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Command the Wind ISBN 9781419920202 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Command the Wind Copyright © 2009 Elaine Lowe Edited by Helen Woodall Cover art by Dar Albert Electronic book Publication April 2009 The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
COMMAND THE WIND Elaine Lowe
Dedication For powerful women everywhere and the men who bring out the best in them. For my own personal ashava, who brings out the best in me.
Glossary Ashavi/Ashava—Companion, partner of life, soulmate. Golden Hind—The ship captained by Francis Drake, later Sir Francis Drake, which circumnavigated the world, ravaged Spanish shipping, and claimed the coast of Northern California for England as Nova Albion. Magi—A tribe of Iranian people highly respected as capable and wise leaders. They were followers of the Zoroastrian religion and so well known for their knowledge they gave rise to the word we use to apply to the supernatural talents, “magic”. They spread throughout the Middle East and India but no direct trace of their influence can be found after the tenth century AD when it is thought that religious wars within the Persian Empire brought about their disappearance. In fact, they still exist, hidden among many peoples of the world. Each son is handed the task of finding his lifemate or ashavi and releasing their combined powers. Revenge—Admiral Sir Francis Drake’s ship during the battles with the Spanish Armada. Romani/Rom—Called Gypsy by most from the mistaken belief they came from Egypt, these dynamic people roam all over Europe and now the Americas. Originally from India, their Romani language is closely related to the languages of the Indian subcontinent. Most have converted to Christianity but the importance of Sainte Sara la Kali is a reminder that they once worshipped the mother goddess Durga and her incarnation as the avenging Kali. Sinti—A group of the Romani that live farther to the north and west.
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From the Scrolls of Nergal, Rab Magi It is thus manifest, Power shapes Knowing. Knowing tempers Power. Power is the gift of Being. For the aid of all and the joy of the Two. Out of the Void. Finite and infinite. Without Understanding, Power fades and dies. With Understanding, Power becomes Knowing becomes Truth. Truth is everlasting. Power calls to Power. Searching for the key. The key within the Two. Infinite and Finite. Love.
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Chapter One
England, April 1588 The deck of the ship was awash in something out of the ordinary, sexual tension. It was not a unique condition for a sailor but it was perhaps the one time that all men on the ship felt the same way at the same time. The sailors stared toward port with longing—for wives, lovers, or whoever would take their coin and give them a quick ride. One man alone had no real hope of satisfaction. Marcus Mares stared out across the rough gray sea of the Channel toward the wide mouth of Spithead and Portsmouth. The Peregrine skimmed the waves lovingly, the fastest ship on the seas, capable of outsailing any Moorish pirate corsair or lumbering Spanish Galleon. Tiny and sleek, her sails as responsive as the fingers of his hand, she was a thing of beauty. He would miss Peregrine and her crew. They took him as he was, odd as his position was, a lieutenant with a very peculiar set of duties. They were all friends and he would gladly serve with any of them in the future without question. But Sir Frances Drake had summoned him and when Drake called trouble was usually sure to follow. Marcus remembered the fire and flames of Drake’s daring attacks on Cadiz and La Coruña last year. The Spanish had been bearded in their dens but Marcus knew they were coming. England was not safe, no matter if Her Majesty, Elizabeth Regina was their loyalty and their luck. He closed his eyes and blew out a harsh breath, then inhaled the scent of land, of home, England. Opening his eyes once again, he took off the dark spectacles covering his eyes and looked toward Portsmouth. As always, tension rushed through him, as he was pulled forward to look miles ahead of where his body stood. For Marcus Mares was no ordinary British sailor. Marcus Mares was a Magi, descendent of an ancient tribe, keeping the secrets of their existence and their talent for magic hidden for hundreds of years. His gift was the gift of sight. Sight above and beyond any normal man. He could see a dolphin leaping in joy three miles distant, or the fear on a man’s face at the same distance. He could look behind himself right now and glimpse the coast of France. Not as a gray blur as some might see on a clear day, but ships and houses, beaches and beacons. Still, even with those amazing eyes, he had yet to find the one thing he most needed to find. His mate, his ashavi. The woman who would complete him and unleash the full force of their combined powers. Loyalty to country had taken precedence over the Search. England needed him and his gift. In the meantime, the older he got and the farther from the Search, sex wasn’t satisfactory and frustration made him grind his teeth at night. He knew that if he didn’t find some relief soon, he would go insane.
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Hopefully, insanity wouldn’t hit until after he’d talked to Sir Francis on the morrow. The man might have a great sense of humor but the newly minted Vice Admiral of England had his limits. It would not do to report for duty in a gibbering frenzy. Perhaps it would be best to find that unobtainable quantity, a clean whore—or simply make do once again with his right hand and a vivid imagination. Portsmouth was still leagues ahead since the tide was not their friend. It would be hours before frustrated sailors found their much anticipated relief. Still, with his eyesight, he could see the wives milling on the docks, the whores standing a bit farther away and tapping their tired feet in impatience. They looked sad and wretched, nothing he could bring himself to be interested in, no matter how desperate. His golden eyes flickered for a moment away from the village and toward the opposite shore of Spithead. The Isle of Wight stood firm, weathering the spring weather with the stoicism that made England, well, England. The white chalk of the Culver Cliffs shone like a beacon, warning ships of the dangerous reefs surrounding the Isle. The light was so bright that even under the gray overcast skies he could barely squint at the cliffs without flinching. He blinked, determined to look away, when something caught his attention. At the top of the cliffs, standing against the wind, was a figure. Even wrapped in a cloak, it was obviously a woman. He could see nothing but a glimpse of her face but her eyes seemed to lock onto his, even at a distance of several miles. Eyes as gray as a storm and just as fascinating. She turned away, disappearing as suddenly as she had appeared and Marcus felt the strangest desire to throw himself over the railing of the ship and swim to find her. The urge was so strong that when he wrenched his eyes away from the coastline to stare down at his hands, they were completely white from gripping the railing so tightly. His cock decided to swell, if only to reach closer to her. He had to stand still and hope no one noticed his discomfort, or otherwise suffer the crew’s jibes and insults in perpetuity. If Drake wasn’t waiting for him…if his fucking duty wasn’t clear…if Spain wasn’t breathing down England’s fair neck with the odor of carrion on its breath…he would be on the next ferry from Portsmouth to Ryde and comb the east coast of the Isle until he found her. Because unless a thousand years of instinct was wrong he’d just seen his ashavi.
***** Marcus paced in the parlor of the inn Drake had commandeered as his headquarters. Polished wood and once fine fabrics mingled to create an air of lost gentility, of hard use, hard ale and strong tobacco. Much like Drake himself. One day, the British Navy would have proper quarters but the ones they had now were not to Drake’s satisfaction. The Inn of the Red Cock suited Sir Frances Drake much better. Marcus didn’t need any reminders of his own cock. He was tired and he was irritable. Sleep had eluded him until the break of dawn, as images of a woman with 7
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brilliant gray eyes danced through his imagination. He’d had her on the cliffs, under the moon. He’d sucked her breasts into his mouth, he’d tasted her nub. He’d had her on all fours screaming her pleasure as his cock erupted within her pulsing pussy. Just remembering those vivid imaginings, he felt the need to take his cock in his hand and relieve the pressure. He’d already taken things into his own hands three times since last evening and he still felt overwhelming need for the woman on the cliffs. He knew that he would not be able to be of much use to Drake like this. “Aye, boy, you suffer badly.” For the commanding man he was, Drake could enter a room far too silently. Drake heaved an impressive sigh, the barrel of his chest rising and falling like the prow of a ship, then he tugged off the proper ruffled collar that he was forced to wear as a nobleman. Throwing himself into a chair and resting booted feet up onto the table, Sir Frances Drake gave another sigh, this time of satisfaction and folded his hands over his still trim abdomen. “Aye, Marcus my boy, you’ve been at sea too long. I’ve seen it time and time again. You need some time on land, to see once again the beauty of your true mistress.” Marcus shook his head at the old man who was his mentor. Marcus had sailed the warm seas of the Caribbean with the man who was the scourge of Spanish shipping. He’d been with him when Drake had been the first English captain to circumnavigate the world, claiming the western shores of the new world as Nova Albion. And he was the only man who Marcus would countenance calling him “boy” when he was past thirty. But it was amazing how the old man still oozed vitality, though the weight of England’s hopeless situation lay around his neck like the hangman’s noose. “Do not bother to deny it, Marcus Smith,” he held up a beefy hand to stay Marcus’ protest, “Or Mares or whatever the hell you are calling yourself. Do not forget that I knew you when you were wet behind the ears and begging for sea tales outside the pubs of Marldon. I took pity on you and took you with me, despite your mother and father begging me to leave you be.” Marcus rolled his eyes. The man could certainly reinvent history to suit his aims. Having heard tales of Marcus’ talents, Drake had come to Devon to “visit” his childhood home some two miles from the small village of Marldon. But within a week, he had convinced the boy Marcus had been of the wild beauty of the open sea and Marcus’ father knew that even at barely fifteen, it was time for Marcus to begin his Search, to wander the world in search of his mate. He had not seen his parents in over four years, though a letter from his father had reached him at the port. That a Rom, a gypsy, could read and write in a language not his own would shock most Englishman but Ladislav Smith was an extraordinary man. Still working at the smithy he’d taken over thirty years ago, Ladislav Golta had come from the far east of the Continent to find his love, Maggie Smith, a dairymaid in Marlsdon. She could charm any beast with the soothing sound of her voice and was beloved by the people of the village. So much so that they accepted a foreigner into their fold. It helped that Ladislav’s talents with metalwork were unmatched in a thousand miles. Some would say they were almost miraculous. 8
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Marcus promised himself that he would make the journey to Devon soon to see his parents and his sisters. He owed them that much. But first, the Isle of Wight. Assuming Drake was serious about that “time on land” that he needed. “Hush, you old sea dog and let a fellow sailor get a word in edgewise.” Drake raised a bushy gray eyebrow and let the insult pass. Marcus went on while he had the chance. “I have not the least intention of denying that I need to leave the sea for some time. To be most frank, I believe I may have to leave service for a time, there is…” “What is this!” Drake clanked his boots on the ground and stood slowly. “What the hell do you mean, leave service!” The roar of his voice shook the rafters. “The Spanish will be here, you know that as well as I, and I need you, the Queen needs you. England will need every man Jack if we would wish to chase off the damn greasy gibbering papists and you and your gifts especially. I would skewer you and roast your guts for my breakfast if I thought you were bowing out of the fight now!” Marcus stood tall with his arms crossed, a touch of hard bronze in his golden eagle eyes. “You buggering old fool. I know my duty. If I don’t go to the Isle of Wight and find…well, if I don’t get over to that island for at least a month, I won’t be a lick of use to you, Drake.” The door slammed open and a no-nonsense serving woman entered, oblivious to the tension within. With that hard face, no doubt she’d seen much worse than this. “Ale. On the ’ouse for the bloody English Navy.” She slammed the tray on the table. As she turned to leave, Drake gave her bottom a swat. Marcus prepared for the blow to fall but instead the woman smiled a toothless grin and sauntered out, her ample rear swaying to and fro. Drake sat back down and pulled out a pipe from the pouch at his side. Marcus stared with impatience as he stuffed and lit that damnable pipe. “So…it’s a woman then.” Marcus snorted. Damn the old sea dog for being right. “Ha! Can’t deny it, can you! I knew some wench would get that cock pulsing good and proper one day. You’ve got half the women of the world panting after your ass and you can’t be bothered to pluck the plum near enough. So, who’s the little flower who has got your bollocks in her clutches?” He exhaled a great puff of smoke and Marcus restrained the urge to cough. “Do not test me, Drake. I need to go.” Drake shook his head. “Then it is most fortunate for you that the place where I need to send you is the place you feel driven to go to. The beauteous Isle of Wight calls you with her siren song and your duty would send you to the same, my friend.” Marcus furrowed his brow, unable to fathom what the hell Drake was spouting off about this time. “What duty would you have for me on the Isle, Admiral?” “Oh ho! Back to duty then so quickly! Yes, yes, it is fated to be, I see. The Isle would take you into her fond embrace.” Drake heaved yet another eloquent sigh. “There be a
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bit of all of England on that fair little Isle, from the white cliffs to the needled peaks. And every kind of woman too. Be sure you find a ripe one, son!” “Get on with it, you old seadog. What hellish task would you have me perform for Her Majesty?” The mention of the Queen set Drake to sitting straight and thinking of more than his cock’s past adventures. Drake loved Queen Elizabeth with an adoration he could give no other female except for the changable sea. It was platonic and consuming. Drake wasn’t just protecting England from invasion by Spain or revenging his treatment in a prison camp long ago, he was defending the honor of a lady. “Watch fires, boy, watch fires. We know the Spanish plan to take the Isle and block the Thames up good and tight as they march overland with their thrice-damned invincible tercios. For all the valiant nature of good Englishmen, we would be buggered by those ruthless bastards. No, we have to stop them by the might of sea power and for that, we need warning. Plenty of warning to get our ships out and maneuvering circles around the oily, pox-ridden fools before Parma can think to land his men on England’s shores. We need eyes…eyes on the sea day and night. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a hundred, a thousand souls with eyes like yours!” Marcus shrugged his shoulders and finally sat, taking one of the mugs of ale. “Alas, that would be a thousand men who are useless in a fight, who have to guard their eyes from too much sun and are constantly distracted. Not a group of soldiers I would want to command, Drake.” Drake snorted into his ale. “True enough I suppose. But still, I need a hundred eyes from the Needles to the Culver Cliffs trained on that bloody sea day and night. And five hundred more from Dover to the tip of Cornwall. We must have warning when the first Spanish sail is suspected. Bloody Lord Howard insists the fleet stay in Plymouth, not Portsmouth, though they will come from the Spanish Netherlands, make no doubt of it. Our spies predict that it will be sometime in late summer and if that is the case, we need word sent to Plymouth and to every ship as quick as God’s own hand. For that, fire is the only tool that will serve. Ancient watch fires have guarded England from before the time of the Romans. We need them active and well manned if we are to have a fighting chance.” Marcus nodded. It was a good plan, as good as the Lord Admiral, Lord Howard of Effington, would let the more experienced Drake make of it. Marcus would be happy to put it in action. Though not possessing the charisma of Drake, he knew how to recruit good men and keep them at their work. Fill them up with the importance of their mission and give them a sense of worth and men would die for you and for their country. “I will do my best, Drake. You will have your watch fires by the summer.” And if I am blessed, I will have my ashavi much sooner than that! “I expect nothing less than the best from you, or from any Devonshire lad. You never disappoint.” Drake smiled and drained the last dregs of ale, wiping his mouth with the fine fabric of his doublet.
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The man would always and forevermore be a pirate. Marcus would hate to see him any other way.
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Chapter Two Cora Searle sat huddled on her bed, her head resting on her knees in the morning cold. One long, sun-browned arm was wrapped around her legs for warmth and the other raised a hand to draw abstract patterns in the condensation on the window. Through the thick cast glass, the world was distorted and twisted, just as was her understanding of herself. What had happened the night before? She had made the long walk from Afyllan Manor to the top of the Culver Cliffs, intent on watching the beauty of the gray skies and the wind-washed sea. The village of Sandown sat in the curve of the bay, golden sandy beach glowing even under cloudy skies, fishing boats bobbing in the waves and thatched cottages glowing with the bustle of the afternoon as wives set out supper for hungry families. Out across the water, the waves tossed and birds darted to catch the last meal before darkness descended. Each day, each hour of life on the Channel revealed a different emotion, a different harmony in the madrigal of sky and sea. Usually, she let it wash over her, through her, letting the emotion move her as she seemed unwilling or unable to move herself. When the sky and sea sang through her, she was alive, vibrant, real. But only then. The afternoon had been dreary, cold. One of those yearning, melancholy days that fill the early spring on the Isle. A ship waited at the mouth of Spithead, no doubt cursing the tide that kept it from Portsmouth until nigh on sunset. A common enough sight here, ships waiting to enter the port or head up the Thames. The Isle had been guarding the entrance to the heart of England long before there had been an England, when ancient priests had sacrificed to long forgotten gods. She remembered the shudder that had run through her with that thought. She couldn’t think like that. Cora threw herself back onto the feather mattress, setting the cord frame of her bed to swaying like the deck of a ship. She ran her hand through her pitch black hair, pulling the frazzled mass over her face to hide her from the cold light of morning. That ship. That damn ship. It was no different from a thousand others but she’d been looking toward that ship just one last time before returning home to the manor when a wave of—something—overtook her. Something raw and vivid and full of pure fire. The sea erupted in crashing waves and spray at her feet and the winds howled around her in gustful glee and she tried to recover from the burning. Desire. She had never felt such desire. Her breath came in pants, her nipples tightened to the point of pain, her pussy was slick with need. She was no virgin but sex had been nothing like this. This was primal, elemental. A force so strong she came close to throwing herself from the cliffs into the water, consumed with the need to get closer to… To what?
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It tortured her. All the way home she ran as though from the Devil himself, tearing her best cloak on the grapevines surrounding her home and arriving there in a wild state. Her father looked up from his seat at the family table with mournful eyes, trying to see his dead wife in her daughter, his dead elder son in his sister. But there was nothing of Mary Searle’s ease and grace, or Edmund Searle’s blithe and simple humor. Cora knew she was different. Tall where her mother was short, with a long face and nose where her mother had been pleasant and round. Her generous breasts and full hips were the only feature she’d seemed to inherit from her mother. In everything else she was a Searle, from gray eyes to melancholy nature. The first female Searle in four generations, with a thousand years of superstition nipping at her heels. Her younger brother Edgar, sweet, quiet Edgar, could not even look at her except from the corner of his eye. The smallest of smiles of greeting touched his lips and she was grateful for his kindness in this cold house. Especially as her father’s words sliced into her bare soul. “How can you be goin’ about like that, child?” Her father’s eyes were mirrors of her own, stormy in his anger and concern. His dark hair and dark clothes reflected a state of mourning that had encompassed half of Cora’s life and most of her memory. At twentyfour, she had forgotten when she had seen her father laugh with ease. “What will the village think, if they saw you like that? Communin’ with the Devil, surely. Get you to your chamber, if you cannot be bothered to arrange for supper for the family, you need not have a bite of it.” She did as he said, flying up the stairs away from them. Fortunately, her hunger was not for food. For almost the whole of the night, she feared that the Devil was “communing” with her, for who else could be so ruggedly handsome and exciting. In her mind’s eye, a man took hold of her, a man with long black hair streaked with brilliant white. A man wise beyond his years. And golden eyes that had seen too much and could look into the secret heart of her. The wind had swirled and groaned about the house as her mind melded into the heat of those eyes. His muscled body rose above her, the thought of him inside her driving her mad with pleasure as she stroked her nub and thrust her fingers within her sheath, desperate to find release from him. But over and over he came again, mysterious and shadowy and absolutely compelling. These imaginings were not the fast and unsatisfying adventures of a curious youth—romps in a hayloft or behind the henhouse with boys desperate only for their own pleasure. In her mind, this man had her bent on all fours, one hand on her nubbin and the other pinching her nipple, his teeth and lips teasing the skin of her back as his cock drove her higher. This man worshipped her as she rose above him, her breasts cupped in his hands and a devilish smile on his face. What could she do but try to ride the waves of this unfamiliar, wonderful and terrifying desire until sleep finally claimed her. The wind died to nothing as she slept, held safe in strong arms within dreams she would forget. 13
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In the morning, the fog was thick and draped over the countryside and her mind felt equally swaddled in layers of raw wool. What in the nine circles of hell had happened? She felt exposed, flayed open. All of her careful years of control wiped away in a mere few hours. Had a spirit possessed her? An incubus risen from the sea to turn her into the witch the townsfolk always whispered she was? Or perhaps, to suck her powers away. She would gladly give him her damned powers, if he would give her another night of such tortured bliss. Biting her lip, she knew she had to find out. Throwing on a kirtle over the chemise she slept in, she didn’t bother with a bodice or sleeves or even stockings. Grabbing her torn cloak and ready clogs, she made her way down to the kitchen where old Maggie, the cook, was crouched over the oven baking bread for the week. Cora gave her a smile and Maggie shook her gray wizened head. “Oh, sweet child. If only your mother was here. You need an embrace and a bit of lovin’ more than any person I ever did see.” Cora could not keep a blush from staining her cheeks and she enfolded the dear old woman her arms, her emotions so overwhelmed she felt tears in her eyes. Without a word, she dashed out the servants’ door, waving to Maggie as she sprinted for the distance to avoid her father and brother. She entered the vineyard with only one purpose in mind. To break a vow. She had to, if only this once and she whispered prayers to her long dead mother asking for forgiveness. But she had to use her powers, just to see if they were still under control, had become wild and feral, or if she were so blessed, those damned powers had been stolen in the night by a devil with golden eagle eyes. When she entered the woods, she relaxed, knowing that no one who could find her here would bother her as long as she remained. The hazel and maple and flowering cherry were magical in the fog, a land of the faerie both beautiful and terrible. It was here she felt most at peace and yet most tempted into a life she both craved and feared. She had always controlled herself, for the sake of her family. But this morning she let go. She let go of the tightness behind her eyes, the concentration she held to whether awake or asleep. Oftentimes it had escaped her but not for many years had she released it of her own free will. Roaring to the surface, her emptiness filled with passion, a passion for life and love that was intoxicating, like the strongest ale. With passion came power and already the fog swirled about her, dead leaves left from the fall rustling on the ground and winter bare branches waving bud-laden arms in greeting. Damn, it is still within me. She didn’t know if she was relieved or heartbroken. Whatever suitor had invaded her mind last night, he’d taken nothing from her but her peace of mind. She pointed a finger at the center of the clearing in which she stood and the leaves danced and swirled in a tiny vibrant whirlwind. She closed her eyes and sighed, a sad, lost sound in the vast quiet of the forest. Whosoever he was, it would be a long time before she could possibly forget him.
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***** Father was becoming more and more difficult. For the first time in days, she had time to herself for contemplation. She had worked with the farm men and Edgar filling the smudge pots to keep the vines warm in the sudden late frost. But still, she could do nothing to make the man happy and he stared at her in accusation when the cold weather had suddenly lifted, to be replaces by a sweet warm spring breeze. She swore she had done nothing. Well, perhaps she had been thinking once again of the man of reverie who consumed her nights, of what it would be like to be touched, to be loved by such a man. But she’d felt no flare of power. Sometimes, the weather acted in its infinitely changeable ways with not a jot of witchcraft or sorcery. No, this was not a crime for which she would burn. But her father would not even look at her. He took to fingering the cross he wore around his neck and going to Mass every morning. She went three or four times a week herself but her father had never been so overtly spiritual. Given the tumultuous nature of the Church of England over the course of his life, from Catholic to Protestant and back and forth once again, it was as dangerous a thing to be too religious as to be not religious enough. No, Cora knew his praying had more to do with her “troublesome nature” than any desire to connect with his Maker. Enoch Searle wanted to prove his devotion beyond a shadow of a doubt. Cora shook her head, knowing that it would not make a lick of difference to the village of Sandown, as long as the weather was kind and the crops did not fail. The legends of witches being born to the Searle family was too deeply ingrained for anything her father did to make a jot of difference. Still, she’d tried to ease his worries this week. For all his gruff exterior and grave demeanor since her mother’s death, she still loved him. As such, she tried to do her best to be the proper female, arranging the menu for dinner, visiting tenants and dressing properly in underskirts, corset, a dark green bodice and overdress, with the heavy brocade sleeves tied onto the bodice and restricting her movement in a way she normally hated. Such restriction was almost a comfort now, helping her to push back down the power and spirit that had run through her in the forest, stronger and more seductive than she could ever remember. As she walked within the woods again, she risked temptation for the first time in days. Cora wondered what it would be like to call forth a storm, or calm the raging seas, to revel in her ability rather than to fear it. But such thoughts were dangerous and disloyal to her mother, who had tried so hard to save her from the fate of Searle daughters of the past—to be driven slowly mad by the power within them and to die alone and barren. In her mind, a pair of golden-brown eyes laughed at her. Although at twenty-four, without a suitor in sight and a reputation for trouble centuries old, somehow she held fast to the hope that she would not die alone. Somewhere out there, there was someone who would understand and fight for her.
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Fie, she was turning maudlin. Romantic as any fool woman gone to the court of Elizabeth Regina. Cora thought Elizabeth was a strong woman ruling in a difficult age, against all the odds, but other women of the village thought she was a figure of romance, a woman determined to wait for true love. Ha! Cora broke a dead branch from a bushy crabapple tree and the snap echoed through the forest. The sudden silence following it sounded strange, heavy. Lost in her reverie, she had strayed very close to the road to Ryde and the ferries to the mainland. Anyone might walk those roads, from prince to pirate. Through the underbrush, she glimpsed a dark figure, so strange she could not look away. A sailor’s boots were muddied up to his knees, a heavy cloak thrown back over his shoulders and rough used pantaloons and a sturdy doublet declared this was a man who knew work. Under those pantaloons and doublet was a fine body, one that made her wonder exactly what kind of work the man was capable of. But those bits of him were quite normal, though fascinating in their own way. Was that codpiece stuffed as much as it appeared, or was it perchance merely covering a glorious treasure? Forcing her eyes upward to where he stood staring into the dense brush his sword half-drawn, she finally took note of his face. Strong, almost severe features that were hauntingly familiar. She wanted—no, she needed—to see his eyes, but he was wearing the strangest adornment she had ever seen, spectacles made of glass tinted the deepest brown. Add to that oddity long, unbound black hair streaked with brilliant white, and Cora felt her stomach flutter with a mixture of excitement and fear. The wind answered her disquiet and swirled around them both, pelting the poor man with leaves and sand from the nearby cliffs. He flinched but returned the sword to its scabbard. She thought he would continue along the path, leaving her and her obsessions behind but instead he slowly took off those strange spectacles, searching the woods with renewed vigor for a glimpse of her. She should hide, she should flee from such a rough and ready character, but those eyes were the gold like the eyes of an eagle. And she was willing prey.
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Chapter Three These boots were not made for walking. No, the swollen maggoty excuse for a cobbler responsible for these cursed leavings of a diseased impotent bull that some would call boots, no doubt thought he was doing a service. The cobbler supplied the boots for half the officers of those calling themselves the British Navy and a fair number of privateers and merchantmen. As such, the ripe-smelling sot had supplied boots made for clinging to the surface of a ship’s deck, not for walking across half of Christendom. Ten miles between Ryde and Sandown should not have been such a trial but no carts had passed that would offer such an odd-looking character a ride. And truth be told Marcus Mares was a miserable horseman. Not that there had been a horse for sale, without draining his purse dry. So, Marcus approached the village of Sandown, the first point at which he was to reinvigorate the ancient watch fire system. It was also the village closest to the Culver Cliffs and hopefully home to the mysterious pair of gray eyes that still tortured him night after night. It had been three long days to prepare documents and obtain funding and proper seals. Three days far, far too long. Another day walking his feet raw on muddy roads that sucked him down to his knees in the muck. Now that he was close—God’s blood, he must be close by now!—he should go to the Captain of the Guard at Sandham Castle and perhaps then the local magistrate, post his bills and find recruits for the fire watch. He should set up shop in the pub and make nice with all the boys and men who would be of use, perhaps even convince one or two of the benefits of entering Her Majesty’s service. What he wanted to do was go door to door, a vagrant in search of his heart. Good God! He was turning in a mealymouthed puppy, spewing forth romantic drivel worthy of the ha’penny stage! Fie, she would be his for a lifetime. Perhaps longer. He should damn well be able to keep his sanity intact, his cock at bay and his priorities straight. Duty first! A rustle of leaves to his left and his hand went instinctively to his saber. It was half out of the sheath when a gust of wind whipped past him, battering him with dry leaves and cherry blossoms and sand. He gave thanks to his lucky stars that he’d gone for the sword rather than remove his dark spectacles otherwise he’d be blinded by now and a sure mark for any enemy. But the air held no scent of malevolence and there was nothing in the forest to indicate an imminent attack. Hell it was probably the Isle’s famed red squirrels, tormenting him for the fun of it. So, instinct fighting judgment, he returned the sword to the scabbard. As the wind died down to nothingness, he took a risk and slowly
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removed the darkened glasses he wore to protect his sensitive eyes and searched the nearby brush on the landward side of the road. There. A flutter of green darker than the new leaves growing on the low trees, the flush of pale skin peeking from between branches. He focused more closely and he could tell the fabric was fine but not too fine, the skin kissed by the sun in summer and still dark even in the enforced idleness of winter rains. That smooth skin most definitely belonged to a woman. “Who goes there? In yonder wood? Make yourself known!” There was the slightest shift of the woman in the trees and Marcus feared that she would simply flee. There was no way he would be able to follow a figure through unfamiliar woods in sodden boots on bleeding feet. And he had to know who it was. Something in the way she moved, the sudden gust of wind that had startled him. Who was she? A low feminine voice emerged, “And why should I come out? What right does a traveler have to order me about on my own land?” The voice held confidence, tinged with the slightest quiver of fear. But the sound of that voice still sent blood pounding straight to his cock and his mind to imagining the sound of that voice moaning his name in the throes of pleasure. He swallowed and tried to marshal his thoughts toward luring the woman out of the brush, rather than thinking what he wanted to do to her once she was willing. “I have no right, my Lady Mysterious. Only curiosity to see a dryad in the flesh, to know what creature would have a voice so lovely.” “Fie, sirrah…do you think you have a velvet tongue, to try to coax a woman with such drivel as that? My voice is a voice, nothing more, nothing less. The birds sing much sweeter than I ever will.” Still, she may not be impressed with his pathetic attempts at the poetic but she had moved closer. The curve of her breast was visible, the elegant length of her neck as she tried to look at him without being spied herself. When he caught a glimpse of gray eyes, he knew he need look no further. She was the one. “Ashavi,” he whispered, the sound leaving his lips like the soft breath of a spring wind. “What? What did you speak?” She stepped out from behind the bush and he could finally see her face in full. Dynamic features set off by pink lips he wanted to kiss until they were swollen, and huge gray eyes he wanted to see alight with passion. Her hair was covered by the hood of her cloak and he wanted to see if it was the thick black cascade he had dreamed of covering both of them as she collapsed, sated, on his chest. His hand reached toward her without his will. She drew back, fear suddenly evident in those stormy gray eyes. Marcus pulled his hand back, cursing himself for a fool. Whoever his mate was, she was a gently bred woman. He had to be careful…
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Without warning, she ran through the bluebells covering the small hill separating the woods from the road and launched herself at him. It was so completely unexpected that it took him a solid minute to respond to her fervent kisses. But finally, his arms wrapped about the warm, sweet body in his arms and his mouth opened to hers, his tongue licking her lips. When she opened her mouth, he lost track of when and where he was—in broad daylight on a busy road. They were alone in the world, a matched pair made whole after a lifetime apart. His cock was hard enough to bend steel and his codpiece was tied far too tightly to accommodate the swelling pressure, especially as she was pressing the long length of her body against him with enthusiasm. She was tall, perhaps an inch shorter than he and their lips and bodies aligned in the most wondrous manner. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling his hat off while she deepened their kiss. His tongue explored the sweetness of her mouth while his hands caressed the curves of her waist and up her rib cage toward the lush bounty of her bosom. A horse neighed loudly in the distance and the clatter of a cart pulled them out of their daze. She did not speak but shock warred with amusement in her eyes when she pulled away. She turned suddenly and ran for the woods but he was hot on her heels, plowing into the dense underbrush to follow her, leaving his hat and spectacles where they had fallen. “Do you make a habit, madam,” he paused for breath in his sprint after her, pushing aside the branches that whipped into him with punishing blows, “of kissing every visitor to Sandown, or should I feel honored?” Although the line had been calculated to anger her and get to her stop her headlong dash, a flare of jealousy coiled within him. That was no kiss of an innocent. She had known the touch of a man. Well, henceforth she would know no other but him. “And what if I do, sirrah!” her voice called back to him derisively. “Perchance you should take your greeting and continue on to see what you may be gifted with in the next village!” She put on a burst of speed and though he could see the swish of her skirts far ahead, he knew he did not have a hope of catching her—yet. He pounded after her, losing sight of her for a moment in the dense woods. But just as suddenly, she appeared again, leaning casually against a thick hazel tree. He had to slow suddenly and double back, sweetly confused by her actions. But talk seemed unnecessary as he stepped close. Her lips were rosy pink even in the shade and swollen with his kisses. He should speak with her, he should explain all within his heart, the history and magic that bound them as one. But instead, he took her lips again, pinning her against the rough bark of the tree. Her hands slid around his waist and her hips angled against his with ease. He cursed the layers of fabric separating them, the tight confines of her bodice, which disguised the feel of her shape and prevented him from freeing her beautiful breasts so he could taste them. His hands moved from the tree to cup her breasts as best he could and she moaned against his lips, sucking his tongue hard into her mouth and thrusting her hips into him, almost 19
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begging him to push up her skirts and fuck her against the tree. He was almost convinced but he hesitated, wanting to be able to take his time and worship her, learn everything about her pleasure before joining them as one. He drew away, trying to return some blood from his cock to his brain and she smiled mischievously, ducking under his arm and escaping once again, forcing him to run after her. Not an easy task with a throbbing erection. “Give me only your name, sweet one and I will be contented!” he yelled, hoping for that boon, though it was enough for him to know simply that she was real, that she existed and tasted like the sweetest of fresh water to a man dying of thirst. Nothing filtered back to him but the sound of her laughter. He stopped, his feet throbbing and his face aching from a thousand tiny scratches. He couldn’t stop the smile that broke through though. She was a whirlwind and he was ready for the ride of his life.
