By Desire Bound Read online

  climbed on top of him now, he would sink himself into her without a second thought.

  "Con?" her voice was a whisper above him, shaping the wish into reality. "Are you awake?"

  He hesitated a moment. "Yes." He heard the soft sound of her feet hitting the floor, and then he felt her hand on his arm as she knelt next to the bunk.

  "I can't sleep." But she couldn't tell him why. It was the excitement of the hunt coupled with her height­ened sense of him in this tiny cabin. He filled it. He heated it. He heated her. She wanted him, simply as that. "Con?"

  "I don't think so, Darcie." The willpower it took to say that, when his body leaped to contradict him. She was a siren, tempting him in the dark.

  "Then—just let me . . ." she whispered, fumbling with his clothes.

  She had him at the point where he couldn't say no. He closed his eyes as her hand closed around him, en­veloping him in pure pleasure in the dark.

  She held him like a lover, her lips nuzzling him as she covered him with hot little kisses. Cloaked in kisses. Drowning in kisses and the heat of her mouth. Feeling both of her hands containing him, and her tongue slick and knowledgeable defining his length. Feeding off of her excitement as she pulled him into her mouth and begin rhythmically sucking on him.

  There, there, there—his whole world was centered at the point of light surrounding her avid mouth. Right there. He could see it; he thrust into it, feeling its heat, its wet, its need. She pulled him toward the light, slowly, lusciously, inexorably, until it exploded behind his eyes and he soared into the incandescent light.

  He fell back slowly, luxuriously, soft as a cloud, into the dark, into her hands, into the tight wet mystery of

  her femininity. And he was the core, the hot center, and she worshipped him. She adored him. And she erupted all around him in a shimmering spasm of ra­diant light.

  And still it was dark. But he needed no other illumi­nation to see her body. He took her with his hands, with his mouth, with every sense tuned to her lust and her longing.

  The way he had defined her face, he delineated her body—the fragility, the strength, the long legs, the curve of her buttocks that fit so neatly in his hands. The texture of her skin. The contour of her breasts. The sweep of her belly that nurtured another life.

  He lay his head against it, listening, trying to sense the quickening and the flutter of new life. He moved down her taut belly, swiping her navel with his tongue before he settled his relentless mouth between her legs.

  The essence of her, the embodiment of Eve; he could take her with his mouth and create the chaos of fulfill­ment. On the tip of his tongue, he positioned her, poised for him to possess her.

  She hovered above him, her hips grinding and writh­ing against him, seeking to envelop him in the perfume of her need. And suddenly she was sitting on the tip of a star, its center shining and golden, and without warn­ing, she slipped and she plummeted into a backwash of sensation that furrowed through her body and down down down to break sumptuously at the precious point between her legs.

  And then it was dark again, it always ended in the dark. It was better that way, he thought. Promises didn't exist in the dark. Time stood still, and threats receded,

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  and the only thing that counted was the one forbidden moment of pure uncomplicated pleasure.

  And the danger was, he thought warily, as he folded her against his chest, a man could get very very used to that. And it could be the very thing that Darcie was counting on.

  They debarked at Le Havre the next day. It was late in the afternoon under an angry gray sky. The deck mate with the burning eyes came to help him maneuver the narrow interior stairs.

  Darcie watched him with a vigilant eye as she followed behind with their suitcases. There was something about the man, even though he had been nothing but cour­teous and prompt during the trip. Still, the way he looked at Con worried her. He was too solicitous to a stranger, and he had the wheelchair, which had been stored above deck because it was too wide to go below, waiting as they emerged onto the foredeck.

  "I'll wheel 'im off for you, mum," he offered, in that same respectful voice he had addressed her the last two days. "He is a heavy man, I can manage better and make sure all is right and tight. That is, if you want."

  She took a surreptitious look around her. Passengers were streaming down the gangplank, deckhands with their luggage in tow. It seemed reasonable enough, she thought. It would cost a ha'penny, maybe two.

  "I'd appreciate it," she said, bending down to Con who was once again hunched over his chest. "The deck­hand is going to wheel you down. Do you think you could hold one of the suitcases?"

  "I'm not dead yet, girl," he snapped in a crackly voice that made her smile. She placed his case on his lap and

  nodded to the deckhand, and he wheeled the chair into a queue of passengers advancing toward the gangplank.

  "Have you got transportation, mum? Or a place to stay?"

  She looked up at him sharply. He was staring straight ahead, minding the steps of the people in front of him, and keeping the footrest of the chair at a precise foot from the person in -front of him.

  It was an idle question, in aid of procuring another few pence for a recommendation. Nothing more. Noth­ing less.

  "Thank you, yes."

  "That's good," he said.

  They shuffled forward another foot, surrounded by the hum of conversation, and the cry of screaming gulls swooping overhead.

  The gray sky enfolded them as an unexpected wind blew up, whipping the waves.

  They waited at the head of the gangplank for the next knot of passengers to pass below. The mate lifted the chair onto the walkway ahead of her and stopped. She wasn't watching, and she bumped into him, and that jarring movement seemed to make him relinquish his grip on the chair.

