The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

He lifted her skirts and slid into her softness—and the world fell away. His rhythm was slow, easy; desire rose like a gentle tide and swept her up to a place that existed only in the here and now, in the moment of heat and passion. A sensation-filled plane where pleasure built, stage by stage, step by step, inexorably, until at the end the towering wave broke and washed through her, leaving her shattered, exhausted . . . too exhausted to think.

She was only dimly aware of him drawing her dress from her, then laying her in the bed. He stripped and joined her; she curled instinctively into his warmth, into his strength.

His arm came around her; he held her close.

She sighed and drifted into sleep.

A sudden jerk woke her.

Helena looked about, remembered where she was—realized she was alone and that faint light tinged the circle of sky visible through the porthole.

France!

She went to throw back the covers—and couldn’t.

The next second the yacht listed dramatically, held motionless for a second, then, with a slap, slammed back into the sea.

That was what had woken her. Pulling at the blanket, she realized that Sebastian had tucked her in securely so she wouldn’t roll out of the bed. The yacht pitched again as she struggled free—she had to grab the side of the bed to stop herself from being hurled across the cabin.

Wrestling her way into her dress, then relacing it—by herself while teetering about the cabin fighting to keep her feet—had her swearing. Under her breath. In French.

But when she left the cabin and climbed the short ladder and looked out at the sky and sea, words failed her.

Dark gray, nearly black, the sky churned; beneath it the waves ran in long, white-plumed rolls, breaking over the prow of the yacht before raging past. Through the spume thrown up by the boiling waves, whipped high by the tearing wind, she could see low cliffs; she squinted and could just make out a cluster of buildings at the head of an inlet some way across the water.

“Sacre dieu,” she eventually managed. She would have crossed herself if she’d dared to risk releasing the rail she was clinging to.

She was facing the prow; the bridge and wheel were aft. Gradually, the buffeting of the waves subsided, eased to just a rocking. Dragging in a breath, she stepped up onto the deck. Shakily, she walked past the hatch housing, started to turn—and glimpsed the sea beyond the prow.

Saw the next set of roiling waves rush in.

The first hit; the deck tilted. She clutched a bollard and clung.

The deck was wet; the second wave hit, and her feet slipped, slid.

Frightened, she glanced around—and saw she was small enough to slip easily under the deck railing. She clung to the wet bollard for dear life.

The third wave hit, and she lost her footing. She shrieked—felt her fingers slip on the smooth, wet surface. Heard a shout, then an oath.

Seconds later, just as the next wave hit and her fingers lost their grip, she was plucked up, snatched up against Sebastian’s hard chest. His arm tightened about her waist, locking her to him, her back to his chest as he held tight to a rope while the yacht rode out the wave.

The instant it did, he lunged for the hatch, reached the ladder, and bundled her down it.

She didn’t understand that many English swear words,

but his tone left little doubt that he was cursing her.

“I’m sorry.” She turned to him as he set her on her feet in the narrow corridor.

His eyes were burning blue, his lips thin, set, as he stood halfway down the ladder, blocking it. “You will henceforth bear one point firmly in mind. I agreed to rescue your sister, and I will. I agreed to let you accompany me, against my better judgment. If you do not have a care to yourself and your safety, I’m liable to change my mind.”

She read the truth of that in his eyes, in the granite determination in his face. Placatingly, she held out her hands, palms up. “I have said I am sorry, and I am—I didn’t realize . . .” Her gesture encompassed the tempest outside. “But can we not put into the harbor?”

He hesitated, then his features eased. He started to step down—the wind gusted a spray of water through the hatch onto his head. He growled, turned, climbed back up the ladder, and slammed the hatch shut, then came down again. He shook his head; droplets flew. He gestured her back. “In the cabin.”

She retreated. He followed. She crossed to a small dresser bolted to the wall, pulled a towel from a rail, and walked back to hand it to him.

He took it—the next wave hit and pitched her into him. He caught her, held her to him. And she felt the rigid tension, the reined temper that gripped him. Then he sighed. The tension seeped, then flowed away. He bent his head, set his face to her curls. Breathed deeply. “Don’t do anything that foolish again.”