***** Stepping into the center of the village of Sandown was like stepping into any of the small seaside towns of England. Thatched huts, dark beams and whitewashed walls. The occasional burst of color from a kitchen garden or a painted sign. The smell of fish rather than farm animals. The eyes following him with wary curiosity. Hard men made a life with fishing and farming. Here perhaps things were a bit better than for most, due to the warmer weather but the threat of invasion from France or Spain had tempered their success with a certain fatalism. Sandham Castle on the edge of the cliffs bristled with artillery pointed toward today’s calm waters. Few starved on the Isle of Wight but the tension in the air from hostilities with the Spanish was palpable. With that tension came a distrust of strangers. Especially strangers who looked like something the barn cat had dragged in. His boots were a lost cause, soaked in mud and deformed. Blisters popped up in places he didn’t want to think about. His clothes were covered in mud and leaves and he was sure his hair had not fared much better. The glasses and hat he’d had to return to the road to retrieve did not lend him an air of trustworthiness either. Staring from doorways and street corners, he felt eyes pinned on him from every direction. He wanted nothing more than to find the local magistrate, find an inn or a place to board and get a mug or three of ale in himself. The beach that ran down one side of the main street was a beautiful stretch of sand. He could imagine the feel of sand between his toes and he longed to tug off his infernal boots and launch them out to sea to die an ignoble death as fishes devoured them slowly. The vicious grin on his face at the thought must have spurred some of the local boys to action, as he was confronted by two burly looking fishermen before he had walked another ten yards. “Eh, what’s a nasty piece of work like you be doin’ in these parts, sailor? Got too drunk and got on the ferry instead of one of your heaps of rubbish?” 20
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His pimply faced friend added no comment, just sniggered with an annoying cackle. “No, if this is Sandown, then I am in exactly the right place. Who is the local magistrate, man? And be quick about it, time is of the essence.” At least, of essence to the state of his feet and the emptiness of his stomach. The magistrate would be more likely to feed him first and ask questions later, the captain at the barracks castle would no doubt be business first and perchance would not take kindly to a Navy man sauntering onto his territory. “Why should we be bothering Master Searle on account of a no-good squirrelly troublemaker?” Marcus changed his aspect from open and friendly to hard-edged as his smile became a feral grin and he swept open his cloak to reveal his well used saber. “Because it would behoove him to do his duty to a representative of Her Majesty’s Navy, not to mention show hospitality to a weary traveler.” “Oh…the Navy is it?” The words were not yet said with the respect that Lord Howard or even Drake would wish but given that the ragtag Navies of Britannia were the last hope of keeping the damn Spanish from England’s fair shores, the words did something to knock some sense into this idiot’s thick skull. The taller, broader bloke yelled across the packed-dirt street to a young lad who had obviously been listening with rapt attention. “Eh, Edgar, can you take this here ‘representative’ to meet your pa?” The boy, who could not have been more than fourteen, swallowed thickly. He looked at Marcus with bright gray eyes and Marcus suddenly knew that the darkhaired lad must somehow be a relative of his elusive ashavi. He would not torture himself with the thought the boy was her son, he was too old by far. But a cousin? A brother? A distinct likelihood. He walked over to the boy. “Master Edgar Searle, I presume?” The skinny boy looked around, as though he thought Marcus must be addressing someone else entirely. “Yes. I mean, yes, sir.” He stood a little straighter. Marcus fought the impulse to smile. “Is your father magistrate for the town?” “Yes sir. For Sandown and Shankin too. The whole of the bay.” “Very good. I need to speak with him.” Marcus would not elaborate, though the boy seemed curious. Marcus knew not what ears were listening. Spies were as common as fleas on a dog in an age when loyalty to a religion and loyalty to a nation fought each other in the hearts of men. He had revealed his purpose to the bully boys who accosted him but to avoid a fight a tiny bit of information was perhaps good to let loose. It might attract those very fleas too, and allow him to pinch them between finger and thumb like the bugs they were.
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The boy seemed to know better than to ask a dangerous-looking man too many questions. He simply gave a quick nod and swallowed once again, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing away. “Pa…my father, Enoch Searle, is up at Afyllan Manor, sir. I’ll take you to him now, if you like.” The boy glanced down at the mess of Marcus’ clothes, then his eyes snapped back upwards, as though he was terrified of giving offense. Normally, Marcus wouldn’t have given a rat’s left ass cheek about his looks, not when there was work to be done, but if this boy and his esteemed father were relatives of Marcus’ future wife, it would perhaps be best to make a good impression. Sending a prayer to the heavens that the Spanish would not do the impossible and sail out of Lisbon in secret anytime soon, Marcus phrased his answer with care. “I think mayhap, young Edgar Searle, that I could do with a wash and a change of clothing.” He patted the pack slung over his shoulder. “That and I hope most fervently that a cobbler resides in this town, for my boots need attention far more than my odorous self.” Edgar grinned and Marcus’ suspicions were confirmed. This had to be the brother of his windsprite, that brilliant smile held a glimmer of her fire. “I was on the way to Cobbler Morris to retrieve Pa…my father’s second best shoes. I can take you there and then to the Fire and Flood. The tavern always has a room or two to let.” Ah, quiet but bright. Too bad it was difficult to lure the son of a landholder into the Navy. The lad would do well if he had a head for mathematics and a memory for stars. Marcus gestured for Edgar to lead the way and followed the boy he was certain would soon be his brother. He hoped this tavern had a horse trough or some basin in which he could have a scrubdown. He would try to be clean the first time he “properly” met his bride-to-be. He would rather work up a sweat with her than be coated in the stench of the road.
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Chapter Four Cora tried to compose herself, taking time at the millpond to examine her hair and clothing for evidence of her mad dash through the woods. She touched a finger to her kiss-swollen lips, now the only evidence of her wanton actions with the golden-eyed stranger who had walked out of her dreams. Truly, other than her lips and the pumping excitement in her blood, there was nothing to prove that he was not simply an invention of madness. He had felt almost divine and an energy had filled her just by looking at him. When she had touched him, she thought her soul had caught fire with yearning. Need was a sensation she was unfamiliar with but she knew the craving in her heart would not be satisfied until she felt that man deep within her. Once again, she thanked the restrictions of her proper clothes. If she had been in a simple kirtle and cloak, she would have mounted the man in the middle of the main road and felt not the least bit ashamed until long after having found her satisfaction. Oh yes, she knew that with him, she would find the same pleasure she found touching herself, pleasure she’d never known with the boy she had played with. She had not a doubt in her mind that he would stay in Sandown, that she would find him in the night and that he would show her ecstasy for a night, maybe several nights. Maybe even enough to tide her over for a lifetime. Cora would not fool herself into thinking a man like that would stay. He had business on the Isle but few outsiders ever stayed. Much less sailors filled with wanderlust to see the world. A man like that didn’t put down roots and her soul couldn’t bear to leave hers. Her family had been here more than a thousand years, as long as the hearty grapevines planted by the Romans. The Isle was practically the only climate in England warm enough for the grapes to cling through season after season and it was the only place Cora could imagine living her life, at the border of the sea and the sky. For a brief, agonizing moment, she let herself imagine a life with the stranger, hearing his heartbeat as she lay against his chest in the darkness of a winter night, the laughter of their children, the loving caress of those eyes gazing at her through a visage wrinkled by old age. The pain of longing almost crippled her. Life and love like that were not for her…not for a woman born a Searle. Just as she was tied to the land, she was tied to her name, her fate. To be barren and alone. By the time her thoughts slowed sufficiently for her to take note of her surroundings, she was at the back door of Afyllan Manor and Maggie was looking at her with soft eyes that spoke of sympathy. Maggie had once had love and lost it all in a
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plague. Wordlessly, Cora embraced Maggie, the smell of flour and herbs engulfing her in hominess. With a resigned sigh, Cora stretched to her full height, which towered over little old Maggie and smiled warmly at the woman who was the closest thing she had to a mother. “So, what is the plan for the noon meal? We still have bread from the last baking and that venison haunch needs to be used up. Are there any young greens as yet with that burst of warm weather, or is it to be beans and turnips again?” “Oh Mistress Cora, don’t you be concerning yourself with that, deary. Your father will be happy with a venison stew and bread. Edgar, who I swear will soon eat us out of house and home, is off in the village, getting your good father’s shoes from the cobbler. He’ll no doubt be down at the Fire and Flood, hearing who knows what mischief about the sea and dreaming dreams best left to others.” “Maggie, Edgar has always loved the sea. It is as much a part of our lives as the vines. It is almost a torture for him to see that water every day and not see what lies beyond. He is not like Edmund, or me for that matter. It will be hard on him to stay and tend the vines as all his forbearers have done. We must do what we can to help him.” “Yes, yes, I know that, my girl. But I do worry that at his age, what he wants may turn his head more than what he must do. It would break your father to lose another son.” Cora closed her eyes. She knew it would. If Edgar ran off to sea and she could not produce an heir, a thousand years of tradition would be ended. It was a heavy burden for a young man to bear. Hell and damnation, it was a hard enough burden for her to bear. If only Edmund had lived, perhaps… She shook herself out of her dreams of long-haired gypsies and smiling children and tried to turn her thoughts to the practicalities of life, such as making her father content enough with his lot in order that he should sleep soundly and not stay up half the night in contemplation of his ledgers or reading the small selection of books the household boasted. “Maggie, I think I feel like baking a bit today. How burns the fire to bake up a nice fish pie?” Cora walked over to retrieve the extra smock she kept hidden in the scullery, for when she felt the need to help with the kitchen work. Maggie and her mother had taught her to bake when she was a girl and for a time it was one of the few things that could keep her indoors and out of a troublemaking. “Oh ho! What have you got planned, missy? Fish pie and a good strong glass of that ’84 vintage and your pa will be out like a light tonight. I think it is more than you wanting to have a look at some of his books. Perhaps it has something do to with the fine-figured man that Betsy told me about? The one who came limping into town not an hour ago?” Cora stopped sprinkling flour on the work table and blinked at Maggie, trying to keep the blush from her cheeks. Unfortunately, her fondness for the sun and sea could not hide the telltale pink in her complexion.
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“Ah ha! Maggie is always right! Tell me, is he quite so strange as Betsy told? Hair like lightning in the night sky and eyes like an eagle?” Cora could not help the laugh that escaped. “Betsy has quite the tongue for poetry! Perhaps Mr. Marlowe in Londontown could make use of her fanciful descriptions.” “Tell me, missy, or I’ll leave scales on the mackerel that your Pa will be picking out of his teeth! That will surely keep him up tonight!” Knowing the blush staining her cheeks was only growing in intensity, Cora gave in to the temptation to talk about the man she had kissed only an hour previously. As she mixed flour, butter and lard and kneaded the crust for her pie, she spoke softly, not knowing the smile on her face made Maggie’s heart glad. “I doubt many women would find him handsome. He does have black hair streaked with white but it is fascinating and not at all as frightening as lightning! As for his eyes…they are the most amazing shade of light brown, almost golden…they do seem as though they could pin you as an eagle pins his prey. But they are warm, not cold…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered how very warm he was—the touch of his lips had made her blood flow hot and fast in her veins. She considered if it were possible that mating with him, having his cock inside her would be as exciting as it had seemed in the fevered dreams she’d had the night she’d last walked on the cliffs. Maggie’s voice startled her. “Such a man sounds fair interesting. Interesting lasts much longer than handsome. A man can still be interesting when he’s given you five children and has grown a paunch and lost some teeth. Comely fades right quick!” In truth, Cora thought the stranger—Lord, she still did not even know his proper name! She thought he was handsome, compelling, utterly captivating. Just thinking about his hands holding her close, the smell of him hot and sweaty from exertion—well, never had Afyllan seen a pie crust that had been rolled quite so delicately thin. Cora had managed to put a great deal of energy into using that rolling pin as she mused. Maggie was practically doubled over laughing at her by the time she was stuffing the fish and preparing it for a long, slow bake over the fire. “Oh deary, I thought I’d never see the day you would be sent heels over head for a man. I thought for certain you would end up an old maiden aunt, or worse, married off to that fool, Sir John.” “Maggie! How could you think that I would…” She put her hands on her hips, managing to cover the skirt of her dress in flour. “Damn it, Maggie. I’ll have a devil of a time getting this out! What will Father say?” Maggie poked at the dough covering the succulent fish and smiled an enigmatic smile. “Don’t you worry. I did you a favor, I did. Sir John is expected any moment and I don’t think he’d approval of a wife who mucked about with the help in the kitchen.” Sir John Sweesy was their neighbor to the north, with miles of pastureland and hundreds of sheep. And he had an eye on adding the Searle’s land to that list, Cora was certain. Though he was as old as her father and had buried two wives, he came over at least once a week, dressed as a simpering nodcock. Cora had not the nerve to tell him
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that his best clothes, which attempted to wrestle his figure into an approximation of manly vigor, more often resulted in the man looking like a trussed goose. Quick as a wink, Cora made her choice. With a cloud of good white flour floating about her, she proceeded to sully her dress, her hair and the tip of her nose with evidence of her penchant for baking. Loosening her hair into a tangled mess and removing her smock to leave a telltale silhouette of white upon the fine green fabric, right on cue she heard a loud knock upon the front door of the manor and the hounds barking to alert the household that there was someone at the door. “I will get it, Father.” Cora called toward his account room. All the other servants were no doubt busy and it would make quite on impression on Sir John to have the object of his suit deign to answer the door in such a state. Undoing the latch and pulling back the bar, she shivered as a gust of wind blew into the hallway. Prepared for the unwelcome visage of the pompous Sir John, she was completely unprepared to meet darkened spectacles and a dimpled smile. “You…” She was incapable of saying more. She drank in his face, the still damp hair, the clean doublet and well fitting hose that showed off excellent calves. And then, there were the boots. Brilliant red boots in a fine grain of leather. They seemed so incongruous she could do nothing but return to the contemplation of his face. “Do I pass your inspection, Mistress Searle?” He took off those odd spectacles and revealed strange honey-brown eyes passing over her own person with abandon. She was suddenly acutely aware of the ridiculous condition of her own appearance, covered from head to toe in flour. A blush rose in her cheeks and she was caught in indecision whether she should make an effort to speak, run away to her rooms and cower in embarrassment, or drag the man to those same rooms and not come out until she had been well and thoroughly made to forget that clothing or flour even existed. “Cora! You look right funny you do!” Edgar snorted in laughter and Cora finally noticed that he was standing behind the stranger. “Don’t worry, Master Mares, my sister doesn’t usually look like a spirit come to haunt the house.” “She doesn’t? And I thought she looked enchanting all the time.” Cora burst out with a giggle and then had to restrain herself from covering her face in shame. Was she fourteen again and unable to bear the most banal compliment? “Good day to you, Master Mares, I presume. Welcome to Afyllan Manor. How may I be of service?” Fire flashed in those brilliant eyes and she knew without a doubt he was thinking of the many ways she could “service” him. She grew warm from toes to nose, her breasts suddenly heavy and aching against the tightness of her bodice, her pussy damp with the thought of feeling him slide within her. A long, pregnant silence filled the air until Edgar broke through. “Oy, Cora, go get Pa…our good father. Master Mares wanted to speak with him. And how long until dinner? I’m fair famished!”
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“Edgar, please don’t be rude. Run along to Maggie, she’ll feed you…but leave enough for the rest of us boy! You eat enough for a horse, I swear. I’ll escort… I’ll bring Master Mares to Father.” Edgar darted between them, turning at the last moment to give the stranger a half bow and a wave. “May I ask you some questions about Captain Drake, sir? After you’ve talked with my father? Maybe you can stay for dinner.” Cora hadn’t seen Edgar’s face light up with such enthusiasm since before Edmund’s death last autumn. She would have kissed this Master Mares for that even if every fiber of her being drew her toward him irrevocably. As Edgar ran off toward the kitchens, Cora found herself very much alone with a man who, in her dreams, knew her body better than anyone else. And yet, all he knew of her in reality was that she kissed random men and liked to be covered in flour. “Perhaps I should stay to dine with you, Mistress Cora. I’m sure a great deal of care went into the preparation of the meal.” She had forgotten Edgar’s offhanded invitation. How could she bear to sit across the table from this man and dine with any grace or elegance, when her stomach was tied in knots from desire and her palms were damp with need to touch and taste him. Somehow she managed to speak. “You are most welcome to join us for our humble midday meal, Master Mares, was it? I will take you to my Father, anon.” She turned to lead him down the hallway but he laid a hand on her arm. “Marcus, my sweet one. My name is Marcus. As for the rest that is up to you.” She could not understand his enigmatic statement but he had drawn closer as he spoke, until his lips seemed irresistibly close. Her tongue darted out to moisten her own dry lips and he let out a groan, capturing her lips with his in a soft, sweet kiss. Her eyes closed and longing filled her and the clean masculine scent of him was driving her to madness. She wanted nothing more than to make him sweaty and disheveled once again. Only a giggle from Sarah, the upstairs serving girl, prevented that kiss from deepening into something as hot and addicting as what had happened on the road into Sandown. Cora backed away, her color high. “Sarah, I shall need you in my chambers in a moment.” Sarah giggled again, dropped a curtsy and bustled away, her arms full of fresh linens. “Let me take you to my good father, Master Mares.” Marcus. She dare not let his name pass her lips, or she would surely throw herself at him once again. “You will be mine, ashavi.” His whisper was so soft, she was not sure if his words had been real, or her mind playing tricks on her from the force of her desire. She turned to look at him once again, caught between a flash of anger at his presumption, a thrill of desire at the command inherent in those words, or a twinge of curiosity at what that strange endearment could mean.
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She could act upon none of those feelings, as a strangled cough erupted behind them from the open doorway. “Hello, sweet Mistress Cora. How the sun does break through the cloud now that I have seen you!” Sir John Sweesy. Bloody perfect. “Good day to you, Sir John. I assure you, sir, the sun has been shining since at least eight of the clock this morning, once the fog burned away. It must be close to the noon hour now. My presence makes little different to the actions of the heavens.” She swore she could hear Marcus swallow a chortle, but she kept her eyes trained on Sir John. She had long ago learned she’d better, or her ass was likely to be pinched. And he was not the man she wanted anywhere near her ass today. Sir John was busy opening and closing his mouth like a fish and trying to come up with a suitable reply. Cora was in no mood to wait for the wheels of his mind to catch up. “What brings you here today, Sir John? Have you business with my good father?” Smiling wide enough to show his one rotted tooth, Sir John replied, “Why yes, my flower. I would like to ask once again about the acre strip in the west field. I hope to convince Master Searle…” “Truly, Sir John, I am quite certain my father is not interested in giving up a single vine of his best yielding grapes in the west field. I beg you not to importune him at this juncture.” She tried to think of a way to distract Sir John, otherwise her father would be up half the night ranting and raving at the gall of the man. “Perhaps you would like to join the family for the noon meal. Master Mares is here as well and I am sure he would welcome the chance to meet more fine members of our community.” Oh damn, now she would have to put up with the buffoon for hours. Bah! Not giving Sir John the opportunity to say yea or nay, Cora took hold of Marcus’ arm. The sizzle of sensation that shot through almost made her stumble and she could not help but glance at his face and watch the flames flickering in those intense eyes. “I…I am afraid that Master Mares needs to speak with my father and I need to change for the meal but perhaps you could wait for a few brief minutes while…” “Of course, my charming girl!” Sir John raked his eyes down her body with possessive lechery, no doubt imagining what a change of clothing would entail. Revulsion chased away the edge of her brimming desire until she felt Marcus’ hand take hers, his thumb brushing softly over her bare palm. “Good morrow, Sir John. It is good to meet you. What is your home in these parts?” She relaxed as Marcus’ deep baritone took control of the situation. Their footsteps pattered on the ancient stone floor as she led the men toward her father’s study. Marcus exchanged the inanities of polite conversation with Sir John with a deft hand, listening to the man prattle on about his holdings, his sheep, the pheasants worth hunting on his land and in the space of two minutes fit into the dinner conversation with sense and ease. She noted that Marcus managed to reveal nothing of himself in the exchange. She
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was impressed at his skill in evasion but disappointed that she had learned nothing new about the man. “Fine boots you have there man!” Sir John stared down at the ostentatious red boots plastered to Marcus’ fine calves. “I once thought to get one just the same for myself but I fear the fashion has faded.” “They are very comfortable but perhaps it is true that they no longer hold the peak of fashion at Court.” Marcus’ wry smile spoke volumes to Cora. He had not a clue what the fashions of Court were and neither did Sir John, no matter his pretensions. Sharing even this little amusement at the folly of humanity made her want this Marcus Mares even more. It was obvious from his turn of phrase and the intensity of his gaze that there was an intelligent, thoughtful man beneath the rugged, sun-browned exterior. A man who had seen the world, if he had sailed with Sir Francis Drake, as her brother had alluded to. Before she could raise her hand to knock upon her father’s door, the door swung open to her father’s bushy black eyebrow raised in question. Cora dropped her hand from Marcus’ arm and met her father’s eye. “Daughter? What is all the commotion in this hall?” “Forgive me for the interruption, my good father but Master Marcus Mares is here to speak with you on a matter of some importance and Sir John is here to join us for the noon meal. There should be enough time for you to begin a discussion with Master Mares whilst I finish preparations for the meal.” Enoch Searle took a long look at his daughter’s odd appearance and made a series of subtle facial movements which only Cora recognized as half in disapproval and half in amusement. He did not like Sir John Sweesy any more than she and as her father was an intelligent man, it was highly likely he knew of her attempt at subterfuge with regards to her suitor. He would not approve but he understood. As she curtsied her goodbyes and turned to leave, she could not help but drink in one last look of the face she could now put a name to—Marcus. The men began a discussion while she walked away and she made careful steps, swaying her ass back and forth for she was certain Marcus was watching her as long as he could. When she finally turned to reach the wide staircase and was cut off from view, she pulled up her skirts and dashed up the stairs. She virtually flew, not to her own rooms to change her flour-dusted overdress or fix the sad remains of the intricate coils of her hair. No, Cora opened the heavy door to her brother Edmund’s chambers. The hinge squeaked, proving that no member of the household lived here any longer. The linens were clean, the surfaces dusted but the air was stale. She pushed past her flare of mourning for her beloved brother and proceeded to engage in an activity Edmund would have thoroughly approved. Moving aside a small dresser with a fair bit of struggle, Cora revealed one of the prime secret discoveries of childhood. Edmund had shared it with her on her tenth birthday—a hole in the planked wooden floor, directly over her father’s private chambers. When the ancient Afyllan Manor had been modernized in her great29
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grandfather’s day, the vast open hall closed in with smaller personal chambers, the plasterers had missed one key place and generations of children had taken advantage of this when they moved from the nursery to their own chambers. Cora pressed herself against the floor and peered into the recesses of her father’s sanctuary. Ever resourceful, Enoch Searle had managed to rid the room of Sir John in record time and only he and Master Mares remained. She strained to hear and although she would have loved to stare at Marcus for a few more moments, information was more important than inspiration for her lusts. She pressed her ear against the small hole and listened. Her father’s gravelly voice spoke clear and true. “Sir Francis, eh? My son Edgar will be thrilled to speak with you. But why have you come to me from Admiral Sir Francis? Surely the Isle can do little to help the Navy. We’ve given up enough of our fine young seamen to defending the Isle or striking out for their fortunes on the seven seas rather than closer to home.” “No, sir, I’ve not come to mount a recruiting drive and certainly not a press gang. There are two reasons I have come to see you, Master Searle. One for myself and the other for my country.” A brief silence and Cora had no doubts of the look her father must have leveled at Marcus Mares. But the silence lengthened, as Marcus could not be provoked into nervous babbling. “Go on, young man. England first, then your own troubles. Though I have not the least idea what business you would have with my household for yourself alone.” “My mission for Admiral Sir Francis is to reestablish the full network of watch fires along the cliffs, from Sandown to the Needles here on the Isle. Others are doing the same on the mainland from Dover to Land’s End.” The bang of her father’s fist on his desk made Cora’s heart jump. “Damn time! I’ve been calling for that in the Assizes for the last ten years and my father did the same before me. I am glad to hear Good Queen Bess has done what her forefathers have not! What can I do to help?” Just as Marcus and her father entered a discussion of manpower, Cora heard a delicate cough filter into her consciousness. Opening her eyes, she saw the upstairs girl, Sarah, staring at her wide-eyed from the threshold of the room. “Mistress, you were saying you needed help with dressing?” Cora heaved a sigh. “Go and get my blue cambric and a hairbrush…and be quick about it.” Her urgent whisper seemed to convince the curious Sarah of the need to hurry and she disappeared with uncharacteristic speed. Either that or she thought her mistress was losing her mind. Cora restrained her chuckle and once against peeked into the hole to catch a glimpse of Marcus. She was unprepared to have those eyes focus with the precision of a longbowman on the exact spot of her observation. He could see her! The slow cocky smile on his face proved it. She didn’t know how it was possible but he knew she was here. 30
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“Master Searle, you have not yet asked of me my other reason for coming to see you here today.” “Ah well, I was fairly confident you would bring forth elucidation of the subject at the first opportunity.” “Yes, well…” Cora could hear the sudden uncertainty enter his deep voice, “I have come to ask permission to formally court your daughter Cora, Master Searle.” Cora gasped loudly, then covered her mouth to stifle her indignation. The idiot! Now her father would never let them alone together! And he had not asked for her opinion on the matter—although she supposed a woman throwing herself at a man on a public highway would amount to agreement to a courtship at the very least. Her father either had not noticed the noise from above, or had not cared to acknowledge it in the face of such a remarkable request from a virtual stranger. After all, no one, not even Sir John, had asked to formally court his daughter. It was almost as binding as a formal betrothal and often negotiated between families for months if not years. But Cora was not the typical daughter of a gentleman. Cora was a Searle daughter and no man on the Isle would enter into a courtship, much less a marriage, without heavy recompense for centuries of bad luck and the guarantee of a barren wife. Sir John already had heirs aplenty, so his interest was understood. A stranger could have no knowledge of the Searle history. He might be the best chance for Cora to have some happiness in a marriage. “Why sir, would you be interested in courting my Cora? She has no huge dowry for you to drink away and I cannot guarantee her virtue as intact.” Father! Fortunately Cora managed to keep her exclamation internal but she was angered beyond belief at her father’s crass words. “I have no great explanation for you, Master Searle, other than I saw your daughter several days ago while she walked on the cliff overlooking the sea. My family has always said that a man will know his wife the moment he first lays eyes on her and I find I am no different from my father or grandfather or great-grandfathers back for generations. Your daughter is already my wife in my heart and if I can win her approval and yours, she will be my wife in every way.” Cora held her breath, something inside her breaking away as she lay on the cold wooden floor. Warmth flooded her chest as tears ran down her cheeks. It felt as though a star had fallen from the heavens and taken up residence in her heart for a brief speck of time. Unable yet to name it love, she scrambled up off the floor, heaved the small dresser back into place and fled to her room, unable to hear anything else that could overturn her safe little world.
