Brethren of the Coast Box Set 2 Page 11

  “A newborn pup, am I?” Though he groused, it was in jest. “I take issue, my dear. Is there a tail attached to my bum?”

  “No.” Now she cast him a flirty grin. “But, now that you mention it, you are a bit droopy about the ears.”

  “Droopy?” Lance thrust his chin in mock offense. “We shall see about that. Prepare to defend yourself, madam.” With a titillating touch, he brushed his fingertips to the highly sensitized flesh at the base of her neck.

  “Oh, Lance.” In an instant, Cara shrieked and flinched. “I beg you, do not tickle me.”

  When she jerked hard, in a pitiful attempt to escape, she threw him off balance, and he teetered precariously. Just as quick, she reversed course in an awkward dance, of sorts, hugging him close to keep him from falling, which brought them toe-to-toe.

  For inexpressibly sweet minutes, he melted in her cerulean eyes.

  The walls of his suite collapsed, the world tilted beneath his feet, and the air sizzled with incomparable desire, enveloping them in a sensuous cocoon. An uncontrollable salute from his Jolly Roger took him by surprise, because his tempestuous Roger was dangerously jolly. But it was the raw anguish she tried but failed to hide that brought him back to reality and stayed the beast below his belly button.

  Lance cupped her cheek and sighed. “Cara, tell me truly, did I hurt you?”

  “Of course not.” She swallowed hard and shifted in his embrace. “You did not so much as step on me.”

  Lance frowned. “That is not what I refer to, and you know it.”

  Her lower lip trembled, and again she averted her stare. “Perhaps we have worked you too hard today.”

  “Cara—”

  “Dr. Handley cautioned you not to overtire yourself.” She moved to his side. “Let me put you to bed.”

  “We have to talk—”

  “What is there to say?” She gave him a gentle nudge. “It is a tempest in a teacup.”

  “I know you too well—”

  “You know nothing,” she snapped, and he knew without doubt a gaping wound remained in their friendship.

  Though he desperately wanted to discuss their kiss, the one that stood as a very real barrier between them, Lance was reluctant to press the issue for fear she’d turn tail and run, and he was in no condition to give chase. He needed to reassure her it had been an aberration, an unforgivable blunder, a rare moment of weakness brought about by his injury and subsequent isolation. He wanted her to know she had nothing to fear from him. It wouldn’t happen again, because he would not risk their friendship on a whim.

  As Lance perched on the edge of the mattress, he dared ask, “Will you come tomorrow?”

  “Of course, I will, silly man.” Cara draped the blanket over his splinted leg. “It is my duty.”

  ONE-KNIGHT STAND

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dr. Handley removed the splint, on a blustery morning, which Cara thought appropriate, because the weather matched the turmoil roiling within her. Free of the heavy restraint, Lance would no longer require her assistance. In no time, he would be on his feet, and life would return to normal. Everything would be as it was—before that kiss.

  To her surprise, she was horribly mistaken.

  In the weeks his leg had been immobilized, it had become weak and stiff. Or as the doctor put it, atrophy had set in with a vengeance. To stand tall and proud as he once had, her hero would need to work doubly hard to strengthen his leg, and the process would be neither easy nor painless. Each passing day was a test of endurance, physically and mentally.

  With good humor he trudged forth admirably, gritting his teeth in a desperate attempt to stifle the agony, but his awkward gait belied a cumbersome and uncooperative limb. As Lance struggled to walk, a black, desperate mood invested his frame, eating at his spirit and further hampering his progress. And Cara bled for him.

  As a single entity they suffered, each from their own wounds, his physical injury and her emotional trauma. Yet she remained resolute in her belief that Lance was fated to be hers, if only her strategy were as fixed. And although they’d not spoken of that brief but blissful interlude, she revisited it every night in her dreams.

  But in her visions Lance stood hale and whole.

  “Whoa.” He tottered and splayed his arms wide for balance. Absent the splint, he was considerably more vulnerable.

