“Isabella.” Jonathon gathered her to him. He brushed his fingertips over the back of her cheek.
“Are you all right?”
Isabella sucked in a breath but shook her head. “I’m fine.”
Her hand cupped his cheek and he saw her release a full breath. Her body relaxed in his embrace, and in the dimness her lips curved upward.
“I am fine,” she repeated. “Simply aware of that man’s intent,” she added in a harder tone. Her gaze returned to the now-empty space where Russell had stood.
Jonathon glared round the deck. Just as well Russell disappeared into the shadows, presumably below to his quarters. He wasn’t certain what he’d do to the man if he’d still been there. With his hand firmly around Isabella’s, he gently pulled her away from the railing and more firmly into his embrace.
She meant more to him than he realized, more to him than he’d thought possible in so short a period of time. When he saw, as clearly as Isabella had seen, the intent in that man’s gaze, Jonathon instinctually knew she’d been in danger. An instinct he’d honed during the war and a murderous gaze he’d recognized.
Anger flashed hot and bright inside him, and mixed with fear. For his wife. Jonathon knew he needed to control it, and tried. Tried to clamp down on the impulse to find Russell, to protect Isabella.
Russell’s look alone had Jonathon wanting to snap the man’s neck.
“I’m aware of it as well,” he said, that anger in no way tempered. His, fingers flexed on her waist, small and delicate beneath his touch. “I’m of a mind to find him and toss him overboard for daring to look at you that way.”
She looked up at him, surprised. It’d only been a short time since their marriage, one not held under ideal circumstances. So no, her wonder at his words and tone didn’t surprise him. But Isabella had to know he’d protect her.
Forget the terms of their bet, he cared for her. More than cared, if he was honest with himself. He’d protect her from any who wished her harm. Jonathon bit back his emotions; bit back the comment on the tip of his tongue. He purposely eased his hold on her wrists, the furious protective tension that beat through him.
It gripped him tight, held him in its grasp this, visceral need to see her safe. Not necessarily to protect what was his, but specifically to protect Isabella, the woman —
To protect Isabella, his wife.
“Come,” he said, voice low and moved his hand to brush a stray hair off her cheek. “Let’s return to our cabin.”
Once below decks and back to their cabin, he ushered Isabella in to their surprisingly empty room. He didn’t know where Raffella had gone off to, but was glad she wasn’t there.
“You should have called out,” he said, the bite of anger clear. “Backed away from that man instead of holding your ground.”
He knew she wouldn’t, but the idea of Russell — of anyone — hurting Isabella sent an almost blinding rage through him.
“I’ve learned through experience that if you show weakness, they will take advantage.” Her voice was steady but no longer held the coolness of their initial meeting.
“You are not alone any longer,” he said, trying to temper his anger.
The very real fear for her life continued to beat through him. How close she’d stood to the railing and how easy it’d have been for Russell to push her overboard. Isabella was small, light — she could’ve vanished into the murky ocean, her screams lost on the winds.
“You now have someone to rely upon.” He stepped closer, intent on making his point. “You are no longer alone in a foreign land.” Jonathon watched the realization cross her face. “You are with me. My duchess.”
Isabella’s eyes widened as she watched him. He watched as the words sank in, as she truly accepted them, even if it was still with the same surprise as earlier. He needed her to understand his fear for her safety.
He closed the short distance between them as he spoke and now curled his hands around her upper arms. His words didn’t seem to penetrate her shell, but Jonathon wanted something to.
In the lamplight of the cabin, he saw her dark eyes soften.
“Strathmore—”
“We should forget all this — the theft, the investigation, all of it.” His control teetered on the edge. He grabbed at it with both hands, but it slipped through his hold. “I don’t want anyone to have the opportunity to approach you in that manner again.” His fingers tightened on her arms, her hands instinctually coming up to rest on his wrists.
“Not while we’re trapped here on this ship.” Though he meant ever — he wanted no harm to come to her ever. Not on this ship, not in Dublin, not in Scotland, and certainly not on his — their — estate.
He’d do everything in his power to keep her safe.