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Chapter Five Dinner was a bit of a strained affair, starting off with Master Searle announcing to the table at large that he had given Master Mares permission to court Cora. Marcus would have been quite happy for this public acknowledgment of his claim on his ashavi but since she appeared to be half miserable and half incensed at him, he felt perhaps his course of action had not been for the best. But he could not bemoan his fate, not when the emotion burning in those gray eyes sent a flash of lightning to his loins. Under the broad dining table his cock strained uncomfortably against his codpiece. She looked hauntingly lovely in a gray-blue frock that made those eyes seem the color of the sky before the break of dawn. Once again, her breasts were pressed upward by the fitted bodice of her gown displaying creamy round tops just begging for him to nibble them like ripe peaches. He shifted uncomfortably as he took a bite of peach compote that had been marinating in brandy, since the last harvest. He didn’t know what was more intoxicating, the sweet alcohol or knowing what he’d much rather have in his mouth was only a few feet away. The meal was excellent, better than he’d had in a long time. Venison stew, radish salad, a good strong local cheese, peach compote and the most delicate and flaky fish pie he’d had in his life. Sir John gave a loud belch of appreciation. “Oh, I say I should steal away your Maggie, Searle! She still makes the best venison stew in fifty leagues! Or perhaps I should come over here more often, now that there is competition for the table.” He eyed Cora with a leer as he said this and Marcus felt his muscles tense as though waiting to pounce on the man and give his hide a tanning for even thinking of his ashavi in such a way. Marcus bowed his head toward the head of the household and raised his glass of fine sweet white wine. “Ah Sir John, I agree that all the dishes are most excellently done and I thank Master Searle for the artistry and generosity of his table. I however most favor the excellent fish pie, the likes of which I can think of no match.” Perhaps this speech was a bit flowery but Searle looked content and there was a blush staining Cora’s beautiful cheek, with just a hint of a smile. Marcus suddenly understood why she had been covered with white dust when she had opened the door. The fish pie had been hers! Oh, God’s blood, he was the luckiest man in England. A woman who stirred his blood like no other and who could cook as well. Aye, she would be his wife soon, or he would surely go mad. Some of his lust must have showed in his eyes, as Master Searle coughed loudly and gave Marcus a disapproving look. “Master Mares, I’m sure young Edgar would be
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happy to hear your tales of the dangerous sea. Perhaps you could oblige us with a few stories of your adventures while we digest this fine meal.” The man had one hand over his stomach and his other hand held a goblet of wine and he looked to be in a mood to be pleased. Best make a good impression on father and son and hope some of that allayed the flash of anger in the daughter. “I was on the Golden Hind, Drake’s flagship, when she circled the world in the name of Her Majesty. That was by far the adventure of a lifetime, with enough deadly and daring doings to last a man until a ripe old age.” In truth, Marcus thought it likely that the seduction of his bride might best the most harrowing adventure of those days but he had learned in the long dull days of sailing the tropical doldrums how to tell a tale with the best of the old sea dogs and he would not disappoint today. Marcus spoke of the beauty of the sunset after the stormy crossing of the Straights of Magellan. He spoke of strange fruits and exotic peoples, of intense heat and bitter cold. Of the discovery of new lands on the western coast of the Americas, named Nova Albion in honor of the Queen, though the Spanish contested the claim bitterly. Of the excitement of conquering a Spanish galleon, the triumph of the capture of la Concepción, the largest prize any privateer had ever brought, with six tons of treasure won. Of the bitter loss when man after man had died of sickness or dehydration in the crossing of the vast Pacific Ocean. Before he knew it, hours had passed and though Sir John was snoring in his chair, the others were enraptured. Master Searle nodded sagely at the warnings and terrors he’d seen and Edgar was enthralled at the high adventure and exotic sites. Cora—Cora he could not read. Her eyes were wild, intense, full of an emotion he could not name. But to be the center of her focused attention was making him… Well he found he could no longer regale them with stories when the blood had moved from his brain to his cock. Fortunately, Master Searle was a perceptive man and went to move from the table. “This has been more entertainment than I can recall in quite a time, Master Mares but I am afraid the business of wine-making must call me away again. How long do you plan on being in Sandown? Have you accommodations?” He wished he could prevaricate and say that he did not but that was no way to treat a man who would soon be his family. “Your resourceful son found me a room at the Fire and Flood. That’s quite a lad you’ve got there, Master Searle.” Edgar beamed and Searle gave a firm nod of acknowledgment. “Well then, I will meet with you and the Guard Captain on the morrow to speak of arrangements for full manning of the watch from here to Shanklin. We should have everything ready within a sennight.” A mere week to court and win his lady. And another month after that as the banns would be read at the parish church before she would be fully his wife. He gave her a smile, which she returned with an arch of a delicate brow. Would she be willing to ride in a cart around the Isle while he finished this blasted business? He could not bear to leave her for long, once she was his. He knew that his sailing days were over and he 33
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was surprised at how little this pained him. If he was to settle down somewhere, the Isle of Wight was adventure enough for him and if he was to learn to grow and harvest grapes and make wine, he would do so. There were many a worse occupations in which to engage. He had enough money to buy an estate on the Isle with ease. The capture of la Concepción and a dozen other ships during his tours on the Golden Hind had all the crew, as well as the Queen and all the other investors, very rich. He could no doubt buy himself a wife from any of the great houses of England, but this lovely girl of the lower gentry was everything he had ever dreamed of. And oh, of late his dreams had been very, very detailed, from the way her nipples felt under his tongue, to the curve of her back as he rode her over a bale of hay. His cock rose once again in salute and he was trapped at table just a few moments too long as he tried to think of the smell of dead fish and maggoty biscuit in order to tame his rampant desire. Fortunately, the pompous Sir John, who still seemed to think he had a chance to win Cora, had awoken and was waxing poetical and completely barmy, about foreign trade. As Marcus took a last swig of his wine and stood to take his leave from the table, he found Cora at his elbow. He smiled at her in what he hoped was a winning way and she smiled back all too briefly. Perfect teeth and perfect skin, truly, a man could ask for nothing more in a woman than this. “Master Mares, why have you asked my father for permission to court me?” Her tone was not sweet but cut like a bitter knife or a cold wind. Confusion settled over him. “Because you are meant for me. It is fate.” She cocked her head at him and fixed him with a look which clearly communicated that she questioned his sanity. He was puzzled. Father had always described the moment that he had first seen Mother as the most important of his life. That he knew she was his ashavi, his other half, from the very moment their eyes first meant. Marcus was certain that Cora Searle was his. But now he recalled he had never heard his mother’s account of the tale. What had she first thought upon seeing Father? “Cora child, show Sir John out. He says he has an urgent appointment with the cobbler.” Master Searle looked down for half a moment at Marcus’ showy boots and Marcus suppressed a guffaw when he realized that the luxurious red leather boots the cobbler had sold him all too gladly, had probably been destined for Sir John. Assuredly the cobbler had waited one too many days for payment and sold the boots to the first customer offering ready money. Marcus had taken the man’s boots, just as surely as he would take his prospective bride. And no doubt would treat them both far better than Sir John Sweesy would have. Marcus watched as his woman walked out of the dining room with another man and inwardly the flare of irrational jealousy burned hot. The buffoon was no threat and yet he would gladly break any finger that touched her. Marcus had never been known as violent and more than one crewmate had made sport of his tendency to avoid a fight, calling him a coward when the truth was he simply had not the instinct for violence that some men possessed. But for Cora Searle’s honor, he would gladly fight off multitudes. 34
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This time, he could not suppress the laugh that bubbled to the surface and as he bid Master and Edgar Searle his goodbyes, they clearly did not understand the seriousness of the joke. Cora was standing in the hallway, graciously listening to Sir John prattle on with some nonsense or other that was very important to no one but himself. Something about an honored guest he was expecting. From her curvaceous hips upward, she was the epitome of poise and grace, her head cocked at an angle as she listened attentively. But there was the slightest jiggle in her skirts and Marcus had no doubt she was tapping a foot in impatience to be rid of the oaf and Marcus hoped, desire to speak with him instead. But when Sir John finally waved his farewells and it was Marcus’ turn to take his leave, Cora said not a single word to him. Edgar wished him well and asked to come see him on the morrow to ask more questions about the sea. Master Searle promised to attend with him when he spoke to with the Guard Captain. But Cora said nothing. She did mouth the words, “Tomorrow,” at him as he bowed over her hand. But that was certainly far, far too long to wait.
***** There were a few advantages to having spent more than half his life on ships with privateers. He had learned a fair few tricks regarding stealing, thieving and the like. Not to mention how to hold his ale and roar like you are being chased by the hounds of hell, which is an excellent trick to scare any enemies you might be waylaying. But this particular situation required the utmost delicacy and silence. Not to mention being able to see in the dark. Fortunately, his eyes, so often too delicate to be exposed to the direct light of the sun, were most excellent for revealing fine detail even with just a sliver of the moon to light the way. A deft twist with a knife and the latch was lifted on the door to the kitchens. A few handfuls of good English dried beef and the hounds were calling him their new best friend. It was just after midnight and the household was at peace. He crept through the kitchens, then the hallway to the main staircase, placing each foot with care so as not to make a sound. With a quick calculation once in the upstairs hall, he tested the door of the right room. It was not locked and he smiled in triumph. At least until he opened the door and a loud squeak echoed down the hallway. Stepping into the room quickly, he looked around in consternation. The room was empty. The bed had not been slept in. In fact, it appeared that no one had entered for quite some time. But he was absolutely certain that, “It was in this room…” “Hush you rash fool. Come quickly!” Cora stood in the doorway with a candle, the light not searing his eyes as much as the sight of her in a thin lawn gown, the peaks of her nipples high and proud and tempting him to uncover their wonders. But just as she muttered those words, she
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turned and he had no choice but to follow her down the silent hallway to another chamber. She closed the door behind him and barred the door with a small table, on which she set her candle. Then she turned to him with fire in her eyes and hands on her hips. “What are you thinking? It was bad enough that you had to give my father so much to think upon that he only just retired to his chambers. I would have been able to go to you earlier if you had not announced yourself in such a manner!” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms under her breasts, which only made those beauteous orbs all the more alluring and it all the more difficult to puzzle over what on earth she was blathering about. “It would not be gentlemanly to make my bride come to me.” He stepped toward her, his hands aching with the need to touch her everywhere and tear the fabric separating him from her flesh. “Pshaw, sir! You need not continue with your charade.” She swallowed nervously and as she raised her eyes to his, he knew she was not unaffected by his presence. “You can have me without promises for the future. I need no false courtship or sweet lies to part my thighs for you. I do so with only the anticipation of pleasure.” His stomach warred with his cock. The thought of her with other men, many, many other men, was an anathema, making his intestines twist in jealousy. His cock responded solely to the image of her laid out on the high tester bed in the room, welcoming him into her body with a low sweet moan and a look of rapture. He growled low. “I would not make you my whore, Cora. And my courtship is not false. You are my wife. Such is fated.” She held a finger up to his lips. “Silence. I would not hear anymore. I-I will assume then that you believe what you say and I have no wish to argue.” He nipped at that long, elegant finger and he could feel her shiver as his hands reached out to clutch her hips. She tasted like lavender and almonds—the cream on her hands—and underneath everything the musky scent of woman distinct to her. He wanted to journey slowly and surely to the source of that scent and flavor, the slick folds of her pussy. A gust of wind blew through the room and the sputtering candle blew out, leaving only a sliver of moonlight to light the room. With his eyes, the dark of night was more comfort, more clear even than the light of day. He could see every rise and fall of her impressive breasts, the long cascade of her hair swirl in the dying wind. In his mind, he knew something was not right. Her words were not words of love, not words from a woman who knew she would be with her mate for a lifetime. They needed to talk, he needed to tell her the tale of the Magi, the tale of his people for a thousand years. But for all the distrust he’d heard in her tone, there was no mistaking the desire in her eyes, in the yearning of her body for his. And after years of self-denial, waiting for the woman who would make him whole, his cock had the mastery of him. His mouth captured hers and she moaned, a sound of surrender. But truly, surrender was the last thing on her mind, as her tongue dueled with his. Her taste was
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completely irresistible and he wanted to devour her. She seemed to have the same idea as him. The kiss was openmouthed, with teeth and tongues clashing until a sweet rhythm of give and take took over, matching the pounding of the blood through their veins. Suddenly, kissing wasn’t enough and hands tore at clothing. The fine lawn fabric of her gown made a satisfying rip. Her laughter spilled forth as her breasts were revealed to him and he bent to capture a ripe peak with no hesitation. Her fingers threaded through his hair, undoing the tie holding it back. It cascaded over her breasts, each strand of his hair reaching out to slide together with the long black waves of her mane. Her hands moved to yank at the shoulders of the dark tunic he wore and he growled at having to release her nipple from between his teeth in order to let her pull it over his head. She bent to bring their lips together once again and the feel of her breasts crushed against his chest was glorious. He deeply feared he was going to embarrass himself and disappoint her, coming the moment he slid inside her. Bending low, he slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her as she let out a shocked gasp. He placed her on the high tester bed and she purred trying to pull him down on top of her but he drew back, keeping his hands on her knees as he took in the beautiful sight of her in the silver highlights and black shadows of moonlight. Her hair spilled out on the white bedclothes like a pool of black flames. The shreds of her gown parted easily and the sweet mounds of her breasts, the tender curve of her stomach and the delectable triangle of her sex were revealed in all their glory. He bent over her, pressing dry lips to her navel, praising the heavens that she had been born into this world as his mate. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at him with curiosity and desire warring in stormy gray eyes. Her face glowed, whether from the power lying dormant within her or from the whisper of moonlight, he knew not. Regardless, he was left breathless at the sure beauty of her, the knowledge that he loved her and would have the chance to spend the rest of his life with such a woman warming him despite the cool April night. She brought up one hand to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing aside a tear that had formed and fallen. Her brow wrinkled adorably in concern and he could not face her questions. He had to convince her they were meant to be and the best way he could do that at this moment was to be the best lover she had ever welcomed into her bed. Returning to the soft, sweet skin of her belly, he ran the tip of his tongue in circles around her navel, drinking in her flavor and the laughter that slipped from her lips with his teasing. He hoped he could bring her a lifetime of that—pleasure and laughter—enough to chase away the sadness he could see in the depths of her eyes. Moving down her body, he spread soft, openmouthed kisses across her delicious skin. He crept closer to the lips of her pussy. He could feel her tense under him, knowing where he was headed but full of uncertainty. Good, he thought. No one else has done this for her.
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Fierce possessiveness flooded him as he parted her thighs, kneeling on the floor to worship at her feet. His hands moved again behind her knees smoothing over the delicate skin and wondering how any person could feel so incredibly soft. He nuzzled the even softer skin of her inner thighs, reveling in the tiny whimpers she made, her fingers clutching at the sheets as she continued to watch him love her. The scent of her drew him in, though torturing her with anticipation held its own allure. Her arousal was evident. The lips of her pussy were parted in welcome. He was finally at the source of her scent, the scent that had drawn him in from the moment she’d thrown herself into his arms on the road. He touched the tip of his tongue to the beautiful pearl of her nub and she drew in a gasping breath, arching up from the bed and collapsing as he began to trace circles through her folds. No longer capable of perching on her elbows to watch him, she lay back, replete, one hand over her mouth trying to suppress the sounds of her pleasure. Damn it but he wanted to hear her, see her! He wanted to take her out into the forest and in the dappled sunlight kiss every inch of her body and make her sing her ecstasy to the skies. But for now, he could content himself with the taste of her, fuller and richer than anything he might have imagined. Each shiver running through her body, each sigh, each circle of her hips trying to get closer to the light touch of his tongue, all of it was a conversation, weeks of courting and questioning, long uncomfortable silences and flirtatious banter coalescing into a brilliant moment when she surrendered control and shuddered in climax. But it wasn’t enough. He had to be the best. He had to chase away even the memory of any other man, just as he would never be able to think of another woman. His cock was screaming at him with the need to bury itself within her, dripping with readiness to explode. But for her sake, he would ignore his cock to woo her with pleasure. His fingers pressed into her sheath, the heat searing him. One and then two fingers, stroking into her tight pussy. “Marcus?” she whispered, her voice unsure. The sound of his name on her lips made his cock twitch, once again demanding its due, to be buried to the hilt in the sweetness of her channel. But he wasn’t ready yet. She wasn’t ready. He worked his fingers in and out, passing over her clitoris with his thumb as he nibbled at the delicate folds around that delicious nub. A long breathy sigh was his reward, along with the insistent tug of her fingers in his scalp. She wanted him. She wanted him within her. But he didn’t want to succumb until she needed him as badly as he needed her. Her sheath felt like slick silk and he searched until he found the softer spot within. Pressing gently, her reaction was all he could have hoped for and he had to chase her bucking hips in order to keep his fingers within her and his lips tugging gently at her pearl. “Stop! You are driving me to madness!” Her harsh, breathless whisper chilled him. Had he pushed her too far, or not far enough?
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He stopped, his lips hovering a hairsbreadth from her folds, his fingers halting the teasing, twisting motion within her. The effect was instantaneous. “Don’t stop! Oh by all that’s holy, please don’t stop!” A breeze gusted through the room, fluttering the remains of her nightdress and creating a halo of her hair. He laughed against her and ended her brief torture, swirling his tongue over her and beckoning her pleasure with a crook of his fingers within her. With a burst of her juices within his mouth, he could taste the explosion of her pleasure and feel the spasms traveling through her muscles as a stronger wind swirled around them both. He brought her down slowly, luxuriating in the flavor of her as she became boneless and lax in afterglow. The air died down to stillness once again. He could have let her relax and recover, given her time to think but he didn’t. He stood, kicking off the slippers and loose sailor’s trousers that he’d worn for creeping into the house and stood at the end of the bed. Gripping her hips, he pulled her toward him, pressing the tip of his cock against the warm wetness of her pussy and shivering with the need to plunge his full length into her. “Cora. Ashavi?” Her beautiful eyes fluttered open, her full lips curving into a hint of a blissful smile. “Umm…” His cock throbbed with the knowledge that she was left speechless. “Please, ashavi?” She moaned and clutched at his hips, wrapping her legs around his ass and pulling him toward her, his cock sliding the first sweet inch into heaven. Her eyes flared from satisfaction to need. Her nipples drawn into tight peaks called for his attention. But he could focus on nothing else but the long slow slide of his cock into her sheath. Heavens, she was tight. No matter how wet and ready she was for him, her walls gripped him so hard he knew that there had not been dozens of men and certainly none at all in some time. She flinched slightly the deeper he went and he forced his mind away from the hot ecstasy jolting from his cock to his brain. He tore his eyes away from the alluring vision of his cock sliding into her and stared at her face. Her expression was an odd mix of wonder, pleasure and fear. He realized that really, she had no idea what the act of making love should be. Whatever her experience had been, it had been simple rutting. He was her first lover and he would be her only lover. He would please her for the rest of his life and enjoy every last second of it. His thumb moved to her nub and the other hand skimmed up her ribs to pinch one rosy nipple between his fingers as he cupped the curve of her breast. Again, a breeze swirled around them, wrapping them in a cocoon of wind. Her hips circled slightly, like the movements of a Romani dancer and Marcus sucked in air through his teeth. The shock of sensation was almost overwhelming, almost driving him to thrust and thrust until the orgasm building within him exploded outward. But he had denied himself pleasure like this for years and his goal was to bind Cora Searle to him in every way possible. He could wait even if his cock was threatening 39
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mutiny. He did begin to thrust but with a slow, sure rhythm meant to give her maximum pleasure. He angled his hips as he watched her face, shifting until he could see her eyes fill with awe, her jaw slack with mindless bliss. Feeling the muscles of her pussy fluttering around him was an incredible reward and he ground his teeth and tried to name every sail and rigging on the Peregrine in order to keep himself from joining her in ecstasy. His hands moved back to her hips, holding onto her for dear life as he rode out her orgasm. She lost the ability to silence herself and he bent over her kissing her soundly to swallow her cries. He continued to thrust, determined to bring her to climax again, determined to show her she belonged with him. The depth and force of his thrusts pushed her farther and farther back on the bed and he awkwardly clambered up onto the bed without breaking their connection. This new position was even more pleasurable, if that was possible and he could feel a white cloud of need descend over his eyes and his mind. Cora was whimpering, writhing, her nails digging in to his hips as she arched into him. The wind blew in gusts that danced around his naked skin like a thousand of her hands, pleading for him. She tore her mouth from his, gasping for breath. “Please! Please come with me!” He buried his face in her neck and shook his head. “No. This is for you.” She let out a cry, half of rage and half of pleasure. Her hands curled up over his back and left deep scratches as she arched into him. Tears leaked from her eyes as she bit her lip to keep from moaning loud enough to bring the house down. She was breathtakingly beautiful, even with his eyes closed and his cheek pressed to hers. Once again, she shuddered in climax and he tensed, trying to hold out against the storm of pleasure washing through them both. But this time, she would not let him fight. The wind became a maelstrom. Planting her feet on the bed she managed to roll them both over. She sat atop him, conquering him in her triumph and looked into his face with eyes flaring gray fire and her hair blew around her face in like a goddess of the tempest. “You…are…driving…me…mad!” With each word, she rose up on her knees and slammed back down onto him and before he could think, before he could breathe, a wall of white fire engulfed him and he came like never before, pulsing semen into her with enough force to make her cry out once again in pleasure. He was lost in a sea of blind bliss and when he bobbed to the surface of consciousness she was collapsed on top of him, her head on his shoulder and her body covering his like the most beautiful blanket in the world, a cloud of her black hair tickling his nose as she breathed in and out deeply in satisfied sleep. The warm wind whispered over their skin, a breath and a contented sigh. He had no choice but to follow her, happier than he’d been since childhood, knowing he held the rest of his life in his arms.
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Chapter Six Dawn crept into the room and Cora Searle ignored it entirely. Her sleep was blissfully deep and undisturbed by any dreams. It was restorative, revitalizing and thoroughly delicious. There was no reason she should stir. Particularly comfortable was the firm, warm pillow that chased the chill from the bed. It smelled intoxicating. She cuddled closer, willing herself not to notice that she was nude. Her mind shied away from taking note of the luscious ache between her thighs. No, nothing could perturb her rest. She was too content. Unfortunately, her pillow began to snore. Not horribly but enough to make her eyes pop open in sudden, terrible knowledge. Marcus Mares was here. In her bed. In the morning, when Sarah would be knocking on the door any moment to wake her. “Wake up!” She pushed against the hard, unyielding wall of his chest and got nothing in response but a grumble and his arm wrapped even more firmly over her stomach. “You must go! My father will be awake and about all too soon.” She whispered against his shoulder but the scent of him distracted her. It was easy to imagine waking up so satisfied every morning. To be able to touch and caress the beautiful muscles, to enjoy the impressive erection that was pressing against her thigh where their legs were intertwined. He was beautiful in his sleep. How could she have ever thought he was not truly handsome? His hair was as black as hers but the shock of white within it made him look older than he truly was. He could not be more than five or six years older than her twenty-four years. The lines in his face from sun and sea smoothed out when he slept and the soft light of dawn made him look boyish and happy. She wondered what their children would look like, before she shook herself from her reverie. She would have no children. Not from this man or any other. And though she would never regret the magnificent night past, she was not certain that the memory of such rapture would have her happy or even more melancholy. Cora was seized with the need to make more memories, to cling to the man while he was with her, as all too soon he would be gone and she would have to face a lifetime alone. Forgetting her father or Sarah or anything at all but the desire that still burned hot with her, she ran a hand over the man in he bed, from the hard pectoral muscles over his ribs and abdomen, down until she held his cock in her hand. She had never considered herself a small woman and though he was not much taller than she, everything about him was large. She knew from memories of last night that his hands were large. She knew that his feet were large from those ridiculous boots he’d worn yesterday. And she knew from the feel of his cock in her now small-seeming hand, that 41
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his glorious erection was truly impressive. She had the ache to prove it and longed to suffer such an ache as often as she could before he inevitably left. He groaned as she stroked his hard cock. None of her past lovers…hell they weren’t lovers, they were a pale shade of what Marcus was capable of. With him, not only had she felt pleasure the likes of which she had never dreamed. She had felt cherished. She found tears in her eyes that she had no business crying. She could not mourn that which she never truly had. This man would make some woman a fine husband, someday. She hoped she’d never meet the hoyden, for she’d no doubt try to wring the poor thing’s long graceful neck. She pressed kisses against his chest and her curious tongue darted out to lick the dark brown nipple she found there. With each stroke she could see his eyes flicker and she hoped that he would stay asleep long enough for her to drive him so mad with lust that he would forget any instinct to flee. She bit her lip with a moment of indecision. All three of the men she’d been with had begged her to take their cocks into her mouth, a degree of intimacy she had never truly considered before and had not gifted any of them with. But given their desperation, it must be very pleasurable. If it was even half as wonderful as his tongue on her folds had been, then he would enjoy it immensely. Now decided on a course of action, she moved her kisses along the same paths her hands had taken. Down his ribs, over the flatness of his abdomen and across his hip, until she was staring at the full glory of his cock before her face. She licked her lips, suddenly ravenous. And not for food to break her fast. She started at the very base, where his cock rose from his balls in full salute and ran her tongue slowly from base to tip, savoring the flavor of him. By the time Cora took the head in her mouth and glanced up at his face, he was awake and looking at her with undisguised hunger. She had succeeded in her task of keeping his interest, as he certainly made no effort to leave the comfort of the bed and her attentions. In fact, his hands slid into the wild messiness of her hair with reverent care, not pushing her down onto his cock but telling her without words how very much he was enjoying what she was doing. Feeling strangely powerful she took a deep breath through her nose and tried to fit as much of his considerable length within her mouth as she could, trying not to choke as his leaking tip hit the back of her throat. His hips bucked under her for a moment, his hands clutching her hair before releasing any pressure and letting her slide back up his length. Deciding that she could not accept all of him for the present but that she would love to learn such a skill for him, she clasped her hand around the base of him and sucked greedily on the rest, sliding her tongue around him and moving up and down as he had moved so perfectly within her the previous night. His breathing grew labored, the fingers in her scalp tightened ever so slightly and finally he arched up off the mattress with a shout. He exploded into her mouth, warm and slightly salty, tasting of the sea and man all intertwined. She loved it. If he would
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go now, at least he would go satisfied and she would have the memory of giving him some sliver of the pleasure she had been blessed with at his hands. But he would not let things rest at that. He leaned forward, grabbing her underarms and pulling her up his body until she covered him like a blanket. Then he kissed her, wide and deep and wonderfully, tasting himself on her tongue as he made her bones melt with his kiss. She felt his hands running up and down her naked back, huge hands that made her feel small and soft and womanly. Then those hands took hold of her hips and rolled them over, crushing her just a bit with his weight. She was surprised how much she liked it. He pushed up onto his elbows and looked down at her, a look in his golden eyes that she could not fathom. It was—loving? How could a man lie so with his eyes? He could not love her! He barely knew her! Suddenly panicky, she closed her eyes, throwing her head back against her pillows. Marcus took the opportunity presented to lavish attention to the length of her neck, kissing and nibbling until she could not help but moan at the sensations coursing through her. She could feel his cock already becoming hard against her stomach and she knew he would not leave her unsatisfied. Ignoring the fear in the pit of her stomach, she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his back. He reared up slightly, shifting his hips until his cock was brushing the folds of her pussy with the slightest of teasing movements. “Good morning, ashavi.” With those whispered words and an endearment that she knew not the meaning of, he entered her slick sheath. She had lost the power of words, crying out softly with the joy of feeling him within her again. Opening her eyes, she looked into his face, seeing in those eyes in the fiery desire that she had seen in all of her dreams of him. As for the other emotions hidden amongst flecks of brown and gold, she was too caught up in the pleasure of their joining to think of it. And what pleasure. His thick cock stretched her almost to the point of pain but made her feel incredibly full. The folds of her pussy wrapped around him and with each thrust of his hips her nub was rubbed in the most pleasing way, so that even with so little preamble, her state of arousal rapidly grew to match his completely. Lifting her hips off the bed in concert with his motions, she tried to take every bit of him into herself, over and over until she was sent over the edge into climax, her body shuddering and her nails digging into his back hard enough to draw blood. But he did not follow her into bliss. Once again, he seemed determined to drive her to madness. He slowed his thrusts and as she came down slightly from the heights of pleasure, his rhythm kept her poised on the knife edge of orgasm. She arched her back and thrust her hips upward, trying to force him to give in and come within her. He gave her a feral grin and she growled at him. Suddenly, she noticed the bedcurtains flapping as the air within her bedchambers swirled and played over their entwined bodies. Awe filled her and a fair bit of terror.
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Marcus noted her changing expression and followed her glance to note the breeze in a room with no open windows. She bit her lip, knowing now that he would flee, unable to bind himself to a witch. She closed her eyes once again, not wanting to see his look of disgust. She felt the feather softness of his lips against her eyelids, her cheeks and then he whispered softly in her ear, never stopping the undulating rhythm of his thrusts within her. “This is your gift, my ashavi. You can command the wind. It is more beautiful than ever I could have imagined and I am blessed to have you be mine.” She shattered. Tears leaked from her eyes as impossible pleasure bloomed within her heart and her womb. Through a haze of ecstasy she felt his rhythm grow faster, his cock swell even larger as he spurted hot within her depths. She clasped him to her, too overcome to speak. The softest breeze whispered around them, warm and caressing, before disappearing and leaving them to the quiet of heaving breaths. But even words so welcome could not rip away a lifetime of fear and restraint. A corner of her heart was healed but it would be some time before it would be made whole. He rolled off her, tucking her firmly into his side as he placed a kiss on her temple. She blinked at the canopy above them and forced herself to succumb to the inevitable. She whispered urgently, “You must away! The household will awaken and we shall be exposed!” He chuckled. “Would that be so terrible, my love? Perhaps it was a very short courtship but I would marry you as soon as the banns can be read. In my heart, you are already my wife.” Cora raised herself up on one elbow and stared at him, his eyes full of teasing challenge. She opened her mouth and words tumbled out before she could dull their edge. “Love? Love? Of what drivel do you speak! We barely have spoken ten minutes altogether and you would claim to love me! To want me as your wife, for a lifetime. Do you take me for a fool, sir?” She scrambled out of the bed, picking up a discarded sheet and covering her naked body. She could not look into his eyes, to his look of triumph, or worse, of pity. “I wanted you and you have gotten what you truly wanted of me. Is that not enough? Must you try to make a conquest of every part of me? Make my heart your slave before you leave me?” He jumped to his feet, standing nude before her like an ancient god. Her eyes flickered up to his face and she saw not derision, not pity but raw anger and pain. “You think so little of me? You give your body to me but you think I would leave you? Dishonor you in such a way! Do you not feel the magic between us? We are fated to be, woman. You are mine!” His eyes were fire and she felt burned by the command in those eyes and the harsh tone of his voice. She still could not believe, could not understand. “Leave me, Marcus Mares. I need time to ponder this.”
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He gritted his teeth and bent to retrieve his scattered clothing. All too soon, his magnificent form was covered in shirt and trousers. Part of her wanted to tear them from his body as he had torn her nightdress, and cavort for days in this bedchamber, thinking of nothing and no one but each other, learning all they could of each other with no thought to future or past. But she was a Searle daughter and she would not bring her curse down on him, especially if he was truly as wonderful a man as he seemed. With a last searing glance, Marcus moved the obstruction from the door and slipped out into the dawn without a word of parting. Cora could feel her heart contract in pain and longing for the happiness she could never have. Better that he be hurt now, than burn with her for a lifetime of regrets.
***** The cliffs called her again and the weather suited her mood. The fog of the morning had never lifted and the gray skies and still gray sea spoke of loneliness without end. The edge of the world disappeared into nothingness and not a breath of wind whispered its secrets to her. If the wind had abandoned her, she felt it only fitting. She had worried that he would try to track her down. She’d spent all day in the house, until her father had left for the prearranged meeting between Captain Sheffield of the Guard at Sandham Castle and Marc—Master Mares. Then she had fled to the cliffs and sat with arms curled around herself, staring out at the endless expanse of gray as though it were the rest of her lifetime. Cora knew not how long she sat, her skin growing cold in the chill air, her thoughts swirling in endless circles of longing and denial. But she knew the moment she was no longer alone. Marcus sat by her side, making no effort to touch her. Simply sitting and waiting and staring out at the same unchanging view of sea and sky. He was again dressed more formally than he had come to her last night, doublet and hose rather than simple trousers and shirt. Cora chewed on her lip, not knowing what to say and hoping that he would break the silence—or simply take her in his arms again and make her forget everything but the incredible pleasure of his touch. Though he had not laid a hand on her, the moment she breathed in the scent of him, she grew wet with the memories of how he had wrung more pleasure out of her body than she knew could exist in the world. Shifting uncomfortably, she felt she had to say something, anything at all! “How went your meeting with my good father and Captain Sheffield?” He did not turn to look at her but a smile tugged at the corner of his full lips. “Well enough, I suppose. I do not think Captain Sheffield completely approves of the disreputable rabble of the Navy being involved in anything on land in his jurisdiction.” He laughed again and Cora felt her heart warm at the infectious sound.
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The wind had returned softly and she was briefly mesmerized by the tendrils of his long dark hair fluttering from his loose queue to tickle his neck and face. She longed to bridge the gap between them and brush that hair from his eyes, to run her fingertips over his face so she could commit every last detail to memory to hold in her heart forever. “I must leave soon.” His voice was deeper than normal, full of a strange stillness. “I must restore the rest of the watch fire network along the coast, from here to the Needles. All before the Spanish risk the Bay of Biscay and the Channel.” She closed her eyes, surprised at the tears she had to fight. With all of her callous attitude, deep in the pit of her soul she had wanted desperately to believe him. Marcus unexpectedly continued on, speaking with fervor. “When I return, I will win your trust, if it is the last thing I do in my life.” Pretty words. Empty words. She remained silent, staring out at the sea and the slowly retreating fog. “I know you will not believe me now, Cora Searle but I have much to tell you. I was angered at your words, your aspersions of my character. But you did say one thing most clearly. You do not know me. But you will.” They sat in silence for another full minute. Cora could not make heads or tails of this compelling man. She turned to look at his profile, the strong chin, the long nose and again she was struck with his resemblance to an eagle. She knew that such birds mated for life. But was she his mate, or his prey? He turned and her eyes met his again. His emotions were unreadable. He was no longer the joyful man she had welcomed to her bed. She swallowed the lump in her throat at having caused him pain and for once let her instincts rule her mind. She opened her arms and embraced him, turning into him and nuzzling his neck, inhaling his scent. He placed a soft kiss in her hair and wrapped his arms around her gently, like she was a fragile flower. Before she could stop herself she was kissing his neck, licking his jaw and then sating herself with his lips in a ravenous kiss. She straddled his lap, rubbing herself shamelessly against him, wanting him to take her right there on the cliffs, wanting to feel him pulse within her one last time. But he groaned loudly and ripped himself from her, pulling back and balancing on his arms as he took deep breaths. His cock was hard beneath her and she could not prevent her hips from circling against him. His eyes practically rolled up in his head and she smiled with the knowledge of her power. Her hands went to the ties of his codpiece but he scrambled backward, effectively dumping her onto the carpet of seagrass upon which they sat. She could not keep the hurt from her eyes. “I love you, Cora Searle. And I want you. I want to fuck you in every position possible and some that are impossible. I want to hold you when I go to sleep and wake up next to you and not have you chase me out of our house.” He laughed ruefully. “But I don’t want you if you won’t believe that. I have to make you believe, ashavi. It is my task. If I did not have a duty to my country, I would never again leave your side. I
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would follow you about like a lost canine until you grew so sick of me you would have to believe!” She could not help herself, she laughed. He looked so sincere and his words filled her with unrecognizable warmth and tenderness. He smiled at her and she smiled back, unable to have her heart keep its distance completely. But she couldn’t believe him. “I’m cursed, you know. All the woman born unto the Searle line have been cursed as witches. Barren. Alone. Fated to tragic lives of misery.” He cocked his head at her. “Your father made that quite clear to me when I asked to court you. I don’t believe your family is cursed. And even so, you don’t have to be the same, Cora. I don’t believe it for a moment.” He stood quickly and held out his hand to her. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. He kissed her sweetly, softly, lovingly. By the time he turned to walk away, the tears she held back were flowing freely. Such pretty, empty words. She watched him walk away for a long time. He did not turn to look at her. The wind picked up slowly, blowing from the south into his face. Cora, even in her exposed position atop the cliffs, was untouched by the gale. The wind blew harder and harder until finally he did turn, looking at her with a huge smile and a fair bit of triumph that she saw in his eyes though he was near half a mile away. Damn my foolish heart. She was well on the way to losing the battle to keep it.
