Free The Rambunctious Lady Royston by Kasey Michaels

evening in a tobacco brown banian (a friend had sent it from India) and leather slippers (vanity may have prompted the change in his appearance, but weighing more heavily was the strong smell of smoke that still clung to his other garments) —sized up the situation as soon as he came into the main cabin. He rang for someone to remove the tub, now a miniature sea complete with white-tipped waves Samantha was regarding with a fixed stare, and poured out a glass of burgundy for himself and some ratafia for his bride.
    A wave rocked the yacht just as Samantha took the glass, and some of the liquid spilled onto her hand. She looked about for a napkin and, finding none, proceeded to daintily lick the moisture from her fingers. Before she was half done Zachary, his wife's naive sensuality stirring him into action, took up those same fingers and—looking intently into Samantha's oddly saucer-wide eyes—completed the job with the tip of his own tongue, licking slowly down the sides of her fingers and tracing a pattern in her palm.
    So that is what the tongue is used for, Samantha concluded silently: first her neck and ear, now her fingers. She could imagine the sensation could be quite pleasant if the technique was employed in any number of ways, in a variety of places, none of which she could imagine at the moment. I should be dissolving into strong hysterics, she recollected mistily as she watched Zachary's mouth blaze a trail of kisses from her palm to the sensitive pulse in her wrist.
    A proper lady would at least put up a show of reluctance when presented with such a situation, she scolded herself, as St. John showed all signs of repeating his ministrations on her other, ratafia-free hand. My family is right, Samantha decided with an indistinct nod of her head. I am a truly shameless creature, allowing Zachary to kiss my fingers, my wrist, and oh! I never knew men enjoyed nuzzling the crook of a woman's elbow. How utterly delicious!
    Samantha closed her eyes just as another wave tipped the floor of the cabin sufficiently to propel her into the Earl's arms. She allowed her head to droop against his muscular chest and decided her strange feeling of lightheadedness came from the butterfly kisses Zachary was now bestowing on her neck and one exposed shoulder. She opened her eyes and the room tilted precariously, then refused to come clearly into focus. This phenomenon also seemed to have an unfortunate effect on her stomach, so she squeezed her eyes tightly shut—a dizzying maneuver that caused her to lose her balance completely.
    St. John thought his bride was perhaps a bit tipsy from the wine. But, being a good seaman himself, he ignored the effect the heavy seas might be having on someone unaccustomed to close acquaintance with either liquid, scooped Samantha up, and deposited her gently on the turned- down sheets of the immense bed.
    Samantha was nothing if not honest. She looked up at her romantically eager husband and said, "I think I may be a bit drunk."
    "Just a trifle up in the world, my pet. That's all," his lordship assured her, then smiled a very intimate smile as he removed his robe and lowered himself beside her. "It might even lend a bit of cachet to the proceedings."
    The object of this assurance would dearly have liked to believe it, but her stomach had already taken control of the situation from her hands. All at once Samantha's eyes widened, their deep green showing darkly against her suddenly ashen cheeks, and she sprang clumsily from the bed to run to the basin set on its stand in the corner. There she cast up her accounts, over and over again, while St. John held a cool wet cloth to her perspiring brow.
    "It—it's the boat, Zachary. It will keep moving," she wailed piteously.
    At long last the Earl escorted his wan bride back to the bed, tucked her in up to her chin, and left her to rest. Some three hours and several trips to the basin later his lordship allowed reluctantly that the seas were a bit rough if