An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Command the Wind

ISBN 9781419920202
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Command the Wind Copyright © 2009 Elaine Lowe

Edited by Helen Woodall
Cover art by Dar Albert

Electronic book Publication April 2009

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C

OMMAND THE

W

IND

Elaine Lowe

Dedication

For powerful women everywhere and the men who bring out the best in them. For

my own personal ashava, who brings out the best in me.

Glossary

Ashavi/Ashava—Companion, partner of life, soulmate.
Golden Hind—The ship captained by Francis Drake, later Sir Francis Drake, which

circumnavigated the world, ravaged Spanish shipping, and claimed the coast of
Northern California for England as Nova Albion.

Magi—A tribe of Iranian people highly respected as capable and wise leaders. They

were followers of the Zoroastrian religion and so well known for their knowledge they
gave rise to the word we use to apply to the supernatural talents, “magic”. They spread
throughout the Middle East and India but no direct trace of their influence can be found
after the tenth century AD when it is thought that religious wars within the Persian
Empire brought about their disappearance. In fact, they still exist, hidden among many
peoples of the world. Each son is handed the task of finding his lifemate or ashavi and
releasing their combined powers.

Revenge—Admiral Sir Francis Drake’s ship during the battles with the Spanish

Armada.

Romani/Rom—Called Gypsy by most from the mistaken belief they came from

Egypt, these dynamic people roam all over Europe and now the Americas. Originally
from India, their Romani language is closely related to the languages of the Indian
subcontinent. Most have converted to Christianity but the importance of Sainte Sara la
Kali is a reminder that they once worshipped the mother goddess Durga and her
incarnation as the avenging Kali.

Sinti—A group of the Romani that live farther to the north and west.

Command the Wind

From the Scrolls of Nergal, Rab Magi

It is thus manifest, Power shapes Knowing. Knowing tempers Power.
Power is the gift of Being. For the aid of all and the joy of the Two.
Out of the Void. Finite and infinite.
Without Understanding, Power fades and dies.
With Understanding, Power becomes Knowing becomes Truth.
Truth is everlasting.
Power calls to Power. Searching for the key.
The key within the Two.
Infinite and Finite.
Love.

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Elaine Lowe

Chapter One

England, April 1588

The deck of the ship was awash in something out of the ordinary, sexual tension. It

was not a unique condition for a sailor but it was perhaps the one time that all men on
the ship felt the same way at the same time. The sailors stared toward port with
longing—for wives, lovers, or whoever would take their coin and give them a quick
ride. One man alone had no real hope of satisfaction.

Marcus Mares stared out across the rough gray sea of the Channel toward the wide

mouth of Spithead and Portsmouth. The Peregrine skimmed the waves lovingly, the
fastest ship on the seas, capable of outsailing any Moorish pirate corsair or lumbering
Spanish Galleon. Tiny and sleek, her sails as responsive as the fingers of his hand, she
was a thing of beauty. He would miss Peregrine and her crew. They took him as he was,
odd as his position was, a lieutenant with a very peculiar set of duties. They were all
friends and he would gladly serve with any of them in the future without question.

But Sir Frances Drake had summoned him and when Drake called trouble was

usually sure to follow. Marcus remembered the fire and flames of Drake’s daring
attacks on Cadiz and La Coruña last year. The Spanish had been bearded in their dens
but Marcus knew they were coming. England was not safe, no matter if Her Majesty,
Elizabeth Regina was their loyalty and their luck.

He closed his eyes and blew out a harsh breath, then inhaled the scent of land, of

home, England. Opening his eyes once again, he took off the dark spectacles covering
his eyes and looked toward Portsmouth.

As always, tension rushed through him, as he was pulled forward to look miles

ahead of where his body stood. For Marcus Mares was no ordinary British sailor.
Marcus Mares was a Magi, descendent of an ancient tribe, keeping the secrets of their
existence and their talent for magic hidden for hundreds of years.

His gift was the gift of sight. Sight above and beyond any normal man. He could see

a dolphin leaping in joy three miles distant, or the fear on a man’s face at the same
distance. He could look behind himself right now and glimpse the coast of France. Not
as a gray blur as some might see on a clear day, but ships and houses, beaches and
beacons.

Still, even with those amazing eyes, he had yet to find the one thing he most needed

to find. His mate, his ashavi. The woman who would complete him and unleash the full
force of their combined powers. Loyalty to country had taken precedence over the
Search. England needed him and his gift. In the meantime, the older he got and the
farther from the Search, sex wasn’t satisfactory and frustration made him grind his teeth
at night. He knew that if he didn’t find some relief soon, he would go insane.

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Command the Wind

Hopefully, insanity wouldn’t hit until after he’d talked to Sir Francis on the

morrow. The man might have a great sense of humor but the newly minted Vice
Admiral of England had his limits. It would not do to report for duty in a gibbering
frenzy. Perhaps it would be best to find that unobtainable quantity, a clean whore—or
simply make do once again with his right hand and a vivid imagination.

Portsmouth was still leagues ahead since the tide was not their friend. It would be

hours before frustrated sailors found their much anticipated relief. Still, with his
eyesight, he could see the wives milling on the docks, the whores standing a bit farther
away and tapping their tired feet in impatience. They looked sad and wretched, nothing
he could bring himself to be interested in, no matter how desperate.

His golden eyes flickered for a moment away from the village and toward the

opposite shore of Spithead. The Isle of Wight stood firm, weathering the spring weather
with the stoicism that made England, well, England. The white chalk of the Culver
Cliffs shone like a beacon, warning ships of the dangerous reefs surrounding the Isle.
The light was so bright that even under the gray overcast skies he could barely squint at
the cliffs without flinching. He blinked, determined to look away, when something
caught his attention.

At the top of the cliffs, standing against the wind, was a figure. Even wrapped in a

cloak, it was obviously a woman. He could see nothing but a glimpse of her face but her
eyes seemed to lock onto his, even at a distance of several miles. Eyes as gray as a storm
and just as fascinating.

She turned away, disappearing as suddenly as she had appeared and Marcus felt

the strangest desire to throw himself over the railing of the ship and swim to find her.
The urge was so strong that when he wrenched his eyes away from the coastline to stare
down at his hands, they were completely white from gripping the railing so tightly. His
cock decided to swell, if only to reach closer to her. He had to stand still and hope no
one noticed his discomfort, or otherwise suffer the crew’s jibes and insults in perpetuity.

If Drake wasn’t waiting for him…if his fucking duty wasn’t clear…if Spain wasn’t

breathing down England’s fair neck with the odor of carrion on its breath…he would be
on the next ferry from Portsmouth to Ryde and comb the east coast of the Isle until he
found her.

Because unless a thousand years of instinct was wrong he’d just seen his ashavi.

* * * * *

Marcus paced in the parlor of the inn Drake had commandeered as his

headquarters. Polished wood and once fine fabrics mingled to create an air of lost
gentility, of hard use, hard ale and strong tobacco. Much like Drake himself. One day,
the British Navy would have proper quarters but the ones they had now were not to
Drake’s satisfaction. The Inn of the Red Cock suited Sir Frances Drake much better.

Marcus didn’t need any reminders of his own cock. He was tired and he was

irritable. Sleep had eluded him until the break of dawn, as images of a woman with

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brilliant gray eyes danced through his imagination. He’d had her on the cliffs, under the
moon. He’d sucked her breasts into his mouth, he’d tasted her nub. He’d had her on all
fours screaming her pleasure as his cock erupted within her pulsing pussy.

Just remembering those vivid imaginings, he felt the need to take his cock in his

hand and relieve the pressure. He’d already taken things into his own hands three times
since last evening and he still felt overwhelming need for the woman on the cliffs. He
knew that he would not be able to be of much use to Drake like this.

“Aye, boy, you suffer badly.” For the commanding man he was, Drake could enter

a room far too silently. Drake heaved an impressive sigh, the barrel of his chest rising
and falling like the prow of a ship, then he tugged off the proper ruffled collar that he
was forced to wear as a nobleman.

Throwing himself into a chair and resting booted feet up onto the table, Sir Frances

Drake gave another sigh, this time of satisfaction and folded his hands over his still trim
abdomen. “Aye, Marcus my boy, you’ve been at sea too long. I’ve seen it time and time
again. You need some time on land, to see once again the beauty of your true mistress.”

Marcus shook his head at the old man who was his mentor. Marcus had sailed the

warm seas of the Caribbean with the man who was the scourge of Spanish shipping.
He’d been with him when Drake had been the first English captain to circumnavigate
the world, claiming the western shores of the new world as Nova Albion. And he was
the only man who Marcus would countenance calling him “boy” when he was past
thirty. But it was amazing how the old man still oozed vitality, though the weight of
England’s hopeless situation lay around his neck like the hangman’s noose.

“Do not bother to deny it, Marcus Smith,” he held up a beefy hand to stay Marcus’

protest, “Or Mares or whatever the hell you are calling yourself. Do not forget that I
knew you when you were wet behind the ears and begging for sea tales outside the
pubs of Marldon. I took pity on you and took you with me, despite your mother and
father begging me to leave you be.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. The man could certainly reinvent history to suit his aims.

Having heard tales of Marcus’ talents, Drake had come to Devon to “visit” his
childhood home some two miles from the small village of Marldon. But within a week,
he had convinced the boy Marcus had been of the wild beauty of the open sea and
Marcus’ father knew that even at barely fifteen, it was time for Marcus to begin his
Search, to wander the world in search of his mate.