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Chapter Seven One day. One damn day. He’d been in the little town of Sandown for one single day and it was torture to leave. He’d packed his bag the instant he’d returned in the early morning light and he’d grumbled and ranted at her, at God, at fate, at his ancestors and hers but most of all, he’d ranted at himself. Marcus Mares had traveled the world entire. He’d seen the icy cold shores of Muscovy and he’d sampled the beautiful women of the Orient. He’d tasted the fiery hot stews of India and baked in the hot sun off the coast of Africa. But he sure as hell didn’t know how to talk to a woman. He might as well have slapped her silly and carried her off like some of the less savory pirates did all too frequently. Drake never let his men do such things but the reputation of sailors in general was just that. He should have fucking known that he couldn’t spew out mad tales of fate and destiny and not expect a worthy woman to think he was insane or a rakish liar. A stupid woman, perhaps but Cora Searle was neither stupid nor gullible. He should have told her the whole of his history and that of his family before taking her to bed. But the lush invitation of her body, her willingness to learn the art of pleasure—ah, that was impossible to resist. He was walking again and the growing erection at simply the thought of her made each step just that much more difficult. At least on this journey, he had properly fitting, if ridiculous looking, boots. It meant that though his feet still stung, at least his blisters weren’t about to erupt as bloody boils. He’d made better time from Sandown to Lowtherville than he’d expected, in fact he was less than a mile from the next sizeable village and the magistrate that he’d need to speak with. Hopefully they’d be as accommodating as Enoch Searle and not as ornery as Captain Sheffield. He heard the sound of a horse approaching from over a hill in the distance and spotted it the minute it appeared. The rider barreled down at him but Marcus stood his ground on the rough road, feeling somehow hostile toward this cloddish rider abusing his lathered horse. Dressed in severe black, the man pierced him with a look of dismissal and rode close enough that Marcus was forced to the side of the road, under threat of decapitation from the horse’s flailing hooves. He stared at the back of the retreating ride, a coldness settling in his stomach. Marcus was already in a foul mood, having to choose duty over desire. The rider filled him with dread. He hoped that the cursed lout rode fast and hard past Sandown and onto Ryde. He hoped the man left the Isle, or even England, as quickly as could be. Marcus forced himself to continue to walk on, though his boots and hose were spattered with mud and he was again far from presentable. He had to get to Lowtherville, then Niton, then Chale, then— Bloody hell. It would be an age before he
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would be back. There was no help for it. He was going to have to find himself a horse. Bugger. Navy men made terrible horsemen. For the child of Maggie Smith, who could woo any animal to her will, it was embarrassing that horses found him such a disagreeable burden. But even an ornery horse was faster than his own two feet. And time was of the essence. As the thatched roofs and church spire of Lowtherville and Bonchurch came into view, Marcus quickened his pace. Not only were the Spanish not cooling their heels through the spring but their agents were at work collecting information in England. The watch fires had to be in place before the Spanish came. Speed was England’s only advantage against the might of Spain. If he wanted Cora to be safe, for the village of Sandown to be an untouched gem of an England at peace, then he had to complete this mission before returning to her. It would be the hardest thing he’d ever done.
***** Walter Swidden was magistrate for Lowtherville, St. Lawrence and Bonchurch. He was every bit as jolly as Enoch Searle had been serious and reserved, and though friendly, he was far from efficient. Marcus had come very close to bellowing at the poor fellow in his haste to convince the man of the necessity for speed. The whole area was sparsely populated and Marcus doubted there were a hundred people living in the three tiny towns in this isolated corner of the Isle. Swidden had been overjoyed to see him. “Oy, two visitors in as many days! We are truly blessed this spring. Why, some years ’round these parts, we see maybe one stranger the entire year long. Two fine seamen like yourself and Master Lambert, why, it is a pleasure, a pleasure.” Marcus had tried to interject but Swidden would not be gainsaid. “Now, some said that Master Lambert was a nasty fellow, cold in his manner and odd in his requests but I simply think the man was not from around here and we don’t much understand the ways of outside folk. Now you sir, what would you be doing around here again?” Marcus wanted to ask who the hell “Master Lambert” was and what the hell he’d been doing here. He had a bad feeling it had been the rider he’d met on the road to Sandown. But given an opening to finally explain the watch fires and Drake’s orders, he again chose duty over instinct. Swidden had hemmed and hawed and generally made it known that there wasn’t a man to spare during the planting season. When Marcus had suggested using women or children, the man fair had an apoplexy on the spot. Lowtherville was not going to be easy to handle. At least Swidden had given Marcus a somewhat dry room in the attic of his cottage, the largest in the village. Given the howling rainstorm outside, it was far better than a barn or bedding down by the side of the road. Marcus stared at the thatch under the rafters and scratched where he was poked by the hay stuffed in the musty mattress on which he lay. It was hard to believe that the night before he’d been happy and satiated,
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a warm and willing woman asleep in his arms, his heart more content than ever in his lifetime. Now, the ache in his chest would not leave and the cold in his blood was from more than the nasty weather. He closed his eyes and huddled under the rough homespun blanket, determined to lose himself in sleep. Exhausted from the mental and physical exertions of the day, he was asleep in mere moments. The sky and sea were misty gray, the green grass soft and inviting under his bare feet. He looked down at his feet in surprise, only to discover that he was bare from nose to toes. Covering his cock and balls self-consciously, he looked around trying to recognize where he was and how the hell he’d gotten there. He’d been there just this afternoon. It was the cliff where he’d seen Cora sitting when he’d walked out of Sandham Castle. He had just spent a tense hour trying not to step on the toes of an old, scared captain who was in no condition to lead his motley band of lazy soldiers in defense of the beachhead against a landing by hardened Spanish troops. And given that the water in Sandown Bay was the least treacherous in the whole of the Isle of Wight, it was infuriating the lack of preparations being taken. The captain had finally committed to the watch fire project but it would take Enoch Searle breathing down the man’s neck in order to get him to back up those promises with action. When he’d seen Cora up on those cliffs from a mile away, the desolation in her manner was more than he could bear. Yes he was angry but more so at himself than at her. His feet were moving toward her before his mind had made a conscious decision. Now he was in the same clearing, the air preternaturally still for the seaside, the world seeming to hold its breath. But where was she? A movement in the tall grass at the edge of the clearing drew his predator eyes like a shout in the timeless quiet. The warm peach tone of flesh peaked out from the browngreen of the grass. “Cora?” he whispered, unsure of everything, whether he was awake or asleep, dreaming or being dreamed into existence. He heard a great resigned exhalation and the screen of grass parted, revealing his lover in all her rosy, naked glory. She blushed from the rosy tips of her beautiful breasts to her hairline. Her hands fluttered about, as if searching for a place to rest—covering her breasts and the dark curls at the top of her thighs for a moment, then falling to her sides, knowing that such coverage was useless. Marcus let his hands drop as well, revealing the considerable erection that had sprung up the instant he’d glimpsed her beautiful nude form in the light of day. Or night. Or whatever and wherever they were. Truly, this felt more real than any dream he could recall and he felt fully awake and aware of every breath, every sigh, every uncomfortable silence. “Hello, ashavi.”
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She bit her lip, her eyes remaining everywhere but his face. He watched as she unconsciously looked slowly up his body and noted the flare in her eyes as she took in his cock at full salute. When her eyes did finally meet his, she opened her arms, beckoning him to come and embrace her. He could not say no. He took a few steps, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her sweet lips with every hope and prayer that he did not have words for. She kissed him back with desperation and he ran his hands over the smooth skin of her back, equally desperate to renew the connection that had been broken between them. But something was wrong. He pulled away and looked into her eyes with unflinching honesty. What was there was not love, not even passion. There was a cold need, a hopeless yearning. She was still curled up on that cliff, looking out over the blank gray water of the Channel. He stepped back, pushing her grasping hands away and trying to think with his head instead of his cock, a fairly hard thing to do when there’s a naked willing woman writhing in one’s arms. She blinked at him, looking hurt by his perceived rejection. He took a deep breath. “We need to speak of things, Cora. Many things stand between us.” She sighed and nodded, suddenly sitting in a heap as though her bones had lost the strength to hold her up. He wondered if this was truly all his dream and he was about to hold a difficult conversation in his own mind simply to torture himself, or if somehow she really was here. Should he just fuck her and give himself at least that much satisfaction? When she looked up at him, her eyes full of trust and resolution, he had his answer. Talk first. Whatever came after, well, best not think about that when trying to woo a worthy woman. There was little enough blood in his head at the moment. He sat next to her, close enough that his toes brushed hers but far enough that he could almost keep a coherent thought in his head. Her voice was soft and sad when she spoke. “This is an odd dream. I expected you to just take me again. As you have every night since I saw your ship—dreaming or awake.” His brow furrowed. He’d had the same intense sex dreams but he’d never considered that they were somehow shared. Yet, there was little question in his mind now that Cora was having the same dream as himself. But there was something else in her tone…something resigned and full of sorrow. “Ashavi…although I love your body and the pleasure I can give you, that is not all I want of you. I want…” She interrupted him, holding up a hand. “Spare me, sirrah. Talk to me of things other than your supposed love for me. I do not want to hear of something I cannot yet believe in. Tell me. What is the meaning of ‘ashavi’? I have never heard that word before. In what far-off country and with what whore did you learn such an endearment.”
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“No whore could be my ashavi!” His voice was filled with affront and she was taken aback at his vehemence. “Only you, in all the world are my mate, my soul, my ashavi. Do not cheapen that which you do not yet understand.” He covered his face in his hands, trying to stop his anger and recover his composure. She could not understand until he explained and he could not explain until he found the calm within to do so. Another deep breath and he began his tale. “Ashavi is a word in the ancient language of my ancestors. It means, well, I suppose it means companion or mate but it is much more than that. It is the tradition of the men in my family, back for a thousand years or more, that each one searches the world for the woman who can complete them. There is only one. Some men search all their lives and never find that one. But I found you.” She looked at him with disbelief written on her fair features and he gritted his teeth. She would be a frustrating woman to live out his life with but he knew she would never suffer fools. “So, you are in the English Navy but your ancestors are some mysterious tribe full of strange tales and traditions. Where do you hail from sir? To what do you owe your allegiance if not England?” “I am English. I was born here. My mother is as English as can be—a buxom blonde milkmaid with roses in her cheeks. That is how my father always describes her. But my father was born in Bohemia and roamed with the Eastern Rom as a child. You would call them gypsies.” Her eyebrow raised. “Your father is a gypsy?” “My father is a Magi.” There was a long pause. She pursed her lips. Marcus wanted to kiss away that lovely pout and all the questions that went with it but he knew that would not solve their problems, only his lust. “A Magi? Magi, like the three kings of the Christmas story?” She laughed in disbelief, then furrowed her brow. “I tell the truth. The Magi are an ancient tribe, masters of the supernatural to such an extent that the word in English…” “Magic? Your people invented magic? Or are you in league with the Devil and seek to draw me in?” It was his turn to laugh. “No one invented magic, ashavi. Its gifts are boons from the heavens, from God. There is no devil in magic itself, only how it can be abused.” She nodded once, her mind working furiously to take in all that he told her. “You are a Magi then, as well?” “As will be our children.” She snorted and he changed the angle of his attach. “If we have any. But more than anything, I am your mate. I am meant for only you. Your ashava.”
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Her silence was neither accepting or accusatory. Her tongue licked at her dry lips and he followed that simple action with far too much interest. “I was always taught my…my magic was something evil. A curse bred into the family from the pagan Romans who are my ancestors. But…it is beautiful as well. It feels as though…as though my spirit flies free in gratitude to Heaven for the beauty of the world and each wisp of wind that swirls across the land and sea.” She ran a hand through her hair and flopped back onto the grass, staring up at the blank gray sky. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You offer me an answer for something no one has been able or willing to speak to me about. An answer that does not brand me a thing of evil but one simply given a gift. I do not know what it will take for me to set aside the thinking of a lifetime.” He lay down beside her, staring up into the sky as tension coiled in his gut. Minutes passed, until he felt her fingers touch his hand with tentative care and he took her hand in his with a glad grip. “So, how did you know I am your ashavi?” Marcus grinned to the heavens. A victory, however small. “My gift is the gift of sight. I see farther and sharper than any man or beast. Sometimes I can see too much and sometimes my gift is a blessing. It was most definitely a blessing when I saw you from the deck of the Peregrine, the ship I was on. It was like my heart and my body were no longer my own.” “Oh? And has this happened often?” He grumbled. “You know it has not! And the same happened to you.” She whispered, “Yes.” He smiled again. “I never thought in all my journeys, traveling the world entire, that I would find you less than a hundred miles from where I was born and raised. A good English girl.” “I do not know if good is precisely…” He rolled onto his side and cupped her face in his hand, turning her face to his. Those gray eyes reflected the depth of the sky, the breadth of the sea. “You are precisely what I want. And you are good in all the ways that truly matter to me.” “Oh truly?” A flash of impertinence sparkled to life within those wondrous eyes and a long delicate hand snaked between them to stroke his half-hard cock. “Perhaps I need to prove myself to be as ‘good’ as you would wish?” This time, when he leaned toward her and captured her lips, she met him with a full measure of passion. Suddenly, it was as though he held her in his arms once again, real and alive, not the pasty shell he’d first touched in this dream landscape. Her skin was warm and silky and the soft moans in her throat inflamed him to a fever pitch. He was a mere moment away from pushing her back and thrusting into her pussy, taking her with no preliminaries like a savage. But she had other ideas. Her nails sank into the skin of his shoulders, making his cock throb with the delightful pain of it. Her hot mouth ran over the cords of his neck and down to the
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planes of his chest before he could even do more than enjoy the sensation. He wanted her to linger over his skin and torture him a bit more. He wanted to take her and be wrapped inside her instantly. Damn my mind for being so indecisive whilst dreaming. She laughed suddenly, almost as though she could read his mind but continued her downward journey, lavishing attention on his nipples, his ribs, circling her darting tongue around his navel and generally driving him mad. Just as he growled and prepared to yank her back up to meet his hungry mouth, she quickly swooped down to capture his cock in her mouth and his growl turned into a gasp of pleasure. Oh, she was good. She was most wondrous. But her clever tongue sweeping along the most sensitive parts of the head of his cock was not enough for him. He wanted to give, not just take. He groaned as she swallowed his cock until he was deep in her throat and he could feel her cough at the size of him. He slid his hands into her hair and pulled away, an audible pop as he left the warm wet heat of her eager mouth making him laugh at his own desperation. She gave him a disgruntled look, as though being interrupted at her work. Marcus drew her upward by her upper arms, his cock crying as her soft skin dragged along his sensitive cock head. He kissed her with hot need and she wriggled on top of him until he thought he would go mad but found that he was good and trapped between her thighs, the lips of her pussy embracing the throbbing ache of his erection like a balm that soothes and tortures all at the same time. His hands moved from her arms to her hips as his own hips bucked under her, seeking sweet friction. She angled herself as best she could, parting her legs so her knees bracketed his thighs and tried to take him inside while unwilling to give up the drugging taste of his mouth. But it wasn’t quite right. If the agony wasn’t so goddamn delicious and his brain wasn’t sapped of any sense by the blood pounding in his cock, he might have thought it odd that a dream could be so very raw and real, with inconveniences and ticklish spots—like the one she’d just hit upon as she ran her nails down over his ribs. But the only thought in his head was gratitude. For that which he had found and almost lost. When he leaned upward she wiggled some more. With a bit of sliding around and a good deal of muffled laughter that tasted like happiness, finally he was deep inside her again. She was hot and tight and absolutely bloody perfect and he didn’t know how he had survived all the years of his life without this. This time, she did not rise up above him in all her wild glory, though he would not have minded. This time they stretched and strained to stay together, sharing countless kisses as her breasts were crushed against his chest, her arms winding around his neck like cords binding them together. This time was all about the tiniest motions of knees and hips, flexing and contracting, skin against skin. Marcus now knew it was possible to crawl inside another’s skin and want to stay there forever. When they finally came together, it was almost a surprise. It had been building up for seemingly hours of slow burning bliss. Fire shot through him from his cock to his
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balls to straight up his spine, like a coiling snake of flaming pleasure. White engulfed him, erasing the gray sky and the soft grass. Even the warm woman in his arms disappeared as he woke, cold and alone, in an attic in Lowtherville. A gust of wind traveled through the attic and he shivered at its touch, thinking for a moment it was hers. “Damn. Damn and blast. Damn damn double damn. Just a fucking dream.” There was a thump on the floor below him. “Quit your bellyaching, young man. At least you’ve got somebody to be dreamin’ about. All my suitors have been dead for a quarter century! Now, shut yer trap and let an old woman get some sleep.” Marcus stared at the thatch in shock and suppressed a laugh as he realized that Swidden’s old mother had the room beneath him. Pushing off the sticky sheets and promising himself he would leave half a shilling for the housemaid, he turned onto his side and stared out into the predawn drizzle through a crack between the roof and the walls. After a dream like that, sleep should be impossible. Nevertheless, he did sleep again. And though he would not remember it, he held Cora in his arms as she too slept, finding elusive comfort in each other from miles apart.
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Chapter Eight Cora woke up warm and happy, until she realized that her bed was cold and all it had been was a dream. Drawing in a deep breath to try to stifle the sudden tears that threatened, she sniffled once and then let out a small breathy chuckle. What a dream it had been! More real than the fantasies she had been plagued with after she had first seen Marcus’ ship from the cliffs, this had been visceral, more realistic than any dream she could recall. And the sheer inventiveness of it! Some ancient cult of the Magi…bah. What folderol! She was a lovesick fool. She flung her legs over the side of her bed and hopped onto the cold floor, yawning and stretching. She was determined to work hard today, finding some way to banish that man from her thoughts and dreams. Now, if only she could wake up without her pussy being slick and wet with wanting him, she might have a hope of success in forgetting him. The sun was already high, no doubt her father would berate her for sleeping late. But she had lain for hours staring at the canopy above her and trying not to think about the night previous. Which of course meant that she could think of nothing but. Cora had not known it was possible to feel as though she was made of pure sensation, that her body was holy and pleasure divine. No wonder she had dreamed of him and been in his arms though he was a madman and her future cursed. They could not possibly make a match. She should not even contemplate a future of such happiness. Shaking her head clear of pestering thoughts, she dressed in a simple kirtle and apron, intent on working in the kitchen garden. But when she got down the stairs and to the kitchen, she finally realized from the laundry drying over the fires that it was raining outside. Opening the back door and watching the rain mist over the new leaves on the grapevines she blinked in a fair bit of shock. “Oh deary, you are in a tizzy, aren’t you? I can’t remember the last time you didn’t know what the weather would be long before any of the rest of us.” Maggie wiped her hands on her own apron and walked over to watch the rain fall. “Don’t worry, love. Your man will come back to you soon enough…rain or no.” Cora couldn’t deny it. Maggie had known her too long. “How do you know for certain?” “Pshaw, child. I saw how that man looks at you. I’ve seen the deadly sins often enough and a fair amount of lust in my day, though you wouldn’t know to look at me now. But that wasn’t just lust in those uncommonly strange eyes of his. That man loves you.”
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Cora closed her eyes, trying to ignore the hopeful surge in her blood. Maggie always wanted to make the best out of everything and everyone. She also ignored the voice within her begging her to whisk away the English rain so she could stick with her original plan and work herself into a dreamless sleep in the garden. “Maggie, give me something to do.” Her voice sounding just a touch desperate and whining. “Ha! I thought never would I see the day I had a Searle child begging for chores. Still, best way to forget the itch is to stay occupied. I’ve got some young beans to sort and the bread starter to turn. Me old back complains too loudly about the task and I would be happy to leave it up to someone young and spry!” Ah bread. Making bread could most certainly make her forget for at least a little while.
***** She was elbow-deep in dough when her father stomped into the kitchen, soaking wet from the rain and a fair way toward working himself into a fine snit. “Bloody Sir John! The man will not give up and I have no interest in offending the buffoon. He’d let his sheep over the fence and into my grapes and then where would we be! They’ll be two more for supper, Maggie. Sir John and his new guest.” Cora wrinkled her nose and pushed off from her hands as much of the dough as she could, scooping the precious starter into the basket where it lived by the warm embers of the fire. “I thought you were to be checking the west fields, Papa. However did Sir John manage to finagle an invitation to supper?” “It was a bad bit of luck. He was there with his houseguest, a Master Limber or Lumber or some such. Showing him the view from the high crags out to Sandown Bay. Why the man would be interested enough in such a thing to stand out in the rain for the view, I will never know. Maybe Sir John just didn’t want to provide the man another meal and knew I would be out there this morn. That man would spend a fortune on fripperies but sets a sorry table, that’s for certain. Let’s do something impressive then, Maggie! Between you and my Cora, we’ll show them both how a proper supper is done!” Well, Cora had wanted more work. And this would fit the bill, if only she could stay in the kitchen for the meal… “And don’t you think of flying off and hiding, missy! I’ll need you to be hostess, nice and cleaned up by the time they arrive. And talk some! It will keep them from drinking all the good vintages. Perhaps your wit will scare off the bloody sponge and we can finally have some peace!” He stomped out, muttering under his breath about being eaten out of house and home. Cora sighed. Although she did not welcome another meal with Sir John and his no doubt uninteresting houseguest, she did remember with fondness a time when the
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house was full of guests and conversation, when her father would welcome good company. When her mother was still alive. Would this old house ever see those days again? She set four rounds of the fresh dough to rise and be baked for supper. Fresh bread was always a treat and mayhap Sir John would keep his mouth full long enough to stop his annoying courtship. Perhaps it would all turn out well and Marcus’ declaration of a formal courtship would convince the man to stop his unwanted attentions. Somehow she doubted it. “Maggie, give me something else to do. Anything?” “Go track down your brother. I’m afraid he’s off starin’ at the sea again or mucking about in your father’s books.” Maggie went back to her stew. Cora gave a halfhearted laugh, “Edgar has long surpassed Father or me at mathematics. I do wish we could engage a proper tutor for him to study on farther. But perhaps that would just encourage him toward things that cannot be.” How she wished that Edgar could have life at sea. He was a bit old now to start as an apprentice or cabin boy but he was as smart as a whip and full of enthusiasm. If only… She cleaned her hands with the water pitcher and turned to watch Maggie as she tended a simmering pot with care and concentration, already planning all that would need to be done to finish a much expanded supper. “Once you’ve tracked down your brother and made sure he’ll be respectable, then find Sarah for me. I’ll need a bit of help later on and you’d best not be getting dirty.” Cora looked at the pile of shelled peas, the rising bread, the peeled turnips and felt some small sense of accomplishment. At least she’d managed not to stand about like a lovestruck fool for an hour or two. She untied her apron and went in search of her brother. Edgar wasn’t in her father’s study and neither was her father. She made a dash out to the stable to discover that Edgar had not had a horse saddled and that none of the stable lads had seen him walking out. Now thoroughly wet, she went up to her rooms for a dry kirtle, only to find that Edgar was sitting in his own chamber, staring out the warped window glass into the gray sky, looking toward the sea. She knocked lightly upon his open door and he glanced at her, his eyes full of something eerily familiar. Resignation. “Hello sister. How goes the day?” When had his voice become deeper? The voice of a man, not the child she had helped to rear? She could have lied, told him that all was well. But for some reason she knew he would see right through that. “Not well. Trying to stay occupied, rather than dwell on the morass of my thoughts.” He gave her a half-smile. Their mother’s smile. He, more than any of the children, resembled their mother, who he had never truly known. “I am not surprised. Master
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Mares left and after that argument I suppose you must question whether or not he will return.” She blushed to the roots of her hair but did not deny what he obviously knew. “Does Father…” “Nay, you were mostly quiet and Papa takes a few nips of his brandy to sleep. I awoke early and happened to hear him leaving.” There was an awkward pause. Cora sat down on Edgar’s bed, looking at the sketches of ships that papered the walls, from Spanish galleons to the nimble English privateers to the wide Dutch merchantmen. “You’re wrong, I think. He will come back.” Edgar looked out the window once again. “If he’s half as smart as he looks, he wouldn’t give you up. And you shouldn’t let him.” He swung back suddenly, piercing her with a stare. “Be happy, Cora. I know that it’s hard for you, but be happy. Don’t worry about me or Papa or anything. I know my duty but I would not have you stay because of me.” “He was not asking me to leave. He…” What could she say? What had she done? Marcus had simply asked for her love, her trust. And she had refused him, not even given him a chance. “He wanted something I was not yet prepared to give.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “You weren’t that quiet, Cora.” She pursed her lips and gave him her best elder sister glare. “My heart and my hand.” Edgar rolled his eyes heavenward. “Ah, leave it to you to… You are so lucky. You love it here and a fellow strolls in, practically designed for you and you manage to muck it up.” He snorted derisively. “If I had the chance to have what I wanted, I would take it.” He stared out the window again and she knew from his tone she would get no more out of him. “There are guests for supper tonight. Sir John and a guest of his. Be ready and somewhat tidy, please? For Papa?” He nodded short and sharp and she stood, wishing that she could embrace him like she had when he was a little boy. As she reached the door, she heard him whisper. “Be happy, Cora. Try.” She smiled, wishing it was just that easy.
***** Cora was still in no mood for company and certainly no mood to deal with obsequious Sir John and his guest. But she was the hostess of her father’s home and so the family shared a Friday’s supper with Sir John and one Master Nigel Lambert. Sir John leered at her as usual, the disappearance of her erstwhile suitor having made him a good deal braver in his “appreciation” of her assets. Cora contemplated the need to start carrying a small dagger on her person, or her behind would be covered with purple pinch marks in a week’s time.
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Perhaps a dagger was truly not a bad idea. Sir John was one thing but the way Master Lambert stared at her— It set her skin to prickling, as though a bad wind was coming. The kind that started fires in the forest and made men speak of ghosts walking the earth. There was a hunger in his gaze, not for her body but for something she could not name. As though he wanted to consume her very soul. Sir John noticed nothing and her father seemed slightly uncomfortable but nothing more. Only Edgar seemed equally disturbed by the silent brooding man who shared their supper. As it was Friday, there was no meat, but fresh cockles, fish stew, broiled mackerel, a stout bean potage, peas, turnips, the first of the season’s strawberries, honeyed walnuts, yellow cheese and her warm fresh bread. Sir John ate his fill of all but the bean potage, as he was deeply suspicious of anything that smacked of the vegetable, except of course for the onion, which he had a devout fondness for. Such insights were the breadth and the breath of his conversation, which he kept up throughout the evening with little effort or attention on anyone else’s part. Master Lambert was silent, except for acknowledging the occasional question from Sir John or more rarely, Master Searle. Cora had the oddest feeling that her father was trying to pounce on the man and get him to say something unguarded. Master Searle interrupted Sir John’s treatise on the best way to stew lambs’ brains for just such a parry, “Master Lambert, I was quite curious as to the project you are working on. Sir John said you are here on behalf of the Navy. Do you perhaps know a Master Mares? Marcus Mares?” Cora felt a chill in her bones and she wished fervently that her father had not mentioned her lover to this man. Lambert looked up from his trencher with wide, cold blue eyes and stared at her father just a moment too long for comfort. “No, sir. I am not familiar with the man.” Cora wished she was sitting closer to her father, rather than on the opposite end of the table. If she were closer, she could give him a good swift kick in the shins to shut him up. “Really! He is also involved in a project for the Navy. Setting up a warning system of sorts. Really very clever. I’m sure the two of you will meet, as you both seem to require going up and down the coast.” Lambert’s eyes narrowed and Cora was certain he clutched his eating knife a bit harder. “How…why do you say that?” “Oh, well, some of my men have seen you out on the cliffs, sketching away. And you’ve hired some of the boys from the village to carry you out in rowboats to take soundings. It is very hard to keep a small village like this from talking about your activities, Master Lambert. You are far too interesting.” Cora felt her stomach drop at the look Lambert leveled at her father. She thought she would freeze when that look traveled to her. “Young Mistress Searle. Sir John tells me that you have quite a number of swains. I can see why, you are quite a beauty.”
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Instead of a blush rising to her cheeks at the compliment, she felt herself drain to an unnatural pallor. She muttered a quiet, “Thank you,” for the compliment but her father could not let such praise lay still. “Oh ho, Master Lambert! You would not want to give Sir John competition for the lovely lady. He’s had an eye on my daughter for years.” Lambert gave a small smile that did not reach his eyes. “I can assure you, Master Searle, that if I settled my mind to have something, then I would not dither about for years. I would have it.” Cora sank her nails into her knees under the table. She knew her complexion must now be ghostly pale. Sir John sputtered in some approximation of laughter at the insult but mostly the echoing silence reigned. Edgar looked at her over the goblet he gripped in his hands, his eyes full of fear but more than a little bit of fierce protectiveness. Her father may not be as sensitive to the threat but Edgar at least understood that Nigel Lambert was no one to take lightly. He was deadly serious.
***** Cora thought that given the disturbing nature of supper, she would certainly have similarly disturbing dreams. But she actually fell asleep quickly and slept well. In the morning, she did not even notice the breeze in her room or remember the sensation of being held through the night in comforting arms. The weather had cleared and so she spent the day in the gardens, tending young vegetable plants and reveling in the simple peace of spring blossoms. May Day was next week and on the Isle it was a festival of flowers and one of her favorite holidays. As she knelt in the midst of the fragrant herbs, she imagined herself strolling arm in arm with Marcus through the happy crowded town square, dancing and laughing under the maypole, even jumping through the ancient Beltane fires at night. A wicked thrill ran through her at what would surely follow. Beltane was still a day of power, even if its ancient roots had been covered over with religious piety. The day was still a fertility festival and every year Cora had snuck out to watch the fires, she had felt the throb of her magic within her, a thrumming need for something she could not identify. Now that she knew true passion, May Day would be almost unbearable with wanting a man who would be miles away. One who may already have forgotten her. She sighed loudly. If it meant that he was safe and happy, she would suffer gladly. But she would not be able to forget him so easily. Cora attacked the unlucky weeds with particular vigor, angry though she could not say at what. Every head of burdock seemed to have the sallow staring face of Nigel Lambert, accusing and condemning her, making her life a misery because of the way she had been born. She had made no secret pact with the Devil. She had not broken every commandment, or drunk the blood of innocent infants. She did not deserve to be cursed! 61
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When she came back into the house bearing a basket of parsley, spring onions and sage, she was muddy from head to toe. Maggie did not ask about the tear tracks staining her cheeks. Cora could not truly have explained them. She might have tried to claim her courses had come early but Maggie would know better, as she oversaw Sarah and the laundry as well as the kitchen. No, self-pity would be the only cause Maggie would see and she would simply cackle. “I am quite fatigued, Maggie. I will not be down for supper.” Cora escaped to her rooms, locking the door and shedding her dirty clothing. She stood nude in the light of the late afternoon. Pouring water from the clay pitcher into a shallow basin, she wet a cloth and drew it over her sunburned skin, the sting of the burn bringing more tears to her eyes, tears she had no will to fight. The cooling cloth was no substitute for the lover’s hands she needed and longed for. Even trying to touch herself, an activity that had long brought her relief, was unsatisfactory now. When she was clean, she simply crawled under the soft sheets and heavy blankets and let her tears flow until sleep claimed her.