  “I am sorry, my hero.” She clutched him close. “I did not pay attention.”

  “It is not your fault. This is insanity,” he growled. “I am a bloody cripple.”

  “Do not say such things,” she chastised him.

  “It is true.” Just then, he lost his footing and flapped furiously, as if to take flight. “Look at me, hobbling as an old woman.”

  “But Dr. Handley says it is to be expected. You were stationary for several weeks, and it will work itself out.” Cara half-hugged him and rested her head on his shoulder. “You must have hope.”

  “Hope?” In an instant, his expression softened. “Ever the optimist, my girl.”

  “Always, where you are concerned.” When he pressed his lips to her forehead, she gasped.

  “What say we forget this nonsense?” he whispered. “We can recline amid the pillows, as we did when we were children, and you can read that god awful book of poetry, if you wish.”

  Desire flickered as a slow-burning flame, and hope bloomed anew, yet she tempered her response. “But—you have not completed your exercise.”

  “My dear, I can’t negotiate the room without this infernal walking stick.” He squeezed her ever so gently. “What is the point?”

  “Lance, you have only just begun.” Despite his tempting offer, not for a minute would she place his needs above her wants. And she much preferred his grouchy demeanor to outright surrender. In order to improve, he had to fight. “It is a temporary condition. You must believe that.”

  “What you believe and what I know are two different things. I am useless.” He scowled. “I could not even command my ship.”

  “That is ridiculous.” Now Cara had him. If she could raise his ire, she might be able to inspire him to continue his therapy. “You are still captain of the Demetrius.”

  “How long do you think I will last when the men get an eyeful of me? The crippled captain.” Lance snorted. “They will hoist me over the rail and make off with my rig, and then what would I do? I would wager I could not stay afloat, and I would end up in the belly of a shark.”

  “Stuff and nonsense.” She tried to get him to take another step, but he resisted. “If you will only—”

  “No more, Cara.” He wrenched free and shifted his weight to his good leg. “It is past due for me to accept the reality of my situation.”

  “Stop this rubbish at once.” In unchecked frustration, she stomped the carpeted floor. How could she motivate him? “What is wrong with you? Never have I known you to give up or quit anything.”

  “I speak the truth,” he said, with a wicked grimace. “You would not understand, given that you live in the world of perfume and petticoats.”

  “Perfume and petticoats, indeed.” Oh, he was sporting for an argument, and in her he would find his challenge well met. And on the wings of high dudgeon, they would succeed. Unabashed and undaunted, she pinned his stare. “But I know myself, and I would not be cowed by the hardship. And I had thought the same of you, as never would I have figured you a coward—”

  “A coward?” He clenched his jaw. “Tread lightly, friend. I have run through bigger men for lesser insult.”

  “That may be, but you recall a different Lance.” She giggled, and he bared his teeth. “As you have one foot in the grave, what have I to fear?”

  She prompted him to move, but he wouldn’t budge.

  “My wrath.” He lowered his chin. “And my belt.”

  “Ooh, that is tough talk for an invalid.” Cara cast him a flirty pout, as she sharpened her tongue and aimed. “You know, we could hire a nanny and put you in towels. Then you need never leave your bed.”<
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  For a scarce second, Lance said nothing. But she could sense the barely restrained anger simmering beneath his quiet façade.

  “How easy it is to parody my pain.” He wiped perspiration from his brow. “As for you, ignorance is bliss.”

  “On the contrary. I know it hurts, and I know it has been difficult, but you must not yield.” She cupped his cheek, but he jerked, as if repulsed by her touch. “You have to fight to get back on your feet.”

  “I will not fool myself into believing something that is not going to happen.” He speared his fingers through his hair, and it spiked. “I am tired.”

  “Come now, is this my hero? Is this the friend with whom I have shared so much?” She smiled and tried to cajole him into resuming his exercise. “Is this the brave one who saved me from the snakes in the pond at Pembroke?”

  “Grow up, Cara.” His expression sobered. “We are no longer a boy and a girl. We are man and woman, and I am no more your hero than you are a queen. And there were no snakes. Blake was joking because he knew I—”

  “He knew—what?”