He had not seen his parents in over four years, though a letter from his father had

reached him at the port. That a Rom, a gypsy, could read and write in a language not
his own would shock most Englishman but Ladislav Smith was an extraordinary man.
Still working at the smithy he’d taken over thirty years ago, Ladislav Golta had come
from the far east of the Continent to find his love, Maggie Smith, a dairymaid in
Marlsdon. She could charm any beast with the soothing sound of her voice and was
beloved by the people of the village. So much so that they accepted a foreigner into their
fold. It helped that Ladislav’s talents with metalwork were unmatched in a thousand
miles. Some would say they were almost miraculous.

8

Command the Wind

Marcus promised himself that he would make the journey to Devon soon to see his

parents and his sisters. He owed them that much. But first, the Isle of Wight. Assuming
Drake was serious about that “time on land” that he needed.

“Hush, you old sea dog and let a fellow sailor get a word in edgewise.” Drake

raised a bushy gray eyebrow and let the insult pass. Marcus went on while he had the
chance. “I have not the least intention of denying that I need to leave the sea for some
time. To be most frank, I believe I may have to leave service for a time, there is…”

“What is this!” Drake clanked his boots on the ground and stood slowly. “What the

hell do you mean, leave service!” The roar of his voice shook the rafters. “The Spanish
will be here, you know that as well as I, and I need you, the Queen needs you. England
will need every man Jack if we would wish to chase off the damn greasy gibbering
papists and you and your gifts especially. I would skewer you and roast your guts for
my breakfast if I thought you were bowing out of the fight now!”

Marcus stood tall with his arms crossed, a touch of hard bronze in his golden eagle

eyes. “You buggering old fool. I know my duty. If I don’t go to the Isle of Wight and
find…well, if I don’t get over to that island for at least a month, I won’t be a lick of use
to you, Drake.”

The door slammed open and a no-nonsense serving woman entered, oblivious to

the tension within. With that hard face, no doubt she’d seen much worse than this.
“Ale. On the ’ouse for the bloody English Navy.” She slammed the tray on the table. As
she turned to leave, Drake gave her bottom a swat. Marcus prepared for the blow to fall
but instead the woman smiled a toothless grin and sauntered out, her ample rear
swaying to and fro.

Drake sat back down and pulled out a pipe from the pouch at his side. Marcus

stared with impatience as he stuffed and lit that damnable pipe. “So…it’s a woman
then.”

Marcus snorted. Damn the old sea dog for being right.
“Ha! Can’t deny it, can you! I knew some wench would get that cock pulsing good

and proper one day. You’ve got half the women of the world panting after your ass and
you can’t be bothered to pluck the plum near enough. So, who’s the little flower who
has got your bollocks in her clutches?” He exhaled a great puff of smoke and Marcus
restrained the urge to cough.

“Do not test me, Drake. I need to go.”
Drake shook his head. “Then it is most fortunate for you that the place where I need

to send you is the place you feel driven to go to. The beauteous Isle of Wight calls you
with her siren song and your duty would send you to the same, my friend.”

Marcus furrowed his brow, unable to fathom what the hell Drake was spouting off

about this time. “What duty would you have for me on the Isle, Admiral?”

“Oh ho! Back to duty then so quickly! Yes, yes, it is fated to be, I see. The Isle would

take you into her fond embrace.” Drake heaved yet another eloquent sigh. “There be a

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bit of all of England on that fair little Isle, from the white cliffs to the needled peaks.
And every kind of woman too. Be sure you find a ripe one, son!”

“Get on with it, you old seadog. What hellish task would you have me perform for

Her Majesty?”

The mention of the Queen set Drake to sitting straight and thinking of more than

his cock’s past adventures. Drake loved Queen Elizabeth with an adoration he could
give no other female except for the changable sea. It was platonic and consuming.
Drake wasn’t just protecting England from invasion by Spain or revenging his
treatment in a prison camp long ago, he was defending the honor of a lady.

“Watch fires, boy, watch fires. We know the Spanish plan to take the Isle and block

the Thames up good and tight as they march overland with their thrice-damned
invincible tercios. For all the valiant nature of good Englishmen, we would be buggered
by those ruthless bastards. No, we have to stop them by the might of sea power and for
that, we need warning. Plenty of warning to get our ships out and maneuvering circles
around the oily, pox-ridden fools before Parma can think to land his men on England’s
shores. We need eyes…eyes on the sea day and night. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a
hundred, a thousand souls with eyes like yours!”

Marcus shrugged his shoulders and finally sat, taking one of the mugs of ale. “Alas,

that would be a thousand men who are useless in a fight, who have to guard their eyes
from too much sun and are constantly distracted. Not a group of soldiers I would want
to command, Drake.”

Drake snorted into his ale. “True enough I suppose. But still, I need a hundred eyes

from the Needles to the Culver Cliffs trained on that bloody sea day and night. And five
hundred more from Dover to the tip of Cornwall. We must have warning when the first
Spanish sail is suspected. Bloody Lord Howard insists the fleet stay in Plymouth, not
Portsmouth, though they will come from the Spanish Netherlands, make no doubt of it.
Our spies predict that it will be sometime in late summer and if that is the case, we need
word sent to Plymouth and to every ship as quick as God’s own hand. For that, fire is
the only tool that will serve. Ancient watch fires have guarded England from before the
time of the Romans. We need them active and well manned if we are to have a fighting
chance.”

Marcus nodded. It was a good plan, as good as the Lord Admiral, Lord Howard of

Effington, would let the more experienced Drake make of it. Marcus would be happy to
put it in action. Though not possessing the charisma of Drake, he knew how to recruit
good men and keep them at their work. Fill them up with the importance of their
mission and give them a sense of worth and men would die for you and for their
country. “I will do my best, Drake. You will have your watch fires by the summer.” And
if I am blessed, I will have my ashavi much sooner than that!

“I expect nothing less than the best from you, or from any Devonshire lad. You

never disappoint.” Drake smiled and drained the last dregs of ale, wiping his mouth
with the fine fabric of his doublet.

10

Command the Wind

The man would always and forevermore be a pirate.
Marcus would hate to see him any other way.

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Elaine Lowe

Chapter Two

Cora Searle sat huddled on her bed, her head resting on her knees in the morning

cold. One long, sun-browned arm was wrapped around her legs for warmth and the
other raised a hand to draw abstract patterns in the condensation on the window.
Through the thick cast glass, the world was distorted and twisted, just as was her
understanding of herself.

What had happened the night before? She had made the long walk from Afyllan

Manor to the top of the Culver Cliffs, intent on watching the beauty of the gray skies
and the wind-washed sea. The village of Sandown sat in the curve of the bay, golden
sandy beach glowing even under cloudy skies, fishing boats bobbing in the waves and
thatched cottages glowing with the bustle of the afternoon as wives set out supper for
hungry families. Out across the water, the waves tossed and birds darted to catch the
last meal before darkness descended. Each day, each hour of life on the Channel
revealed a different emotion, a different harmony in the madrigal of sky and sea.

Usually, she let it wash over her, through her, letting the emotion move her as she

seemed unwilling or unable to move herself. When the sky and sea sang through her,
she was alive, vibrant, real. But only then.

The afternoon had been dreary, cold. One of those yearning, melancholy days that

fill the early spring on the Isle. A ship waited at the mouth of Spithead, no doubt
cursing the tide that kept it from Portsmouth until nigh on sunset. A common enough
sight here, ships waiting to enter the port or head up the Thames. The Isle had been
guarding the entrance to the heart of England long before there had been an England,
when ancient priests had sacrificed to long forgotten gods. She remembered the
shudder that had run through her with that thought. She couldn’t think like that.

Cora threw herself back onto the feather mattress, setting the cord frame of her bed

to swaying like the deck of a ship. She ran her hand through her pitch black hair,
pulling the frazzled mass over her face to hide her from the cold light of morning.

That ship. That damn ship. It was no different from a thousand others but she’d been

looking toward that ship just one last time before returning home to the manor when a
wave of—something—overtook her. Something raw and vivid and full of pure fire.

The sea erupted in crashing waves and spray at her feet and the winds howled

around her in gustful glee and she tried to recover from the burning. Desire. She had
never felt such desire. Her breath came in pants, her nipples tightened to the point of
pain, her pussy was slick with need. She was no virgin but sex had been nothing like
this. This was primal, elemental. A force so strong she came close to throwing herself
from the cliffs into the water, consumed with the need to get closer to… To what?

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Command the Wind

It tortured her. All the way home she ran as though from the Devil himself, tearing

her best cloak on the grapevines surrounding her home and arriving there in a wild
state.

Her father looked up from his seat at the family table with mournful eyes, trying to

see his dead wife in her daughter, his dead elder son in his sister. But there was nothing
of Mary Searle’s ease and grace, or Edmund Searle’s blithe and simple humor. Cora
knew she was different. Tall where her mother was short, with a long face and nose
where her mother had been pleasant and round. Her generous breasts and full hips
were the only feature she’d seemed to inherit from her mother. In everything else she
was a Searle, from gray eyes to melancholy nature. The first female Searle in four
generations, with a thousand years of superstition nipping at her heels.

Her younger brother Edgar, sweet, quiet Edgar, could not even look at her except

from the corner of his eye. The smallest of smiles of greeting touched his lips and she
was grateful for his kindness in this cold house. Especially as her father’s words sliced
into her bare soul.

“How can you be goin’ about like that, child?” Her father’s eyes were mirrors of her

own, stormy in his anger and concern. His dark hair and dark clothes reflected a state of
mourning that had encompassed half of Cora’s life and most of her memory. At twenty-
four, she had forgotten when she had seen her father laugh with ease. “What will the
village think, if they saw you like that? Communin’ with the Devil, surely. Get you to
your chamber, if you cannot be bothered to arrange for supper for the family, you need
not have a bite of it.”

She did as he said, flying up the stairs away from them. Fortunately, her hunger

was not for food. For almost the whole of the night, she feared that the Devil was
“communing” with her, for who else could be so ruggedly handsome and exciting. In
her mind’s eye, a man took hold of her, a man with long black hair streaked with
brilliant white. A man wise beyond his years. And golden eyes that had seen too much
and could look into the secret heart of her.