Isabella shook her head, but the normal flare of hardheaded temper remained absent. “Is it not best we expose them now?” she asked, even as she shifted with the rocking of the ship. “The crew would then be forced to sequester them.”
Cursing, he stepped back to better look at her but didn’t release his hold on her arms. Didn’t let her move from his embrace. One of her hands lifted to cup his jaw, and she offered a small smile.
“We don’t know if they have accomplices aboard. Accomplices who can then target you.” His voice was rough and hard, and he made no attempt to smooth his emotion. “And on this ship, I have no manner by which to acquire additional protections.”
Isabella’s face softened further, the slight pinch round her mouth eased, and her shoulders relaxed marginally.
“I shall be fine,” she insisted. But not in a ruthless manner, simply as a way to reassure him. “I’ve managed to take care of myself for quite some time. And,” she added with a faint grin, “against more loathsome individuals than those on this ship.”
Jaw clenched, he resisted arguing with her. She never should’ve been in such a position and he hated she had been. If he’d met her first, met her in London, she’d never have had to suffer at the hands of Manning, a man completely unworthy of her.
For the first time since meeting her, Jonathon knew jealousy. A hot, sharp pain through his heart that anyone else had had her. But he was also grateful, so grateful Manning was fool enough to let her go.
She deserved so much better.
“That is no longer a necessity,” he told her, the words softer than the clamor of emotion raging inside him. His hands slipped from her arms to her shoulders, thumbs absently circling the bare skin at her throat. “You are my duchess and I am responsible for you.”
He saw the surprise in her gaze, the tiny jolt of disbelief at his words. His confession.
Jonathon leaned closer, intent. Holding her closer, he tangled his hands in her hair, his thumbs brushing along her temples. “I am responsible for you, and I shall not allow anyone to harm you.”
Her smile was coy, with a little more he couldn’t quite describe. “And I appreciate that. However, it wasn’t one of the terms of our wager.”
Her words lacked real heat, and he didn’t feel the sting in them. “It is now.”
Isabella closed the distance between them and kissed him.
With a growl, Jonathon deepened the kiss. His hands slid down her body and over her waist to pull her even closer. He backed her to the writing desk and lifted her atop it. Her fingers raked through his hair, down his back.
Impatient to feel her skin beneath his fingers, to feel her warm and alive beneath his touch, Jonathon bunched her dress out of his way. Her hands tugged his coat off, his shirt over his head; her nails scraped down his back, along the band of his trousers.
There was something about this woman, his woman, that had wormed its way beneath his skin. He’d never experienced such insatiable need before and doubted he’d ever do so with another woman. He wanted her.
No — he didn’t just want her physically, he needed her. Jonathon couldn’t explain why or how it’d happened, but he felt it, just there beneath the surface. There and undeniable. More than the challenge she presented. More than needing to break the cordial distance she kept between them.
It was Isabella. Isabella’s wit, her fire, and even those moments she held herself so reserved he wanted to break through those walls. All of that attracted him. In his eyes, that made her unique and made him want her all the more.
Now, as he kissed her, as she arched into his touch, he pushed it aside.
However, he did realize that his loss during their game of piquet had been far luckier than he’d originally thought.
She moaned at his touch, his fingers feather light over her wet heat. Her hips jerked against his touch, a move he knew was a silent plea for more. In the weeks they’d been together, he’d begun to know her body, what made her whimper his name and what made her cry wordlessly.
He kissed her harder, even as his fingers slipped inside her. She arched against his touch and clenched around him. Slipping from her wet heat, Jonathon picked her up, skirts hiked to her waist, legs wrapping around him as the fingers of one hand caressed his cock through his trousers.
This was the second, the third time they’d been together today. He’d lose not one ounce of his want of her. He craved the taste of her skin, the sound of her cries. The feel of her beneath him, open and just as hungry for his touch.
Carrying her the few steps to the bed, Jonathon spread her on it, open and shameless to his gaze. His touch.
Arousal pumped through him, hot and vicious with every beat of his heart. He wanted her in a way he wanted no other woman. His woman — his wife. Yes, he did understand now how he wanted her as he wanted no other.
