Page 22 of Any Duke in a Storm

Blood rushed south in a flood as he fought futilely against his body’s natural reaction. Her eyes widened, undoubtedly feeling the stiffening of his cock beneath her buttocks, and she moved to scramble off, but his hands came up to capture her thighs in place. “Pour l’amour du ciel. Do. Not. Move,” he gritted out.

Plush lips parted, eyes going wide and cheeks crimson. “You’re…hard.”

“I am well aware. Give me a minute and my pride, Viking.”

Her slender throat worked, that flush spreading down that pale column as if she, too, could not control her own reaction. A rousing fight tended to bring all thoseprimitive humors to the surface. Would she be drenched in the seam of those trousers? Eyes fluttering shut, Raphael groaned and cursed himself for swelling even more. The hips above his trembled and his eyes snapped open, wondering if she was in similar physical torment.

But no. Of course not, because the bloody chit was laughing. Fighting her amusement, Bess pressed her lips together.

He scowled. “This isn’t remotely funny.”

“It’s enormously funny.”

“I wouldn’t poke fun at you if you were in such a condition, would I?” he whispered, the comment meant only for her ears, but a few raucous whistles followed.

“I’m not.” But her face flamed with the lie. Her eyes flew up to her crew. “Back to work, you lot. I’m not paying you to stand around and gawk! Show’s over.”

She moved to dismount, but Raphael’s fingers pressed down into the muscled meat of her thighs and his hips canted upward in a faint thrust. “Oh.” Her eyes flew wide, the sensual movement chasing the laughter from her lips as she attempted once more to rise, but his hands tightened to keep her firmly in place.

“Isn’t so funny now, is it, when the shoe is on the other foot?” he asked, sitting up and banding one arm across her back to hold her flush against him. The erotic shift in position made them both gasp. His lips grazed her ear. “If I slipped my fingers past the waistband of your trousers, what would I find, Viking?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Her eyes flashed fire at the command. “Then don’t ask stupid questions.”

Between them, her chest rose and fell in unsteady gasps, belying that hard gaze, the bloom of unwelcome pleasure evident in those deadly ocean eyes, until the fraught spell was broken by a shout from the quartermaster that had the rest of the lagging crew scrambling to their posts. “Squall on the horizon!”

Better than the one in his pants, Raphael supposed.

Seven

The late evening sky, normally a deep-blue twilight on a clear night, was completely dark, with thick clouds obscuring nearly all light. Sheets of rain lashed mercilessly into Lisbeth’s face, a screaming wind whipped at her hair and tore at her sodden clothing. Luckily, the extra twenty-five pounds of cork in the bulky canvas vest she’d tied around herself helped keep her feet well grounded. It was heavy, but would keep her alive if she were swept overboard. And with this kind of squall, there was no telling how bad it would get—the warmer the sea, the stronger the storm.

Despite Estelle’s hasty warning, the gale had closed the distance between them too fast, leaving them no choice but to sail directly into it. The best option would have been to steer around it, but with the fast-moving winds, that window had rapidly closed. They’d weathered worse and been fine. Thunder crashed when a bolt of cracked lightning forked the sky into blue-white sections as if to laugh at her foolish thoughts. It had already been hours and the storm showed no signs of lessening.

The ocean roiled, huge waves pitching the frigate as her hull plowed through the seething crests and descended the choppy back sides into the trough. TheSyrenwas designed to withstand a siege of this magnitude. The steam engines were working to get them through the storm as fast as possible, but the weather only seemed to be getting worse. This wasn’t a normal summer storm that hit fast and hard. This was much worse. Hurricanes were common in this part of the world, and many ships did not survive the sea’s wrath.

“Hard starboard,” Saint roared to her left, his arms straining as he tightened loose rigging. “If she’s into the wind, she’ll capsize!” Lisbeth obeyed, trusting the sailing master’s bellowed instructions implicitly. A second’s hesitation on a good day could mean the difference between life and death. In a thunderstorm, the odds were much worse.

“You there,” he yelled to a nearby deckhand. “Make sure those rowboats are battened down and that sail is secured with the lines.” Anchored with ropes that had enough slack, the boatswain rushed to do his bidding.

Eyes tracking the men, Lisbeth saw that one of the rowboats had come loose from its deck mooring and hung drunkenly to the side, nearly listing overboard. She was grateful for Saint’s warning. If the ship went down, God forbid, those rowboats would be their only hope of survival. Then again, if theSyrengave up the ghost to this storm, their chances in those flimsy boats were slim.

“Captain, need an extra hand?” Saint shouted, making his way to her, his voice almost lost to the deafening winds.

Lisbeth wanted to say no so badly, but that was her pride speaking. Her fingers were numb from cold and her muscles ached from keeping the helm tight for hours on end.Her shoulders ached from the weight of the buoyant survival vest. Each crashing wave made the ship groan and the wheel yank off course. Estelle was busy in the engine room, making sure that they had enough coal to get them through the brunt of it. They’d be sitting ducks in an angry sea if they ran out of fuel, left to the violent whims of the ocean gods.

“Bess, let me take her for a turn.” Saint braced behind her, feet planted wide against the violent pitching of the ship. “Get something in your belly. Keep your strength up. This storm isn’t going anywhere.”

“I’m fine,” she said, gritting her teeth and wincing as a ferocious pitch knocked her off her feet right into him.

“I know you are, but you’re no good weak. Take a break. Let me help.”

Her first instinct was to argue that shewasn’tweak, but her exhausted sailor’s brain also understood Saint’s words. She needed to be strong to make it through. If she was faint with hunger, her crew would suffer. Nobody’s pride was worth that cost.

“Do you want the vest?” she asked.

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