The wind had swirled and groaned about the house as her mind melded into the

heat of those eyes. His muscled body rose above her, the thought of him inside her
driving her mad with pleasure as she stroked her nub and thrust her fingers within her
sheath, desperate to find release from him.

But over and over he came again, mysterious and shadowy and absolutely

compelling. These imaginings were not the fast and unsatisfying adventures of a
curious youth—romps in a hayloft or behind the henhouse with boys desperate only for
their own pleasure. In her mind, this man had her bent on all fours, one hand on her
nubbin and the other pinching her nipple, his teeth and lips teasing the skin of her back
as his cock drove her higher. This man worshipped her as she rose above him, her
breasts cupped in his hands and a devilish smile on his face.

What could she do but try to ride the waves of this unfamiliar, wonderful and

terrifying desire until sleep finally claimed her. The wind died to nothing as she slept,
held safe in strong arms within dreams she would forget.

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In the morning, the fog was thick and draped over the countryside and her mind

felt equally swaddled in layers of raw wool. What in the nine circles of hell had
happened? She felt exposed, flayed open. All of her careful years of control wiped away
in a mere few hours. Had a spirit possessed her? An incubus risen from the sea to turn
her into the witch the townsfolk always whispered she was? Or perhaps, to suck her
powers away. She would gladly give him her damned powers, if he would give her
another night of such tortured bliss. Biting her lip, she knew she had to find out.

Throwing on a kirtle over the chemise she slept in, she didn’t bother with a bodice

or sleeves or even stockings. Grabbing her torn cloak and ready clogs, she made her
way down to the kitchen where old Maggie, the cook, was crouched over the oven
baking bread for the week. Cora gave her a smile and Maggie shook her gray wizened
head.

“Oh, sweet child. If only your mother was here. You need an embrace and a bit of

lovin’ more than any person I ever did see.”

Cora could not keep a blush from staining her cheeks and she enfolded the dear old

woman her arms, her emotions so overwhelmed she felt tears in her eyes. Without a
word, she dashed out the servants’ door, waving to Maggie as she sprinted for the
distance to avoid her father and brother. She entered the vineyard with only one
purpose in mind. To break a vow.

She had to, if only this once and she whispered prayers to her long dead mother

asking for forgiveness. But she had to use her powers, just to see if they were still under
control, had become wild and feral, or if she were so blessed, those damned powers had
been stolen in the night by a devil with golden eagle eyes.

When she entered the woods, she relaxed, knowing that no one who could find her

here would bother her as long as she remained. The hazel and maple and flowering
cherry were magical in the fog, a land of the faerie both beautiful and terrible. It was
here she felt most at peace and yet most tempted into a life she both craved and feared.
She had always controlled herself, for the sake of her family.

But this morning she let go. She let go of the tightness behind her eyes, the

concentration she held to whether awake or asleep. Oftentimes it had escaped her but
not for many years had she released it of her own free will.

Roaring to the surface, her emptiness filled with passion, a passion for life and love

that was intoxicating, like the strongest ale. With passion came power and already the
fog swirled about her, dead leaves left from the fall rustling on the ground and winter
bare branches waving bud-laden arms in greeting.

Damn, it is still within me. She didn’t know if she was relieved or heartbroken.

Whatever suitor had invaded her mind last night, he’d taken nothing from her but her
peace of mind. She pointed a finger at the center of the clearing in which she stood and
the leaves danced and swirled in a tiny vibrant whirlwind. She closed her eyes and
sighed, a sad, lost sound in the vast quiet of the forest.

Whosoever he was, it would be a long time before she could possibly forget him.

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Command the Wind

* * * * *

Father was becoming more and more difficult. For the first time in days, she had

time to herself for contemplation. She had worked with the farm men and Edgar filling
the smudge pots to keep the vines warm in the sudden late frost. But still, she could do
nothing to make the man happy and he stared at her in accusation when the cold
weather had suddenly lifted, to be replaces by a sweet warm spring breeze. She swore
she had done nothing. Well, perhaps she had been thinking once again of the man of
reverie who consumed her nights, of what it would be like to be touched, to be loved by
such a man. But she’d felt no flare of power. Sometimes, the weather acted in its
infinitely changeable ways with not a jot of witchcraft or sorcery. No, this was not a
crime for which she would burn.

But her father would not even look at her. He took to fingering the cross he wore

around his neck and going to Mass every morning. She went three or four times a week
herself but her father had never been so overtly spiritual. Given the tumultuous nature
of the Church of England over the course of his life, from Catholic to Protestant and
back and forth once again, it was as dangerous a thing to be too religious as to be not
religious enough. No, Cora knew his praying had more to do with her “troublesome
nature” than any desire to connect with his Maker. Enoch Searle wanted to prove his
devotion beyond a shadow of a doubt. Cora shook her head, knowing that it would not
make a lick of difference to the village of Sandown, as long as the weather was kind and
the crops did not fail. The legends of witches being born to the Searle family was too
deeply ingrained for anything her father did to make a jot of difference.

Still, she’d tried to ease his worries this week. For all his gruff exterior and grave

demeanor since her mother’s death, she still loved him. As such, she tried to do her best
to be the proper female, arranging the menu for dinner, visiting tenants and dressing
properly in underskirts, corset, a dark green bodice and overdress, with the heavy
brocade sleeves tied onto the bodice and restricting her movement in a way she
normally hated. Such restriction was almost a comfort now, helping her to push back
down the power and spirit that had run through her in the forest, stronger and more
seductive than she could ever remember.

As she walked within the woods again, she risked temptation for the first time in

days. Cora wondered what it would be like to call forth a storm, or calm the raging seas,
to revel in her ability rather than to fear it. But such thoughts were dangerous and
disloyal to her mother, who had tried so hard to save her from the fate of Searle
daughters of the past—to be driven slowly mad by the power within them and to die
alone and barren.

In her mind, a pair of golden-brown eyes laughed at her. Although at twenty-four,

without a suitor in sight and a reputation for trouble centuries old, somehow she held
fast to the hope that she would not die alone. Somewhere out there, there was someone
who would understand and fight for her.

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Fie, she was turning maudlin. Romantic as any fool woman gone to the court of

Elizabeth Regina. Cora thought Elizabeth was a strong woman ruling in a difficult age,
against all the odds, but other women of the village thought she was a figure of
romance, a woman determined to wait for true love. Ha! Cora broke a dead branch
from a bushy crabapple tree and the snap echoed through the forest. The sudden silence
following it sounded strange, heavy. Lost in her reverie, she had strayed very close to
the road to Ryde and the ferries to the mainland. Anyone might walk those roads, from
prince to pirate. Through the underbrush, she glimpsed a dark figure, so strange she
could not look away.

A sailor’s boots were muddied up to his knees, a heavy cloak thrown back over his

shoulders and rough used pantaloons and a sturdy doublet declared this was a man
who knew work. Under those pantaloons and doublet was a fine body, one that made
her wonder exactly what kind of work the man was capable of. But those bits of him
were quite normal, though fascinating in their own way. Was that codpiece stuffed as
much as it appeared, or was it perchance merely covering a glorious treasure?

Forcing her eyes upward to where he stood staring into the dense brush his sword

half-drawn, she finally took note of his face. Strong, almost severe features that were
hauntingly familiar. She wanted—no, she needed—to see his eyes, but he was wearing
the strangest adornment she had ever seen, spectacles made of glass tinted the deepest
brown. Add to that oddity long, unbound black hair streaked with brilliant white, and
Cora felt her stomach flutter with a mixture of excitement and fear.

The wind answered her disquiet and swirled around them both, pelting the poor

man with leaves and sand from the nearby cliffs. He flinched but returned the sword to
its scabbard. She thought he would continue along the path, leaving her and her
obsessions behind but instead he slowly took off those strange spectacles, searching the
woods with renewed vigor for a glimpse of her. She should hide, she should flee from
such a rough and ready character, but those eyes were the gold like the eyes of an eagle.
And she was willing prey.

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Command the Wind

Chapter Three

These boots were not made for walking. No, the swollen maggoty excuse for a

cobbler responsible for these cursed leavings of a diseased impotent bull that some
would call boots, no doubt thought he was doing a service. The cobbler supplied the
boots for half the officers of those calling themselves the British Navy and a fair number
of privateers and merchantmen. As such, the ripe-smelling sot had supplied boots made
for clinging to the surface of a ship’s deck, not for walking across half of Christendom.
Ten miles between Ryde and Sandown should not have been such a trial but no carts
had passed that would offer such an odd-looking character a ride. And truth be told
Marcus Mares was a miserable horseman. Not that there had been a horse for sale,
without draining his purse dry.

So, Marcus approached the village of Sandown, the first point at which he was to

reinvigorate the ancient watch fire system. It was also the village closest to the Culver
Cliffs and hopefully home to the mysterious pair of gray eyes that still tortured him
night after night. It had been three long days to prepare documents and obtain funding
and proper seals. Three days far, far too long. Another day walking his feet raw on
muddy roads that sucked him down to his knees in the muck.

Now that he was close—God’s blood, he must be close by now!—he should go to the

Captain of the Guard at Sandham Castle and perhaps then the local magistrate, post his
bills and find recruits for the fire watch. He should set up shop in the pub and make
nice with all the boys and men who would be of use, perhaps even convince one or two
of the benefits of entering Her Majesty’s service.

What he wanted to do was go door to door, a vagrant in search of his heart. Good

God! He was turning in a mealymouthed puppy, spewing forth romantic drivel worthy
of the ha’penny stage! Fie, she would be his for a lifetime. Perhaps longer. He should
damn well be able to keep his sanity intact, his cock at bay and his priorities straight.
Duty first!