***** She stood once again behind a hedge of witch hazel, contemplating the man walking south on the Ryde road. This time was slightly different from the first though. Not only was she completely naked to the elements, the soft breeze tightening her nipples to hard points but the man walking flagrantly down the highway was also wonderfully nude. Well toned calves, hard muscular thighs, his cock proudly on display already half hard as his golden-brown eyes searched the woods with uncanny accuracy. She knew she could not hide for long, nor did she want to. She wanted to run her hands through the untidy mess of his white-streaked black hair, kiss the sun-baked lines on his face, be held in the strength of his tanned arms. Ignoring the sting and scrapes from the branches, she walked around the bush, smiling at Marcus while appraising him from head to muddy toes. “Your footwear has improved.” He grinned back, looking her over just as thoroughly, making her shiver with need. His cock revealed as much of his thoughts as did her blushes. His voice was deep and rough when he returned her quip. “You do not like my fine red boots? You must own that they are an improvement over what I wore the first time I traversed this road. And they’ve been kind to my poor feet the rest of the journey, though I hate every step that takes me away from you.” She stared at him a moment, realizing how very odd this dream was. It must be a dream, for she could not remember how she could have ended up naked on the edge of the North Forest. She was certain that in her fantasies, she would not have him speak so. It was almost as though it was him, not a dream of him. Cora was not certain which she would prefer.
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“No matter how comfortable those garish things may be, I prefer to see the feet they cover.” Perhaps not the most witty of retorts but her mind was all a muddle. And it was true. He did have handsome feet, not horned or furry, just strong and sturdy. She never thought a man’s feet could be attractive but his were. She wanted to hold them in her lap and rub the soles after a long day. Then, to hear him sigh in pleasure as he relaxed, then yell in surprise as she leaned over to kiss the tip of his cock. She blinked, trying to understand how she could fall into a lust-filled reverie in the middle of a dream. He smile quirked sideways and amusement made his eyes bright and showed off the dimple in his left cheek. He must have suspected what she was thinking of. “It is a pleasure to see your…feet again as well. And the lovely legs that rise above…and…” He took a step forward and her heart fluttered. If this was a fantasy, she would be more than happy to fuck him right here and now, in the mud of the road under the open sky with nary a care in the world. But something made her hesitant. Something at the edge of her vision that flickered and made her nervous. And the simple fact that he was not the brash demanding lover of her past dreams, now he was the complex man she longed to know body and soul. Even if this was a figment of her imagination, she wanted privacy to be able to explore his body and his mind. Marcus reached out, closing the gap between them not with a fervent kiss but with the gentlest touch, cupping her cheek in his hand. She leaned slightly against him, reveling in the warmth of him and his unhurried tenderness. With his other hand, he took hers and tugged her back toward the forest, unconsciously taking the same route by which she had sprinted away from him only a few days previously. His fingered entwined with hers, they walked slowly through the dappled shade, catching glimpses of each other’s nude body but keeping apart out of an unspoken need for time. “What troubles you, ashavi? Talk to me, sweet one. I would know anything and everything of your life, your thoughts, your dreams…” His voice pitched lower and his eyes drifted over her body to rest on the peaks of her nipples but suddenly those eyes closed and his gaze returned to her face. He seemed determined not to make the first move toward realizing their passion. It would be easier to simply have wild sex on the forest floor and awaken, rather than having to talk about her innermost thoughts. And yet it would be such a relief to speak. “We do not need to speak of us, our connection. Tell me of your childhood and I will tell you of mine. For that is where everything begins, does it not?” Before she could think of stopping herself, words poured forth, with Marcus listening attentively even when she seemed lost in another world. “Papa and Edgar and Edmund worked hard managing the vineyard, tending the grapes with all the care that Mama had given us when she was alive. But Mama knew I was different and impressed upon Papa that he let me be if I could be spared. So as often as I would dare, I ran far from the vines and fields and clung to the coast, feeling
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the salt air touch my lips. The beauty of the sea entranced me, the clouds of fog, the roiling and flash of a storm, the warm kiss of summer-hot waters lapping at my feet. And then, when a ship sailed too close to the coast, what was it other than the blessing of God that I should look upon it and the wind would gust from nowhere and it would turn to safety before encountering the rocks I knew would tear its hull to shreds.” Tears ran down her face. “Mama knew that I had to stop. The legends were known everywhere in the Isle. She made me promise to do nothing, to hold it inside. And I have, I did! So, why do the old women of the village either ask me to touch their children in blessing if the crops are good and the weather fair, or look upon me as a blight if the season is too wet or too dry, even if that is what nature requires for this time.” “They do not understand, ashavi. They fear what they do not understand.” “I did not ask for this! It is because my blood here runs too deep, as deep and old as the vines. Romans planted them here on the Isle longer than there’s been an England. The Searles can trace their history back to those Romans.” “Then you too have a family legacy. A gift…” “You keep saying that! It is a curse, not a gift! You can cover it over with flowery phrases but I must control myself at all times, or the wind calls to me, tempts me, flows all around me as though it longs to play! I would be burned for less!” “I cannot change that this world is made of superstitious fools who have not the understanding of a squirrel.” He jerked his head toward the precocious red squirrel that perched on a branch near their heads, chittering at them. Marcus’ eyes shone bright gold even in the shadows of the forest. “I promise you, the opinion of others matters not one whit to me, nor should it to you. Short of bringing the law down upon your head, be who you are, don’t try to repress your talent or you will suffocate your very self.” His impassioned plea sounded so tempting. It made so much sense, to be true to herself and in the bargain, accept him and all the sweet promises he made. And yet, how to throw away a lifetime of learned caution and mistrust? She could not speak and he did not try to force her. Instead, they continued to walk hand in hand. When he did speak, he spoke instead of his own childhood. His parents and his sisters. Working at pumping the forge for his father. Teasing his sisters. Playing tricks on local boys with his extraordinary sight and getting beaten up for it. Learning to balance using his skills and concealing them when necessary. The sound of his voice flowed over her and drew her in. His story was one she understood deeply. And yet, he seemed so much more comfortable in his skin that she did in her own. He carried on, intent on putting her at ease. “My mother cried most pitifully the day I left to go to sea with Drake. I am not ashamed to admit that once on the road toward Plymouth, I let my own tears flow. I’m sure Drake saw me sniffle like a young whelp but the man said nothing but that it would be different once we were at sea. And it was!”
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“How so?” She could not help but ask, curiosity about his life overwhelming her previous melancholy. “Well, I was so sick the first three days at sea, I had not the energy for tears.” He laughed and she did as well, loving the rich sound of his laughter combined with hers. “And then of course, I was far too busy learning to climb the rigging, or learning the proper math to plot charts, or cleaning some part of the ship, to be homesick for more than a few minutes at a time. It was a good life and I did well enough.” “You speak as though it is in the past. Are you not still an officer in Her Majesty’s Navy?” He stopped walking, his eyes piercing her with their intensity. “Not for long. Not after the Spanish have been driven away. Then, I shall learn to tend a vineyard. Or farm wheat. Or chase after sheep. Whatever you wish to do.” She blinked at him, unable to accept his words. Letting go of her hand, he gripped her shoulders, shaking her slightly and looking wounded. “Believe me, ashavi! Damnation but I have a fortune sitting in a bank in London, waiting for me to buy an estate anywhere I choose. I had shares in the bounty from some of the most successful expeditions known in England. I could purchase my own ship, or a fleet of ships, if I so choose. But I choose to be with the woman I love. The woman I will marry as soon as I can return to claim her.” His lips took hers in a kiss profoundly passionate. Cora could not hope to withstand the onslaught and melted into him, her arms encircling his neck and her body pressing against his. His words were too sweet, his cock too hard, the explosive sensations within her too amazing to be real. But this was a dream and she needed him. Now. She pulled him backward until her back rubbed up against the bark of a tree, then she hooked her ankle around his knee. He did not disappoint her and as her legs parted, his cock slid against the wet lips of her pussy. Lust flared up like a bonfire licking the dry tinder of her passion. She was primed to burn. Cora didn’t think it was possible to need something so badly. She needed Marcus inside her. He bent his head, his goal obviously to take her nipple into his mouth but she raked her nails over his back to stop him. “No! Inside me, now!” She circled her hips and Marcus sucked in a breath. He shook his head and nipped at her nipple with his teeth. “Let me love you, ashavi.” He sucked on her nipple, sending pleasure shooting through her. She moaned, giving in to being pleasured and threading her fingers through the long mane of his hair. His lips traveled over her stomach, his tongue invading her navel and making her giggle for a moment. He turned his face up to hers and smiled at her, his white teeth sparkling. The honest happiness in his eyes brought a sudden flare of tears to hers. She could not believe this was real…and it wasn’t, was it?
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Then his tongue traced through her curls and swirled around her nub and she could not question anything anymore. The back of her head hit the trunk of the tree as her back arched with pleasure. His large hands gripped the curves of her ass and he drank from her pussy, sucking softly on her pearl and then running his tongue through her folds, then thrusting and swirling at the opening of her sheath. Soon enough, his hands were the only things holding her up. All her muscles were taut, her toes digging into the earth as he brought her closer and closer to climax. She moaned loudly, making inarticulate noises, at one moment demanding that he never stop and the next that he stand up and fuck her properly. With a final stroke of his tongue she came, shouting as the tension imploded within her as white hot pleasure. He continued to lap at her lightly as she came down from the heights, his grip of her tightening to counter the complex relaxation of her muscles. Otherwise she would have been a boneless puddle on the forest floor. As consciousness flooded back to her, so too did the need for him to experience the same pleasure. If her orgasm had not woken her from sleep, then she planned on taking advantage of this luscious dream as much as possible. She yanked mercilessly on the dark length of his hair. He obliged, standing up and kissing her. As she tasted her juices on his lips, she felt his cock prod her open swollen pussy and she sighed happily. He pushed her into the rough bark of the ancient rowan tree as she wrapped her legs around his thighs. When his cock sank deep into her sheath her eyes rolled back into her head from the ecstasy of feeling complete again. His teeth scraped against her neck and the bark scraped her back and the pain simply heightened the pleasure from the drag of his cock inside her. Her oversensitized nub was rubbed just the right way as his hips snapped against her and she began to sing a wordless song, emitting a gasp with the end of every stroke. Sooner than she could have believed possible she was once again hovering on the edge of climax but she refused to climb that peak without her lover. Her hands reached down to his ass and her fingers dug in, insisting that he release his iron control and come. His tongue traced the edge of her earlobe, his breath searing and sultry and making her burn even hotter. He stopped his thrusts and she groaned loudly in protest. He made a sudden deep thrust and she let out a small scream of pleasure. Then he stopped again. She swore in protest and he laughed against her neck. In retaliation she scraped her nails over his ass and his lower back and he thrust again, this time it was he who was groaning at the edge of control. She clenched the muscles of her sheath and he tensed, his hands gripping her ass tight enough to leave bruises. With a gasp he began to pound into her. “You are too damn tempting…too fucking beautiful…and you…are…mine,” he growled into her ear and she convulsed around him, yelling in triumph as she came hard enough to see the stars above the cloudless blue sky. His hot seed flooded her as
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he pumped into her for a long minute, extending her orgasm with every stroke and leaving both of them completely drained. They slid down the tree as his knees gave way, ending up in a heap entwined on the forest floor, still connected and unwilling to part. The breeze blew through the trees, giving her goose bumps. She laid her head on his shoulder and let the sweaty heat of him sink into her, warming her. The wonderful smell of him and sex and earth and wind filled her nostrils, making her feel perfectly at home out in the untamed forest. Lassitude overcame her and she could feel herself slowly drift off to sleep, more content and happy than she could recall. The last thing she remembered was him pressing a soft kiss into the wild mess of her hair. “Ashavi.”
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Chapter Nine Marcus woke to the sound of the wind rustling through the plank walls of the squat barn he slept in. The taste of her pussy was still on his tongue and the feel of her silky hair was still on his lips from that last kiss. He didn’t want to be here, he wanted to be back in that forest holding her but he had to make the best of it. Niton was bigger than Lowtherville but the magistrate lived in Upper Niton and the old lighthouse was in Undercliff, right on the coast and that seemed to be the best place to mount the watch fire station. Perhaps it had not been the best decision to bunk with the lads who ran the lighthouse, as his dreams had been incredibly graphic and he was not sure the noises he had made whilst balls-deep in his dream Cora had been all within his mind. There was a distinct lack of juvenile snickering though, so with the exception of the sticky mess left in his bedroll, there was nothing left of his dream but fond memories. Only his sense of duty made him arise and prepare for the day. He would talk to the magistrate once more in Upper Niton and then continue on his trek to the goal of reaching Brightstone by nightfall. Given the rough terrain of the coast, it was an ambitious plan but he had no choice other than to push himself as far as his legs would go. He wanted to get his job done and get back to Cora as soon as he possibly could. The rest of the lads occupying this shed were still asleep. Marcus stripped and in the morning chill, dipped into a basin of icy water and ran a cloth over himself, trying to wash away the lingering desire in his blood. It didn’t work. Instead it made him think of Cora doing the same task and how he would like to wash her rosy skin—then follow the cloth with his tongue, tasting her flavor in lieu of his breakfast. His thoughts led to his cock twitching again and Marcus cursed under his breath as he hurriedly pulled on his pantaloons, shirt and doublet. He stepped outside, wincing at the light and wishing he could don his darkened spectacles without receiving odd looks from all and sundry. Shielding his eyes from the early morning sun, he looked up at the ancient lighthouse the locals called the “Pepperpot”. St. Catherine’s Point was just down the slope, the southernmost tip of the island and a place of countless ships’ demises. This lighthouse was perfectly situated to try to prevent shipwrecks and its fires had been burning for nigh on three hundred years. The main keeper was also the curate of the little chapel built next to the tower. He and his housekeeper would no doubt already have breakfast on for the lads who worked the fires and watched the sheep pastured in the grassy fields around the lighthouse. Marcus wanted to just leave and get farther on his appointed course but he knew it would be best to stay and eat and make certain that the watch fire plans were set and understood, the signals clear and precise.
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The better he did his job, the less likely he would have to go back and fix mistakes and take himself away from his ashavi again. He knocked on the back door of the parish house and sure enough Mistress Eggle had bread and cheese and a hearty porridge ready for the ravenous boys and she was more than happy to feed one more. Davies, the curate, was still at his prayers, so Marcus had the full advantage of Mistress Eggle’s giggling attention. She had seen the far side of forty but she was still full of vim and vigor and more than anything, full of a thirst for gossip. Niton only had a couple of hundred residents and news from the outside was as valuable as a full boatload of cod, or even brandy “liberated” from shipwrecks off the coast. She pelted him with questions about goings-on in the world, England, Ryde, Sandown, anywhere and everywhere he’d set foot in the last few weeks. The woman had extracted a good amount of his life story before his porridge had cooled sufficiently to eat. “And then you must have met the Searles in Sandown then! Oh, it’s terrible what happened to their mother, those poor children. And then to have a girl in the family. Oh, what a shock. All those legends, don’t you know. Did you see the girl then? She must be grown by now, unless something awful happened. Is she an odd one then?” Marcus resisted the urge to roll his eyes heavenward. “Mistress Searle is a lovely woman.” “Oh, I’m sure she is beautiful. Witches are usually either as ugly as sin or as beautiful as temptation.” He could not disagree that Cora was the epitome of temptation but simply said, “Cora Searle is a fine woman. There is not a bit of evil in her. If there were, I wouldn’t be courting her, would I?” The woman’s bushy brown eyebrows shot skyward. “Oh, begging your pardon then, Master Mares. I didn’t know!” She turned back to her cooking, stirring with vigor to cover up her embarrassment. Marcus made use of the awkward pause to redirect the conversation in a useful direction. “Mistress Eggle, have you perchance heard of a Master Lambert? A newcomer to these parts. Was he here some days ago?” “Oh him,” she said, scrunching up her nose like she’d smelled something foul. “He was here all right. Spent all his time in the church, or finding a boy stupid enough to row him out, even in bad weather, to get a look at the coast hereabout. Always drawing somethin’ too. Not sure what. And not very friendly to me or the curate. I think he suspected us of living in sin!” She gave a shocked harrumph and turned to start chopping vegetables with an evil looking knife, leaving Marcus to mull over this new information with each bite of his porridge. He climbed around the crevasse separating St. Catherine’s Point from Upper Niton and paid his respects to the local magistrate. The man was not welcoming and Marcus was uncertain whether the man took umbrage with Marcus himself or with outsiders in
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general. Again, Marcus would have quite a bit to say to this Master Nigel Lambert should he ever run into the man. If nothing else, he was making Marcus’ job that much more difficult and slowing him down—robbing him of time he could have used to return to Cora. That alone was worth a good satisfying punch in the face. By midday, Marcus was scrambling over the rocky path that passed for a road from Niton to Brightstone. The waves crashed into the coast below him and he could see the swirling of dangerous currents that made these waters treacherous for ships. He rounded one small bay after another and soon understood that he would have to man more watch fires than had been predicted. It would take more than this one trip to organize and it would definitely take the support of the magistrates and the local people. Fie, why had Drake saddled him with this infernal business! He had not the skills or charm to carry this off. And lud, even with these fine boots, his feet still hurt. But Marcus was not the type to dwell in misery. The rolling green hills off the coast reminded him powerfully of the hills of his home in Devon. There was not a soul for miles, just a few scattered sheep and cows and the squawking sea birds. He easily lost himself in a world of his imagination, where Cora was by his side and he was describing the Devon countryside around Marldon. Showing her the swimming hole near a friend’s farm, or the twisting path down to the ocean. Stealing a kiss in the hayloft of the dairy. Impressing her as he helped his father at the bellows of the smithy, just for old times’ sake. His mother would love her, as would his sisters. He couldn’t wait to take her there and see the happiness of his parents’ faces that he had found such a treasure. Lost in his musings, before he had quite realized it, darkness had fallen. Though he could see the lights of a village in the distance, he had no desire to intrude on a small hamlet in the darkness. The weather did not look like rain and Mistress Eggle had generously supplied him well for any eventuality as far as food. He found a comfortably sheltered knoll and settled in for the night. He unpacked a blanket from his bag and brought out the bread and cheese and dried apples. Under the starry sky he watched the white caps of the ocean and felt the breeze on his face. Truly, it was no worse than the packed underdeck of a ship. There, the smells of a hundred men and the creaking and swaying of a hundred hammocks made moving an inch a process that made grumbles arise up and down the line. And lord forbid anyone snore too loudly after a round of grog. Better by far to sleep under the stars and hear the ocean’s call fresh and bright in his ears. Wrapping himself in his blanket, he closed his eyes. But he could not find sleep easily. Something was bothering him and that something was the stories he’d heard of Master Nigel Lambert. He’d never heard of the man and he’d served at one point or another with a goodly amount of the Royal Navy. And it was unlike Drake not to tell him of another man with a mission for the Navy in such an unlikely place as the Isle of Wight. Turning all the whisperings over and over in his mind, he finally fell asleep, still unsettled. 70
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Once again, his dreams were of his ashavi, naked and smiling, free of the burdens that she carried during the daylight hours. The place however, was nowhere they had been together but the landscape of his childhood that had occupied his mind for most of the afternoon. “Where are we, Marcus?” She’d taken his arm, not bothering to try to cover her nudity as she had previously. Apparently, she had become resigned to the odd nature of these dreams. He was certain that this was no vision from his imagination. She was truly here, in his dreams and this was his chance to court her as she deserved. As they walked between the lush fields of growing wheat and barley, he could not help but let his eyes roam more over the lushness of her body than the familiar countryside. “We are in Devon, near Marsdon. The town in which I was born and raised.” Her eyebrow rose and she looked down at their mutually unclothed bodies. Biting her lip in a manner he found to be incredibly sensual, she then asked, “I think perhaps we are underdressed to meet any of your family, sirrah.” He laughed and picked her up in his arms, whirling her around as she squealed in mock protest. “Does this mean, my lady, that you would like to meet my family one day?” “As this is a dream and most likely I am speaking to a figment of my overactive imagination, I will honestly answer that if you were to return to me and make me your wife, I would consider it my duty to make the acquaintance of your relations.” Ah, confirmation that this was much more than a simple dream. The blush upon her cheeks was most becoming and he could not stop himself from pressing a loving kiss against the ripeness of her lips. One thing led to another and both of them were breathless with desire all too soon. His cock was already leaking in desire for her, hot and hard against the softness of her stomach. Drawing back, he smiled once again at the undisguised passion in her eyes. “Come, my ashavi and soon to be my bride, let me show you all the haunts of my youth. I am certain there will be no one to disturb us and there is a hayloft I am most eager to introduce you to while we have this chance.” Her bright laughter rang through the hills as he tugged her after him. He ignored the dark figure standing on a hill in the distance and did not alert her to its presence. He had no desire to turn her shy or worry her unnecessarily. He knew he had no doubts about her, only his own worries about duty and deceptions on a grander scale. She should not have to share that part of his life, not if he could protect her from it.
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Chapter Ten The day was bright and sunny and the town square was gaily decorated in flowers of every kind, from foxglove to dog rose, oxlip to daffodils. The maypole had been set up last week and the ribbons tied to it fluttered in the breeze as children squabbled over who would start off the maypole dance. The height of spring and the middle of the planting season was a time of hard work and May Day was a much needed celebration in the midst of toil. Today, there would be prayers and dancing and tonight there would be fires and feasting and enough erotic adventures among a half-drunk populace to make even the most pious remember that this was Beltane, the great fertility festival since long before the Romans ever touched the shores of Britain. Cora was locked in a bittersweet world, smiling and nodding to those she passed, while her heart was miles away, being carried by a man who might never return. For her, there would be no bouquet of flowers from a courting suitor, or a hot night of passion culminating in the sweet gift of a child. Gods old or new would not smile on her tonight. All she had to rely on was herself and her memories. And the dreams she had dreamed almost every night. Dreams where Marcus Mares courted her and made love to her and won her heart over and over again. The night before they had walked together in a land unlike anything she could imagine. They had walked hand in hand on a broad beach where the sand was silky between her bare toes. Strange trees swayed in a soft warm breeze, like bright green flowers at the top of long swaying stalks. She’d seen pictures of date palms in the Holy Land in her father’s books but these were taller by far. Marcus had laughed and using a sharp rock he’d opened the fruit of these trees and had her sip the sweet fresh liquid within. He’d called it coconut. He’d told her they were in the Pacific, on one of the thousand of islands in an ocean unbelievably vast. Then he’d lured her into water warm enough to be bathwater. All around them were brilliantly colored fish and there they watched the sun set across a rainbow colored sky. In the salty warmth they’d made love with a languid fervor, every sensation different while floating in the liquid embrace of a faraway sea. No man would give up such wonders for a woman. Especially not a cursed woman like her. These dreams had to be simply wishful thinking, naïve and silly. She could not find such happiness and she’d best not try. So she poured out small beer for the children and new wine for the adults who entered the reveries themselves soon enough, with morris dancing and laughter and ribald teasing. Blushing girls and saucy men flirted with abandon and the haystacks would be full this eve. Cora wondered if she would feel the same in twenty years,
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maybe watching Edgar’s children dance the maypole as she still ladled out liquid courage. Every so often, her eyes flicked away from the dancers and toward the dark figure of Nigel Lambert leaning against the front wall of the parish church, staring with disapproval at the crowd. As far as she could tell, the man had not gone in to the wellattended May Day Mass in the morning and but had entered the church several other times to pray alone at Matins, Lauds and Terce. She’d rarely heard of a man so devout who was not a priest or a monk. Then again, she didn’t know he wasn’t. One time, she stared at him a moment too long and he nodded his head at her in acknowledgement. His eyes still carried that hungry look that so frightened her and she shivered as he walked across the edge of the square and straight toward her table. “Mistress Cora, good day to you.” She bristled. He had no right to address her by her Christian name. “Good day to you, Master Lambert.” She wanted no further conversation with the man and refused to engage him with pleasantries. He had nothing to say but complaints about every aspect of her way of life and Edgar told her he lapped up the rumors of the Searle women told in the Fire and Flood when he’d bought rounds of ale for all and sundry. Cora more than disliked the man. She was afraid of him. For all the legends of curses and strange powers and the sad fate of her female Searle ancestors, none had been burned as witches. The word was never spoken in Sandown, though she suspected many thought it. Especially when the wind came up out of nowhere when she was about. But the fire in Nigel Lambert’s eyes was far far different from that in the eyes of Marcus Mares. It was not the fires of desire and passion but the cruel fires of a witch burning. Sometimes his gaze was so intense she swore she could feel the fires lapping at her toes and smell the smoke in her nostrils. “I do not think Saint Joseph would approve of such licentious behavior as this dancing on his feast day, do you?” Her eyes flicked over to the center of the square, where children had been chased off by the young men of the village, who were cavorting between blushing ripe girls and stealing a quick touch or a fleeting kiss where they could. It was harmless fun. “I think that the young people are enjoying the gift of a fine spring day and thanking the Lord with their joy and celebration. St. Joseph knows more than any soul the beneficence of the Lord in his gifts.” He pursed his lips and stared down the sharp slice of his nose at her. He did not enjoy being bested by a woman. Cora could have kicked herself for drawing his attention to herself, although she seemed to capture his interest just any by existing within his line of sight. “An interesting view, Mistress Cora. Most interesting.” His eyes narrowed and went icy cold, cold enough that she shivered and had to look away. Thank goodness Mistress Jones came up for her third glass of wine punch with three of her seven 73
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children in tow. The crowd of rowdy children chased Lambert back into hiding and Cora tried to shake off the sense of foreboding she felt, for she was starting to make the air around her quite chilly and though it might benefit the wine, she had no desire to catch a chill and be sick and miserable when Marcus came back. She blinked and realized that yes, she was certain he would come back. The thought gave her such pause that she did not respond to Mistress Jones’ slurred gossip and the lady walked off in a snit with her brood. Cora regretted her impoliteness but warmth once again filled her as she clung to her newfound belief and the happiness it gave her. Maybe, just maybe, her trust would not be broken. When her father came to man the Afydden Manor table for a spell, Cora found herself surprisingly willing to engage in being joyful, even dancing at the maypole with children and young lovers. She tucked a flower in her hair and smiled more than she had in a very long time. Edgar complimented her on her appearance, as did several town matrons and even a couple of fishermen and shopkeepers. Though she had no interest in any man other than Marcus, it was nice to suddenly be noticed as a woman. By the time the shadows were lengthening and afternoon was turning into evening, the gaiety had turned just a bit wild. Children went home and the festivities quietly moved from the center of Sandown to the broad fields higher up, away from the cliffs. The Beltane bonfires were lit, as they had been for thousands of years and two of every kind of farm animal, from goats to doves, oxen to sheep, were driven between two tall blazes, the blessing of the spring brought down from the heavens. Cora had always come to the Beltane fire, even when she was very young. It was almost a compulsion to watch the flames flicker into the starry night sky and feel the thrumming energy surrounding all the courting couples who dashed between the fires, laughing and kissing. The sounds rising up from the surrounding fields were the sounds of pleasure, the sounds of love made flesh, undeniable passion of a night made for lust. Cora felt the pull herself but instead of the mild craving she had long felt, she now burned with need for one particular man. Curse her luck that the man was by now on the opposite side of the Isle. All she could hope for was to visit him in dreams this night. The wind blew softly, making the fires dance and sing in their crackling bass. The animals brayed and huffed in discomfort at the mystery of fire. She should go home, go home and try to dream of her lover. But the fire called irresistibly. It sang a song of passion and power. In its thrall, she felt Marcus’ hand in hers, his body sitting next to her in the grass. The warmth of the fire was the warmth of his smile. Finally, when the sounds of copulating lovers grew too loud to ignore, she stood shakily and, all alone, began the walk in darkness toward Afydden Manor. The stars shone down and the breeze blew gently, keeping her awake with its slight chill. She knew once she found the warmth of her blankets she would find sleep and hopefully Marcus would be there for her once again. She certainly needed him. Halfway home, in a small stand of oak trees by the side of the road, a sharp crack made her pause for a moment. It was a moment too long. She was yanked into the deep 74
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shadows, a hand covered her mouth even as she tried to scream. Frozen in fear, she was pinned to the ground by a man before she could even think to fight back. “Hello witch.” Nigel Lambert sneered at her, his eyes flashing hatred even in the darkness. Her body moved before her thoughts could command it. She kicked and thrashed, desperate to get up and get away from the man. He hauled back and slapped her hard and as blood trickled down her lip she kept thrashing so much that he sat on her, pinning her down with his body so that his foul breath was right in her face. “Settle down, Satan worshipper. You’ve tempted too many God-fearing men with your devil wiles and I will put an end to it. I will inspect you from head to toe for the Devil’s mark.” He gripped her hands in one of his, running the other over her breasts, her ribs and poking between her thighs. She spat into his face and he bared his teeth. “If it cannot be seen with human eyes, then I shall mark you myself to reveal you for the whore you are!” He yanked at the top of her bodice but the fabric was tougher than his mania. He clawed at her, trying to bite her or kiss her, she knew not. All the time, she refused to be still, kicking and screaming, though the wind swirled about them, so loud that she was sure no one could hear her cries. That wind howled around her, flattening the grain growing in the field beyond this stand of trees. The trees themselves leaned groaningly toward the ground as though reaching down to try to help her, to tear away the man pressing her into the ground and laughing at her struggle. She was angry and frightened. Would he kill her after he’d had what he wanted? Or would he drag her family through a witch trial, claim it was she who had seduced him, rather than the act of raw violence he was attempting. She kicked and spat and prayed. She longed for Marcus, to see him before she was defiled, before she was killed body or soul. Her longing was so profound, she swore she could see him over Lambert’s shoulder as he reared up to try again to tear away the bodice of her gown. But instead of the fabric ripping away, Lambert was pulled up and off her. The wind suddenly quieted and as she blinked away blinding tears, her mouth fell open in shock. Marcus was there beating the stuffing out of Nigel Lambert. A blow to the stomach and a knee to the groin, finally a crushing kick to the head while the man was down. It may not have been gentlemanly but it was satisfying and effective. Lurching to her feet, she threw herself into his arms and hugged him, before turning slightly to add another kick to the man’s ribs. He hugged her tightly, kissing her hair and holding her so closely she could barely breathe. “Are you hurt, Cora?” He pulled away, looking into her eyes with only concern, not condemnation. “No. Only a few scratches. He did not… Did not manage to…”
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Marcus threw a searing glance at the heap on the ground. “Ashavi, next time you call me from across half an island, make sure I am clothed properly for the task at hand. I didn’t have my knife, or I would have sliced his throat then cut off his balls and fed them to the bloody sharks.” She finally noted that Marcus was in bare feet, hose and a shirt, as though dressed to sleep. How he had come to her rescue, she knew not. “Nay Marcus, a quick death may be too good for him, I fear he may be…” “A spy for the Spanish? Yes, I have quickly come to the same conclusion. He is far too interested in mapping the coast hereabouts with remarkable precision. I have just had a letter from Drake saying that none of the Admiralty has any knowledge of the project on which Lambert works. In fact, the Queen’s spymaster Walsingham has men who are quite interested in finding this heap of dung and asking him some uncomfortable questions.” Actually, she had thought the man to be a witch hunter, but a spy for the Spanish was not much better. “What shall we do with him?” she asked, not wanting to go anyway near the groaning miscreant. “Do you have any plans for your petticoats, ashavi?”
