorious, free smile lacking any awkwardness whatsoever.

It was as if he were being hit with a volley of cannon fire. She was a merciless, unrelenting foe, and she didn’t even know it.

He’d never met an enemy like that at sea. Everyone on the waves knew what they were doing, why they were there—had intentions to vanquish.

Miss Jones was more like a force of nature, a squall spiraling into a hurricane, thoughtlessly ravaging the village that he’d built so carefully to accommodate one—just one—person.

Himself.

He was wrecked.

Yes, wrecked.

She’d wrecked him.

No one ever had before.

He didn’t understand it, but he was glad. His scorching flirtation with Miss Jones had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

Which was part of the reason he was wrecked. His wildest dreams had been fairly stupid. He had, indeed, gone well beyond them, to a new territory of intense and confusing feelings—it was a place where he felt a new traveler without a single chart to guide him.