A rustle of leaves to his left and his hand went instinctively to his saber. It was half

out of the sheath when a gust of wind whipped past him, battering him with dry leaves
and cherry blossoms and sand. He gave thanks to his lucky stars that he’d gone for the
sword rather than remove his dark spectacles otherwise he’d be blinded by now and a
sure mark for any enemy.

But the air held no scent of malevolence and there was nothing in the forest to

indicate an imminent attack. Hell it was probably the Isle’s famed red squirrels,
tormenting him for the fun of it. So, instinct fighting judgment, he returned the sword
to the scabbard. As the wind died down to nothingness, he took a risk and slowly

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Elaine Lowe

removed the darkened glasses he wore to protect his sensitive eyes and searched the
nearby brush on the landward side of the road.

There. A flutter of green darker than the new leaves growing on the low trees, the

flush of pale skin peeking from between branches. He focused more closely and he
could tell the fabric was fine but not too fine, the skin kissed by the sun in summer and
still dark even in the enforced idleness of winter rains. That smooth skin most definitely
belonged to a woman.

“Who goes there? In yonder wood? Make yourself known!”
There was the slightest shift of the woman in the trees and Marcus feared that she

would simply flee. There was no way he would be able to follow a figure through
unfamiliar woods in sodden boots on bleeding feet. And he had to know who it was.
Something in the way she moved, the sudden gust of wind that had startled him. Who
was she?

A low feminine voice emerged, “And why should I come out? What right does a

traveler have to order me about on my own land?”

The voice held confidence, tinged with the slightest quiver of fear. But the sound of

that voice still sent blood pounding straight to his cock and his mind to imagining the
sound of that voice moaning his name in the throes of pleasure.

He swallowed and tried to marshal his thoughts toward luring the woman out of

the brush, rather than thinking what he wanted to do to her once she was willing. “I
have no right, my Lady Mysterious. Only curiosity to see a dryad in the flesh, to know
what creature would have a voice so lovely.”

“Fie, sirrah…do you think you have a velvet tongue, to try to coax a woman with

such drivel as that? My voice is a voice, nothing more, nothing less. The birds sing
much sweeter than I ever will.”

Still, she may not be impressed with his pathetic attempts at the poetic but she had

moved closer. The curve of her breast was visible, the elegant length of her neck as she
tried to look at him without being spied herself. When he caught a glimpse of gray eyes,
he knew he need look no further. She was the one.

“Ashavi,” he whispered, the sound leaving his lips like the soft breath of a spring

wind.

“What? What did you speak?” She stepped out from behind the bush and he could

finally see her face in full. Dynamic features set off by pink lips he wanted to kiss until
they were swollen, and huge gray eyes he wanted to see alight with passion. Her hair
was covered by the hood of her cloak and he wanted to see if it was the thick black
cascade he had dreamed of covering both of them as she collapsed, sated, on his chest.
His hand reached toward her without his will. She drew back, fear suddenly evident in
those stormy gray eyes.

Marcus pulled his hand back, cursing himself for a fool. Whoever his mate was, she

was a gently bred woman. He had to be careful…

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Command the Wind

Without warning, she ran through the bluebells covering the small hill separating

the woods from the road and launched herself at him. It was so completely unexpected
that it took him a solid minute to respond to her fervent kisses. But finally, his arms
wrapped about the warm, sweet body in his arms and his mouth opened to hers, his
tongue licking her lips. When she opened her mouth, he lost track of when and where
he was—in broad daylight on a busy road. They were alone in the world, a matched
pair made whole after a lifetime apart. His cock was hard enough to bend steel and his
codpiece was tied far too tightly to accommodate the swelling pressure, especially as
she was pressing the long length of her body against him with enthusiasm.

She was tall, perhaps an inch shorter than he and their lips and bodies aligned in

the most wondrous manner. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling his hat off while she
deepened their kiss. His tongue explored the sweetness of her mouth while his hands
caressed the curves of her waist and up her rib cage toward the lush bounty of her
bosom.

A horse neighed loudly in the distance and the clatter of a cart pulled them out of

their daze. She did not speak but shock warred with amusement in her eyes when she
pulled away. She turned suddenly and ran for the woods but he was hot on her heels,
plowing into the dense underbrush to follow her, leaving his hat and spectacles where
they had fallen.

“Do you make a habit, madam,” he paused for breath in his sprint after her,

pushing aside the branches that whipped into him with punishing blows, “of kissing
every visitor to Sandown, or should I feel honored?” Although the line had been
calculated to anger her and get to her stop her headlong dash, a flare of jealousy coiled
within him. That was no kiss of an innocent. She had known the touch of a man. Well,
henceforth she would know no other but him.

“And what if I do, sirrah!” her voice called back to him derisively. “Perchance you

should take your greeting and continue on to see what you may be gifted with in the
next village!”

She put on a burst of speed and though he could see the swish of her skirts far

ahead, he knew he did not have a hope of catching her—yet. He pounded after her,
losing sight of her for a moment in the dense woods. But just as suddenly, she appeared
again, leaning casually against a thick hazel tree. He had to slow suddenly and double
back, sweetly confused by her actions.

But talk seemed unnecessary as he stepped close. Her lips were rosy pink even in

the shade and swollen with his kisses. He should speak with her, he should explain all
within his heart, the history and magic that bound them as one. But instead, he took her
lips again, pinning her against the rough bark of the tree. Her hands slid around his
waist and her hips angled against his with ease. He cursed the layers of fabric
separating them, the tight confines of her bodice, which disguised the feel of her shape
and prevented him from freeing her beautiful breasts so he could taste them. His hands
moved from the tree to cup her breasts as best he could and she moaned against his
lips, sucking his tongue hard into her mouth and thrusting her hips into him, almost

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Elaine Lowe

begging him to push up her skirts and fuck her against the tree. He was almost
convinced but he hesitated, wanting to be able to take his time and worship her, learn
everything about her pleasure before joining them as one. He drew away, trying to
return some blood from his cock to his brain and she smiled mischievously, ducking
under his arm and escaping once again, forcing him to run after her. Not an easy task
with a throbbing erection.

“Give me only your name, sweet one and I will be contented!” he yelled, hoping for

that boon, though it was enough for him to know simply that she was real, that she
existed and tasted like the sweetest of fresh water to a man dying of thirst.

Nothing filtered back to him but the sound of her laughter. He stopped, his feet

throbbing and his face aching from a thousand tiny scratches. He couldn’t stop the
smile that broke through though. She was a whirlwind and he was ready for the ride of
his life.

* * * * *

Stepping into the center of the village of Sandown was like stepping into any of the

small seaside towns of England. Thatched huts, dark beams and whitewashed walls.
The occasional burst of color from a kitchen garden or a painted sign. The smell of fish
rather than farm animals. The eyes following him with wary curiosity. Hard men made
a life with fishing and farming. Here perhaps things were a bit better than for most, due
to the warmer weather but the threat of invasion from France or Spain had tempered
their success with a certain fatalism. Sandham Castle on the edge of the cliffs bristled
with artillery pointed toward today’s calm waters. Few starved on the Isle of Wight but
the tension in the air from hostilities with the Spanish was palpable. With that tension
came a distrust of strangers.

Especially strangers who looked like something the barn cat had dragged in.
His boots were a lost cause, soaked in mud and deformed. Blisters popped up in

places he didn’t want to think about. His clothes were covered in mud and leaves and
he was sure his hair had not fared much better. The glasses and hat he’d had to return
to the road to retrieve did not lend him an air of trustworthiness either.

Staring from doorways and street corners, he felt eyes pinned on him from every

direction. He wanted nothing more than to find the local magistrate, find an inn or a
place to board and get a mug or three of ale in himself.

The beach that ran down one side of the main street was a beautiful stretch of sand.

He could imagine the feel of sand between his toes and he longed to tug off his infernal
boots and launch them out to sea to die an ignoble death as fishes devoured them
slowly. The vicious grin on his face at the thought must have spurred some of the local
boys to action, as he was confronted by two burly looking fishermen before he had
walked another ten yards.

“Eh, what’s a nasty piece of work like you be doin’ in these parts, sailor? Got too

drunk and got on the ferry instead of one of your heaps of rubbish?”

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Command the Wind

His pimply faced friend added no comment, just sniggered with an annoying

cackle.

“No, if this is Sandown, then I am in exactly the right place. Who is the local

magistrate, man? And be quick about it, time is of the essence.” At least, of essence to
the state of his feet and the emptiness of his stomach. The magistrate would be more
likely to feed him first and ask questions later, the captain at the barracks castle would
no doubt be business first and perchance would not take kindly to a Navy man
sauntering onto his territory.

“Why should we be bothering Master Searle on account of a no-good squirrelly

troublemaker?”

Marcus changed his aspect from open and friendly to hard-edged as his smile

became a feral grin and he swept open his cloak to reveal his well used saber.

“Because it would behoove him to do his duty to a representative of Her Majesty’s

Navy, not to mention show hospitality to a weary traveler.”

“Oh…the Navy is it?” The words were not yet said with the respect that Lord

Howard or even Drake would wish but given that the ragtag Navies of Britannia were
the last hope of keeping the damn Spanish from England’s fair shores, the words did
something to knock some sense into this idiot’s thick skull.

The taller, broader bloke yelled across the packed-dirt street to a young lad who

had obviously been listening with rapt attention.

“Eh, Edgar, can you take this here ‘representative’ to meet your pa?”
The boy, who could not have been more than fourteen, swallowed thickly. He

looked at Marcus with bright gray eyes and Marcus suddenly knew that the dark-
haired lad must somehow be a relative of his elusive ashavi. He would not torture
himself with the thought the boy was her son, he was too old by far. But a cousin? A
brother? A distinct likelihood.