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Chapter Eleven She blinked at him but so persuasive was he that he had her out of her petticoat in a nonce and they both worked to tear the fabric into strips. Marcus bound the cad tightly, planning on returning in the morning with Master Searle to see the man brought to some kind of justice. If nothing else, the letter he’d gotten from Drake this morning would help to establish the man as a miscreant. That and the sliver of map Lambert had left in Brightstone. Too bad the letter and the map were still miles away in Totland with the rest of his gear. At least she could have brought him with his boots! By the time Marcus was done and Lambert was groaning in semi-consciousness, Marcus rose and turned to Cora only to see her trembling. He held her tightly, trying to calm her but she simply clung to him, tears running down her face. Talk was useless and he had no desire for the cur Lambert to hear anything he might have to say to his love, so he picked her up in his arms and carried her toward Ayffden Manor, bare cold feet and all. The stars were bright but there was little moon to see by, still he managed somehow not to stumble. The mighty wind that had swirled around them all had trickled to a scant breeze whispering around them as though curious to discover the state of the burden he held. Once again, he stood outside the kitchen door of the manor, looking to see if anyone was about. This time, he would have loved to encounter a servant to help him care for Cora but she seemed to have other ideas. Just as he was about to yell for aid, she put a hand to his chest. “Marcus, don’t. I want no one but you right now. Set me down.” Frowning, he obeyed and with a quick savvy twist of the lock she had them both inside the kitchen and creeping past the still sleeping dogs. Once they were in the dining hall, instead of heading out to the hall and up the staircase to the relative quiet of her chambers, instead Cora stopped and turned to face him, her eyes wide and questioning. “How did you get here?” He looked at her as though she was mad. “How did I get here? I might ask you that question, ashavi. One minute I was standing in an inn in Totland, packing my things to begin the overland trek across the island, to get back here as fast as I could. I went to the tiny window that faced due east and gazed out over the countryside, cursing the tiny mountains on this island that restricted my seeing as far as I might wish. The next moment a hurricane blows into my chambers, picking me up and hurling me about as
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though I was a child’s doll. No ship could have survived that tumult and I feared for my life. And then suddenly I was here, watching that piece of offal Lambert try to hurt you. I still wish I had had my knife on me and I could rid the world of that braggart. But to tell you the truth, the only reason I am certain this is not a dream is that we are both still fully clothed.” “But how… I cannot… Did you dream of me?” He stepped closer, pushing a strand of her dark hair behind the shell of her ear. “Almost every night. It was the only way I could stand to do my duty, to look forward to my dreams and being with you.” “The island… Marldon, your home…” “You are my home now, ashavi. But yes. I remember loving you against the tree in the forest and the cliffs over Sandown. And that nameless island in the wide Pacific, which was never so beautiful as when you stood upon its shores with me.” She looked at him and he could see tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. He had no desire to make her cry but she had been through so much. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, comfort her, make her believe that if it were up to him, he would never leave her again. Before he could step forward to embrace her, she slid her hands into his hair and pulled him to her, bringing her lips to his with unrestrained need. Her kiss was raw and vital, as though for the first time, she held nothing back. Though his mind worried that it was too soon after she had been attacked, his body demanded that he take what she was so clearly offering. She would not let him draw away but pulled him forward with drugging kisses until she had backed into the massive oak dining table. She hopped up upon the smooth surface and wrapped her legs around him, using her feet against his thighs to press him forward so his cock pressed against her cloth-covered pussy. “Are you sure?” he managed to whisper between the ravenous kisses he felt would consume him. “Wipe away the memory, Marcus. Make me yours and only yours.” He could not deny her this. With a speed he didn’t know he possessed, he untied her skirts as she unlaced her bodice. Then he shucked off his hose while she pulled his shirt over his head. The house was silent, the hour so late at night to be early in the morning. None of the servants were awake. Still, there was a visceral thrill of excitement at their daring. He knew that this was the magic of Beltane. He’d seen the bonfires in Totland from his window, but he’d felt no wish to join in revelry when his mate was so far away. Now though, now that she was here yearning for him, the power of the heavens could not be denied. Soon they were both naked and she was laid out before him on the dining table like a feast and he a starving man. Despite her mewled protest, he leaned down to savor the flavor of her juices, stroking her slick folds with his tongue, treating her with the gentleness and reverence she deserved. When she was arching off the table and 78
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threatening to awaken the household with her cries, he rose from his knees and pulled her hips to the very edge, finally quieting the screaming demands of his cock when he slid into her hot, welcoming sheath. The tears in her stormy gray eyes shone up at him as he looked deeply into her face. But he knew instinctively they were not tears of sadness. The rapture and joy evident in her expression showed that all too clearly. He did not know whether it was the enchantment of Beltane, the intensity of emotions of the day or the unique angle of the table as he stood almost on tiptoe to thrust up into her but within a minute of entering her she was quivering beneath him. She had to bring a hand up to her mouth and bite her fist in other to keep from screaming as her sheath pulsed around him with the waves of her orgasm. His cock once again demanded he let go and explode within her but it was too addicting to watch ecstasy flash across her beloved features. He bent to take a rosy nipple in his mouth as he slowly moved his hips, letting her rise up slowly back to the peaks of pleasure. Her hands stroked down his back and caressed his scalp, begging, pleading for him to join her in rapture. But he could not go there unless he’d taken her to the heights once again. He wrapped his hands around her shoulders and pulled her upward, changing the angle once again as he thrust up into her depths. Soon enough she got the idea and propped herself up on one hand, the other digging into the flesh of his ass and she pulled him deeper and deeper within. This time, there was nothing to silence her cries except the heat of his own mouth and her kiss in the height of passion stole his breath and fed his soul. Her breasts were crushed against his chest and he’d never felt closer to her or to anyone in his life. They moved together, faster, harder until they both sailed over the edge, swallowing each other’s yells as they came. His knees almost gave out and she pulled him forward on top of her as they caught their breath reclining on the ancient table. He laughed suddenly, sure that he’d never be able to sup at this venerable table again without thinking of this night. His moved to press soft kisses against her neck, thought to speak and make the suggestion that they should retire to her chambers to continue their reunion or at least to try to come up with an explanation of how he had come to be in Sandown without his clothes or other possessions. But the words that came out of his mouth were something else entirely. “Marry me?” There was a long empty pause and he swallowed loudly, cursing himself for pushing her too hard once again. Her eyes grew round and a hint of a smile curled at the corners of her swollen pink lips. She was about to answer, when they were rudely interrupted. With a creaking groan, once again the wind came up, violent and unceasing in its demands. It had granted a boon to its mistress but it would not allow the balance to be altered for long. Curtains whipped in the wind, their clothes disappeared in the blinding gusts. Cora
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screamed and Marcus gripped her tightly but as suddenly as he had arrived, Marcus found himself torn from Cora and tossed and turned for endless minutes until he was thrown naked in a heap on the floor of his room at the Totland Arms inn. Before he could make the air around him blue with curses, his hose and shirt were blown into his face and then the wind disappeared, leaving his possessions and the room in general disarray. He hopped to his feet and stared out the open window, desperately wanting to be back in Sandown. He almost ran out the door to begin the long overland journey across the backbone of the island but walking naked in the dark he was certain to be taken up and imprisoned as a madman. Perhaps he was truly mad. Mindlessly, he began to restore order to his clothes and his pack. Stuffing each item into his travel bag he could not imagine how he could sleep, only that he would wait until dawn touched the sky and hasten to her as fast as he could. But, when he touched the shirt that had been carelessly tossed at him, he knew that it was not his own but her soft chemise. Smiling, he raised the fabric to his nose and inhaled her scent. Exhaustion overwhelmed him and, his bag packed and his clothes donned ready to leave in a moment, he lay down upon the hard, unyielding bed and held the cloth to him. A poor substitute for the woman but nevertheless, her scent allowed him to find a few precious hours of sleep.
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Chapter Twelve Cora awoke groggy, knowing that once again she had cried herself to sleep. Flashes of the night before struck her like blows as she blinked in the morning sunlight. Making love shamelessly on the dining table. Cleaning up the dining hall and finding her scattered clothing. She still clutched his shirt in her hand and she brought it once again to her nose to inhale his scent and try to prove to her suspicious mind that he truly had been here. If not for that simple utilitarian garment, she would be convinced the entire thing was yet another dream. He had asked her to marry him. Not demanded or declared but asked. And she had not the chance to answer him. God only knew where he was now or if he was safe. As she climbed out of the bed and went to wash her face, she caught a glimpse of her face in the small mirror. There was a livid bruise on the side of her face and the memory of Lambert and his attack on her suddenly came back full force, making her knees shake with the memory of terror. Lambert! He was still out there! She tore off her nightdress and put on a kirtle and overdress as fast as she could. She did not even bother with stockings, jamming her feet into her slippers as she ran to find her father. Banging on his door unceremoniously, she entered even before he had given her leave. “Cora, what is the meaning of this!” “I’m sorry Father but can you please dress? I need you to come with me immediately, most desperately.” As he was still abed, he could not clomp across the floor in his usual interrogative manner without looking quite ridiculous in his nightshirt and cap. “Cora! What in the nine circles of hell…what happened to your face, child?” “That is why you must come. I left him tied up on the path to Afydden…” “Left who tied up?” He sprang out of bed. “Martin! Martin! Attend me this instant,” he bellowed for his manservant. “Cora, you wait downstairs. I’ll be done in a nonce. You’d best have a fine explanation for all this cursed business!” Within ten minutes her father was dressed and they were out the door, walking quickly while Cora gave him a highly edited version of what had occurred the night previously. She had to think fast, given that the mystical presence of Marcus Mares had to be covered over completely. Somehow she had made it seem that before any serious damage to her person could occur, she had knocked the man unconscious and tied him up with her petticoats. Her father looked at her quizzically but decided he would rather
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not know precisely how she had managed to save herself from a man who had attempted to take her honor. Cora was at least glad that her father did not try to convince her to be seen by the apothecary or the midwife. It would be very difficult to explain that the stickiness running down her thighs was not at all the result of a rape but the product of a very welcome ravishment. By a man many miles away. Ay, she was losing her mind! She did not know how she would counter any accusations leveled at her by Lambert himself but despite the contentious relationship he had with her father, she hoped that she would be believed over that insane, traitorous piece of scum. But, when they arrived in the stand of trees where the attack had occurred, there was no bound man waiting. There were the shreds of her petticoat and the impression of a body in the soil but no Nigel Lambert. Her father grumbled and ranted under his breath about his crazed daughter and how he would find no peace in this life. Cora herself was more concerned about where Lambert was now and what he had planned for her or for Marcus. Her fears were somewhat relieved when Sir John on his horse encountered them halfway back to Afydden Manor. “I say! Master Searle, I have a report of the most alarming nature to make. One of my men came through this road this morning and found my guest, Master Lambert, bound like a trussed pig! He released him at once, of course and Lambert told the most horrible story of being attacked by ruffians last night on his way back from the town. I must insist we send out warnings to the neighboring villages at the very least and go out and search for their lair!” Did the man even stop for breath? Cora blinked at him in astonishment. “Where is Master Lambert now, Sir John? Is he recovered from his ordeal?” Sir John frowned at this. “Master Lambert was so disturbed by the experience he has left Sandown with all speed. In fact, by now he is surely on the ferry out of Ryde and heading back to his home near London.” Cora breathed out a sigh of relief. Then she worried where the man was really headed and with what information. If he was really a spy for the Spanish as Marcus said, then he carried with him knowledge that could benefit England’s enemies. She had to get to Marcus as soon as possible! They bade Sir John adieu and walked back toward the Manor. “I am sorry, child. I should not have doubted you.” Her father’s voice was grave, his manner pensive. “I have been so frightened for you, Cora. All these years, I have worried about you and your happiness. And here, almost at my doorstep, to have such a thing happen! I-I must believe that whatever talents you possess are a gift from God, if they let you defeat such a man from his foul intents.” She blinked back sudden tears and gave her father a kiss on the cheek. The man actually blushed for a moment and gave her a worried smile.
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“Do not worry, Papa. I am well. And once Master Mares returns, I believe it highly likely that my happiness will be secure.” His bushy eyebrows shot up at this news. “Truly! I am happy to know you are positively inclined toward him. I have not told you but I received a very interesting missive from a London bank yesterday, detailing the considerable holdings of your suitor. The man could no doubt buy half the island if he was decided upon the matter. At least I have no worries in regards to his abilities to support you should he declare his interest. But with one short day’s acquaintance, how come you to know…” She pressed a finger to his lips. “Do not ask that, Papa. I believe you would rather not know. Know only that he is my match in body and soul and I love him.” He smiled at her, a smile which reached his gray eyes and overflowed with what she knew to be tenderness. “That is all that I ask for, my child. That is all that anyone could ask.”
***** The day seemed to pass as slowly as honey dripping from the comb. As she helped organize the weekly washing and steam filled the kitchens, she was lost in thoughts of Marcus and how soon he would return to her. If he was safe, or if the wind had deposited him even farther away than Totland. She did not know what business he still had to finish on the other side of the Isle, or what route he would take to return to her. It was a rough twenty miles through Newport and the surrounding hills to take the shortest route. If more than a week passed without his return, she wondered if she should set out looking for him somehow. What she found most interesting was that, in all of her musing, she had no doubts that he would, in fact, return to her. Somewhere in all of the extraordinary happenings of their courtship, he had won her trust. She knew he would come for her. By midday, she was sitting in the parlor, working on fixing some embroidery stitches on a tapestry that had been somewhat damaged the night previously in the flurry of wind that had sailed through the house. Cora was still amazed that no one had awoken to find her naked and shivering on the dining table. It had taken her a good hour to clean up the mess and try to put things back in some semblance of order. She was trying not to prick her finger as her mind kept wandering back to the passionate look in her lover’s eyes as he brought her over the edge of endurance over and over again. Intent on fixing a small garden of flowers stitched into the heavy fabric, she winced suddenly in pain. Not from a misplaced needle but a sudden sharp pain in her womb, gone before she was sure it had been there. She shook her head at the odd sensation, unexpected as her courses were not due for a fortnight. Trying once again to settle her mind to her work, she was interrupted once again, this time by a vigorous banging on the front door. Sarah and Maggie were still busy with the washing and all the other servants were assuredly at their duties. No visitors were expected. With a sudden rush of hope, she got up, abandoning her sewing as she 83
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ran to the hallway and peered through the peephole. With a happy cry, she hurried to lift the bar. Marcus almost collapsed into her arms when she opened the door. But heavens be praised he was a sight for sore eyes. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his boots faded from bright garish red to a ruddy tan, his hair plastered to his head under his widebrimmed hat. He pulled off the dark spectacles covering his eyes and gasped one word from chapped lips. “Water!” “Maggie! Sarah! Some water to the parlor and be quick about it!” Cora went to prop him upright and get him to walk with her to the sitting room. But once she had ducked under his arm, he simply wrapped her in a tight embrace, regardless of the location or the approaching servants. He whispered in her ear, his voice rough. “You did not answer my question, ashavi. I hurried to your side so I could hear the answer from your lips.” She blushed and he tenderly stroked her cheek, even that effort obviously costing him. “Answer the man’s question, child! Before I ask him quite a few questions of my own. Like why he is in such an intimate embrace with my daughter in the entryway to my home!” her father’s voice boomed over them from where he had appeared outside his study but Marcus did not even flinch. He just held her tighter. Core smiled suddenly, not able to keep up a pretext of maidenly restraint given the ridiculousness of the situation. All her doubts, all her fears melted into nothingness. She would be happy. At least, she would try. “Yes, you silly fool. I will marry you!” A cheer went up from the small group of servants and her brother Edgar. Even her father chuckled. “Good. Then I won’t have to beat anyone to a bloody pulp today. Although with Master Mares practically falling at my feet, I believe that would be a simple enough matter. Cora, my dear, I think you might wish to take your betrothed upstairs to rest. We can discuss details when the fellow is conscious again.” Cora smiled at him in gratitude for the implicit acceptance and blessing from her father. But it was true that Marcus was in no condition for discussion of a marriage settlement. In the joy of hearing her answer, Marcus had slumped in her arms, his head nestled into the crook of her neck and his eyes closed in bliss. The man must have set a record to cross the island by foot, if the wind had indeed returned him to Totland. As such, he deserved to rest in comfort. Edgar stepped forward and helped maneuver the dead weight of his soon-to-be brother so that both he and Cora were supporting Marcus as he was half shuffled, half dragged up the staircase to the bedchambers. Her father called up after them, “The guest chambers, Cora. He is not yet your husband! I will have no talk about you in the village, even if you are to marry a foreigner.”
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She blushed crimson in mortification at Maggie and Sarah’s loud laughter and cursed her father for knowing too well what she had wanted to do. Only her father could think of a fellow Englishman as a foreigner if he was not from the Isle. Still once Marcus was ensconced on the bed, his hands refused to let go of her dress and she succeeded in shooing Edgar out of the room. Alone with him, she pressed kisses to his face, his hands and every inch of exposed skin as she slowly undressed him. She tugged off his well-worn boots, managing not to fall on her rump and alert her father to her presence in the guest room. She eased the rest of Marcus’ clothes from his body and inhaled the musky scent of the sweat he had worked up in order to get to her. She was remarkably aroused and even if he was snoring loudly by now, she had to touch him. She snuck out into the hall and retrieved the water pitcher from her own bedroom, returning with it and wetting some soft linen cloths. Then she proceeded to wash him slowly, reveling in having his body under her control. He thrashed slightly under her ministrations and she felt guilty for indulging in her own desires when he was exhausted. But as her eyes swept down the length of his body she could see that part of him was responding very strongly to her attentions. His cock was pointing toward the sky and simply begging for her touch. She moved to settle between Marcus’ knees and set her hands toward working on the tense aching muscles of his thighs. As one kind of tension left those muscles and his rest grew more calm, another kind of tension grew as his delicious cock bobbed in front of her eager mouth. When she could stand the temptation no longer, she licked the leaking tip of him, tasting his flavor once again. He grunted but lapsed back into the heavy breathing of sleep. Cora smiled and circled the edge of the head with the tip of her tongue. He snorted loudly and she almost laughed. Taking pity on the man, she took his cock into her mouth, her warmth softly soothing and yet stimulating all at the same time. She wrapped one hand around the thick base of his cock and moved up and down the rest of his length with her mouth, the tip of him bumping into the opening to her throat with each down stroke. His hips moved under her and he panted above her but as she looked up at him through her lashes she still could not tell if he was asleep or awake, or somewhere halfway between. The savory taste of him made her work harder and harder, loving him and sucking until he curled into a ball around her and with a shout erupted streams into her mouth. She lapped up his cum eagerly, letting his essence fill her as proof that he was real, he was here. Dreams were all well and good but the reality was so much more potent even than the extraordinary dreams they had been sharing. Cora placed a last kiss on the tip of his softening phallus, then she backed away climbing off the bed and pulling the sheets over his naked body. As she stood beside the bed, she bent over him to kiss his cheek and let him finally rest undisturbed but he turned and pulled her down into a deep, thorough kiss that made her toes tingle with need. Then he opened those golden eyes and asked in a rough voice. “You said yes?” 85
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She laughed softly. “I said yes.” “Good.” And he was asleep the next moment. She waited to roar in laughter until she was out in the hallway and the door was closed. It would definitely be interesting to be married to Marcus Mares.
***** All in all, it was simple enough to give in. After all, she had given him her heart and if he did leave her, she would feel no worse for having given him her hand. Marcus stayed in the household, safely ensconced in the guest chambers and off limits. The first night he’d been back, after having come down to eat supper with the family and regale them with stories from the rest of the Isle, she had been more than ready to complete the game she had started with him when he’d first arrived. But as both her door and his opened once the house was dark and quiet, both she and Marcus were abashed to find Master Searle standing in the hallway, his arms crossed in front of him. “None of that, you two. The banns will be read and you’ll be church married soon enough. I expect you to act with honor while in this house.” His voice was as stern as his countenance. Marcus nodded gravely, while Cora wanted to whine like a disappointed child. Three long weeks with Marcus so close and yet so far. Still it was wonderful to talk with him and laugh with him, to plan out a life together. There was a flurry of messages sent back and forth to London and to Devon. Marriage contracts were settled and signed and when the first Sunday arrived and the vicar read the banns in church, an audible gasp went up from the congregation. Cora expected derision but she was surprised by the warmth of Sandown and its people. The women of the village descended to help her with a flurry of preparations once the banns had been read for the second time. Cora blamed Maggie for the invasion of women talking about lace and embroidery and linens, and laughing with ribald suggestions about the appetites of a sailor such as Marcus Mares. Or Marcus Searle, if he was to be believed in his devotion to the practices of his people. And he was chipping away at her disbelief, slowly but surely. Yes, Marcus left on another brief trip to check on readiness preparations but he came back as quickly as he could manage. He had even taken to riding an old horse from the Searle stables so he could accomplish his journeys more quickly and given how much he seemed to dislike riding, that was quite a sacrifice. And if he was not physically at her side every day, he was in her dreams every night, where he worshiped her body and she his and then they talked about everything and nothing at all. When he was here, they talked. And her father and Edgar seemed to blossom in his presence, becoming less morose everyday that he was part of the household. Just as she herself was becoming more and more the person she should be. If it wasn’t for the incessant giggling of the women crowding into the house and the gnawing worry about the Spanish invasion that hovered over everyone and everything, this would have been the happiest time in Cora’s life. It was almost as though she could 86
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lead a fulfilling life as a wife and perhaps if heaven was kind, even have children somehow. By adoption or fostering perhaps. But there were still shadows that crept in. Cora missed her mother’s calm sanity, especially in the midst of the crazed bevy of women who were making eyes at her man and taking joy in poking her with needles as she stood for dress fittings. So far, Cora had managed not to cause a small hurricane in her desire to sweep these well-meaning women from the house but oh she would be glad when this was all over! Three Sundays finally passed and her wedding day arrived. The end of May was a glorious time on the Isle, with flowers blooming in riotous abandon and the grapevines beginning to bud with the promise of harvest. Her dress was finished, the wedding breakfast planned and prepared and all was in readiness. Cora tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach and the urge to retch when she woke that morning. Maggie spent her time between helping Sarah dress Cora and arrange her hair and returning to the kitchen to oversee the helpers hired to finish the wedding breakfast. The old woman was caught between smiles and tears all day, as was Cora herself. Her dress was the finest she owned, the lightest, softest sky blue linen that the cloth merchant had been keeping for a special occasion. It had long flowing sleeves. An overskirt of pale cream silk accented the darts of blue and the bodice was laced to display her firm breasts to their best advantage. She wore pale cream roses in her hair and carried them in a small bouquet. Finally the appointed hour arrived and she found herself riding in the best farm wagon with her father on the way to the church. Would Marcus be there? She had not seen him all day, as was tradition but she knew she would have felt better if she had. The swaying motion was not helping her nausea in the least. But then, the wagon had arrived and she and her father stood at the doors of the parish church. And suddenly, all was right with the world. Her father gave her a brilliant smile as she turned to him, pressing a kiss against his cheek just before the doors opened. A voice within Cora had feared that fate would somehow prevent this day from happening but when the doors swung open and the brilliant light of May filled the flower-decked church, there was nothing but smiles greeting her from the congregation, the priest and most of all, the wonderful man in dark blue standing at the altar, most amazingly waiting for her. She blinked back tears and took a step forward, her father supporting her as she wobbled slightly. But soon enough she was walking so fast her father’s laughter rang in her ears but the smile in Marcus’ extraordinary eyes led her forward toward something she’d never thought she’d have. Happiness. The ceremony went by in a whirl of praying and standing, kneeling and speaking words that she could barely keep from shouting. The sound of his deep voice, the clear devotion in his golden eyes as he pledged his troth to her for a lifetime, all bound her to him completely. She realized that she had been his from that moment on the cliffs, from before she’d even known for certain he existed. He truly was part of her soul and now she felt complete. 87
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They stepped out into the sun as man and wife and though the announcement of “Marcus and Cora Searle” had set tongues awagging, the oddity was accepted soon enough. It had taken much longer to convince the old vicar that Marcus truly intended on taking her name, rather then the opposite. The villagers were more interested in getting back to Afydden Manor and the excellent vintages that Master Searle, well, Master Enoch Searle, would surely offer on the day of his only daughter’s unexpected wedding. The wedding breakfast was a riotous affair, with much toasting and much feasting and a good deal of singing. Cora couldn’t concentrate on much of that. It was quite obvious that Marcus also could not think of the arrangements. He barely touched the excellent wine. If not engaged in conversation with one of the well wishers, they spent most of the time consuming each other with their eyes, trading unspoken promises for the night ahead. No matter how much they had talked of being bonded before their marriage was official in the eyes of the law, for her wedding night Cora felt quite different. There was an odd mixture of two completely opposite instincts—a release of all inhibitions and yet a strange nervousness as though she was truly a blushing virgin. Tonight, there would be nothing between them, not society’s disapproval or the need to hide or even her own doubts and fears. She came to him reborn and renewed. Cora didn’t know if she could contain such joy. Every time Marcus looked at her, she could see the want in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils as though he was trying to catch her scent and the slow but feral smile that betraying his need to devour her. After the weeks of separation given the crowded household and the watchful eyes of her father, she longed to escape the rows of tables laden with roasts and potages, pies and sweetmeats and simply flee to the forest and worship her husband under the beautiful blue sky. But the happy smile her father wore, the look of pride in Maggie’s tearful eyes and even the slightly tipsy grin her brother Edgar gave her all kept her there, smiling and nodding to the guests. She even tolerated a sloppy kiss on the cheek from Sir John, who seemed reasonably resigned to the loss of her and had already taken up courting the Widow Falger from Shankin. She’d once worried that Sir John had somehow been in league with Lambert and hence the Spanish, but it was soon apparent that Sir John had known nothing about his houseguest other than the man had gossip from the Court of Elizabeth. The afternoon was bright and sunny, the vivid blooms for which the Isle was known lending the air a sweet fragrance and a colorful festive feel. Wine flowed and the buds on the vines surrounding the house showed every indication that wine would flow for years to come. As for the gusts of wind, they blew the tablecloths askew and fluttered women’s skirts above their ankles, but no one seemed to notice that the wind gusted strongest whenever the bride and groom stood particularly close together. In fact, the strength of the wind often appeared to be consistent with the intensity of the rosy blush in Cora’s cheeks as the groom whispered promises in his bride’s ear.
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Finally, drunken revelers began to stagger home as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Cora suddenly wondered where they would be spending their wedding night. She was not sure if she wished to be quite so close to Edgar, not to mention her father, when she needed to unleash weeks of pent-up desire for her mate. Her father drew near and embraced her warmly, tears glistening in his eyes and sparkling in the rays of the setting sun. “Do you remember Stone Bower, Cora dear?” She nodded, not certain why he should speak of it. It was a sturdy, ancient cottage on the far southern edge of the Searle property. Made of stone and a good slate roof, it strangely had never had a tenant in Cora’s memory but she and her brothers had loved to come up with strange tales to account for its history. “When your mother and I were first married, your grandfather was still alive and we wished, as all young couples do, for privacy.” His mustache twitched upward with a cock-eyed grin that made her blush. “And rightly so. So, for several years, until your mother was first expecting Edmund…” His gruff voice caught for a moment with emotion, as he spoke of two people he loved dearly who were no longer there to share in this special day. “We lived in Stone Bower. It held some of the happiest memories for me and I could never bear to have anyone live there except for my ghosts. But it needs new young people to make new memories, my daughter. It needs happiness again. So, I am giving you two the cottage as a wedding present, your own home to make merry in.” Speechless, she embraced her father with all the love in her heart and wept tears of joy into his gray doublet. “Do not cry, Cora love. Go with your young man. I don’t expect to see you for several days, so do not worry about Edgar and me. We shall manage well enough.” Marcus stood quietly by in his dark blue doublet and hose, the turn of his leg and the breadth of his chest well displayed. She once again was struck by her extraordinary luck in finding him. Or rather, in him seeing her across all that distance and coming in search of her. To be wanted and loved by such a man was a remarkable experience. She hugged her father one last time and hugged her drunken brother as well, laughing as he whispered his relief at not having to hear the two of them for days on end. Marcus shook both his new relatives’ hands and then he took Cora’s hand. They walked through the vineyards and toward the wooded copse where the cottage peeked through toward them. Marcus clutched a large iron key in his hands and Cora worried what kind of mess would greet them in their new home. Then Marcus looked at her with fire in his eyes and suddenly she could not care less if they fucked on a dirt floor with bats hanging in the roof. She needed him now! She picked up her skirts in one hand and as she gripped his large hand with her small one she began to run, tugging him behind her and laughing at the stars just beginning to glimmer in the late spring sky.
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Chapter Thirteen He could barely run, his cock was straining against the confines of his codpiece. She had a rosy blush on her cheeks, her hair was starting to tumble loose from its careful arrangement and frame her beloved face in loose dark tendrils, the entrancing swell of her breasts above the bodice of her dress was irresistable. Damn but he could barely contain the urge to drag her down to the ground and ravish her between the grapevines. If it had been later in the season and there had been more leaves to insure their privacy, he would have done just that. But he knew that the cottage would be perfectly, wonderfully private and he could make her scream in satisfaction and have no worries of interruption or discovery. Besides, he had worked hard in the last weeks to make it into someplace she would love. Someplace he could keep her hostage to his roaring need for at least a solid week. When she began to run, her eagerness matching his in every way, his desire grew even more, until he was practically a rabid beast, ready to break free of every convention of civilization. When they arrived at Stone Bower, he was barely in control. Instead of opening the door, he pushed Cora up against the wood and kissed her, thrusting his hips against her and demanding she respond. He was met with enthusiastic agreement. Their kiss was searing, consuming, feral. She bit his lips hard enough to draw blood and their tongues tangled as though fighting for dominance. Both of them wanted the same thing—each other. Cora whimpered slightly in pain and Marcus realized that the key he still held was digging painfully into her ribs. He pulled away, breathing hard and finally put the key in the lock and turned it. The door swung open without a creak, revealing the newly polished and clean interior. He should have been proud and let her soak in the surroundings as he gave her a tour of the four-room cottage and its new furniture and fittings. But she had no interest in the cottage. She wanted only one thing. She ducked under his arm and walked into the cottage, heading straight for the soft fur rug in front of the fireplace. She knelt in the welcoming luxury and before he could try to understand what she was doing she pulled up her skirts and leaned forward onto her hands. She wore no undergarments and the perfection of her ass was on display, her pussy pink and glistening. She looked over her shoulder at him and raised an eloquent eyebrow as if to say, “Fool, what are you waiting for?” So much for a masterfully slow seduction. They both had bottled up too much need for that. In a moment, the door was shut and locked and he was behind her, the ties of his codpiece ripped off and his cock posed at her slick core. With a groan, he sank into heaven as her walls surrounded him. She hissed her appreciation, pushing back against
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him until he was buried within her up to his balls. He paused for a moment, feeling her throb around him, unable to tell whether the pulse he felt was her heartbeat or his own. He realized that it mattered not, from now on, they were as one. Unhappy with his lack of action, Cora pulled away from him slightly, only to ram her hips backward and take him within her again. He gritted his teeth, resisting the impulse to simply explode with the unearthly pleasure of being inside her after weeks of abstinence. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on long but he’d be damned for a scurvy knave if he’d not bring her at least one shattering climax. Marcus set up a slow, teasing rhythm to keep her somewhat satisfied as he tried to hold onto his sanity. He pushed up her skirts so he could see the luscious ass of his wife and leaned forward, still slowly pumping within her, and yanked down the front of her bodice, allowing her breasts to spill out into his greedy hands. Pinching her nipples between his fingers he rammed his cock in just a tiny bit harder and drank in her moans with gusto. “Please! Please harder! Oh God, Marcus, harder!” Her yells were unrestrained and words shifted into incoherent moans that ricocheted off the stone walls and made his ears ring. He had to obey, shifting his knees and moving one hand down to her hip, gripping her tightly so he could begin to ride her. Letting loose some of his rigid control, he let the animal in him out much to his wife’s satisfaction. Her moans grew into screams and once again the wind began to rise as she got closer and closer to her peak. His fingers curled around her hips and began to stroke her nub in time with his thrusts and she bucked like a wild horse. Just as she began to convulse, squeezing him to the limits of his endurance, he slapped his palm repeatedly against the beautiful pale curve of her ass and she soared over the edge with a mighty gust, clamping around him until he burst. He thrust into her with a few last strokes and erupted a huge stream of semen, the result of weeks of wanting. Together, they collapsed sideways onto the rug, his arm trapped under her, still cupping her breast. Slowly, full consciousness returned as the wind calmed and the air was filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing. “I am glad, wife, that I made certain there was nothing in the room to be blown about. Otherwise, our home would be a mess before you even had a chance to view it.” Cora snorted in indignation but gave him the slow smile of a pleased woman that made a voice inside him growl with glee. She rolled away from him and onto her knees to take a look around. For a moment, he wished he hadn’t said anything but then again, he’d prefer their next encounter to occur in their bed rather than on the floor. He’d stretched the rope bedframe himself and acquired the best feather bed to be had on the Isle. He did not plan to let her leave the thing for at least two days. She stood on shaky legs and looked from the large fireplace and the chairs and settees surrounding it to the tapestries on the walls and the silver candelabras. Her mouth opened in shock as she took in the fine carpets under her feet. Smiling at him
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coquettishly, she kicked off her slippers and ran to the next room, her hair slowly falling out of its complex style with every step, flower petals raining in her wake. In the kitchen, she hopped up on the fine sturdy table and bit her full lower lip, cocking her head in invitation even as she inspected the cooking fireplace, the work surfaces and all cookware stored neatly on the wall. “No, ashavi. I want you in my bed!” He scooped her up into his arms and she wrinkled her nose at him. Opening her mouth to speak, he shushed her with a searing kiss. Breaking away, his cock once again at attention, he said, “There will be time for everything, ashavi. I promise you that.” He carried her to their bedroom with the fine big bed and its lush feather mattress. They helped each other take off their wedding finery until all Cora wore was the remains of her roses and a rosy blush. He worshipped her until dawn touched the sky and they slept in each others’ arms until morning turned to afternoon.
