The Countess Misbehaves. Nan Ryan

soon ceased, but Armand continued to hold her in his arms. On a soft inhalation of breath, she raised her head and looked up at him apologetically.

      “I’m sorry,” she said.

      “For what?” He replied, then smiled at her in that devil-may-care way of his as if nothing were amiss. She knew that he was being brave and strong for her sake. And it touched her. She smiled back at him and realized, as she did so, that it was the first time she had ever really smiled at him. His dark, beautiful eyes lighted in response.

      And as she smiled at him the thought struck her that his handsomely chiseled features would be the last face she saw this side of heaven. The two of them were going to die together in this tiny cabin. It might be an hour. It might be less. But soon the sinking ship would plunge with decisive finality into the dark, fathomless depths of ocean and she and de Chevalier would drown.

      They were going to die together, two strangers who knew nothing about each other. Neither of them would ever see their homes or loved ones again. They would never again eat a sumptuous meal. Or drink chilled champagne. Or warm themselves before a roaring fire. Or laugh in the rain. Or dance beneath the stars.

      Or make love.

      Madeleine stirred against the handsome man who held her. The sea pounded against the ship. Waves slapped against the cabin. She clung to Armand, her arms wrapped around him, her head on his shoulder.

      It was crazy, she knew, totally insane, but she wondered—as she had that first night when they had danced—what it would be like to kiss him. To be kissed by him. Through the cover of her half-lowered lashes, she gazed with interest at his sensual mouth.

      And was amazed when Armand said, as if he could read her thoughts, “Kiss me, Countess.” He gently drew her closer, pushing the blanket completely away. Her head fell back against his supporting arm. He slowly bent his dark head to her upturned face. “Kiss me, once.”

      Not waiting for permission, Armand kissed Madeleine. It was not a soft, feathery kiss of two people slowly becoming better acquainted. It was not a tender, closed-mouth caress of a lover who had forever and a day to win and woo his reluctant lady fair. It was not a brief, introductory meeting of two tentative pairs of lips.

      It was a kiss of such flaring fire and primordial passion that Madeleine was instantly overwhelmed. Dazed and clutching at his smooth, deeply clefted back, she felt herself go limp in his strong arms as he swiftly deepened the blazing kiss. He thrust his tongue inside her mouth, boldly exploring all the highly sensitive regions, stroking her tongue with his own, sending her wits scattering and her pulses pounding.

      Madeleine realized, as her lips were combined with his, that she wanted this handsome, hard-faced rogue. Before she died she wanted to know—one last time—the kind of passion she barely remembered from her first nights as a newlywed.

      If any man could give her even the slightest taste of that kind of rapture, it was surely this dark, seductive Creole who was kissing her with such unrestrained passion. She sighed into Armand’s mouth and her nails raked down his warm smooth back. The more she considered the two of them making love, the more she wanted it.

      The more she wanted him.

      When at long last his conquering lips released hers, her head fell back against his rock-hard biceps. She looked into his eyes and trembled with rising desire.

      “Mr. de Chevalier,” she said finally, almost shouting to be heard above the wind’s constant roar, “will you…that is, I…could we…?”

      “What? I can’t hear you.” He leaned down, placed his ear close to her lips.

      “Make love to me, Mr. de Chevalier,” she blurted out. Armand raised his head, looked at her, one dark eyebrow lifting slightly. She rushed her words, “We are going to go down with this ship. You know we are, I know we are. So what difference would it make if we…we…” Her words trailed away and she lowered her eyes, sorry that she had made such a preposterous proposal.

      Until he put his thumb and forefinger to her chin, raised her face to his, and looking straight into her eyes, said, “I’ll make love to you on one condition.” He brushed a kiss to her temple. Madeleine’s brows knitted in puzzlement. He smiled and said, “If you’ll stop calling me Mr. de Chevalier. Say ‘Armand, make love to me.”’

      Aroused by his stirring kiss and the granite hardness and awesome heat of his lean body, Lady Madeleine eagerly said, “Armand, make love to me.”

      “With pleasure, Countess.”

      Five

      For a long, tense moment, Armand de Chevalier did nothing, didn’t move a muscle. He simply held Madeleine in his arms and looked into her eyes. Unable to look away or even to breathe properly, Madeleine felt as if she were being pulled into the fathomless depths of his unforgettable black eyes.

      The winds howled and the cabin plunged sharply into the sea, then rose again. Madeleine hardly noticed. She was totally mesmerized by this dark stranger with whom she wanted desperately to be intimate.

      She drew a sharp intake of air as Armand slowly lowered his face to hers. Expecting another of those instantly ardent, breath-stealing kisses, she was surprised when he brushed his smooth, warm lips ever so lightly against hers. For several sweet, unhurried moments, he kissed her softly, undemandingly, as if she were actually his treasured love.

      Madeleine found it incredibly moving. Stirring. Exciting. Each gentle, unhurried kiss became more thrilling than the last. His mouth seemed to fit so perfectly with hers. As if their lips were made solely for each other’s kisses.

      Pressing one last feathery kiss to her slightly parted lips, Armand flipped open the buckle to the restraints holding her in place. He lifted her and sat her on his right knee and both were almost dumped to the floor when a great gust of wind hit the ship. Armand gripped the bunk’s frame with one hand and held Madeleine with the other. Then quickly drew the restraints around both of them, buckling them loosely behind her back.

      Clutching his neck, Madeleine was both astonished and thrilled when he took her hand, placed it directly over his heart and said in a low, husky voice, “Touch me. Feel me, sweetheart.”

      She immediately complied. Her fingers spread, palm flush against him, she eagerly explored the perfect symmetry of his naked bronzed torso. She stroked and rubbed and examined him thoroughly, letting her fingertips circle the flat brown nipples almost hidden in the dense black chest hair. She felt a small tremor surge through him at her touch and was excited by the knowledge that she had so titillated him. Her eyes focused on the broad expanse of bare flesh before her, she popped her finger into her mouth and sucked it briefly. She then circled his left nipple with her wet fingertip before looking up to get his reaction.

      Incredible heat radiated from his dark eyes and he wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, drew her to him and kissed her hungrily. As he kissed her, Madeleine continued to toy with him, raking her nails down his chest, fanning her hand over his hot skin, tangling her fingertips in the crisp, springy hair.

      When their heated lips finally separated, Madeleine was surprised to find that Armand had managed—during the prolonged kiss—to completely unbutton the jacket of her peach traveling suit. When he pushed it apart, she suffered a mild twinge of doubt. But when he bent his head and placed the gentlest of kisses in the valley between her breasts, all misgivings fled. She felt her nipples tighten and her stomach contract. And she made no move to stop him when he pushed the open jacket down her arms and tossed it aside.

      “God, you are so sweet, so beautiful,” he said, placing the tip of his little finger under the lacy strap of her camisole.

      Madeleine felt the strap being slipped off her shoulder and sliding down her upper arm. She took a quick excited breath through her mouth and heard him say, “Look at me, chérie.”

      Her eyes met his and again she experienced the feeling of being pulled into him.

      “Trust me. I won’t hurt you,”