He gripped the neck of the bottle tightly. Was she driving him mad on purpose? "So-how?" he gritted.

"My family has a country home in Somerset. Spent my summers there. There was a pond. Jonas could bathe there, but I wasn't allowed. One day, I must have been about ten, my governess fell asleep under a tree and I snuck off and taught myself how to swim."

"Taught yourself," he repeated, trying to understand. His father taught Bennett and his brother during trips to the Cornish coast. As he recalled, there had been a lot of swallowed seawater and near disasters before the skill was learned.

"I'd read about it," she said, with a wave of her hand. "Some Latin treatise on swimming."

"Sounds dangerous."

"Not a bit." She shrugged. "It wasn't a deep pond. But my governess caught me and threatened to go to my parents."

"So, no more swimming."

A slow smile spread across her face. "There was swimming. I threatened her right back. Said if she told my parents, I'd tell them that she fell asleep reading French novels when she was supposed to be watching me. After that, I could swim whenever I wanted."

A startled laugh from Bennett. d.a.m.ned impressive, that will of hers, the early seeds of defiance. "A child Machiavelli."

"Ruthless," she agreed, then turned somber. "Must run in the family."

Her pain echoed in him. He didn't know what to do, how to help her.

"I wonder how they found us," she murmured. "At the dolphin island."

"That needs pondering," he said. "I haven't seen any birds following us, so that's one thing to cross off an endless list."

London turned and leaned against the rail. "Does this sort of thing happen to you often? Being chased by Heirs? Running for your life?"

"All the time." He smiled.

Her laugh was part exasperation, part respect. He was glad to hear it after the darkness that had overtaken her. "You Blades are mad. And you, Bennett, are the Hatter at the tea party, presiding over the madness."

"And you're Alice," he answered, "struggling to make sense of it all here in Wonderland. Don't try."

"Nothing makes sense anymore." Her look clouded once more, and her hand drifted up to rub absently on her chest, which sent a peculiar pain through his own.

"Admit it," he said, trying to draw her back from the shadows within her, "some part of you liked that." He nodded back toward where they had sailed from, the dolphin-shaped island. "The search. The thrill of discovery. Even the chase."

"Not what happened to Athena. I didn't like that. But everything else..." A tiny smile curved her lips, but she didn't deny what he said. "I suppose that makes me mad, too."

"As much as the March Hare."

Though her smile was small, it didn't fade. Such surprises she held, a continual unfolding mystery that he wasn't sure he could ever weary of. Even the other female Blades he knew-including Athena, Thalia Huntley, and Astrid Bramfield-didn't quite have the hunger for experience as London did, perhaps because they had known about the world and Sources for so much longer, yet he wasn't entirely certain that was the only reason. There was something in London, an inner fire, that kept drawing him toward her, like a moth to light. The question was whether or not he'd burn up in this woman's flame. For the first time in his life, he truly believed it might be so.

Chapter 11.

The New World Though it had its moments of darkness, the day had unfolded in a series of small pleasures. She'd swam in a stream. Heard a genuine example of the Samalian-Thracian dialect. Felt the sun on her bare skin. Shared a meal with fishermen as their boats swayed at anchor, sung with them their songs. Watched Bennett dance, movements so potently masculine she was surprised she hadn't simply climaxed on the spot from merely observing him.

She had wanted to experience the world, and here she was, deeply enmeshed in life. It wasn't all joy. Her father was out there, searching for her. The Heirs chased the Source, wanting to claim it for their own ruthless agenda. She still had no idea, if she should survive this mission, what would become of her afterward. Without a man controlling her life, away from the rules and structure of society, London was entirely free. Which meant there was nothing between her and the sheer drop into disaster. Nothing but herself.

She alone guided her toward whatever she wanted. And what she wanted was Bennett.

London pressed a hand to her chest as if her heart threatened to spring forth. It might. Beside her, Athena slept, still recovering. After the meal and music, the witch's energy flagged, and London had taken her below to rest, then stayed with her to ensure her friend's comfort. Athena quickly fell into a hard but honest sleep, but London, full of the day, could not find her slumber.

London heard Bennett, Kallas, and the fishermen above deck, their voices low and masculine, as they boasted and told jokes that women shouldn't hear. She heard their laughter, Bennett's especially, and at the sound of him, slick heat gathered between her legs.

She bit down on her lip, stifling commingled excitement and trepidation. London hadn't even made love with Bennett yet, but she would. Even this agonizing antic.i.p.ation filled her entire being with acute sensitivity, a reckless, giddy joy. London Edgeworth Harcourt, ornament of polite society, was no longer. A new woman was taking her place, one who chose her own path and took men of her own selecting.

After she and Bennett had rejoined the company, there had been more music and stories and camaraderie, but there was anything but simple platonic friendship between her and Bennett. No one said anything about it. Yet, despite the tact shown by all, there was no denying the atmosphere of sensual possibility that turned the air thick and tangible. Bennett did not help matters. He stared at her all through the evening as if she were the dessert he planned to savor. London sported a continual blush, knowing she was flushed everywhere, even beneath her clothing.