  “It does not signify.” His jaw muscles flexed as he clamped his mouth shut.

  “All right. Now you have tarried long enough.” Reminding herself to stay focused, she prodded him. “Are you quite finished feeling sorry for yourself, or should I invite the rest of the Brethren to your pity party?”

  In a flash, he snapped to attention. “Go to hell.”

  “I should wish you the same.” For each successive affront, she paid in the coin of self-control, yet she persevered. Cara rocked on her heels and smirked. “Then again, you would have to crawl to get there.”

  “Get out!”

  “What a bad bargain.” Unfazed, she shrugged and looked him up and down. “Is that the best you can do?”

  At long last, Lance stepped in her direction. “Leave me, you buttock and tongue!”

  And then he took another.

  “You should be so fortunate. And who is going to make me?” Withdrawing, she grinned, arched a brow, and innocently touched a finger to her cheek. “You?”

  With the walking stick as a counterbalance, he closed the distance between them. “Cara, so help me, when I get my hands on you, I am going to baste some manners into your backside.”

  “You will have to catch me first.” To incite him further, she stuck out her tongue and retreated once more.

  “Cara!”

  “Poor bantling.” She flicked her fingers in entreaty. “Come and get me.”

  Methodically, but at a conservative pace, she steered him in a merry chase about the room.

  “I am not in leading strings, and I mean what I say.” With sweat trickling his temples, Lance glared at her. “I am going to bend you over my knees, and you will not sit comfortably for a sennight.”

  “Oh, I am quaking in my slippers.” As a damsel in distress, she rested the back of her hand to her forehead. Just as quick, she lowered her chin and snickered. “Wait a minute. Do you not mean knee? According to you, the one serves no purpose.”

  His eyes flared. “I am going to beat you.”

  “Those are big words for the chicken-hearted.” She yawned. “An idle threat.”

  “You will not think so.” He inched forward.

  “Careful, else you might fall arsy yarsey.” She favored him with a rich, throaty laugh and withdrew again. “You can’t capture me.”

  With a bestial growl, he swung wide and lashed out, but she jumped, and he missed her. “I am going to heat your posterior.”

  “Oops.” She smacked her lips and rolled her eyes. “You missed.”

  “Come here.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “No, I mean it.” Lance posed in his best little boy lost impersonation, which she knew too well. “I need your help.”

  “You are not going to get me that easy. I am rather more than seven.” She paused for effect. “Or is it eight?”

  “Cara!”

  Again, he reached for her, and again she eluded his grasp.

  “You are getting closer,” she said in a flirty singsong before skipping away.

  It was unfortunate for Cara that in her attempt to provoke her friend, she hadn’t realized she’d backed herself into a corner—right beside the bed.

  She smiled—and hit the wall.

  All of a sudden, he extended the walking stick, which pinned her to the spot. He grinned, as the cat that ate the canary, dropped the cane, sidled near, and planted his hands at either side of her head. “I have you now, my lady.”

  Cara remained steadfast. “Lance, look around you.”

  He quirked his brows and peered over his shoulder.

  “You did it, my hero,” she proclaimed, bursting with inexpressible joy. “You made it all by yourself.”

  Lance faced her with tear-filled eyes and then hugged her, resting his chin to her hair. “Never could I have done it without you. We did it together, my girl.”

  “You did it.” She wound her arms about his waist. “And I am so proud of you. I hope you understand that I did not doubt you.”

  “I think I know that now,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  She bit her lip. “So you are not going to beat me?”

  “I should.” His chest shook when he chuckled, and she squeezed him. “But I will not.”

  Instead, Lance did something completely out of character. He grasped her by the back of the neck, lowered his head, and set his mouth to hers in a much prayed for but unexpected assault of a sumptuous sort.

