That was the way she felt with Ryan Calhoun.
Safe, as if nothing in the world could harm her so long as she kept hold of his hand.
It was a fanciful notion. An un-Isadoralike notion. Yet it rang through her with a strange resonance.
Safe with him. When had she ever been unsafe? Physically—never. She had lived the sheltered life of the daughter of one of Boston’s first families.
But in other ways her peril was constant. She could not even walk into her parents’ drawing room without feeling as if she were in danger of drowning.
It occurred to her that she hadn’t experienced the drowning sensation since she had left Boston. Not even in the deadliest moments of the great storm.
“There, see?” Ryan whispered, his lips so close to her ear. She shivered with the warm vibration.
Ye powers. Here she sat in a perfumed garden, holding hands with a man while he whispered in her ear. Her fevered imagination had, of course, conjured this moment many times. But the man in her daydream had always been Chad Easterbrook. And in her daydream, the moment had never, ever felt this delicious.
“I don’t see it,” she whispered back. She told herself no romance heated this moment. They shared only a mutual curiosity in what the exotic night would bring, a mutual anticipation of learning the secrets of the forest.
“A tiny shadow. It’s there.”
He did the most extraordinary thing. With a restrained gentleness so poignant it made her chest ache, he touched her cheek in order to turn her head toward the low shrubbery border. His touch nearly shattered her, for not since Aunt Button had someone caressed her with such tenderness. Yet this surpassed even Aunt Button’s affection, for this sent shivers radiating outward along her limbs and stirring up a strange pool of heat somewhere deep inside her.
“Do you see it now?” he whispered.
She forced herself to concentrate.
“Heavens be. I think I do,” she said, mouthing the words, barely speaking them.
A tiny creature, furtive as a thief, darted out of the bushes and snatched up a chunk of papaya.
“He is so little,” she whispered.
“Like a wizened old man.”
The monkey crouched over its find, stuffing its mouth greedily until it could hold no more. Then, grasping a piece of plantain in its tiny paw, it made off into the shadowy night forest.
Isadora felt a welling of wonder and joy in her chest. She could not have erased the smile on her face if she’d tried, but she didn’t try.
She turned to Ryan, realizing that even though the creature was gone, he still kept his lips close to hers, still cradled her cheek in his large, warm hand.
“How wonderful,” she said.
“I can’t believe we saw such an amazing creature.” “You,” he said with laughter in his voice, “are a very hard woman to impress.”
“What do you mean?” She was amazed she could even get the words out, for his other hand let go of hers and slipped, as furtive as the night creature they had come to see, around her waist, holding her lightly but firmly.
Men had touched her there to dance with her, but they had been different.
They’d all had the aspect of wooden soldiers forced in front of a firing squad. But Ryan. dear Lord, she could only think of him as Ryan now. he gave her the impression he actually wanted to be here, wanted to touch her.
He smiled gently, the faint torchlight softening his features.
“What I mean is I’ve crossed oceans and battled storms to bring you here, and you’ve taken it all in stride. I haven’t seen you so perfectly enraptured, not once, until you saw the little fellow come stealing out of the forest.”
That’s not what has me so perfectly enraptured. The thought—and the utter truth of it—startled her. She nearly blurted the words aloud.
But at the last moment, she stopped herself. Because she didn’t trust herself, didn’t trust her heart. Didn’t trust Ryan not to break it.
“I suppose,” she said softly, with a touch of irony, “I seem terribly worldly and sophisticated.”
“Far too worldly and sophisticated for the likes of a Virginia farm boy turned sailor,” he said.
Still touching her. Holding her. His gaze a lodestone she could not look away from.
She managed a wobbly smile at his statement.
“Farm boy? Judging by what your mother has told me of Albion you grew up in a world of unimaginable wealth.” “I never found what I wanted in that world,” he said.
She moistened her lips, tasting the fruit she had eaten earlier and finding herself strangely hungry again, empty and yearning for. “What is it you’re looking for?” she heard herself ask.
“What do you want?”