He walked over to the boy. “Master Edgar Searle, I presume?” The skinny boy

looked around, as though he thought Marcus must be addressing someone else entirely.

“Yes. I mean, yes, sir.” He stood a little straighter. Marcus fought the impulse to

smile.

“Is your father magistrate for the town?”
“Yes sir. For Sandown and Shankin too. The whole of the bay.”
“Very good. I need to speak with him.” Marcus would not elaborate, though the

boy seemed curious. Marcus knew not what ears were listening. Spies were as common
as fleas on a dog in an age when loyalty to a religion and loyalty to a nation fought each
other in the hearts of men. He had revealed his purpose to the bully boys who accosted
him but to avoid a fight a tiny bit of information was perhaps good to let loose. It might
attract those very fleas too, and allow him to pinch them between finger and thumb like
the bugs they were.

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Elaine Lowe

The boy seemed to know better than to ask a dangerous-looking man too many

questions. He simply gave a quick nod and swallowed once again, his prominent
Adam’s apple bobbing away.

“Pa…my father, Enoch Searle, is up at Afyllan Manor, sir. I’ll take you to him now,

if you like.” The boy glanced down at the mess of Marcus’ clothes, then his eyes
snapped back upwards, as though he was terrified of giving offense.

Normally, Marcus wouldn’t have given a rat’s left ass cheek about his looks, not

when there was work to be done, but if this boy and his esteemed father were relatives
of Marcus’ future wife, it would perhaps be best to make a good impression.

Sending a prayer to the heavens that the Spanish would not do the impossible and

sail out of Lisbon in secret anytime soon, Marcus phrased his answer with care. “I think
mayhap, young Edgar Searle, that I could do with a wash and a change of clothing.” He
patted the pack slung over his shoulder. “That and I hope most fervently that a cobbler
resides in this town, for my boots need attention far more than my odorous self.”

Edgar grinned and Marcus’ suspicions were confirmed. This had to be the brother

of his windsprite, that brilliant smile held a glimmer of her fire.

“I was on the way to Cobbler Morris to retrieve Pa…my father’s second best shoes. I

can take you there and then to the Fire and Flood. The tavern always has a room or two
to let.”

Ah, quiet but bright. Too bad it was difficult to lure the son of a landholder into the

Navy. The lad would do well if he had a head for mathematics and a memory for stars.
Marcus gestured for Edgar to lead the way and followed the boy he was certain would
soon be his brother. He hoped this tavern had a horse trough or some basin in which he
could have a scrubdown. He would try to be clean the first time he “properly” met his
bride-to-be. He would rather work up a sweat with her than be coated in the stench of
the road.

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Command the Wind

Chapter Four

Cora tried to compose herself, taking time at the millpond to examine her hair and

clothing for evidence of her mad dash through the woods. She touched a finger to her
kiss-swollen lips, now the only evidence of her wanton actions with the golden-eyed
stranger who had walked out of her dreams. Truly, other than her lips and the pumping
excitement in her blood, there was nothing to prove that he was not simply an
invention of madness.

He had felt almost divine and an energy had filled her just by looking at him. When

she had touched him, she thought her soul had caught fire with yearning. Need was a
sensation she was unfamiliar with but she knew the craving in her heart would not be
satisfied until she felt that man deep within her. Once again, she thanked the
restrictions of her proper clothes. If she had been in a simple kirtle and cloak, she would
have mounted the man in the middle of the main road and felt not the least bit ashamed
until long after having found her satisfaction.

Oh yes, she knew that with him, she would find the same pleasure she found

touching herself, pleasure she’d never known with the boy she had played with. She
had not a doubt in her mind that he would stay in Sandown, that she would find him in
the night and that he would show her ecstasy for a night, maybe several nights. Maybe
even enough to tide her over for a lifetime.

Cora would not fool herself into thinking a man like that would stay. He had

business on the Isle but few outsiders ever stayed. Much less sailors filled with
wanderlust to see the world. A man like that didn’t put down roots and her soul
couldn’t bear to leave hers. Her family had been here more than a thousand years, as
long as the hearty grapevines planted by the Romans. The Isle was practically the only
climate in England warm enough for the grapes to cling through season after season
and it was the only place Cora could imagine living her life, at the border of the sea and
the sky.

For a brief, agonizing moment, she let herself imagine a life with the stranger,

hearing his heartbeat as she lay against his chest in the darkness of a winter night, the
laughter of their children, the loving caress of those eyes gazing at her through a visage
wrinkled by old age. The pain of longing almost crippled her. Life and love like that
were not for her…not for a woman born a Searle. Just as she was tied to the land, she
was tied to her name, her fate. To be barren and alone.

By the time her thoughts slowed sufficiently for her to take note of her

surroundings, she was at the back door of Afyllan Manor and Maggie was looking at
her with soft eyes that spoke of sympathy. Maggie had once had love and lost it all in a

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Elaine Lowe

plague. Wordlessly, Cora embraced Maggie, the smell of flour and herbs engulfing her
in hominess.

With a resigned sigh, Cora stretched to her full height, which towered over little old

Maggie and smiled warmly at the woman who was the closest thing she had to a
mother. “So, what is the plan for the noon meal? We still have bread from the last
baking and that venison haunch needs to be used up. Are there any young greens as yet
with that burst of warm weather, or is it to be beans and turnips again?”

“Oh Mistress Cora, don’t you be concerning yourself with that, deary. Your father

will be happy with a venison stew and bread. Edgar, who I swear will soon eat us out of
house and home, is off in the village, getting your good father’s shoes from the cobbler.
He’ll no doubt be down at the Fire and Flood, hearing who knows what mischief about
the sea and dreaming dreams best left to others.”

“Maggie, Edgar has always loved the sea. It is as much a part of our lives as the

vines. It is almost a torture for him to see that water every day and not see what lies
beyond. He is not like Edmund, or me for that matter. It will be hard on him to stay and
tend the vines as all his forbearers have done. We must do what we can to help him.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, my girl. But I do worry that at his age, what he wants may

turn his head more than what he must do. It would break your father to lose another
son.”

Cora closed her eyes. She knew it would. If Edgar ran off to sea and she could not

produce an heir, a thousand years of tradition would be ended. It was a heavy burden
for a young man to bear. Hell and damnation, it was a hard enough burden for her to
bear. If only Edmund had lived, perhaps…

She shook herself out of her dreams of long-haired gypsies and smiling children

and tried to turn her thoughts to the practicalities of life, such as making her father
content enough with his lot in order that he should sleep soundly and not stay up half
the night in contemplation of his ledgers or reading the small selection of books the
household boasted.

“Maggie, I think I feel like baking a bit today. How burns the fire to bake up a nice

fish pie?” Cora walked over to retrieve the extra smock she kept hidden in the scullery,
for when she felt the need to help with the kitchen work. Maggie and her mother had
taught her to bake when she was a girl and for a time it was one of the few things that
could keep her indoors and out of a troublemaking.

“Oh ho! What have you got planned, missy? Fish pie and a good strong glass of that

’84 vintage and your pa will be out like a light tonight. I think it is more than you
wanting to have a look at some of his books. Perhaps it has something do to with the
fine-figured man that Betsy told me about? The one who came limping into town not an
hour ago?”

Cora stopped sprinkling flour on the work table and blinked at Maggie, trying to

keep the blush from her cheeks. Unfortunately, her fondness for the sun and sea could
not hide the telltale pink in her complexion.

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Command the Wind

“Ah ha! Maggie is always right! Tell me, is he quite so strange as Betsy told? Hair

like lightning in the night sky and eyes like an eagle?”

Cora could not help the laugh that escaped. “Betsy has quite the tongue for poetry!

Perhaps Mr. Marlowe in Londontown could make use of her fanciful descriptions.”

“Tell me, missy, or I’ll leave scales on the mackerel that your Pa will be picking out

of his teeth! That will surely keep him up tonight!”

Knowing the blush staining her cheeks was only growing in intensity, Cora gave in

to the temptation to talk about the man she had kissed only an hour previously. As she
mixed flour, butter and lard and kneaded the crust for her pie, she spoke softly, not
knowing the smile on her face made Maggie’s heart glad.

“I doubt many women would find him handsome. He does have black hair

streaked with white but it is fascinating and not at all as frightening as lightning! As for
his eyes…they are the most amazing shade of light brown, almost golden…they do
seem as though they could pin you as an eagle pins his prey. But they are warm, not
cold…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered how very warm he was—the touch of
his lips had made her blood flow hot and fast in her veins. She considered if it were
possible that mating with him, having his cock inside her would be as exciting as it had
seemed in the fevered dreams she’d had the night she’d last walked on the cliffs.

Maggie’s voice startled her. “Such a man sounds fair interesting. Interesting lasts

much longer than handsome. A man can still be interesting when he’s given you five
children and has grown a paunch and lost some teeth. Comely fades right quick!”

In truth, Cora thought the stranger—Lord, she still did not even know his proper

name! She thought he was handsome, compelling, utterly captivating. Just thinking
about his hands holding her close, the smell of him hot and sweaty from exertion—well,
never had Afyllan seen a pie crust that had been rolled quite so delicately thin. Cora
had managed to put a great deal of energy into using that rolling pin as she mused.

Maggie was practically doubled over laughing at her by the time she was stuffing

the fish and preparing it for a long, slow bake over the fire. “Oh deary, I thought I’d
never see the day you would be sent heels over head for a man. I thought for certain
you would end up an old maiden aunt, or worse, married off to that fool, Sir John.”

“Maggie! How could you think that I would…” She put her hands on her hips,

managing to cover the skirt of her dress in flour. “Damn it, Maggie. I’ll have a devil of a
time getting this out! What will Father say?”

