Tentatively she moved against him, startled by the sensations that swept through her. It had been like this in the cabin when he’d touched her, but this was better, far, far better. She pulled herself upward along his body, delighting in how the rough hair of his chest dragged across her sensitized breasts, then she eased down again along his length.
Her breath caught at the languorous pleasure of it, and she tightened her legs around him, instinctively offering more of herself as she raised herself upward again. This time her motions weren’t quite as measured, her body eager for more as the cool water splashed and sluiced over them.
His fingers dug deep into her hips, lifting her against him, increasing the pressure of her sliding caress, and this time she cried out, feeling his touch in every nerve. He groaned in response, his breath hot in her ear.
“Enough of this, chère,” he said raggedly as he moved to swing one arm beneath her knees. “I don’t want to drown.”
He lifted her dripping from the water to the bank beyond the rocks, and she welcomed him, her wet, glistening body feverish in her need. With her black hair curling damply around her full, pale breasts, her nipples and her mouth red and swollen from his kisses, she looked like a mermaid from a sailor’s dream, wanton and eager for him alone.
He tried to tell himself to go slowly, that she was still a maid, and he’d no wish to frighten her again as he had before. But the idea that he would be the first man to have her was wildly intoxicating, adding more fire to a desire that was already hotter than anything he could remember. He kissed her again as he eased her legs apart, and when he touched her sweet, hot flesh, she moaned and moved shamelessly against him, and he knew they’d both waited long enough.
Her eyes widened as he entered her, and she gasped at the new sensation of joining with him this way and giving so much of herself. Yet when he began to move within her, she gasped again and cried out his name, as with each thrust, each stroke, he drove the pleasure higher, hotter than she ever could have imagined. Now when she curled her legs around his waist she understood, drawing him deeper within her and rocking her hips to meet him.
Now she understood about love and passion, and the white-hot need that Michel had raised in her soul and her body, and when at last she thought she could bear no more, he gave her the last and best secret of all. With a wild cry that rose above the waterfall she found her release.
Her cry reached to every corner of his heart, and in response he plunged more deeply into her, frantic in his need to lose himself within her, and when it came, the end left him shuddering and complete. Yet even then he did not want to let her go. With her he had discovered more than love; he had found the rare contentment and joy that only she could give, his Jerusa, his love.
“I love you, Michel,” she whispered drowsily afterward as she lay with her head pillowed against his chest. “Oh, how I love you.”
“Je t’aime, ma chère,” he said softly, marveling at the words he thought he’d never hear or speak. “Je t’aime tant, ma petite Rusa.”
But even as he still held her safe in his arms, the warmth was fading and his eyes were bleak, and though he’d give half his life for it to be otherwise, he knew that, for them, love alone would not be enough.
Chapter Eighteen
When the tide was low late that afternoon, Michel and Jerusa found they could wade to the rocks where the Swan had been wrecked. Despite Michel’s predictions, no one else had discovered the abandoned ship yet, and after they climbed up her slanted, broken side they found everything on board exactly as it had been left. While he retrieved the chest with his belongings from their cabin, she went one last time to the galley for a few things—a cooking pot, forks and spoons, sugar and tea—that would be useful to them on the island. But she didn’t linger, eager to return to Michel’s side and the cheerfulness of the sunny afternoon.
“It’s almost as if it’s haunted,” she said in a whisper when her hand was once again firmly in Michel’s. Even in the bright sun, to her the strange stillness of the wreck was more disturbing now than during the height of the storm.
“Perhaps it is, chérie.” Michel ran his hand lightly along the shattered remains of the mainmast. “If Captain Barker had lived, I doubt he would have let things come to this sorry pass.”
Jerusa shivered, remembering that the bodies of Barker and the other men who’d died early during the storm were most likely still on board. As for Hay and the others who’d abandoned the brig, there was no guessing if they’d survived the storm’s fury in the open boats. Strange to think of all the people who’d been aboard the Swan two days ago, congratulating themselves on such an easy passage with their destination so near, and now she and Michel were all that remained. Impulsively she slipped her arm around Michel’s waist and stretched up to kiss his cheek.
He glanced down at her and smiled fondly, brushing his fingers across her cheek. “Now what was the reason for that, eh?”
“Because I love you,” she said, strangely close to tears. “Because I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you in my life.”
“I’m the lucky one, Rusa,” he said softly, and as he kissed her, he, too, thought of how fragile life—and love—could be.
They decided they needed to wash the salt from their skin again, and with that excuse they returned to the pond and the soft bank of ferns and moss beside it. Afterward, for supper, they ate ham and biscuits with beach plum jam that had come from the Swan, and carambolas, a sweet, star-shaped fruit like apples that Michel found growing not far from the waterfall. They lay on the sand and counted the stars overhead until the fire they’d built burned low and Jerusa drowsed contentedly in Michel’s arms.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” she said sleepily, her eyes closed with contentment.
“So do I, ma mie,” he said, his voice filled with inexpressible sadness. “But as much as we wish it, we won’t have this beach to ourselves much longer. Look.”
Reluctantly she opened her eyes to look where he pointed. On the far edge of the horizon rode the pale triangle of a sail in the moonlight, and in silence they watched as it glided past them, finally to disappear.
With a sigh Jerusa moved closer to Michel. “There, they won’t bother us now.”
“They’ll be back,” said Michel. “Or others like them.” Gently he kissed her forehead, then eased himself free of her. He’d needed a reminder like that sail. Because he’d found such peace with her, he’d let himself be uncharacteristically lax about their safety. There were no guarantees that whoever finally rescued them would do so from kindness alone; in this part of the world, in fact, that would be the exception, not the rule.
And there was more than that, too, for soon they’d be in St-Pierre….
While she watched, he brought his sea chest into the fading circle of light from the fire. He pulled out the bag that held his money, a motley treasury of gold and silver coins stamped with the heads of English, Spanish, French and Dutch monarchs, counted out half and tied it into a bundle in a handkerchief.
“Take this, chérie,” he said brusquely as he handed it to her. “You may need it.”
Bewildered, she shook her head. “Whyever would I need that?”
“You may, that is all.” When she still didn’t take it, he set it beside her in the sand. “I’ll give you one of the pistols, too.”
“I don’t understand, Michel,” she said, searching his face for an answer. Was she imagining it, or did he seem suddenly