***** Their week passed all too quickly, joy making time fly by with the wings of a falcon. They laughed and loved, Cora showing him her cooking skills and Marcus clearing the table in order to have dessert—which was her, of course. She loved the house and all of the improvements he had made in the weeks prior to their wedding and Marcus gave thanks every day to his father-in-law for his wisdom in opening this home once again. Cora blossomed into breathtaking beauty and every day he loved her more, until even the thought from being parted from her was painful. But, duty began to press against his soul and he knew he would have to travel once again to check on the preparations of the watch fires. In the beginning of June, word had come by courier that a huge number of ships had sailed from Lisbon in Portugal on the twenty-eighth of May and there could be no question their eventual destination was the shores of England. There seemed little doubt that Lambert had gotten his maps to the Spanish and if so, then the Isle of Wight was open to them, a perfect trial invasion to set up a base of operations across from one of the largest ports in England and the mouth of the Thames, the highway into the heart of the kingdom. But when he finally brought up the topic, Cora was quite ready with her response. “I’m going with you. Simple as that. I’ve never been more than three miles from Sandown on the Isle and I would like to see a bit more of the world while I’ve the chance. Think of it as a practice for when we travel to meet your family.” He blinked at her and then smiled, overjoyed at the solution she’d come up with. “If you can stand the dirt and the inconvenience, whyever not? We are surely stronger together than apart.” “Exactly my point, sirrah. And I can stand the dirt as well as anyone, I assure you. I warn you, I was a wild young thing, constantly with dirt between my toes and brambles in my hair.” 92
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“I would not have you any other way, my heart.”
***** This time, the trip from village to village was not a punishment, it was a joy. Marcus enjoyed every mile in the plodding little donkey cart. Every tree and blade of grass seemed to soak up the summer sun and glow a vivid, lively green. Every pond and grassy meadow was an invitation to stop and “rest”, to make love in the sunshine, worshipping his wife in every way he could. It was a delight to see her smile, to hear her laugh, to talk to her about anything and everything. Beneath the cold and distant woman he had first met those weeks ago was the charming lovely blossom now by his side. She wore a straw hat bedecked with dry flowers and a comfortable traveling dress and the threat of the Spanish was far from their minds as they enjoyed their honeymoon. Master Swidden was quite happy to see them again and Marcus was pleasantly surprised by how well preparations had gone in Lowtherville. This time, instead of a drafty attic, Swidden seemed so enthralled with Marcus’ blushing and beautiful bride that he found them a little cottage that had no tenant and though there was a bit of dust about the place and the bed made a loud creaking noise, Cora’s giggles at the sounds they made were a delight. They stayed more than a week and Cora had made several fond acquaintances and received a large new order for Afydden Vineyard’s wine from the local pub. Marcus spent time overseeing the finishing touches on the construction of several fire towers and the rest of the time enjoying his bride. Cora seemed to glow with more than the touch of the sun and the soft sea breeze. He hoped it was with happiness. Niton was equally charmed by his wife and Mistress Eggle was overjoyed to be the first to receive a visit from the newly married pair. She would have grist for the gossip mills for months with the sure and certain knowledge that the Searle girl was nowhere near as odd as had been reported and that she was no more a witch or devil worshipper than the vicar was. The oddest thing was actually the husband! He’d taken to calling himself Searle now, rather than the normal way of things. Those not from the Isle were mad sometimes. Simply mad. Cora stood at St. Catherine’s Point and breathed in the sea air with a wide grin on her face. The lonely majesty of the place was unforgettable, the power of wind and sea undeniable. He took her hand to share in her wonder and looked at her sweet face for a moment before gazing out toward the coast of France. Cora gasped and dropped his hand, then looked back and forth between the sea and his face with a look of awe. Then she gripped his hand again and stared in delight. “This is what you can see? Every beach and cliff? Even the tiny fishing boats?” she whispered reverently. “It is all so amazing. Thank you for sharing this with me.” He gathered her into his arms and kissed the top of her head and they stood there until the sun began to set.
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Accommodations in Niton were not quite as spacious as the cabin in Lowtherville but the guest room in the parsonage was at least more private than the bunkhouse. The bed was tiny and they had to sleep very, very closely, which was no hardship. In fact, the night was a long languorous session of lovemaking. Face to face on the narrow cot, sex was of necessity quiet and gentle. Slow and sensual, he brought her to climax and then let himself fall over the edge, falling asleep while still embedded within her. Throughout the night, one or the other would awaken and tease the other one with slow, wet kisses or pinched nipples. Marcus would slide in and out of Cora’s sweet wet pussy while she clung to him, panting her pleasure into his neck as she shuddered to her climax. In return she would clamp the muscles of her sheath down around his cock, making every stroke utter bliss until his orgasm burst upon him like a sudden summer storm. Waking up with his hard cock embraced within his ashavi was like heaven on earth and he thanked the heavens that he had finally won her. Only his extraordinary happiness had allowed him to keep calm with the magistrate in Upper Niton. Marcus had to endure a panicked lecture regarding the impossibility of the Spanish landing on the Isle, given the gigantic size of their ships and the notorious difficult currents in these waters. Marcus had been red-faced with rage but Cora had smoothed things over with a deft hand, using not only her charms to win over the magistrate, Master Giles but also his wife. Once Mistress Giles understood the gravity of the situation as it would apply to herself and her daughters should the Spanish try to land off St. Catherine’s Point, Marcus knew that Master Giles would find no peace until he obeyed the Queen’s command and set up the watch fires on either side of Niton town. They moved on toward Brightstone and were honored guests in the tiny, beautiful village of thatched-roof cottages and smiling faces. Midsummer was a joyous occasion of celebration and they greeted the rising sun of the longest day of the year naked upon a grassy hill in a secluded niche in the coast a mile from the town, watching the sun rise over the Channel mist in an explosion of oranges and pinks. They made love as the dawn bore full fruit, Cora sitting aside him and whimpering as he sucked and bit her nipples, which seemed to grow only more sensitive with his attentions. Her body fascinated him more and more every day, the weight of her breasts in his hands, the strength of her thighs, the perfect flaring curves of her hips. The sun rising behind her could not compete with the shining love and passion in her eyes. The entirety of the world spread before him for the taking would mean nothing in comparison with her love freely given. Be it their destiny, pure chance, or a blessing from God, what they shared was more precious that all the gold on a Manila galleon. This glorious morn was followed with days of ceaseless rain and Cora and Marcus were trapped in the home of the village head, making silent love in the stuffy attic and talking for hours. Marcus entertained Cora and the household with sea chanties, highly edited for the wee ones who had large ears for the kind of language sailors made free with. Cora told the children fairy tales and Marcus could easily imagine her with their
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own dark-haired children, laughing and singing and teaching. All in all, even the rain could not repress his boundless happiness in her presence. Once the rain let up, work could start once more. With the help of Cora, their wagon and all the helpful villagers who had completed spring planting, the people of Brightstone and Brook finished the series of low watch towers with their piles of dry kindling ready to light at a moment’s notice. Every young man and boy competed for the task of manning the towers, eager to be the first to sight the oncoming Spanish. Although most of the work was done, they could not leave this end of the island without a view of the Needles and the tall pillar of Lot’s Wife at the center of the sheer chalk monuments. They borrowed a small boat from a friendly fisherman from the town of Freshwater, who was more than happy to earn a day’s wages to please the newlyweds. Marcus rowed an excited Cora to the tiny strip of inaccessible beach called Scratchell’s Bay. As the Needles came into view, Cora’s lips parted in awe of the remarkable work of nature, as the sea wore away the rock into incredible pillars. Once properly beached and the oars stowed, Marcus gave in to the insatiable need to kiss those lips and for a fair few minutes, the glorious view was forgotten. A cry from a pelican interrupted what was certain to become a passionate game and Cora once again turned her gray eyes to the glistening sea and the towering rock. The Needles rose from the ocean like the deadly teeth of a sea monster. It was the currents around them that caught ships with their bite, crushing the pride of many a fleet over the course of centuries. The gate of the Solent was not kind to strangers to the English shore. Marcus could only hope the Needles cut the Spanish with the same ravenous appetite. Cora took his hand, using his eyes to see into the distance all the way to the coast of Cornwall and the very tip of England. And farther, to the wide, wide expanse of ocean stretching all the way to the mysterious new world Sir Walter Raleigh and others explored in the name of the queen. Marcus could feel her shiver, taking in the vastness of the world, just as he had once done as a boy first setting sail with Drake and losing sight of land, even with his keen eyes. It had been a humbling experience but she need not do it alone. His own eyes grew wide as he looked and although he could not actually see the swirling winds off the coast, he could somehow sense them, like a limb he had forgotten existed, feeling the glory of the patterns they danced and their attraction to the woman standing by his side. Life would never be completely smooth sailing when your wife was a windsprite but he would never lack for wind in his sails either! Disregarding the possible presence of observers on the tall cliffs above them, Marcus leaned down to capture her lips in the kiss that sent a clear message of desire. The sand was enough of a cushion as they succumbed to the need to ground themselves in each other. He knelt above her, her ass in his hands and her legs resting on his chest as he slid within her and watched her eyes reflect the blue of the sky and the fire of her lust. Driven to please her over and over again, after her first bright sweet orgasm he 95
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circled her nub with his thumb, luxuriating in the flutters and shudders of the strong muscles of her sheath as she writhed on the sand, her black hair speckled with sand and rocks, which he knew she would complain about bitterly. But he would help her wash those long wild tresses and make love to her in the warm bathwater afterwards. Her nails bit into his ass as she pulled him toward her, intent on his joining her in abandonment to passion and he could no longer deny her. He felt the wind sing around them as ecstasy broke through, he felt the celebration within and without. When he collapsed over her, her smile said everything and he kissed her full lips and pulled her into his arms as they rested together on the sand, the seabirds squawking around them and the song of the waves filling the salty air.
***** It was halfway through July by the time they settled into the Totland Arms, ready to return overland across the Isle in a much more relaxed fashion than Marcus’ first frantic march. The view from the rooms stretched across the Isle toward the heights near Newport. In fact, it was the same room that he’d been swept from months ago to her rescue. He had every intension of showing her several of the wicked fantasies that passed through his mind as he first sat alone in this room but his first seductive kisses were interrupted by a frantic pounding at the door. Annoyed, he stomped to the door, leaving Cora on the bed to smooth her skirts in a frantic attempt to appear composed. Hauling the door opened, he stared down at the tiny, rotund innkeeper with mayhem on his mind. “Beggin’ your pardon, Master Searle sir but there’s a letter here from your father.” “My father?” How would Ladislav Smith know where his son was on his wedding trip? “Master Enoch Searle.” “Oh!” Cora hopped up and snatched the missive from the man. “Thank you, good sir.” Breaking the wax seal on the letter, Cora began to read. Marcus watched her face turn pale. “What has happened?” “Edgar! He’s run away to Portsmouth to join the Navy!” She bit her lip and looked worried. “We should return right away, Papa will need me. Or perhaps we should go directly to Portsmouth after Edgar to bring him back!” “Are you sure that’s what he wants? To be brought back like a wayward child?” “Isn’t that what he is?” Her lip jutted out in defiance and it took all his willpower not to capture it with his teeth and kiss her back into bed. “We should get to Portsmouth right away, perhaps we can find him, especially if he’s used your name to find a position!”
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“He’s a smart lad. He might already have found a ship that has sailed. Clever boys are always in demand and with my name to back him up, he would find a good ship, I’m sure.” She pursed her lips and he cocked his head and considered her profile as she gazed out the window. “Why does this upset you so? For your own sake? For Edgar’s sake, or for your father’s?” She rubbed her forehead with the fingers of one hand, her voice lashing at him. “Did you talk him into this? I know that he listened to every word you spoke as though it was a pronouncement from God himself!” She began to pace back and forth and Marcus simply leaned against the wall, his arms crossed in front of his chest, watching the heat of anger put a flush in her cheek and a sparkle in her eyes not dissimilar to arousal. “You know your brother better than I do, ashavi. And you know me. What do you think?” She stopped and bit her lip, her eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, love. I-I am just concerned for Edgar. He’s still so young and…” “And he’s your only brother. But it is what he wants. From what you’ve said, what he’s always wanted.” She nodded. “I know we had spoken of visiting Cowes and Yarmouth but I would get back to Papa as soon as possible and see how this affects him. He is counting on an heir for the estate from Edgar.” She sniffled lightly and he could not longer resist her. Stepping forward from his position at the wall, he enfolded her in his arms and placed a soft kiss against the bridge of her nose, then kissed the tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. The salty taste of her worry tore at his heart and all he wanted to do was comfort her. “I know you have been told that your lot is to be barren, but until you and I are old and gray and married for forty years without issue, I will not give up on the dream of seeing a babe suckling at your breast. I do not think you should worry so about it yet. And if nothing else, there are foundlings aplenty in times of war or peace. You shall have a child to rear, when you are ready for the task.” She gave him a weak smile and pulled his head down for a more intense kiss. They fell once again to the bed, losing their worries in a bout of tender lovemaking. Marcus worshipped her slowly, letting no inch of skin go unkissed, from the rosy tips of her toes to the curls at the nape of her neck. They rocked together toward an orgasm that built slowly, but like a tidal wave it overwhelmed them with its force and power. In the morning, they set off in their little wagon toward Newport and then Sandown, intent on comforting Enoch Searle. They left just before the news arrived into Totland via Yarmouth. The Spanish had been sighted off the coast of St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall. Invasion was imminent. God save them all.
*****
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They swung around busy Newport, seeking to make time by bypassing the crowded town. So, when they pulled into a frantic Sandown, they were unprepared to see the garrison marching through the town square and men packing their wives and children into carts to head for the hills. Enoch Searle, as magistrate, was in the middle of the fray, trying to talk sense into them and organize some order from the surrounding chaos. Marcus left the reins in Cora’s capable hands and hopped down to inquire as to the cause of the uproar. Enoch pierced him with a baffled look. “What’s this? You spend nigh on two months trying to get a system working to pass news of invasion across the Isle and you yourself know nothing of it! Fie! The thrice damned,” he spat on the ground, “Spaniards have been sighted with a hundred ships off the coast of Cornwall. Only the Pope and the Devil know where or when they will strike.” Marcus swore viciously under his breath and looked back toward Cora, nervously sitting in the cart trying to control the flustered work horse. Part of him wanted to send her back toward Newport. Hell, he wanted to send her to Scotland! Or India, or anywhere far away from the raping, thieving evil of the Spanish mercenaries. Then, he felt a sweet breeze sweeping across the milling crowd, a warm wind filled with the scent of flowers and fruit and all good things. Without realizing what was calming them, people began to lower their voices and arguments became discussions, crying children fell into a restful sleep and animals calmed their frantic stomping. And Marcus knew that whatever happened, Cora had to be at his side. She was too strong and would not stand by calmly while a fight for her home brewed along the coast. What they needed was to practice. To find the limits of their combined strength. Finally, he made his way back to her. And he could see her hands shaking as she held the reins. “The Spanish?” Her face was pale, her eyes stormy. He nodded, thin-lipped. He took the reins again and steered the cart toward Stone Bower, knowing that they would not be leaving, no matter what befell the Isle. They would help others prepare but they would fight. Hours later, they stood at the height of the Culver Cliffs, three hundred sheer feet of chalk rising from the sea. The moon shone down and the sea heaved beneath their feet, white caps shining in the swirling tides of the Spithead channel. Each of them was strained to their limits, resigned to a sleepless night. Both had lain awake in Stone Bower, arms entwined but eyes hollow. Marcus had thought of all his comrades from years aboard ships and how many of them would be risking their lives for England and its Queen. The whipping of canvas sails in the wind, the smell of gunpowder and blood and salt, the deafening thunder of a barrage of cannon fire. He shivered with blood-soaked memories and the taste of fear. While he was tortured with known terrors, he knew Cora faced the unknown. The fate of her brother and their country. And the enormous weight of the task they’d set 98
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for themselves. Deep into the night, they had talked of what they might be capable of. Until finally, with sleep a distant memory, they rose and walked to the shining cliffs. This was to be a practice. Could she truly command the wind? Or was her gift a fluke at the mercy of soft feminine emotions? Could he guide her with his extraordinary vision, when farsight was key to understanding the course of events? In the depths of the night, with no fishermen out to sea or ships visible as far as his keen eyes could see, she called on a gift she had only begun to let out from its cage. Her eyes fixed on the sea and he took her cold hand in his warm one. Marcus could easily see across the tidal whorls of the Spithead, toward the mainland. But now, with his senses enhanced with her gifts, he could feel the currents in wind and water, the violent collision of where air and sea met and dueled for domination. Then, from deep within her, he could feel a bright fire flare, one that had been shuttered and waiting, like a stray ember that could set forth a forest fire if left to burn out of control. The fire reached out to the air, pleading, cajoling, caressing and dancing, until the wind spun harder and faster, first from the west, then from the east. Now north, now south, now swirling into the makings of a crushing hurricane. Then, with a punishing effort that seemed to sap the life out of her, she called it back. He embraced her in his arms, holding her up and willing his energy to support her as the gale subsided slowly, slowly, until there was nothing but the barest whisper of wind. And then stillness. The water was like glass and Cora sagged in his arms. When she looked into his eyes, he could see the storm still lived in her. She kissed him, sharing for a moment the mad whirl of power that breathed from her. As he tasted the maelstrom on her lips, she collapsed, no longer able to stay conscious. He carried her back to their home, his body rigid with tension and fear. He lay next to her on their soft feather bed, stroking her hair and kissing her dry lips until, like a fever breaking, her sleep became deep and restful rather than tortured. By morning, she was kissing him awake and rose above him, ready to impale herself on his morning erection. She had conquered the wind and now, she was its queen.
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Chapter Fourteen By July the twenty-fourth Sandown seemed empty, with so many having made for the mainland or Newport, once word had spread. Cora walked through the town square with fresh fish and five pounds of wheat flour in her basket, determined that she would stay, even if she was the last woman left in Sandown by the time the damn Spanish got here. Rumors flew swifter than the birds. Elizabeth had already surrendered. The Spanish had sunk in that freakish storm the other night. Drake had called up a sea serpent to defend England from its enemies. They were more and more wild. She had sent Marcus down to the Fire and Flood just to try to separate the wheat from the chaff and see what real news there was to be had. The best information to be had seemed to be highly mixed as to the fate of the English. The Spanish had pinned the fleet into Plymouth harbor but had failed to press their advantage and sailed away. Drake, Lord Howard and the best of British naval skill had barreled out once the tide allowed them and followed the Spanish, using the weather of the Channel and their speedier ships to force the Spanish to inconclusive battles at Eddystone and the tiny Isle of Portland. Now the question loomed, would the Spanish attempt to gain a foothold in England, or would they sprint across the Channel to pick up the thirty thousand troops said to be waiting in the Spanish Netherlands? The Isle of Wight lay across their path and the ripe peach of Portsmouth with its deep harbors and control of the Thames was a tasty meal for a commander as hungry as Medina-Sidonia. Cora had listened to Marcus’ explanations and understood nothing so well as that the Spanish would pass this way. Though it had taken all her strength to marshal her powers, if she could do something to push them from the coast and her home, she would. Suddenly, there was a huge commotion from the barracks, as a cannon fired and yells were heard. It was not time for practice and this was not the regimented firings that signaled the division testing their aim. Cora’s eyes flickered toward the watch fire tower that had been erected near the barracks and sure enough, the fire was burning hot and high, the sentry waving his arms and yelling. Grabbing her skirts in her free hand, she took off running to find her husband. There was no time to lose. The Spanish had been sighted off the coast of the Isle. Within half an hour, she and Marcus were once again at the top of the Culver Cliffs, staring out at over a hundred ships of all sizes, from massive war galleons and galleases to cumbersome storage hulks and merchantmen. England’s worst nightmare sitting off
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the coast of Sandown, anchored against the tides as today there was not a wisp of a breeze to man the sails. “The galley slaves are being saved for emergencies.” Marcus spoke under his breath but Cora had a sudden horrible vision of her sweet little brother clapped in chains, wearing away to nothing as a whip bit into the skin of his back as he worked to row the Spanish behemoths toward more conquest and death. “What can I do? Calling up a hurricane might seem a little suspicious given the balmy weather.” She swallowed, in truth not wanting the deaths of so many on her conscience. “No, the Spanish would simply run from that. I am afraid we’ll have to wait and see. If they attempt to land at the coast, or up the Spithead to try for Portsmouth town, then we’ll have to do some quick thinking. But if they remain undecided and stay at anchor, the British fleet will come and that would be the time to crush them.” Marcus held out his hand and closed his fist around a distant ship, his eyes cold and sharp like an eagle. “But, if I call up a storm, I have no wish to hurt England’s sailors!” “English ships are fast and maneuverable. We pick our admirals for skill, not just for political position. All we need do is give them the right wind at the right time and Howard and Drake will do the rest.” His confidence comforted her. She stared out to sea and tried to calm her breathing. There was nothing to do but wait and watch and pray.
***** The night passed with infinite slowness at the top of the cliffs. There was not a breath of wind and she felt lost and useless without it. Marcus had retrieved blankets and food from Stone Bower and they lay bundled in those blankets. The moon was still bright and the sails of the Spanish flickered in the distance. Cora caught brief snatches of sleep in Marcus’ arms but mostly she stretched out with senses she barely understood, constantly seeking for a force she once tried to reject but now a power she needed desperately. As the moon set and dawn approached, Marcus sat silent and alert. Her head was cradled in his lap and his fingers stroked through her hair and she lost herself to the comfort of his touch, thankful beyond words for his presence in her life. As she relaxed, almost asleep, she felt the tickling breath of wind begin. Marcus sat up straighter at the same moment and her eyes opened as she shot upwards to stare out to sea. And there, off in the distance she could barely make out with her own paltry vision, more sails! Smaller, swifter ships crawled slowly forward into the Spithead channel. As she gripped Marcus’ hand she could see the tiny boats set in front of the warships, the men within those vessels straining to tow the English warships behind them with the strength of the sailors alone. She could barely believe this to be possible but there were thirty English ships creeping up on the southernmost group of the 101
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Spanish, determined to engage and defend their waters. Farther away, still in the channel, there were another ninety odd English ships, small and fast but with an impressive array of cannon pointing dead at the Spanish. “Should I try to gather the wind to help them?” Cora whispered to Marcus, almost afraid to disturb his rapt concentration on the slowly unfolding attack. “I’m not certain what is going on. Hawkins must be mad to try this when England’s only advantage is the bloody wind. Impatient madman. If it was Drake, I would let him do what he thought best but Hawkins shall need our help. I know there is little wind to be had but can you try?” He looked worried. In truth, a sleepless night and tension had left her rather nauseous. But she knew she could do this. She must. “A wind from the south, yes?” “Yes, my sweet ashavi. Try but do not tax yourself to the point of exhaustion. The English are fierce fighters and they can hold their own.” She shook her head at him slightly. He underestimated her maternal instincts. She may never have children but she would give her all to protect the children of the Isle, the children of England from the blood and death and destruction that those Spanish ships represented. Holding his hand in hers, she closed her own eyes, using his abilities to extend her senses, feeling the faint breath of wind and following it back to its source. Miles and miles she traveled, coaxing and prodding and playing with the wind, bringing it closer and closer to home. It was exhilarating, intoxicating to be dancing with the wind. If Marcus had not been there to hold her, to ground her, she was not sure she would have ever been able to return whole. When she opened her eyes, she was amazed to see the sun was high in the sky. Marcus held her tightly in his arms, his eyes full of concern. But she had succeeded, though it must have taken hours to marshal the winds. She felt lightheaded and weak and Marcus did not help matters when he gave her a meltingly passionate kiss to greet her return to consciousness. “Let me breathe, husband!” He laughed lightly and held her tightly as they sat on the cliff top. Then his eyes and hers returned to look at the battle below. The English had taken mean punishment at the hands of the enormous Spanish ships but they had dealt their share of mayhem as well. The fleets had drifted considerably since hoisting their anchors for the fight and now they were at the very mouth of the Spithead. No matter how excellent Nigel Lambert’s maps may have been, the English knew these waters all too well. One group of ships was moving quickly on the wind, taking advantage of the fast coastal current to gain a superior angle to the Spanish. Marcus explained. “That’s Frobisher’s ship, Triumph. He’s quick, clever and dirty. He’ll give the Spanish a roasting they won’t soon forget.” Cora nodded but she could barely keep her eyes open. She’d been drained completely and before she even realized her danger, she was fast asleep in the comfort of Marcus’ arms.
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As she slept, the wind lost the guidance that had brought it to this corner of England. It curled and swirled upon itself, until it followed the direction of the currents and flowed to the south-west, a far worse circumstance for the English. Marcus was caught in a difficult position, trapped between concern for his wife and worry for Frobisher and his squadron, trapped on the wrong side of the Spanish from the rest of the English fleet. All ships but Triumph managed to escape before the wind blew too strong to be of use to retreat. Frobisher dropped a small boat to tow him and other ships sent their boats to help. The Spanish crept closer and closer, intent on the destruction of one of England’s best naval heroes. Caught in the clutches of sleep, Cora felt like she was pounding on the walls of a prison that she couldn’t escape. She could feel the winds swirling outside and Marcus’ worry became her own. Still, she was trapped by her own worries, her own fears. She sat down in her cell, trying to be calm and think her way out. There was a sudden pain in her womb and she covered her stomach with one hand, wondering why her courses would come to her in her dreams. The pain eased and she patted her stomach while she again tried to think. She had accomplished so much but something was wrong. Marcus needed her and she had talents no other could match. Roaring in sudden frustration, she stood once again and spread her hands wide. “Come to me wind! I am yours and you are mine!” With a howl and a caress, the wind blew in, shattering the walls and embracing her. She awoke to the wind swirling around her and Marcus’ eyes pinning her with concern. She would brook no coddling. “What must be done?” He shook his head and she gripped his arm tightly. “The wind is mine now. Tell me what must needs be done!” “Restore the wind from the south and Frobisher will be safe once more.” She exhaled and with the speed of her thought, the wind tumbled and shifted to her will. She stood on sturdy legs and watched as the wide canvas sails caught the new wind and the cheer from the English could be heard even this far away. The speedy English ships flew fast over the waves and the Spanish were slow to adjust to this unlikely turn. Half of the English sailed around to pin the Spanish from the south, the barrage of English cannon ringing the trapped Spanish and bunching them closer and closer together. “They are heading for Owen’s Bank to the north. The Spanish will beach themselves there and be caught on the rocks if they do not alter their course swiftly.” Marcus pursed his lips and Cora prepared to watch the horror of twenty thousand men trapped on the jagged coast. But someone in the Spanish force finally recognized the danger and with not a moment to spare, Medina-Sidonia managed to get all their ships to change direction, 103
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abandoning hopes of safe harbor and conquest on the Isle of Wight or Portsmouth. They headed out across the rough Channel seas to Calais, where the army of the Duke of Parma might be waiting. Marcus and Cora cheered along with near two hundred English ships and countless onlookers on the coast. A kiss more profound than passionate was their own private celebration. It was a victory but the war was yet to be won. Out from the English forces, a ship’s boat began to row straight for the Sandown docks. Cora knew that Marcus would be there to meet them and there was no way she would let him leave her behind.
***** It was a sacrifice for Drake to stop his pursuit of Sidonia and his fleeing armada in order to send a boat to retrieve Marcus. Cora was again surprised by the man she called husband. And she stood firm in her insistence on following him. Not because she didn’t trust him. No, he’d shown her through the months of his sweet courtship and honest devotion that he truly was the only man she would ever love, but she wanted to come with him to fight for his cause, to fight for England and the life she had in her grasp. But she never thought she’d be seasick. If the little ship’s boat made her stomach churn and her brain spin, how badly would she feel aboard Drake’s Revenge? Truly, she’d been sick long before she set foot on any ship. She had felt odd most mornings for the past several weeks. For the past week, as word of the armada had spread through the watch fire signals and the Spanish had been sighted off the coast of Cornwall, her queasiness had gotten worse, to the point that she vomited several times a day. She had done her best to hide it from Marcus but she knew he was concerned. Concerned enough that he’d tried to forbid her to travel with him to follow the Spanish to the port of Calais, where the Duke of Parma’s vast army was said to be stationed. But she’d simply threatened to deaden the winds in the Channel and force all and sundry to a complete stop. Since the cause of the England was dependent upon the Channel’s fast winds and the quicker ships of Her Majesty’s Navy, Marcus gritted his teeth and relented, cursing under his breath about how he would ever be able to get Drake to stop laughing at him. Cora tried to ignore the roiling of the boat and her stomach and concentrate on her growing sense of adventure. Though she could never leave the Isle and travel the world as Marcus had, it was nevertheless interesting to see a bit of the world away from her beloved coast. Still, as they came closer and closer to the Revenge and its motley crew of hardened sailors, and the impressive array of guns mounted to her decks, she wished perhaps her sojourning was at a more peaceful time. “Ashavi, you are as green as seaweed.” She wrinkled her nose at her husband and stuck out her tongue. He laughed heartily and took her hand, sweeping his thumb across the back of her knuckles in a
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comforting gesture. His touch was as soothing as always and she found the strength to not embarrass herself and retch over the side of the little craft. All too soon, the little boat was at the side of the great ship and a rope ladder was lowered for the occupants of the boat to scramble aboard. As no woman was expected, no allowances had been made for her and Cora hoped fervently that she could manage the ascent without falling into the cold rough waters below. She gritted her teeth and stared up at her goal, the deck of the Revenge. She encountered nothing but scowls and leers as she climbed the rough rope ladder, Marcus directly under her. She wasn’t sure if he was there to try to catch her if she fell, or to make damned certain no one else could see under her skirts but him. Once she was hauled aboard by men with too familiar hands, she stood as solidly as she could and brushed off her skirts and adjusted the broad-brimmed hat securely tied to her head. But once she had to nerve to look up and look around, she was immediately skewered by the eyes of one particular man. He wasn’t terribly tall or physically commanding but his eyes were razor sharp and the thrust of his chin and his pointed red beard showed an undeniable air of command. More than that, the way that every eye flickered between herself and this fellow, every body angled toward his in some fashion, she knew instantly who he was. “Vice Admiral Sir Francis Drake, it is an honor to meet you.” She curtsied as best she could on the heaving deck. “My husband has spoken much of you, sir.” “I do not care if the Queen herself has kissed your feet and called you a blasted saint, what in the nine bloody circles of hell is a woman doing on my ship!” Swallowing, she stood her ground, staring Drake in the eye and refusing to cower. She would help this man, even if he treated her abominably, because it would help England. Trying to formulate a response, she was grateful when the deep, familiar voice of her husband broke the tension. “Admiral Drake, Lieutenant Marcus Searle reporting for duty. I see you have already met my wife, Mistress Cora Searle.” He stepped forward and placed his hand on her arm. Drake pursed his lips and looked back and forth between Cora and Marcus. The crew and all assembled seemed to hold their collective breath until Drake’s face broke into a brilliant, if slightly blackened, smile. “Good work man! You said you were going to the Isle to search for a woman and you must have found her. However,” he raised one hand to pluck at the ends of his mustache, “no matter how devoted or lovely she might be a ship of war is no place for a woman.” “Admiral, I respectfully request that we get underway and you allow me to speak with you on this matter in your quarters.” That sent Drake’s thin eyebrows almost to his hairline and the metal helmet that he wore bounced as though in shock. “Lieutenant Mares, or Searle, or whatever the hell you are calling yourself…you know I find you a useful and skilled sailor but under no 105
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circumstances will I take orders from an underling. Out with your reasons or I’ll chuck both of you over the side and be off to follow the stink of the Spanish across the Channel.” “I knew her as my bride the moment I saw her, Admiral. And she is my match in every way.” There was a series of wolf whistles from the sailors surrounding them and Cora tried desperately to keep the blush from her cheeks. Marcus merely raised an eyebrow and brushed a hand over the knife he wore in his belt. Though he wore a sword mostly to stave off trouble, with a throwing knife, he was most deadly accurate. Cora decided it was time to stop playing mute. “My talents will be, in fact, they have already been, of vast use to Her Majesty and the Navy. The winds themselves will attest to that.” Drake furrowed his lined brow and stared at both Marcus and Cora with uncomfortable intensity. “Very well. But take her into my cabin and keep her there for God’s sake. I’ll not have a woman be a distraction to my crew while I try to outmaneuver the damn Spaniards!” Cora dropped a small curtsy and the crew hooted and hollered as Marcus took her firmly by the arm and pushed her into a low door in the stern of the ship. In the small set of rooms the captain called home, she could see out through the portholes toward England's coast, which was disappearing as the anchor was taken up and the sails filled once again with the favorable wind. Onward to Calais.