He chuckled low in his throat, and the sound sent a thrill through her.
“Those are two different questions, Isadora.” Though she didn’t think it possible, he leaned even closer, so that the warmth of his breath and the fruity scent of the rum drink he’d imbibed mingled with her own shallow inhalations.
He was close. So close. She’d never been this close to a man before.
“Do … you have … two different answers?” she managed to force out.
“Only one at the moment. Only one.”
The hand at her waist tightened. She had the most inexplicable urge to touch him as well, for her hands lay clenched in her lap and she wanted to put them somewhere else. Wanted to put them on him.
Her fingers reached up, lightly coming to rest against the wall of his chest.
His swift intake of breath was a sound of surprise— but not one of outrage.
“Which one?” she asked, still unable to believe that she, Isadora Dudley Peabody, was in the middle of this splendid garden, in the middle of this splendid moment, in the arms of this splendid man.
“What I want,” he said, and the words sounded tense and strained.
“Ask me what I want, Isadora.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ll only answer if you promise you’ll believe me.”
“If I” — “Promise, Isadora. Say you’ll trust my answer.”
“I’ll trust your answer.”
He smiled, and once again she heard that silken chuckle that did such odd and unsettling things to her. “What I want,” he said, “is to kiss you.” “Liar,” she said automatically.
“You promised you’d believe me.”
“Because I thought for once you’d tell me the truth.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“You?”
“No. It’s that you talk too damned much. I suppose I could swear on King James’s Bible that I want to kiss you, but there’s a better way to convince you.”
The smoldering look in his eyes astonished her, held her mesmerized.
“How is that?”
“Like this, love. Like this.”
And then it happened. Slowly. Each passing second an endless heartbeat of time, and she experienced it all, reveled and immersed herself in it. The way he bent his head ever so slightly, for unlike most men, he was taller than she. The way his thumb skimmed lightly, searchingly, across the crest of her cheekbone then rode downward, brushing at a spot on the side of her throat that pulsed with a heat she had never felt before. The way his other hand at her waist drew her closer, tighter.
And then his lips. The lips she had watched, day after day, with increasing fascination and bafflement. The lips that had sneered at her, sworn at her, laughed and shouted and smiled at her. He didn’t plaster her with his kiss; he merely tasted her, at first barely touching her mouth with his own.
Back and forth, slowly, subtly, he moved his head, sharing the merest hint of himself, the briefest brush of pressure. Overwhelmed by the sensations, she let her eyes drift shut and heard a strange, whimpering sound escape her. As of their own accord, her fists clenched into the fabric of his shirt.
Closer. She wanted to be closer. She wanted to taste more of him, to feel the pressure of his mouth on hers. But he simply kept brushing her lips, holding her gently as if she were fragile, breakable. The hand at her waist moved, a minor shift, barely noticeable, except that she felt his thumb graze the underside of her breast, could feel his touch even through the stiff buckram of her corset. She felt a surging and singing inside, things she had read about in the romantic novels she was not supposed to see until she was married, but read in secret anyway. And, oh, this was so much better. She wanted so much more than this moment, yet she was terrified that it might end.
She had an overwhelming urge to lean toward him, to press into his embrace, to crush her mouth against his. But she didn’t dare. Didn’t know how.
Didn’t trust him to accept her.
It was an act of supreme self-control, then, to hold herself rigid, unmoving, disbelieving.
And finally it was over. From the time he had begun to kiss her until the moment it ended, an eternity had passed. The world had changed color, tilted on its axis. Yet when Ryan Calhoun drew back from her and regarded her solemnly for several long moments, he looked exactly the same: handsome, relaxed, assured.
And she was a perfect mess inside.
“I won’t apologize,” he said easily, “although a gentleman would. I’m not sorry that happened.” He stood, his lithe grace never more apparent, and helped her to her feet. She went like a marionette on a string, wooden and stiff, jerky in her movements.
“We’d best get inside. They’ll want to hear all about the monkey.” “What monkey?” she asked stupidly.
bed! bed! Delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Thomas Hood (1841) Ivyan awoke the next day and stared for a long time at the plaster-and-timber ceiling of his large, airy room in the villa.
