Free The Virgin Huntress by Victoria Vane Page B

stateroom.
    He kicked the door closed behind them and braced himself against it for balance. The storm had now come upon them full force, catching the yacht helplessly in its clutches. Water streamed down both their bodies to puddle on the floor. Vesta’s arms were still twined tightly about his neck, and her chest pressed against his, but her legs had slipped. He hadn’t noticed until this moment that her petticoats had bunched up around her thighs, wrapping his hips in bare, white, and deceptively shapely, feminine flesh. Even more powerful was the sudden awareness that his hands supported a firm, round, and lush womanly bottom.
    Heat flooded his groin at this unsettling conclusion. Hew shifted his weight from bad leg to good whilst trying to extricate himself from the obscenely intimate and arousing position.
    “S-s-o...c-c-cold,” she chattered, hugging him tighter, pressing her breasts closer, and inadvertently grinding her pelvis into him as if she sought to steal his body heat, heat that seemed to be increasing by the second.
    “Come now, Vesta,” he said. “We must get dry.” He released her buttocks and gripped her arms in an attempt to extricate himself. “You must let go of me and get out of those wet clothes at once. There are surely towels and blankets to dry and warm ourselves.”
    “O-k-k-ay,” said Vesta, but she failed to release her grasp.
    He pried open her fingers only to have his temperature flare another hundred degrees when she slid slowly down the front of his body to finally rest her bare feet on the floor. His left leg was throbbing damnably by now. “Please,” he said. “Can you look for linens? I must sit.”
    “Wh-wh-at is it, Hew?” she asked, concern painting her face.
    “It’s just this bloody leg.” He groaned. “It’s no longer accustomed to such rigor.” He limped toward the bed and sat.
    “My p-poor Hew!” Vesta exclaimed. “You have injured yourself!”
    “I injured myself!” He threw his head back with a mirthless laugh. “It was not by my choice, I assure you!”
    “How horrid you must think me!” she cried. “But I didn’t mean any harm,” she insisted.
    “That’s the trouble with you, Vesta. You might never intend mischief, but it inevitably follows wherever you go. Have you ever wondered why?”
    She averted her gaze and shook her head as if she didn’t want to hear the answer.
    “Well, I will tell you anyway. It’s your damned impetuosity. You act before thinking of anyone besides yourself and give no heed whatsoever to the repercussions to others! It’s bloody well infuriating! You might have got us both killed, you know!” Hew bellowed.
    “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her head drooping as much as her limp curls.
    “Of course you are...for now. But given the first opportunity, you’ll be at it again. I can only hope that before I perish, you will find some other blighter upon whom to lavish your dubious affections. Damn ironic that would be after having survived four years of war.” Finding himself physically and emotionally spent, Hew gave a groan and collapsed back on the bed.
    “You m-must get out of the wet clothes,” Vesta said. Fighting the constant lurching motion of the ship, she rifled cupboards for dry linens, producing several towels and extra blankets. She staggered back to him and began rubbing his hair dry. “I’m truly sorry.” Her eyes were wide and plaintive. “But I won’t, you know.”
    “You won’t what?” He was too exhausted to resist her ministrations as she tugged his wet and clinging shirt from his breeches and struggled to pull it over his head.
    “I won’t find another,” she answered. “This is not some silly girlhood crush, Hew... I truly love you. And if you would only give it a chance—”
    He gripped her shoulders. “You cannot force love, Vesta! Why can’t you understand that?”
    “Your shoulder! What happened to it?” She reached her hand out to trace the red and puckered flesh.
    “A