Maggie poked at the dough covering the succulent fish and smiled an enigmatic

smile. “Don’t you worry. I did you a favor, I did. Sir John is expected any moment and I
don’t think he’d approval of a wife who mucked about with the help in the kitchen.”

Sir John Sweesy was their neighbor to the north, with miles of pastureland and

hundreds of sheep. And he had an eye on adding the Searle’s land to that list, Cora was
certain. Though he was as old as her father and had buried two wives, he came over at
least once a week, dressed as a simpering nodcock. Cora had not the nerve to tell him

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Elaine Lowe

that his best clothes, which attempted to wrestle his figure into an approximation of
manly vigor, more often resulted in the man looking like a trussed goose.

Quick as a wink, Cora made her choice. With a cloud of good white flour floating

about her, she proceeded to sully her dress, her hair and the tip of her nose with
evidence of her penchant for baking. Loosening her hair into a tangled mess and
removing her smock to leave a telltale silhouette of white upon the fine green fabric,
right on cue she heard a loud knock upon the front door of the manor and the hounds
barking to alert the household that there was someone at the door.

“I will get it, Father.” Cora called toward his account room. All the other servants

were no doubt busy and it would make quite on impression on Sir John to have the
object of his suit deign to answer the door in such a state.

Undoing the latch and pulling back the bar, she shivered as a gust of wind blew

into the hallway. Prepared for the unwelcome visage of the pompous Sir John, she was
completely unprepared to meet darkened spectacles and a dimpled smile.

“You…” She was incapable of saying more. She drank in his face, the still damp

hair, the clean doublet and well fitting hose that showed off excellent calves. And then,
there were the boots. Brilliant red boots in a fine grain of leather. They seemed so
incongruous she could do nothing but return to the contemplation of his face.

“Do I pass your inspection, Mistress Searle?” He took off those odd spectacles and

revealed strange honey-brown eyes passing over her own person with abandon.

She was suddenly acutely aware of the ridiculous condition of her own appearance,

covered from head to toe in flour. A blush rose in her cheeks and she was caught in
indecision whether she should make an effort to speak, run away to her rooms and
cower in embarrassment, or drag the man to those same rooms and not come out until
she had been well and thoroughly made to forget that clothing or flour even existed.

“Cora! You look right funny you do!” Edgar snorted in laughter and Cora finally

noticed that he was standing behind the stranger. “Don’t worry, Master Mares, my
sister doesn’t usually look like a spirit come to haunt the house.”

“She doesn’t? And I thought she looked enchanting all the time.”
Cora burst out with a giggle and then had to restrain herself from covering her face

in shame. Was she fourteen again and unable to bear the most banal compliment?
“Good day to you, Master Mares, I presume. Welcome to Afyllan Manor. How may I be
of service?”

Fire flashed in those brilliant eyes and she knew without a doubt he was thinking of

the many ways she could “service” him. She grew warm from toes to nose, her breasts
suddenly heavy and aching against the tightness of her bodice, her pussy damp with
the thought of feeling him slide within her. A long, pregnant silence filled the air until
Edgar broke through.

“Oy, Cora, go get Pa…our good father. Master Mares wanted to speak with him.

And how long until dinner? I’m fair famished!”

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Command the Wind

“Edgar, please don’t be rude. Run along to Maggie, she’ll feed you…but leave

enough for the rest of us boy! You eat enough for a horse, I swear. I’ll escort… I’ll bring
Master Mares to Father.”

Edgar darted between them, turning at the last moment to give the stranger a half

bow and a wave. “May I ask you some questions about Captain Drake, sir? After you’ve
talked with my father? Maybe you can stay for dinner.”

Cora hadn’t seen Edgar’s face light up with such enthusiasm since before Edmund’s

death last autumn. She would have kissed this Master Mares for that even if every fiber
of her being drew her toward him irrevocably. As Edgar ran off toward the kitchens,
Cora found herself very much alone with a man who, in her dreams, knew her body
better than anyone else. And yet, all he knew of her in reality was that she kissed
random men and liked to be covered in flour.

“Perhaps I should stay to dine with you, Mistress Cora. I’m sure a great deal of care

went into the preparation of the meal.”

She had forgotten Edgar’s offhanded invitation. How could she bear to sit across

the table from this man and dine with any grace or elegance, when her stomach was
tied in knots from desire and her palms were damp with need to touch and taste him.
Somehow she managed to speak. “You are most welcome to join us for our humble
midday meal, Master Mares, was it? I will take you to my Father, anon.”

She turned to lead him down the hallway but he laid a hand on her arm. “Marcus,

my sweet one. My name is Marcus. As for the rest that is up to you.”

She could not understand his enigmatic statement but he had drawn closer as he

spoke, until his lips seemed irresistibly close. Her tongue darted out to moisten her own
dry lips and he let out a groan, capturing her lips with his in a soft, sweet kiss. Her eyes
closed and longing filled her and the clean masculine scent of him was driving her to
madness. She wanted nothing more than to make him sweaty and disheveled once
again.

Only a giggle from Sarah, the upstairs serving girl, prevented that kiss from

deepening into something as hot and addicting as what had happened on the road into
Sandown.

Cora backed away, her color high. “Sarah, I shall need you in my chambers in a

moment.” Sarah giggled again, dropped a curtsy and bustled away, her arms full of
fresh linens.

“Let me take you to my good father, Master Mares.” Marcus. She dare not let his

name pass her lips, or she would surely throw herself at him once again.

“You will be mine, ashavi.” His whisper was so soft, she was not sure if his words

had been real, or her mind playing tricks on her from the force of her desire. She turned
to look at him once again, caught between a flash of anger at his presumption, a thrill of
desire at the command inherent in those words, or a twinge of curiosity at what that
strange endearment could mean.

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Elaine Lowe

She could act upon none of those feelings, as a strangled cough erupted behind

them from the open doorway.

“Hello, sweet Mistress Cora. How the sun does break through the cloud now that I

have seen you!”

Sir John Sweesy. Bloody perfect.
“Good day to you, Sir John. I assure you, sir, the sun has been shining since at least

eight of the clock this morning, once the fog burned away. It must be close to the noon
hour now. My presence makes little different to the actions of the heavens.”

She swore she could hear Marcus swallow a chortle, but she kept her eyes trained

on Sir John. She had long ago learned she’d better, or her ass was likely to be pinched.
And he was not the man she wanted anywhere near her ass today.

Sir John was busy opening and closing his mouth like a fish and trying to come up

with a suitable reply. Cora was in no mood to wait for the wheels of his mind to catch
up. “What brings you here today, Sir John? Have you business with my good father?”

Smiling wide enough to show his one rotted tooth, Sir John replied, “Why yes, my

flower. I would like to ask once again about the acre strip in the west field. I hope to
convince Master Searle…”

“Truly, Sir John, I am quite certain my father is not interested in giving up a single

vine of his best yielding grapes in the west field. I beg you not to importune him at this
juncture.” She tried to think of a way to distract Sir John, otherwise her father would be
up half the night ranting and raving at the gall of the man. “Perhaps you would like to
join the family for the noon meal. Master Mares is here as well and I am sure he would
welcome the chance to meet more fine members of our community.” Oh damn, now she
would have to put up with the buffoon for hours. Bah!

Not giving Sir John the opportunity to say yea or nay, Cora took hold of Marcus’

arm. The sizzle of sensation that shot through almost made her stumble and she could
not help but glance at his face and watch the flames flickering in those intense eyes.

“I…I am afraid that Master Mares needs to speak with my father and I need to

change for the meal but perhaps you could wait for a few brief minutes while…”

“Of course, my charming girl!” Sir John raked his eyes down her body with

possessive lechery, no doubt imagining what a change of clothing would entail.
Revulsion chased away the edge of her brimming desire until she felt Marcus’ hand
take hers, his thumb brushing softly over her bare palm.

“Good morrow, Sir John. It is good to meet you. What is your home in these parts?”
She relaxed as Marcus’ deep baritone took control of the situation. Their footsteps

pattered on the ancient stone floor as she led the men toward her father’s study. Marcus
exchanged the inanities of polite conversation with Sir John with a deft hand, listening
to the man prattle on about his holdings, his sheep, the pheasants worth hunting on his
land and in the space of two minutes fit into the dinner conversation with sense and
ease. She noted that Marcus managed to reveal nothing of himself in the exchange. She

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was impressed at his skill in evasion but disappointed that she had learned nothing
new about the man.

“Fine boots you have there man!” Sir John stared down at the ostentatious red boots

plastered to Marcus’ fine calves. “I once thought to get one just the same for myself but
I fear the fashion has faded.”

“They are very comfortable but perhaps it is true that they no longer hold the peak

of fashion at Court.” Marcus’ wry smile spoke volumes to Cora. He had not a clue what
the fashions of Court were and neither did Sir John, no matter his pretensions. Sharing
even this little amusement at the folly of humanity made her want this Marcus Mares
even more. It was obvious from his turn of phrase and the intensity of his gaze that
there was an intelligent, thoughtful man beneath the rugged, sun-browned exterior. A
man who had seen the world, if he had sailed with Sir Francis Drake, as her brother had
alluded to.

Before she could raise her hand to knock upon her father’s door, the door swung

open to her father’s bushy black eyebrow raised in question. Cora dropped her hand
from Marcus’ arm and met her father’s eye. “Daughter? What is all the commotion in
this hall?”

“Forgive me for the interruption, my good father but Master Marcus Mares is here

to speak with you on a matter of some importance and Sir John is here to join us for the
noon meal. There should be enough time for you to begin a discussion with Master
Mares whilst I finish preparations for the meal.”