  She watched in horror as the wheelchair pitched down the gangplank like a drunken sailor, gaining mo­mentum and speed.

  She screamed his name as it hit the dock and hurtled a hundred feet beyond.

  He heard her in the throes of the nightmare where everything was pitch black, and nothing was real except the fearsome sensation of falling down down down into a pit.

  He had to get out of there, even if he died. He wrenched sideways, felt himself suddenly flying through

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  the air. He couldn't hang onto the suitcase—he couldn't hold onto his life. He was falling like wind-driven rain, his past spinning and spiralling before his sightless eyes.

  He hit the dock with a sickening thud, his head glanc­ing off a piling. For one fulminating moment, his vision cleared, and the light flooded in. He saw angels all around him. He saw Darcie and him.

  Far above him on the deck, rooted there as if he were made of stone, the mate with the burning eyes, watch­ing, watching, watching as Darcie flew down the gang­plank to kneel by his side.

  "Con . . ." she cried, and he looked into her beau­tiful tear-filled eyes.

  The danger was real; the danger was there.

  "I can see," he whispered, pulling his gaze from her to look toward the top of the gangplank.

  He saw what he expected: the deckhand was gone.

  And then his eyes clouded over and he could see no more

  Nine

  He swam slowly up from the bottom of the pit, feeling as if he had been fighting wind and ice and fire and all the reigning evils in the world.

  He opened his eyes to the darkness. "Darcie!"

  "I'm here."

  He felt the panic in spite of the calm tone of her voice, and he fought to come to the surface. "Where?"

  "Shhh ... this is the hospital of Dr. Rivard. He's been taking care of you."

  "What happened?"

  She hesitated. Even she didn't know, and what she felt and what she had seen were two vastly different things. "The deckhand ... he let go of the chair. It
fell. You fell. The doctor tells me there are no broken bones, and that the blow to your head caused minimal damage. He expects you will have a vicious headache at the worst. But he foresees no permanent damage."

  "I saw you," he said suddenly, unable to comprehend anything she was saying because of the sharp pain be­hind his eyes. He waited, to see if it would materialize into a vision, the vision of Darcie.

  But there was only the dark, the awful, deadly, god­forsaken dark.

  Her eyes swelled with tears. He couldn't have seen

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  anything, but she wasn't about to point that out. "What did you see?"

  "Black hair. Blue eyes. Tears. A gray sky. Heaven."

  No—careless twice ... he licked his dry lips. That close to death he had come . . . down another pit, across another lifetime.

  The danger was real. The danger was there.

  Darcie grasped his hand and he held it fast. "This is the doctor's infirmary. We'll be safe here."

  "Will we?" he asked, his voice raspy.

  "As anywhere. The mate—"

  "I saw him."

  "You dreamt it, Con. The doctor says you couldn't have."

  "I saw him—I saw you."

  "You need to rest."

  "Will you stay?"

  "There's nowhere else to go," she said gendy. "The wheelchair went into the water. The one suitcase is wrecked. I salvaged what I could. Everything else is safe. And we'll be safe here for the moment."

  "That sailor . . ."

  "I don't know, Con. I don't know if he just let go or if it was an accident. How can anyone tell?"

  "He was watching you, just the way you said he was looking at me when he came to the cabin."

  "You could not have seen that."

  "I saw it," he said adamandy, and she started to pro­test, and then decided it would be better not to agitate him.

  "I just remember screaming and running down the gangplank," she said finally, reliving that horrific mo­ment in her mind. "God, I couldn't believe it. But you're all right. We can go on."

  "And everything's safe."

  "I made sure of it. I tied pouches all over my un-derdiings. And there are places I can convert what we have to francs."

  He closed his eyes. No difference in the darkness. It felt heavy, weighting him down. He would pull her down if she had to carry him across two continents. "You know how long a trip it is."

  "I know. And we'll go. As soon as you're able."

  "Tomorrow," he murmured, rousing out of his ledi-argy one more time before allowing himself to float.

  "Tomorrow," she agreed, squeezing his hand.

  It took a week, time in which he battled the demons in his dreams. The sailor led them all, dancing tanta-lizingly just out of reach of his memory, and goading him to the edge of sanity.

  The danger was there; the danger was real. All he had to do was get one step closer, and all the answers would be clear.

  He lay in a fever those first couple of days, and Darcie feared for his life. But she felt safe in their sanctuary as she tended him through the night.

  The infirmary was quiet as a church. The doctor moved among his patients like the most holy father, stopping to lay his hand across Con's hectic brow, and nodding reassuringly as if his touch could heal.

  "He progresses," the doctor said.

  He was a sweet little man, with the most serene of faces, who spoke fluent English and she felt the utmost confidence in him and she didn't know why.

  "He is delirious," she contradicted. "He thought he could see."

  The doctor smiled. "So many things we cannot know between earth and heaven, my dear. Maybe he did."

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  Maybe he did. He knew her eyes were blue. He thought he'd gone to heaven . . .

  The doctor touched her shoulder. "Stay with him again tonight, my dear. Tomorrow he will be fine."