“I
still can’t believe I did that,” he said aloud, though there was no one to hear.
He had taken Isadora Peabody in his arms. He had kissed her.
In the past, flouting convention had been a way of life for him. But Isadora, milled like the straightest of spars by convention, made him understand that he was not immune to censure. That things he did could cause profound effects.
What fool notion had possessed him? It was not that he regretted kissing her—he simply didn’t have the conscience for that. What he regretted was her reaction. She had been so startled, so vulnerable that he knew she was in danger of letting the kiss mean far too much to her.
This could signal a disaster. This could change everything between them, just when they had begun to move toward an accord. With Isadora, he had a relationship he’d never thought possible with a woman. He had a true friendship. Trust. Mutual respect. Equal footing. Delight in shared interests.
Perhaps she would even quit making those infernal reports to Abel.
He had probably destroyed it all by kissing her. So long as they were friends, he couldn’t harm her. But if he dared to move into her heart, he would strip away all her defenses, open her to a hurt she didn’t deserve.
She was too fragile for a rogue like him.
He crushed his eyes shut against the glaring morning sunlight. Damn it.
Goddamn it all to hell.
There were girls aplenty for kissing. But there was only one Isadora.
He remembered her stiff posture, her shocked expression last night.
She had been outraged in every cell of her body. He knew it. Could feel it emanating from her.
But when she had softened in his arms, when she had moistened her lips and timidly touched him, he’d forgotten who she was. Forgotten she was born and bred of the Beacon Hill elite. Forgotten she and her kind looked down on Southerners, particularly those who moved in the company of pirates and cutthroats. Forgotten that her heart belonged to Chad Easterbrook whether the upright bit of plant life deserved her or not.
Ryan of all people understood what it was like to want something you couldn’t have. To want it with all your heart and soul. To want it with a passion that made nothing else matter. He should respect that in Isadora.
He got up and bathed in the cool water from the basin at the washstand, using a spicy scented soap, then cleaning his teeth with a tooth powder that tasted like anise. He thought of the long, laughing conversations they shared. The bickering and bantering. The quiet moments reading books. The satisfaction of taking a sounding on shipboard and finding that their figures agreed.
That was the Isadora he wanted back. He had to return to the place they were before he had stepped over the line, to the friendship, the camaraderie, the respect.
But even as he thought it, he knew he would keep pushing her. He liked seeing her unbend, liked making her laugh, and hell, he liked seeing her get mad.
He was through pretending he was a gentleman. She knew better than that, anyway. She knew damned well that he was a groping mass of male desire. No more pretending, then. No more standing aside while she dreamed of Chad Easterbrook.
Ryan was moving in for a good time.
Isadora’s nightmare began when she awoke. It started with a maid barely more than four feet tall. Scolding like a jungle parrot, she blustered into the room and started ordering Isadora around in a musical Brazilian patois.
“My name is Angelica. You can have your coffee and churro while I do your hair. And for the riding today, you may not wear that strange norteamericano gown. I have brought something much, much better …”
“What riding?” Isadora managed to ask.
“I don’t know how to ride.”
“That is no matter. The burro knows what to do. All you have to do is sit. A monkey can sit.”
‘ “I am certainly not going to ride a jackass. Truly, I cannot” Isadora almost choked on her fried bread. “What in heaven’s name is that?”
Angelica laughed, her face jolly and appealing despite the sad state of her teeth.
“It is your costume for riding.”
“I won’t do it. I won’t put that on.”
“Senhora Peabody, you are not going to insult your hostess by refusing, are you?”
“I’m afraid I shall have to.”
“I’m afraid I cannot let you.”
The argument went on, but the diminutive servant proved the stronger, and by eight o’clock Isadora stood in the courtyard, dubiously eyeing a sleepy looking burro. She felt utterly ridiculous—Angelica had made her put on a strange, wide-legged split skirt that barely covered her shins.