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Chapter Fifteen Frankly, Marcus had managed to get past Drake with a lot less poetic railing and merciless teasing than he’d thought he’d receive. And Cora, his lovely, brilliant, stubborn wife, had not backed down a whit from the fearsome presence of England’s greatest sailor. He was damned proud of her. And incredibly angry with her. There was no reason that she should endanger herself on this journey. Drake needed his eyes in order to plan moves against the Spanish. The wind would be a mighty force to bring to bear but Marcus was far from certain that Cora could take the repeated strain. It was an impossible situation, the lives of thousand versus the life of this one, beautiful, extraordinary woman. “There, Mistress Searle. Are you happy now? Ensconced in the captain’s cabin all the way to Calais. Odds are three to one we’ll be hit by a broadside and we’ll be blown to smithereens in here.” Cora had the gall to calmly sit on a wide sea trunk strapped to one wall and proceed to stick her pink tongue out at him. “You need me. You and Drake and the whole damned English Navy. You’d best face the truth and stop your incessant worrying. You are giving me a headache and that is the last thing I need at this moment.” She raised her hands over her head to unpin her hat and with the action she managed to shake loose the glorious curtain of her black hair. His cock twitched in appreciation and memories of a dozen encounters surrounded by that cloud of silky black while she rode him like a prize stallion. Oh, he did not need this distraction. Drake would no doubt be coming in soon and it would do no good to be half-hard and incoherent, unable to explain the unique abilities he and his wife could share because all his blood had run out of his brain. He flopped down on the opposite wall on the matching trunk and crossed his arms, trying to hold onto his worry and resentment at her interference. It was especially difficult to avoid thoughts of fucking his sweet, succulent wife when the most dominant feature of the room was a huge swinging hammock fitted with a feather mattress. Drake was one of the earliest adopters of that Caribbean invention and was actively trying to get the thing used by the entire Navy. He often claimed after a round of ale that the most comfortable sleep he’d ever had in his life was on the swaying contraption he’d had built. Marcus had no desire to test the thing for its comfort, only for the amorous possibilities it presented. He tapped the toe of his faded red boots on the floor, impatient for Drake to come so that he could focus on something other than the sway of his wife’s breasts as her body naturally worked to counter the jostling of the waves. 107
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After half an hour of this, he watched as Cora slowly drifted off to sleep, slumping sweetly against the rough wooden wall of the cabin. He could not very well let his bride rest in such an uncomfortable manner, could he? Even the irascible Drake would be gentleman enough to give up his bed to a lady in need. Standing up and walking to her on legs that had not yet gained their seaworthiness, he put one arm under her knees and one behind her back, picking her up and stumbling to the edge of the hammock bed. He lay her down on the crisp linen sheets. Drake was a stickler for neatness, after all. He swallowed thickly, determined to back away and sit back down. He would not think about fucking his beautiful wife in the captain’s cabin. He would maintain control. What he hadn’t counted on was his wife’s acting abilities. The minute he tried to extricate his arms from her body, Cora gripped the fabric of his doublet in her fist and pulled him down to her, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. He couldn’t draw back. He couldn’t stay sane under such an onslaught. All his worry and anger translated into rough and ready passion. Within moments, Cora’s skirts were up, the ties of her undergarments ripped open and two of his long fingers plunged into her wet depths as she squirmed in the hammock, the motion setting the thing swaying in a counterpoint to the roll of the ship. “Fuck me, Marcus. Please! I need you inside me.” Anger at her fled in the face of their combined need. He pulled down the modest kirtle she wore under her bodice until her right breast was freed and sank his teeth lightly onto her nipple while he worked to free his cock. She moaned loudly when he slid inside and he had to cover her mouth with his to swallow her cries before she brought half the lechers on board ship to listen in at the door. His hips snapped against her and she wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him closer with every thrust. Balance became precarious and he rose up to standing, his hand gripping her hips as he leaned into her. She threaded her fingers through the nets of the hammock, splaying her arms wide open and giving him a satisfied smile. Her breasts bounced enticingly with each thrust and the breeze carrying the English ships also seemed to ebb and flow outside the porthole each time his cock hit the entrance to her womb. “You are the most frustrating,” he thrust, “stubborn,” he thrust and she stuck out her tongue at him, “infuriatingly tempting woman!” He thrust again, so hard that he lost his footing and without her strong legs gripping him so tightly, he would have surely fallen. Instead, he flailed for purchase and found it in the most amazing way. His boots clomped against the wall of the cabin and Cora shuddered and moaned at the change of angle. He did have much better control with his feet planted against the wall. The sway of the hammock moved perfectly with each stroke, the roll of the sea seeming to bring each of them higher and higher until they reached the crest of passion together.
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He erupted into her with a roar against her neck while she clutched his scalp, leaving welts as she convulsed with her climax. “Oh hell and damnation. May the sea gods give you blue balls for a month for that, Marcus Smith Mares Searle.” Drake’s loud bellow brought him back to the real world faster than his blood could redistribute itself. And as he pulled out of his sweet, soft welcoming wife he managed to fall flat on his face on the deck. Drake laughed long and loud and even Cora giggled in disloyal glee as she managed to pull her clothing to rights and hide beneath the disturbed sheets. Marcus adjusted his flaccid, sticky cock into his hose and then pushed himself off the floor, staring right at Drake with those severe eagle eyes that few could stand to gaze into for long. Drake simply waggled his bushy eyebrows. “I don’t blame you, Marcus. If I had such a bride, I would no doubt be just as enslaved to my cock as you are. As it is, you’ve given me some excellent ideas should I ever relent and get me a woman in this cabin for my own pleasure. But serious matters are afoot and I hope your head is clear now that you’ve had your fun. So tell me…just what the hell can you and this little bride of yours accomplish that it’s worth having to give up my comfortable bed to a pair of randy newlyweds for the duration?” Cora reappeared, her hair slightly more tame and her smile a touch more restrained. “Thank you for your understanding, Admiral. As you know of my husband’s talents and some of his history, perhaps you will not be so shocked when I tell you that I have some say over the course of the unruly wind?” Drake looked interested but not wholly convinced. “That would be a gift that any sailor would give his eyeteeth to control, my lovely lady. What proof do you have that you can do as you say?” Marcus stepped forward, momentarily incensed that Drake would accuse his wife of lying but Cora held up a hand. “It is a reasonable question and one I would expect for a commander of his caliber. Be glad the man does not brand me a witch for the skills I have been gifted with from heaven.” Marcus was dumbstruck and then as proud as a new papa to hear those words from her lips. Just as she had accepted him, she had accepted her gifts, embraced them. Drake laughed again. “After that speech, you’d be a fool to be lying ta me. And although I think you might be a fool for marrying my lieutenant, the scurvy knave, otherwise you look mighty sane for a female.” Cora sat regally in the swaying hammock, like a queen on her throne. In response to Drake’s words, she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. And then—silence. The ship stopped its rocking. Above them, the sails fell flat and voices began to swear. The wind which carried them in pursuit of the Spanish had abandoned them. Drake stared at Cora with wide eyes until Cora breathed out once again and the wind sighed with her. The sails filled once more and with a jolt that set the hammock bouncing and both
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men stumbling across the deck, Revenge was on the move once again to the east and another battlefront. “Marcus, you’d best stay here and keep my lady happy. Very happy. That’s an order!” Drake bowed as he left the room and Cora began to laugh lightly once he was out of earshot. Her eyes drooped slightly, as it was obvious that such a display had taken much out of her. But it would be hours before they were ready for another conflict with the Spanish and Marcus would make damned sure his wife slept and slept well. He launched himself at the hammock and the thing swayed violently as the air filled with their laughter. He caught her lips in a kiss full of promise and she sighed happily into his mouth, her breath soft and sweet with her happiness. He pushed all worry aside for a brief time and reveled in the woman who was his.
***** By dawn of the next day, Revenge was riding the rough waves with the rest of the English forces, staring at the defensive crescent of Spanish ships aligned against them. In truth, arrival in “safe” harbor near Calais had not truly helped the Spanish. English and Dutch spies had informed Lord Howard and Drake that the chosen harbor where Parma was to transfer his thirty thousand troops, Dunkirk harbor, was being barricaded from the Spanish Armada by a few brave Dutch flyboats. But even more then that, the Spanish had a great deal of problems. Of those heralded thirty thousand troops, only sixteen thousand were still capable of being moved, the rest were sick or dead from disease. And they were nowhere near an orderly formation for being loaded onto Spanish ships for transport. And more amazing, those few Dutch boats were remarkably effective. Medina-Sidonia was so frightened of the oncoming British, he refused to send out any smaller warships to deal with the pesky Dutch. So now the Spanish stood at anchor, trapped between a closed harbor and near two hundred British ships. Still, Drake, Howard and the other British Admirals had no easy task of it. The array of cannon pointing at the British fleet was fearsome. And if the British got near enough for close fighting, they would be boarded and swarmed by thousands of Spaniards waiting within the bowels of every one of those ships, the Inquisition at their backs. Britain’s hopes for victory lay in their long-range cannons, their discipline in quickly reloading said cannons and most of all, in winds that would allow their ships to stay out of the grip of Spanish boarders. Drake had gathered on the Ark Royal, Lord Howard’s ship, to discuss options for attack and to drive the Spanish from northern waters. Marcus stood at the rail, his hand holding Cora’s. She was wearing a heavy cloak despite the summer heat, mostly to disguise her from prying eyes on this ship and the others. She looked out across the water with his eyes, a look of contemplation of her lovely, pale face.
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She had awoken in the hammock and immediately made use of a chamber pot to retch. Seasickness was nothing to be ashamed of, in man or woman but Marcus wished he could have spared her the experience. She ate a bit of the best ship’s biscuit he could find and some watered wine and looked somewhat more composed now. Frankly, part of him just wanted to keep her pinned in that ruddy hammock, fucking her until she forgot about everything like duty or country and just longed for his cock. He followed her gaze toward the rest of the British fleet. The best and brightest were there, Triumph, Ark Royal, Elizabeth, Bonaventura, Swiftsure, Victory and a hundred others. Some would not see the next day’s light. On Peregrine, Marcus’ last station, an eager boy looked toward the Spanish with bright gray eyes and a broad smile on his face. Cora squeezed his hand tighter when she realized that Edgar would be in this battle as well as the two of them. But her own lips held a small smile as well. “I’ve never seen him so happy,” she whispered, her voice touched with a mixture of concern and awe. “Whatever happens on this day, this is the life he chose.” She nodded. “I know. I cannot let him have any less than the happiness I myself have achieved.” He longed to kiss her, to console her but he didn’t care for the vast audience of the ship where men were packed like rats swarming over the deck, tending the sails and keeping the guns in prime order. Once again, his gaze moved back toward the enemy. Cora was already looking at the Spanish line. She would have to kill today. Was she ready for it? Marcus had killed before, had been in battle and survived. He did not like it but he had to protect his country, his family, his wife. Still, seeing the countless faces of strangers, some who might die at their hands, was disconcerting. He was about to wrench his eyes away and draw her back to the cabin to wait for Drake to return, when one familiar face appeared among the multitudes. Nigel Lambert stood on the deck of one the formidable Spanish galleons, his cold eyes staring with derision at the small but quick English forces. Cora gasped, her teeth gritted and her face becoming hard and determined. She whispered to him, her voice filled with conviction. “I was afraid. All those men who might die, on both sides. But now, now I understand. I will fight against the kind of condemnation and vicious hypocrisy that Lambert would bring to the shores of England.” Her eyes held tears as she looked up at him, eyes like the gray choppy seas. “If we are to have a life together, if the tales of the Magi are true and there were others out there seeking to keep magic alive, then it is here and now that I…that we have to take a stand.” This time he could not resist the impulse to bend down and kiss her sweet lips, ignoring the raucous catcalls and uncouth words that swirled around them. She smiled, then turned once again to the enemy, a fiery gold touching every sail as the setting sun turned the water and all upon it to shades of orange and crimson. A sudden angry gust
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lashed out toward the Spanish, their sails billowing and ships rocking from the unexpected force of the blow. A storm was coming, though the Spanish did not know it. The storm of a woman’s rage. Neither Cora Searle nor Queen Elizabeth were women to be underestimated. Marcus laughed ruefully, a hard hollow sound of a man entering battle. Now he knew she was ready for this challenge. A noise on the starboard side of the ship indicated that Drake had returned from the conference. When he was clear on deck, the saluting over with and the details ready to be dealt with, Marcus did not wait for formalities. “Did they agree?” “Howard thinks me mad, or brilliant. But fireships have been successful before. I don’t think he wanted to ask too many questions about how we plan to steer them into the heart of the Spanish line but to lose eight ships but no men is worth a little bit of sheer faith. Ships we can rebuild, sailors are harder to find, as the pathetic Spanish know all too well. If they could sail those ships half as well as their tercios fought on land, you and I and all the world would have been speaking Spanish for a hundred years already.” Marcus nodded and he felt Cora grow tense by his side. This would not be easy for her. She would be the one holding both of them to the deck of a swaying ship, as he sailed over the water to pilot ships with no crew. “Are you sure you are strong enough to do this, my love?” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that you are? Will you come back and not be stupidly heroic, trying to drive the ships straight up those royal Spanish asses?” “As you would never let me forget your displeasure if I did try such folly and I plan to live a long and happy life by your side, I give you my word, my lady.” He gave her a bow, to further catcalls by the crew and she rolled her eyes. But he could tell some of her nerves had been assuaged. “To my cabin with both of you. Let us see if this damned folderol tale you tell will be the salvation of us all.” Drake looked across the water to where eight fine ships were being stripped of all that could be carried and filled to the brim with pitch, brimstone, tar and gunpowder fuses. The cannons that couldn’t be salvaged were loaded and primed, ready for one final broadside against the Spanish fleet. Marcus held his wife closely to him, waiting and watching out the wide stern portholes as the light of day faded into the darkness of night, each ship and its lanterns floating upon increasingly rough seas. It was several hours spent in tense waiting as the fireships were prepared and Marcus passed the time well, holding and caressing his wife while they watched the lights dance on the sea. Even deep soulful kisses could not chase away the specter of danger and it hung as a barrier between them, preventing them from making love as they both longed to do. At midnight, the signal came, a long blast on a trumpet. Drake knocked on the door loudly and Marcus stood. “We are ready, Admiral.” 112
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Cora nodded and closed her eyes, holding Marcus’ hands in her own. Outside in the blackness of night, the lights of hundreds of ships flickered as the wind shifted once again. With a wild swirl, Marcus felt his stomach drop as a hurricane spun around him. Instead of panicking, he fixed his gaze on the awesome visage of his ashavi, glorious in the peak of her power, her hair swirling around her in a shiny black cloud, her face full of concentration and quiet, undeniable strength. Then, all was swirling darkness, as though he was trapped in the web of her hair, spun to and fro like a mere child’s doll upon unseen currents. Suddenly, he was there, on the empty deck of the ship Hope. Its wheel lashed to the post it stood near, thus holding the rudder in position despite the wild wind filling the sails. Around him were seven other ships, the decks and rigging ghostly in their emptiness, lanterns lit to reveal kegs of tar and gunpowder waiting to explode at his signal. He gasped as air returned to his lungs and his legs shook with awe that their plan had actually worked. He was alone and responsible for the fate of thousands— No, he was not alone. He could feel her, her hand holding his, the caress of her lips against his neck, trailing fingertips down his stomach. Her strength lay within him, just as his lay within her. He took the wheel of the Hope, unlashing it and directing it unerringly toward the crescent of Spanish ships glowing in the distance. The wind, Cora’s very breath, followed his command and all eight of the fireships crept forward, intent on scattering the Spanish and cutting off their ability to unite with the massive army on shore. Closer and closer they drew, until some instinct told Marcus that it was time to light the fires and begin the intimidation of the Invincible Armada and its cowardly commanders. Using a crossbow left on board at his direction, Marcus lit arrows wrapped in tar-soaked rags and shot them unerringly at each of his companion vessels. As the fires began to burn, he lashed the wheel of Hope once more and strode to the very prow of the ship, where an eagle figurehead flew on gilded wings toward her prey. Fire on ship was the nightmare of many sailors and Marcus shivered as he watched flames climb toward the black sky and listened to the cracking of timbers and the popping of burning wood and rope. Already, the cries in Spanish had gone up, alarms rung across the Spanish fleet. With his extraordinary eyes, he could see even in the dark of night the panic strike, the aimless running and even some men jumping overboard in the grip of their fear. Anchors were cut and ships began to move, some forward to attack, some away to flee. As he took in the view of mounting chaos with satisfaction, a gust of wind spun around him angrily, bits of sand scraping against the skin of his face. He almost laughed as he imagined his righteously nagging wife, incensed on the Revenge, demanding his return. As he found the face of Lambert staring in horror at death sailing straight his way, Marcus knew his mission was done. With one last rude gesture at the Spanish, he threw the lantern toward the center of the ship, watching as a pile of gunpowder caught flame and began to burn a slow line across the deck, to where
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each cannon lay primed to fire. The Spanish would certainly get a nasty surprise this night. Then he opened his arms wide and let the wind take him again, embracing the swirling blackness as he would embrace the sweet form of his ashavi. And so she was there, in his arms. The wind howled out through the wide open porthole and Cora kissed him with anger, worry and desperation. “You said you would come back to me, not be a hero!” “And I did, once you gave me that gentle reminder.” He rubbed the raw skin of his face and she peppered him with kisses. One thing led to another and this time, he picked her up and pinned her against the cabin door, pushing up her skirts and thrusting into her already wet pussy with roughness born of the rush of battle and the raw need both of them shared. She would have screamed loudly if his mouth hadn’t covered her, his kisses stealing her breath as his cock drove into her sweet sheath over and over again. Her legs gripped his hips with fervor and her nails tore rents into his doublet. There was a loud knocking on the door but both of them heard nothing but the pounding of each other’s blood. Cora climaxed hard, her pussy gripping him so tightly he could not hold back his eruption. He groaned his release into the wild mess of her hair and breathed in the smell of his wife and the sea and sex. Only then did he realize that she had fainted in his arms. Gasping for breath and remorseful for the brutality of how he’d taken her, he lay her down on the soft hammock bed and stuffed his cock back into his hose, yanking open the door to see the face of an irate Admiral staring at him. “Well! You are alive then. The Spanish are splitting six…” “A doctor! Do you have a ship’s doctor on board? Cora, my wife…she…” Drake did not like to be cut off but he was forgiving in this case. He barked an order, “Smythe! Get the surgeon and be quick about it!” Marcus turned back into the cabin, kneeling by the bed and stroking Cora’s forehead, feeling for her pulse and praying to every god he could think of. She looked pale, too pale, but her pulse was strong. He knew her will to be indomitable and he would refuse to let her leave him. The ship’s surgeon stomped in a few minutes later, a rather dirty man who smelled of the alcohol he was supposed to use to treat his patients’ pain. “Oy, I ain’t never treated a woman. Not a lady, leastways. All I could tell you is whether she ’ad a fever or tupped up proper.” Marcus scowled at the man but waved him in. The man scratched his chin and looked at her for a moment, then wiped his hand on his doublet before gently touching Cora’s forehead. “No fever. ’As she been coughin’?”
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“No. Not in the least.” “She felt sick…retchin’ and pukin’ sick? Not on the ship, landlubbers always toss up their vittles onboard but before that.” Marcus thought hard, trying to remember through the haze of tension to the relative peace of his honeymoon and the week between the sighting of the Spanish and the battle off the Sandown coast. “Yes, she had not been eating very well. But we had much to worry over.” The surgeon coughed and in a quiet voice asked a few more questions, “Um…I mean no disrespect, Lieutenant but ’as she…are ’er…” He held his rounded hands over his chest and waggled his eyebrows. “’Ave they been more…well bigger at all, more touchy?” Marcus pursed his lips and gave the man a cold stare with those piercing eagle eyes. “Yes.” “Congratulations, you’re goin’ ta be a father.” He tipped his cap and practically ran out of the cabin. “What did he say?” Cora’s voice called softly from the bed. Marcus was caught between worry and elation. Was it true? Was he to be a father? How the hell could he get the mother of his child off this pestilential ship and back home? He knelt on the floor and took her cold hand in his. Smoothing the hair back from her brow, he whispered to her, “He said that you were going to have a child.” “But all…” An odd look crossed her features. She worried her lips and the silence drew longer and longer. Marcus had to say something. “Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry I was so rough…” She rolled her eyes. “It was fantastic, silly man. You always are, you vain thing. You didn’t hurt me. I was just very tired after reaching…” She blushed, still, after everything they had done, she blushed. She never ceased to enchant him. “I’ve been very tired and slightly ill with some food and I haven’t had my courses…” Her eyes grew wide and a hand brushed over her stomach. “Could it be true?” Marcus saw hope flare in her eyes and he wished that she would not be crushed in disappointment if it was not the case. But as his hand met hers over her abdomen, a calm surety filled him. Their child lay within, an unexpected gift during a time of adversity. The next hours Marcus convinced Cora to sleep and though he stayed by her side often, he went up to the deck to assume his old role as the eyes of “el Draque” as the Spanish called Admiral Drake. The English herded the dissolved Spanish lines farther and farther north, away from any hope of finding a deepwater port in friendly territory or ever meeting up with Parma’s army. Few of the ships had been touched by the fiery death of those fireships but every Spanish ship had suffered from the panic they engendered. Marcus felt a deep sense of
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satisfaction as dawn broke dimly through the dark storm clouds, revealing a Spanish Armada in disarray, tossed by winds and rain that the English merely laughed at. When the English began their bombardment, their cannonades felled ship after ship, forcing others to run aground on the coast and the rest to flee. On Revenge, Marcus called out commands to the gunnery crews with his unerring instincts and remarkable vision. Within two hours, the English had run out of gunpowder and the Spanish had run out of the will to fight. Without a single English ship lost, the Spanish were on the run. Drake, ever the privateer, ordered his ship after the Spanish paymaster vessel. Marcus snorted in derision at the irredeemable pirate and went below to check on his sleeping wife. Cora was green again but smiling just the same at the news of their success. Marcus distracted her from the screams and chaos of the Revenge’s attack on the Spanish pay ship, unwilling for her to experience the true violence of a privateer’s life. Her nausea seemed to be countered quite effectively by tender, thorough attention to her sensitive breasts and Marcus was by no means unwilling to enjoy a breakfast of his wife’s delectably soft skin and the sounds of her moans of passion. Soon, the swaying of the violent seas disappeared as they hung suspended in that hammock, making their own swinging rhythm as he thrust into her with thorough possession. Some time later, Drake banged on the door once again, carrying a chest full of Spanish silver in his massive arms. “I come bearing gifts for the babe to be born. Consider it an investment in his no-doubt considerable talents!” Cora looked up from where she was retching into the chamber pot and fixed Drake with a deadly gaze. “Keep your ruddy gifts, old man! Get me and this babe back to dry land and I’ll give you a chest full of gold!” Drake laughed heartily. “As you wish, Mistress Searle, as you wish!”
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Epilogue
England, July 1589 Cora Searle stood on the Culver Cliffs and looked at a calm summer sea. The night was warm and the wind was a light breeze, not the typical gusts that made the trees grow sideways and the waves sport crowns of whitecaps. The weather could not have been more different from that day, one year ago, when Revenge’s boat had carried Marcus, her and their unborn child back home to Sandown to a hero’s welcome. The town had not known or cared why Cora had been onboard one of the ships defending the English coast, only that she had been and the ships had been more successful than anyone could have dreamed. England had been truly blessed and an age of peace and prosperity under Good Queen Bess was assured. At the moment Cora set foot once again on English soil, she was much more interested in a cup of one of Maggie’s tonics to settle her nausea and to tell her father that Edgar was safe onboard Peregrine. That and to thoroughly enjoy life with her newly discharged husband. The next year was full of more happiness than she could hold within. Her father and Maggie surprised them all with the announcement of their engagement. Their marriage brought a smile back to her father’s gloomy visage and the sound of laughter back to empty Afydden Manor. The harvest season had been filled with the stomping of grapes and Marcus’ intensity focused on learning the trade he would pass on to the next generation of Searles. For the Christmas season, Marcus’ family came all the way from Devon to visit their son and his very pregnant bride. His father and mother were wonderful people and his sisters and their husbands and children made Christmas a raucous, wonderful time. It almost made up for the absence of her mother and Edmund and most especially, Edgar, far away in some unknown land. All and sundry told her she had glowed with her pregnancy and when the depths of February gripped the cold gray seashore at Afydden Manor, all were joyful at the birth of a fine baby boy. That very same day, Edgar Searle tromped back up the hill to his home, to be greeted with the unexpected news he was an uncle and godfather to his namesake, Lucas Edgar Searle. Now, with Edgar once again back at sea and Stone Bower once again their home, Cora stood on the coast she loved and looked over the water, confident that she would never look upon it with lonely longing again. She knew that the “curse” was broken, that she would bear more children, both to continue the Searle legacy as well as to follow their Magi heritage. She could be happy on her own terms, and those children would be happy on theirs.
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Her husband curled his arms around her and kissed her hair, cradling her in his arms as they looked out over the peaceful water glowing in the light of the full moon. “Ashavi, why have we come all the way out here tonight? Maggie has taken Lucas for the night and we have the whole house to ourselves. I had plans to christen the new kitchen table!” She turned to him with a playful smile on her face. “After we managed to break the last one the same way?” “Why do you think I bought the thickest, sturdiest table I could find on the Isle? Our great-grandchildren will still have that table!” “And I don’t think they would want to know what their aged grandparents got up to on its surface, or they’d never eat again.” His laugh echoed out and she bathed in the sound that seemed to embrace her from within. She reached up and wove her fingers through his untamed hair and pulled him down for a scorching kiss. After more than a year by his side, she still was overwhelmed with the intensity of her passion for him. From the day she looked upon his ship out at sea and felt desire burning in her belly for the ghostly shape of an unknown man, he had owned her body. With his unrelenting courtship and loving tenderness, he’d won her heart. With the help of destiny, her soul had always been his, from the moment she’d been born. She shuddered to think what her life would have been like if she had not taken that fateful walk up to this clifftop and gazed out upon the Spithead on that April evening. “I first saw you here,” Marcus whispered in her ear, as though reading her thoughts. “Your wild hair peeking out from under your cape and your gray eyes a mirror of the sea I love. You held my soul in your hands from then on and I could not rest until I had made you mine.” “I have always been yours, Marcus. You just had to come and claim me.” He gave her a devilish smile. “I find the need to claim you once again, ashavi.” Ignoring their exposed position atop the cliffs and the bright summer moonlight, Marcus proceeded to kiss her with a thoroughness that left her knees weak. Marcus offered her no support, instead, they both sank into the sparse grass and lost all decorum and restraint. Her skirts and petticoats were untied and wrenched off, her loose bodice and shirt followed suit. She pulled and tugged at his shirt and swore viciously at those damned faded red boots when they prevented speedy removal of his hose. She came close to sending the boots sailing over the cliffside to feed the fishes but he distracted her with much needed attention to her heavy, milk-filled breasts. His sucking, so completely different from that of their son, brought relief to the pressure she felt but incredible pleasure as well. Dropping the boots and attending instead to running her nails over the skin of his back, she wrapped her legs around him and arched under him, making clear that at least for their first encounter of the night,
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she wanted no long, sweet and tender loving. She wanted to feel him within her, an undeniable force. He knew what she wanted and never giving up his worship of her larger, fuller breasts, he stroked his fingers once through the folds of her pussy and knowing that she was wet and ready for him, finally he thrust his cock into her. Her cry rang out into the night, tumbling over the cliff to fall into the vast sea. The moment when his cock made them one was always sheer bliss and this time was no different. Her hips demanded that he move with her, setting a rhythm fast and hard that he gave to her with no objections. Soon enough, he had reared above her, her legs balanced against the breadth of his chest while his hands cradled her ass as he fucked her hard enough to wring whimpers of delight from her throat and cause stars to descend from the skies to flash before her eyes. Her final, brilliant climax took them both by surprise with its intensity. The wind swirled around them with fierce gusts, unrestrained though she had spent months perfecting her ability to lessen the stormy chaos when her pleasure peaked. Tonight was something special, something wild. Marcus roared out his own climax, gushing his seed within her and collapsing onto his elbows over her, a teasing smile on his face. “Sometimes, my love, not even you can command the wind. It must have its freedom to celebrate from time to time.” She wrinkled her nose and pushed at his chest, rolling them over until she had him pinned to the ground, the wind caressing her skin and the moon making her naked flesh glow with power. Her eyes raked over his body with possessive glee. As she descended to begin a journey with her lips from his neck to his already twitching cock, she whispered words full of untamed promise. “Perhaps, husband, there are times when the wind commands me.”
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About the Author Elaine Lowe is a work-at-home mom in Silicon Valley, California. Of her many parttime jobs, her favorite one by far is writing. She has a background in biotech, but she has branched out into the demanding world of home management, toddler entertainment, transcription, envelope stuffing and, of course, writing romantic and erotic fiction. A love of history, magic and romance combines to inspire a lot of her writing. That and her wonderful husband, who is a fantastic sounding board, support system and research consultant. He really enjoys research. And so does she. Look for upcoming novels involving forces of nature, a touch of magic and the idea that sensuality is not specific to any particular time period. Elaine welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and e-mail address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Elaine Lowe Lady Six Sky Nancy’s Sweet Spelling Bee Passion Magic: Enchant the Dawn Passion Magic: Reveal the Heart Scandalous Profession Sea of Pearls Seeds of Garnet Veins of Turquoise
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