Enoch Searle took a long look at his daughter’s odd appearance and made a series

of subtle facial movements which only Cora recognized as half in disapproval and half
in amusement. He did not like Sir John Sweesy any more than she and as her father was
an intelligent man, it was highly likely he knew of her attempt at subterfuge with
regards to her suitor. He would not approve but he understood. As she curtsied her
goodbyes and turned to leave, she could not help but drink in one last look of the face
she could now put a name to—Marcus. The men began a discussion while she walked
away and she made careful steps, swaying her ass back and forth for she was certain
Marcus was watching her as long as he could.

When she finally turned to reach the wide staircase and was cut off from view, she

pulled up her skirts and dashed up the stairs. She virtually flew, not to her own rooms
to change her flour-dusted overdress or fix the sad remains of the intricate coils of her
hair. No, Cora opened the heavy door to her brother Edmund’s chambers. The hinge
squeaked, proving that no member of the household lived here any longer. The linens
were clean, the surfaces dusted but the air was stale. She pushed past her flare of
mourning for her beloved brother and proceeded to engage in an activity Edmund
would have thoroughly approved.

Moving aside a small dresser with a fair bit of struggle, Cora revealed one of the

prime secret discoveries of childhood. Edmund had shared it with her on her tenth
birthday—a hole in the planked wooden floor, directly over her father’s private
chambers. When the ancient Afyllan Manor had been modernized in her great-

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grandfather’s day, the vast open hall closed in with smaller personal chambers, the
plasterers had missed one key place and generations of children had taken advantage of
this when they moved from the nursery to their own chambers.

Cora pressed herself against the floor and peered into the recesses of her father’s

sanctuary. Ever resourceful, Enoch Searle had managed to rid the room of Sir John in
record time and only he and Master Mares remained. She strained to hear and although
she would have loved to stare at Marcus for a few more moments, information was
more important than inspiration for her lusts. She pressed her ear against the small hole
and listened.

Her father’s gravelly voice spoke clear and true. “Sir Francis, eh? My son Edgar will

be thrilled to speak with you. But why have you come to me from Admiral Sir Francis?
Surely the Isle can do little to help the Navy. We’ve given up enough of our fine young
seamen to defending the Isle or striking out for their fortunes on the seven seas rather
than closer to home.”

“No, sir, I’ve not come to mount a recruiting drive and certainly not a press gang.

There are two reasons I have come to see you, Master Searle. One for myself and the
other for my country.”

A brief silence and Cora had no doubts of the look her father must have leveled at

Marcus Mares. But the silence lengthened, as Marcus could not be provoked into
nervous babbling.

“Go on, young man. England first, then your own troubles. Though I have not the

least idea what business you would have with my household for yourself alone.”

“My mission for Admiral Sir Francis is to reestablish the full network of watch fires

along the cliffs, from Sandown to the Needles here on the Isle. Others are doing the
same on the mainland from Dover to Land’s End.”

The bang of her father’s fist on his desk made Cora’s heart jump. “Damn time! I’ve

been calling for that in the Assizes for the last ten years and my father did the same
before me. I am glad to hear Good Queen Bess has done what her forefathers have not!
What can I do to help?”

Just as Marcus and her father entered a discussion of manpower, Cora heard a

delicate cough filter into her consciousness. Opening her eyes, she saw the upstairs girl,
Sarah, staring at her wide-eyed from the threshold of the room.

“Mistress, you were saying you needed help with dressing?”
Cora heaved a sigh. “Go and get my blue cambric and a hairbrush…and be quick

about it.” Her urgent whisper seemed to convince the curious Sarah of the need to
hurry and she disappeared with uncharacteristic speed. Either that or she thought her
mistress was losing her mind. Cora restrained her chuckle and once against peeked into
the hole to catch a glimpse of Marcus.

She was unprepared to have those eyes focus with the precision of a longbowman

on the exact spot of her observation. He could see her! The slow cocky smile on his face
proved it. She didn’t know how it was possible but he knew she was here.

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“Master Searle, you have not yet asked of me my other reason for coming to see you

here today.”

“Ah well, I was fairly confident you would bring forth elucidation of the subject at

the first opportunity.”

“Yes, well…” Cora could hear the sudden uncertainty enter his deep voice, “I have

come to ask permission to formally court your daughter Cora, Master Searle.”

Cora gasped loudly, then covered her mouth to stifle her indignation. The idiot!

Now her father would never let them alone together! And he had not asked for her
opinion on the matter—although she supposed a woman throwing herself at a man on a
public highway would amount to agreement to a courtship at the very least.

Her father either had not noticed the noise from above, or had not cared to

acknowledge it in the face of such a remarkable request from a virtual stranger. After
all, no one, not even Sir John, had asked to formally court his daughter. It was almost as
binding as a formal betrothal and often negotiated between families for months if not
years.

But Cora was not the typical daughter of a gentleman. Cora was a Searle daughter

and no man on the Isle would enter into a courtship, much less a marriage, without
heavy recompense for centuries of bad luck and the guarantee of a barren wife. Sir John
already had heirs aplenty, so his interest was understood. A stranger could have no
knowledge of the Searle history. He might be the best chance for Cora to have some
happiness in a marriage.

“Why sir, would you be interested in courting my Cora? She has no huge dowry for

you to drink away and I cannot guarantee her virtue as intact.”

Father! Fortunately Cora managed to keep her exclamation internal but she was

angered beyond belief at her father’s crass words.

“I have no great explanation for you, Master Searle, other than I saw your daughter

several days ago while she walked on the cliff overlooking the sea. My family has
always said that a man will know his wife the moment he first lays eyes on her and I
find I am no different from my father or grandfather or great-grandfathers back for
generations. Your daughter is already my wife in my heart and if I can win her
approval and yours, she will be my wife in every way.”

Cora held her breath, something inside her breaking away as she lay on the cold

wooden floor. Warmth flooded her chest as tears ran down her cheeks. It felt as though
a star had fallen from the heavens and taken up residence in her heart for a brief speck
of time. Unable yet to name it love, she scrambled up off the floor, heaved the small
dresser back into place and fled to her room, unable to hear anything else that could
overturn her safe little world.

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Chapter Five

Dinner was a bit of a strained affair, starting off with Master Searle announcing to

the table at large that he had given Master Mares permission to court Cora. Marcus
would have been quite happy for this public acknowledgment of his claim on his ashavi
but since she appeared to be half miserable and half incensed at him, he felt perhaps his
course of action had not been for the best.

But he could not bemoan his fate, not when the emotion burning in those gray eyes

sent a flash of lightning to his loins. Under the broad dining table his cock strained
uncomfortably against his codpiece. She looked hauntingly lovely in a gray-blue frock
that made those eyes seem the color of the sky before the break of dawn. Once again,
her breasts were pressed upward by the fitted bodice of her gown displaying creamy
round tops just begging for him to nibble them like ripe peaches. He shifted
uncomfortably as he took a bite of peach compote that had been marinating in brandy,
since the last harvest. He didn’t know what was more intoxicating, the sweet alcohol or
knowing what he’d much rather have in his mouth was only a few feet away.

The meal was excellent, better than he’d had in a long time. Venison stew, radish

salad, a good strong local cheese, peach compote and the most delicate and flaky fish
pie he’d had in his life.

Sir John gave a loud belch of appreciation. “Oh, I say I should steal away your

Maggie, Searle! She still makes the best venison stew in fifty leagues! Or perhaps I
should come over here more often, now that there is competition for the table.” He eyed
Cora with a leer as he said this and Marcus felt his muscles tense as though waiting to
pounce on the man and give his hide a tanning for even thinking of his ashavi in such a
way.

Marcus bowed his head toward the head of the household and raised his glass of

fine sweet white wine. “Ah Sir John, I agree that all the dishes are most excellently done
and I thank Master Searle for the artistry and generosity of his table. I however most
favor the excellent fish pie, the likes of which I can think of no match.” Perhaps this
speech was a bit flowery but Searle looked content and there was a blush staining
Cora’s beautiful cheek, with just a hint of a smile. Marcus suddenly understood why
she had been covered with white dust when she had opened the door. The fish pie had
been hers!

Oh, God’s blood, he was the luckiest man in England. A woman who stirred his blood

like no other and who could cook as well. Aye, she would be his wife soon, or he would
surely go mad.

Some of his lust must have showed in his eyes, as Master Searle coughed loudly

and gave Marcus a disapproving look. “Master Mares, I’m sure young Edgar would be

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happy to hear your tales of the dangerous sea. Perhaps you could oblige us with a few
stories of your adventures while we digest this fine meal.” The man had one hand over
his stomach and his other hand held a goblet of wine and he looked to be in a mood to
be pleased. Best make a good impression on father and son and hope some of that
allayed the flash of anger in the daughter.

“I was on the Golden Hind, Drake’s flagship, when she circled the world in the name

of Her Majesty. That was by far the adventure of a lifetime, with enough deadly and
daring doings to last a man until a ripe old age.” In truth, Marcus thought it likely that
the seduction of his bride might best the most harrowing adventure of those days but
he had learned in the long dull days of sailing the tropical doldrums how to tell a tale
with the best of the old sea dogs and he would not disappoint today.

Marcus spoke of the beauty of the sunset after the stormy crossing of the Straights

of Magellan. He spoke of strange fruits and exotic peoples, of intense heat and bitter
cold. Of the discovery of new lands on the western coast of the Americas, named Nova
Albion in honor of the Queen, though the Spanish contested the claim bitterly. Of the
excitement of conquering a Spanish galleon, the triumph of the capture of la Concepción,
the largest prize any privateer had ever brought, with six tons of treasure won. Of the
bitter loss when man after man had died of sickness or dehydration in the crossing of
the vast Pacific Ocean.