  She sat by his side in the dark in the silence. She felt surrounded by the darkness, as she saw through his eyes. Imagining hurtling blindly, plummeting through space. Praying for your life and calling on every one of your senses to save your soul.

  She didn't know how he had survived with so little bodily harm.

  / can see . . .

  Or maybe he was delusional. Maybe this one accident was a portent of the end.

  Oh dear God—all for nothing? All to end in some blind alley?

  There was a part of her that couldn't stand the thought. The gambler in her that would take every risk, walk every line. And without him, there was nothing. She needed his memories; he needed her eyes. The bargain was the bargain, and she couldn't let anything stop them now.

  She'd carry him on her shoulders if she had to, she thought fiercely. She'd carry him to hell and beyond for a piece of that diamond.

  And what about a life with him?

  Which is more important to you, Darcie?

  She bit her lip. Conscience couldn't enter into it at this point. Did it have to be both or neither, with no middle ground ?

  That wasn't even a question for consideration right now. She didn't know why she was thinking about it. Maybe it was because she was nestled beside him, en­veloped by the dark. The dark did funny things to you; erotic things, forbidden things, and it made you think about things that were buried deep in your soul.

  All those things in the dark . . . his dark.

  And now she had made it hers.

  She stayed by his side for the succeeding three days. Dr. Rivard moved a bed into the cubicle for her, and every day, he came by to check, to murmur, to approve.

  "He progresses," was the only prognosis he would give her. "He will be fine."

  How did he know? What did he see? She saw no ap­preciable difference in Con's appearance. He was still pale, still feverish, delusional with visions of monsters

  and madness.

  "Another day," Dr. Rivard murmured. "It will all

  come clear."

  She fed him soup, water, crackers, barely eating her­self.

  "He needs a different kind of nourishment," the doc­tor told her. "You keep doing as you are doing. He will

  be fine."

  She slept. They slept. The next two days drifted by.

  Dr. Rivard came to see him. "He is well," he mur­mured, laying his hands on Con's head. "He is fine. Another day and you can go."

  Five days' delay, she thought. And all they had was faith to propel them on. Well, she had enough for both of them. And today they were free to go.

  She left the nurses to dress him while she got their things together and then went to find Dr. Rivard.

  But the head nurse didn't understand English. She kept shaking her head and spewing words that Darcie did not understand. Finally in frustration, she went to

  get Con.

  He hobbled into the lobby of the infirmary between the two nurses who had tended him, and cocked his head questioningly at Darcie.

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  "Ask them about Dr. Rivard," she said. "I want to see Dr. Rivard before we go."

  He relayed her request in a spate of fluent French that really impressed her, and the head nurse answered in kind. They went back and forth for a moment, and then Con turned to her.

  "She says there is no Dr. Rivard. This is not his hos­pital. Or his infirmary. She says she's never heard of him, that there is no such a one."

  They took the afternoon train to Paris. Con slept. Darcie ruminated on the mystery of Dr. Rivard. ... wo such a one . . .

  And yet she could picture him so clearly moving among the patients, touching, soothing, listening.

  Healing?

  She sat bolt upright at the thought, and then sank back again.

  Always in the dead of night he had come, she thought suddenly. Always after the witching
hour—always in the dark.

  And she had better stop making more of these inci­dents than they warranted. Both were merely a case of a careless deckhand and a kindly doctor who perhaps was doing a good deed in secret. Nothing more.

  Nothing more.

  They were going to Paris because Con remembered going there after sailing from Dover. Paris was a start, a good start. They had money, he spoke French, and he was slowly slowly remembering the details.

  She was content with that. She put out a calming hand as he moved restively in his sleep. He felt her touch, he heard the clickety-clack of wheels, the wail of

  the whistle. He had come to Paris by boat and by rail, he felt the memories in his bones.

  The swaying train. The vitality of the city. All of its extremes. A good glass of wine. A view of the street and the baudets gawking at whatever was the exhibition of the moment. The wealthy flitting back and forth between the hunt and the Opera; coutouriers and concerts; Biarritz and the Bois de Boulogne.

  They used to send for him in the summer to come to Chatel-guyon to display the latest in diamond jewelry . . . Roger would go sometimes, and sometimes he, because there was so much in the way of entertainment in France. And their hosts would foot the bill, no small amount of francs in order for them to have the exclusive right to purchase the latest creation from Pengellis-Becarre.

  "We'll find a pensione near the Bois," he said. "A few days there ..."

  A few days here—five days gone—she felt itchy with the urge to keep moving. She had to give him time to heal, and curb her awful impatience to keep ahead of their enemies.

  They didn't even know who their enemies were.

  She felt them out there, closing in, coming closer and closer. That deckhand had been their enemy. He had deliber­ately let go of the wheelchair. It had not been an accident. . .

  She shook herself sharply. Every suspicion had the substance of fog and air. And then it dawned on her what he had said. Near the Bois. As if he were that familiar with Paris. Details. He was starting to remember the details.

  "We'll do that," she said. "We'll stay a few days and figure things out."