Isabella struggled with her dress, twisting the fine material out of the way. He heard fabric rend and watched her shimmy the gown over her hips. Tugging the chemise over her head, she tossed it aside.
Naked save for her stocking-clad legs, Isabella leaned up on her elbows, mouth swollen from his, hair wild down her shoulders and back. Her nipples were tight buds, flushed a lovely pink. One hand came up to cup her breast, tease her nipple even as her movements teased him.
When he met her gaze, it was dark with the same wild passion that took hold of him.
Wanton. Oh, he’d seen other women, beautiful and bold and passionate in the bedroom, but they’d been skilled in their performances. Experts at presenting their bodies in the perfect manner to entice and arouse. Isabella, spread out before him, did not act.
The fire between them, the heat in their every touch, every kiss, was simply her. Need tightened through him, hot and desperate and very, very honest. This was her in all her beautiful glory — when she looked up at him with dark eyes, body begging for his touch.
When she held nothing of herself back.
Jonathon struggled for control, for the control he’d had his entire life, and found it lacking. No, not lacking, he realized as he quickly shucked his shoes and trousers. Utterly gone.
Isabella reached out for him, her fingers teasing his hard cock as he stretched over her on the cramped bed.
“I’ll be glad to make love to you in a real bed,” he said, his teeth grazing the nipple she toyed with.
“More room?” Isabella gasped and arched into his touch.
He hummed his agreement around her nipple, feeling a shudder of pleasure go through her. Kissing down her body, Jonathon tried to gather the threads of control to him, but it was no use. His cock was hard and aching, and he needed to bury himself in her warmth.
“Strathmore!” she cried as his tongue teased her wet folds.
Her hips bucked against him, uncontrollable as she cried out again. “Yes,” she moaned. “Oh, yes!”
Not enough. It wasn’t enough. Jonathon redoubled his efforts. He wanted her orgasm to sweep all thought from her mind. He wanted her to cry out until she grew hoarse.
Easily slipping two fingers into her, he thrust shallow even as he continued to tease her nub. Her body tightened beneath his touch, her hips jerking against the hand holding her still. Her heat clenched his fingers.
With a wordless scream, she shattered beneath him, back arched from the bed, wetness coating his fingers. He withdrew before she calmed and in one hard thrust buried himself in her.
Isabella’s thighs cradled his hips; her ankles dug into the backs of his thighs. She met his even thrust, nails digging into his shoulders. Her mouth found his, and she kissed him hard and desperately.
“Yes,” she repeated. “Yes.”
He moved harder, with one leg over his arm to angle deeper into her. She clenched at him, and he knew her second orgasm was near. Torn between wanting to tease it out, wanting to feel her climax around him, Jonathon lost control.
He slammed hard into her. She screamed in completion, her nails in his bum pulling him deeper, harder against her. Again. Again. And again. His thrusts erratic, he felt his orgasm gather low through him and with one final thrust into her, he climaxed deep within his wife.
When he opened his eyes, he lay atop her. Below him, Isabella whimpered, body lax, breathing heavy. On unsteady limbs, he rolled off her and gathered her close.
It was a long time before either of them spoke, but when Isabella did, her words were soft. Her hand rested in the center of his chest, and she curled into his side, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder.
“I didn’t know winning this wager came with so many pleasurable moments.”
Jonathon chuckled, one hand gentle on her back. With his other hand, he brushed her blonde hair off her face, fingers lingering on her pulse still pounding at the base of her neck. “This is only the beginning.”
Isabella hummed happily then lapsed back into silence. Eventually she said, “We need to expose Russell and his wife.”
A short laugh escaped him, and he lifted his head just enough to look at her.
Before he had a chance to respond, she continued. “It’d be for the best. They’re more of a danger running amuck than they would be jailed in a cabin.”
“We still have no definitive evidence again them,” he reminded her. Then he grinned knowingly at her, a shared interest. “Only our vast experience at the tables has shown us they are most likely our guilty party.”
Isabella rose on one arm, the fingers of her other hand combing through his hair. “Then let’s find some.”