  The first tantalizing touch, the first tempting taste set her skin on fire. Passion simmered in her veins, and victory echoed in her ears. When Lance engaged her tongue in a lively little duel, licking and suckling her flesh, Cara moaned, and he groaned. In a slow, sensuous grind, he shifted his hips against her, the Jolly Roger beckoned, and her knees buckled. He wanted her, and the knowledge worked on her in ways she could not have foreseen, because never had Lance been so hungry or so bold.

  And, oh, what she felt.

  Without thought, she slipped her hands beneath the edges of his silk robe and skimmed his chest with her palms. Arching her back, she brazenly offered herself to him.

  And then he withdrew from her arms.

  Struck by a tortuous desire she could neither understand nor manage, Cara shivered, and Lance swore under his breath.

  “We should not be doing this.” He ran his fingers through his hair and then righted his robe. “As we are friends, I have no right to force my attentions on you. In my defense, I was overcome by the achievement in my convalescence. My apologies.”

  “Do not be ridiculous.” She reached for him, and he recoiled in an odd reversal of their respective, previous positions. “Do I appear offended?”

  “Look at me.” He attempted to gain his four-poster, but since he’d dropped the cane, he could not negotiate the platform on his own. “I am broken, Cara. I am no good, to you or anyone else.”

  “Balderdash. The sum of your worth is defined by more than a limb.” She bent and retrieved the walking stick. “Here, let me help you.”

  “Do you see what I mean?” Lance angrily snatched the rod from her grip. “I can’t even get into my own bed without assistance. I am an old woman.”

  “It is only temporary, and you are not an old woman.” She laughed, searching for a bit of levity to lighten his mood. “Though you certainly complain like one. But you remain, now and forever, my hero—”

  “Stop calling me that.” He sank to the mattress.

  “Oh, no.” She fluffed a pillow and adjusted his wayward robe, which bared a chiseled shoulder. “Are we back to the same tired tune?”

  “Do not touch me.” He slapped her wrist. “You should not be here. It is improper for you to tend me without a chaperone, and I have no need of your services.”

  “Shall I hire a violinist? Surely your piteous diatribe would benefit greatly from background music.” Cara rolled her eyes. “And no one suspects anything nefarious.”
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  “What does your father think?” Lance folded his arms and pouted. “He would suspect plenty were I to apprise him of our inappropriate behavior.”

  “What inappropriate behavior?” Cara perched on the edge of the mattress. “And if you suggest otherwise, papa will force you to marry me. I gather you are referring to a few harmless kisses?”

  “I mentioned your father in abstract.” Lance frowned. “And friends do not kiss.”

  “But we always have,” she replied, recalling the pleasantly chaste endearments the Brethren shared in welcome and farewell.

  “Not like that.” Lance impaled her with a heated stare. “And not with tongues.”

  “And who is complaining.” She winked. “I certainly am not. Do you regret it?”

  Lance averted his gaze before answering, “Aye.”

  Bullet to the heart deadly precision.

  “But—why?”

  “Because I do not deserve you.”

  “What?” His was not the response she expected. “You cannot mean that.”

  “But I do.” With his brow a mass of furrows, and his chin granite-like, at last Lance faced her. “I have taken liberties and unfairly impinged on our friendship. I sincerely apologize, Cara. It will never happen again.”

  Not if I can help it.

  “What if I told you I was not averse to your advances?” She inclined her head and covered his hand with her own. “What if I encouraged you?”

  “You are an innocent.” He scoffed. “You are far too naïve to know what you want.”

  “And if I said I want you?” The words fell from her lips before she realized she had spoken, and it was too late to retreat. Embarrassed by her unplanned admission, Cara cursed the warmth of a blush in her cheeks.

  For a brief moment, she thought she spied surprise in his green depths, but Lance recovered quickly. “You feel sorry for me, nothing more.”

  “And if I confessed I have felt this way for as long as I can remember?” Stung by his rejection, but refusing to concede defeat, Cara pressed her suit. “That I have admired you from afar since we were children?”

  “You confuse emotions born of friendship for something more.” Lance snickered. “An arena in which you have little, if any, experience.”