There was no room for fear or embarra.s.sment, only a ready willingness to embrace sensation and experience. She would touch Bennett and he would touch her, and she would enter a new world.

A brief consultation with Athena before that voyage. The witch had given London a foul-tasting tonic, the Galanos women's secret to preventing conception. London was to drink it daily. She did so, and gladly, despite its noxious taste, for her world was too uncertain to risk bringing a child into it.

She probably would not need the drink for some time, but London wanted to be certain, ready for any possibility. She needed to rest. The day, wonderful as it had been, was also long and draining. Sleep was what she needed, not fevered imaginings of what she wanted to do with, and to, Bennett.

Sleep. How could she? She was tingling with life and felt ready to single-handedly row the caique to Spain and back.

The sound of Bennett's boots in the companionway nearly made London leap out of her bunk. She forced herself to lie still as she listened to his steps in the pa.s.sageway, then he entered his cabin, closing the door behind him. Instead of jumping up and rushing to him immediately, as she wanted, London made herself wait a little longer. Perhaps he had things he needed to attend to, personal things. Maybe he would like a few minutes of solitude. And she wanted to prove to herself that she could wait, that she was strong enough to bide her time and think of other matters. For example, if she returned to Athens, she would make time to visit the antiquarian booksellers to see if she could find rare and arcane volumes on linguistics. Why, there could be books in and about languages she hardly knew, such as Phrygian, Volscian, Marrucinian, Illyrian, and- Oh, the h.e.l.l with it.

In a moment, London was up, across the pa.s.sageway, into Bennett's cabin and in his arms.

"You took your time," Bennett said, after surfacing from a long, deep kiss.

London grabbed the back of his head and brought it down to her again. "I'll have you know," she said, breaking away for a moment, "that I waited, I believe, an agonizing five minutes before coming over here."

"Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds too long." He enfolded her, kissing her with a burning need, his mouth hot, demanding, but she also had demands, and so they gave and took in a liquid fever. His hands were in her hair, along her sides, cupping her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her waist, her bottom. Only that day she had seen the glory of his unclothed body, the sculpture and power of his muscles, and so what she felt beneath her own hands now had images, pictures of him branded into her mind.

"What about Kallas?" she gasped between kisses.

"He's still up there with Stathis. They'll be gossiping for hours."

"He won't come down?"

"Not for a long time. He knows."

She couldn't even feel embarra.s.sment that the captain knew exactly what was going to happen in his cabin. "Good."

"Still a little drunk?"

"Not from wine." London tugged at Bennett's jacket, pulled at the b.u.t.tons of his waistcoat and shirt, even fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers. She had to feel his skin. She had to have him inside her.

"There's no rush, sweetheart." He chuckled, low. He took hold of her hands, capturing them with his own. He kissed her fingertips.

"I shall explode."

"When I let you."

London raised a brow. "Let me? So my pleasure is yours yours to bestow when to bestow when you you feel like it?" feel like it?"

His grin flashed in the darkness. "Ah, there's that fire I love."

"I shall see to my own own pleasure, thank you," she said. "Starting now. Take off your jacket and shirt." pleasure, thank you," she said. "Starting now. Take off your jacket and shirt."

His satin and smoke laugh. "A woman who takes charge. How delectable."

"Stop talking. Start stripping."

Still laughing, but with delight and not mockery, Bennett did as she bade him. Yet he had control here, too. With a leisurely pace, he slipped his arms from the sleeves of his jacket and tossed it onto a narrow chest of drawers. His waistcoat followed. Then, holding her gaze with his own, he began to unb.u.t.ton his shirt. Slowly. London stared as his long, square-tipped fingers pushed each b.u.t.ton through its b.u.t.tonhole with the precision of a gem cutter. As each b.u.t.ton slipped free, his chest was bared to her, inch by inch. Lord, but he was beautifully made. Nothing extraneous or too bulky, but sleek as a wolf, all strength and movement. She reached out to touch him, but he batted her hand away.

"Let me finish, woman. You'll distract me."

She let him be, for now, as he tugged his shirt free from his trousers and finished unb.u.t.toning the garment. He pulled the shirt off and set it atop his jacket, breaking eye contact for only a moment.

"Why is it so blasted dark in here?" London demanded. "I want to see you."

"See with these." He took her hands and put them on his skin, his shoulders. As soon as her fingers contacted his flesh, he sucked in a breath.

Though she felt her head spin with the wonder of him, she managed to say, "Now I have permission to touch you?"

"Yes, minx," he rumbled. "Now."

She stopped wasting time with idle insolence and let her hands roam where they willed. He was tight silk, a feast for touching. Solid, capable arms, wide shoulders in exact proportion to his narrow waist. The planes of his chest, the ridges of his stomach, the chevron of muscle that ran from each hip to disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers.

Experimentally, London leaned closer and ran her tongue from just below his pectorals down to his navel. He made a sound, an animal growl.

"You taste very nice," she said. "Warm, masculine."

He gripped the back of her head and kissed her, hard and savage. "You've the sweetness of oranges and the spice of cinnamon in you." He picked her up by her waist and sat her on the low dresser, unconcerned that she crushed his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt beneath her. "But there are other places I want to taste."

She gulped. "You mean-"

"I mean. And I do."

They came together in another kiss, he standing between her legs. He pressed against the heated, aching juncture of her thighs, and she moaned into his mouth. She felt her skirts being gathered up, her drawers being pulled down, until it was his hands on her bare skin, stroking her thighs. He touched her intimately. She jumped.

"Shh. Easy, love," he crooned. "You're so ready for me. So wet. What a beautiful p.u.s.s.y you've got here."

No one had ever said things like that to her before. She and Lawrence never spoke when they'd made love, so it became an exchange between two civil strangers. To hear Bennett speak with such earthy candor, impolite words that were cra.s.s and wonderful, London felt her climax already begin to build.

"No, no," he said, lightening his touch so that he only just brushed her. "Not so fast. I want you begging for it."

London panted, "A gentleman...would never...make a lady beg."

He nipped at her mouth. "I'm no gentleman."

"Thank G.o.d for that."

"In fact," he said, gripping her skirts in handfuls, "no one but the worst scoundrel would ever do something like this." Then he lowered his mouth to between her legs.

London clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. She bowed up from the dresser. If there had been any thoughts of coherence in her mind, they melted or else incinerated, leaving her sensation only, and that became everything. He sucked and stroked with long, velvet licks, down to the molten core of her, revealing parts of herself she never knew existed and now that he'd found them, she wanted his claim.

She writhed under his hands, and if he didn't grip her tightly, she would have flung herself off the dresser. And when the tip of his tongue teased at her sensitive nub, she nearly slammed her head against the bulkhead. Again, her o.r.g.a.s.m beckoned, a fiery point that grew and expanded and nearly engulfed her, until...it retreated. London gulped, surfacing. He'd stopped his wonderful torture.

"Now, please, now," she nearly sobbed.

Even in the darkness of the cabin, she saw the gleam on his face where her juices covered him. And that smile of his, wicked and tormenting. "Not yet. Tell me what you want."

"I want to..." She tried to force the unfamiliar words out. "I want...to come."

"Anything you desire, but that. Remember? Only when I say you can come, will I let you."

She could kill him. She wanted him. She forgot herself entirely and was only hunger, l.u.s.t, demand.

She would make him suffer as she did. She thought about leaving, going back to her cabin, and letting him stew in frustration. That idea she discarded almost at once. She very much did not want to leave.

What else could she do?

An idea came to her, sinful and superb. But did she have the courage to do it?

In the darkness, his eyes were ink, but warm, so warm. He desired her, yes, as she did him. But she felt him pushing her toward something, toward a greater understanding of herself. She could find comfort in a quick release, and hide in that. This way, this suspension and play, brought her out, challenged her. And she would meet that challenge.

London pushed him back lightly, so he stepped away. His erection jutted up, pulling the fabric of his trousers tight. London curled her hands into themselves to keep from stroking him. She wriggled her way off the top of the dresser until she stood before him.

"Sit on the bed," she said.

Though he raised a brow at her imperious tone, he complied, wide-legged, leaning back on his elbows like an indulged pasha.

"Is it bright enough?" she asked. "Can you see me?"

"I can."

"Now," she said with all the hauteur she could muster, "watch me."

London set her mind free, as one might a bird from a cage. She felt herself take flight. I can be anything, do anything. I can be anything, do anything.

With a deliberate languor, she began to unfasten her dress. A series of small hooks ran down the front of the bodice-the sort of dress a woman might wear when traveling alone or far from a maid to a.s.sist her-and she started at the top, at the collar. Yet she did not proceed immediately down the bodice. London undid four or five hooks at a time, pulling the fabric open, then reaching in and lightly, very lightly, caressing herself. Her throat and chest were most responsive, since no corset guarded her skin there, and she made herself shiver. He watched her do this. Unhook, pause, caress. Again. And again. She reached such sensitivity, that, even when she did reach her corset cover, she still trembled at her own touch.

His eyes were hungry and bright. His breathing grew labored. Impossibly, he seemed to grow even bigger, his erection lengthening and thickening, as he watched her undo the fastenings on the side of the dress and step out of it. Then she removed her corset cover, and finally, slowly, she unfastened her corset and put it aside. Now all she wore was her chemise.

Yet even this wisp of cotton was too much. London trailed her hands up and down her body, beginning at her neck, the hollow of her throat, then the very top of her chest. Then lower. Beneath the fine chemise, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were full and needy. She'd never truly touched her own b.r.e.a.s.t.s before, not without some measure of awkwardness, but now she touched them as she wanted him him to, gathering them in her hands, feeling their roundness, their softness, the hard nipples that rasped against her chemise and palms. to, gathering them in her hands, feeling their roundness, their softness, the hard nipples that rasped against her chemise and palms.

A small moan curled from her mouth. He reached for her. She slid away.