Before he knew it, hours had passed and though Sir John was snoring in his chair,

the others were enraptured. Master Searle nodded sagely at the warnings and terrors
he’d seen and Edgar was enthralled at the high adventure and exotic sites. Cora—Cora
he could not read. Her eyes were wild, intense, full of an emotion he could not name.
But to be the center of her focused attention was making him… Well he found he could
no longer regale them with stories when the blood had moved from his brain to his
cock.

Fortunately, Master Searle was a perceptive man and went to move from the table.

“This has been more entertainment than I can recall in quite a time, Master Mares but I
am afraid the business of wine-making must call me away again. How long do you plan
on being in Sandown? Have you accommodations?”

He wished he could prevaricate and say that he did not but that was no way to treat

a man who would soon be his family. “Your resourceful son found me a room at the
Fire and Flood. That’s quite a lad you’ve got there, Master Searle.”

Edgar beamed and Searle gave a firm nod of acknowledgment. “Well then, I will

meet with you and the Guard Captain on the morrow to speak of arrangements for full
manning of the watch from here to Shanklin. We should have everything ready within a
sennight.”

A mere week to court and win his lady. And another month after that as the banns

would be read at the parish church before she would be fully his wife. He gave her a
smile, which she returned with an arch of a delicate brow. Would she be willing to ride
in a cart around the Isle while he finished this blasted business? He could not bear to
leave her for long, once she was his. He knew that his sailing days were over and he

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Elaine Lowe

was surprised at how little this pained him. If he was to settle down somewhere, the Isle
of Wight was adventure enough for him and if he was to learn to grow and harvest
grapes and make wine, he would do so. There were many a worse occupations in which
to engage.

He had enough money to buy an estate on the Isle with ease. The capture of la

Concepción and a dozen other ships during his tours on the Golden Hind had all the crew,
as well as the Queen and all the other investors, very rich. He could no doubt buy
himself a wife from any of the great houses of England, but this lovely girl of the lower
gentry was everything he had ever dreamed of. And oh, of late his dreams had been
very, very detailed, from the way her nipples felt under his tongue, to the curve of her
back as he rode her over a bale of hay. His cock rose once again in salute and he was
trapped at table just a few moments too long as he tried to think of the smell of dead
fish and maggoty biscuit in order to tame his rampant desire.

Fortunately, the pompous Sir John, who still seemed to think he had a chance to

win Cora, had awoken and was waxing poetical and completely barmy, about foreign
trade. As Marcus took a last swig of his wine and stood to take his leave from the table,
he found Cora at his elbow. He smiled at her in what he hoped was a winning way and
she smiled back all too briefly. Perfect teeth and perfect skin, truly, a man could ask for
nothing more in a woman than this.

“Master Mares, why have you asked my father for permission to court me?”
Her tone was not sweet but cut like a bitter knife or a cold wind. Confusion settled

over him. “Because you are meant for me. It is fate.”

She cocked her head at him and fixed him with a look which clearly communicated

that she questioned his sanity. He was puzzled. Father had always described the
moment that he had first seen Mother as the most important of his life. That he knew
she was his ashavi, his other half, from the very moment their eyes first meant. Marcus
was certain that Cora Searle was his. But now he recalled he had never heard his
mother’s account of the tale. What had she first thought upon seeing Father?

“Cora child, show Sir John out. He says he has an urgent appointment with the

cobbler.” Master Searle looked down for half a moment at Marcus’ showy boots and
Marcus suppressed a guffaw when he realized that the luxurious red leather boots the
cobbler had sold him all too gladly, had probably been destined for Sir John. Assuredly
the cobbler had waited one too many days for payment and sold the boots to the first
customer offering ready money. Marcus had taken the man’s boots, just as surely as he
would take his prospective bride. And no doubt would treat them both far better than
Sir John Sweesy would have.

Marcus watched as his woman walked out of the dining room with another man

and inwardly the flare of irrational jealousy burned hot. The buffoon was no threat and
yet he would gladly break any finger that touched her. Marcus had never been known
as violent and more than one crewmate had made sport of his tendency to avoid a fight,
calling him a coward when the truth was he simply had not the instinct for violence that
some men possessed. But for Cora Searle’s honor, he would gladly fight off multitudes.

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This time, he could not suppress the laugh that bubbled to the surface and as he bid
Master and Edgar Searle his goodbyes, they clearly did not understand the seriousness
of the joke.

Cora was standing in the hallway, graciously listening to Sir John prattle on with

some nonsense or other that was very important to no one but himself. Something
about an honored guest he was expecting. From her curvaceous hips upward, she was
the epitome of poise and grace, her head cocked at an angle as she listened attentively.
But there was the slightest jiggle in her skirts and Marcus had no doubt she was tapping
a foot in impatience to be rid of the oaf and Marcus hoped, desire to speak with him
instead.

But when Sir John finally waved his farewells and it was Marcus’ turn to take his

leave, Cora said not a single word to him. Edgar wished him well and asked to come
see him on the morrow to ask more questions about the sea. Master Searle promised to
attend with him when he spoke to with the Guard Captain. But Cora said nothing.

She did mouth the words, “Tomorrow,” at him as he bowed over her hand. But that

was certainly far, far too long to wait.

* * * * *

There were a few advantages to having spent more than half his life on ships with

privateers. He had learned a fair few tricks regarding stealing, thieving and the like.
Not to mention how to hold his ale and roar like you are being chased by the hounds of
hell, which is an excellent trick to scare any enemies you might be waylaying. But this
particular situation required the utmost delicacy and silence. Not to mention being able
to see in the dark. Fortunately, his eyes, so often too delicate to be exposed to the direct
light of the sun, were most excellent for revealing fine detail even with just a sliver of
the moon to light the way.

A deft twist with a knife and the latch was lifted on the door to the kitchens. A few

handfuls of good English dried beef and the hounds were calling him their new best
friend. It was just after midnight and the household was at peace. He crept through the
kitchens, then the hallway to the main staircase, placing each foot with care so as not to
make a sound. With a quick calculation once in the upstairs hall, he tested the door of
the right room. It was not locked and he smiled in triumph. At least until he opened the
door and a loud squeak echoed down the hallway. Stepping into the room quickly, he
looked around in consternation. The room was empty. The bed had not been slept in. In
fact, it appeared that no one had entered for quite some time. But he was absolutely
certain that, “It was in this room…”

“Hush you rash fool. Come quickly!”
Cora stood in the doorway with a candle, the light not searing his eyes as much as

the sight of her in a thin lawn gown, the peaks of her nipples high and proud and
tempting him to uncover their wonders. But just as she muttered those words, she

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Elaine Lowe

turned and he had no choice but to follow her down the silent hallway to another
chamber.

She closed the door behind him and barred the door with a small table, on which

she set her candle. Then she turned to him with fire in her eyes and hands on her hips.

“What are you thinking? It was bad enough that you had to give my father so much

to think upon that he only just retired to his chambers. I would have been able to go to
you earlier if you had not announced yourself in such a manner!” She rolled her eyes
and crossed her arms under her breasts, which only made those beauteous orbs all the
more alluring and it all the more difficult to puzzle over what on earth she was
blathering about.

“It would not be gentlemanly to make my bride come to me.” He stepped toward

her, his hands aching with the need to touch her everywhere and tear the fabric
separating him from her flesh.

“Pshaw, sir! You need not continue with your charade.” She swallowed nervously

and as she raised her eyes to his, he knew she was not unaffected by his presence. “You
can have me without promises for the future. I need no false courtship or sweet lies to
part my thighs for you. I do so with only the anticipation of pleasure.”

His stomach warred with his cock. The thought of her with other men, many, many

other men, was an anathema, making his intestines twist in jealousy. His cock
responded solely to the image of her laid out on the high tester bed in the room,
welcoming him into her body with a low sweet moan and a look of rapture.

He growled low. “I would not make you my whore, Cora. And my courtship is not

false. You are my wife. Such is fated.”

She held a finger up to his lips. “Silence. I would not hear anymore. I-I will assume

then that you believe what you say and I have no wish to argue.” He nipped at that
long, elegant finger and he could feel her shiver as his hands reached out to clutch her
hips. She tasted like lavender and almonds—the cream on her hands—and underneath
everything the musky scent of woman distinct to her. He wanted to journey slowly and
surely to the source of that scent and flavor, the slick folds of her pussy.

A gust of wind blew through the room and the sputtering candle blew out, leaving

only a sliver of moonlight to light the room. With his eyes, the dark of night was more
comfort, more clear even than the light of day. He could see every rise and fall of her
impressive breasts, the long cascade of her hair swirl in the dying wind.

In his mind, he knew something was not right. Her words were not words of love,

not words from a woman who knew she would be with her mate for a lifetime. They
needed to talk, he needed to tell her the tale of the Magi, the tale of his people for a
thousand years. But for all the distrust he’d heard in her tone, there was no mistaking
the desire in her eyes, in the yearning of her body for his. And after years of self-denial,
waiting for the woman who would make him whole, his cock had the mastery of him.

His mouth captured hers and she moaned, a sound of surrender. But truly,

surrender was the last thing on her mind, as her tongue dueled with his. Her taste was

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completely irresistible and he wanted to devour her. She seemed to have the same idea
as him. The kiss was openmouthed, with teeth and tongues clashing until a sweet
rhythm of give and take took over, matching the pounding of the blood through their
veins. Suddenly, kissing wasn’t enough and hands tore at clothing.

The fine lawn fabric of her gown made a satisfying rip. Her laughter spilled forth as

her breasts were revealed to him and he bent to capture a ripe peak with no hesitation.
Her fingers threaded through his hair, undoing the tie holding it back. It cascaded over
her breasts, each strand of his hair reaching out to slide together with the long black
waves of her mane.

Her hands moved to yank at the shoulders of the dark tunic he wore and he

growled at having to release her nipple from between his teeth in order to let her pull it
over his head. She bent to bring their lips together once again and the feel of her breasts
crushed against his chest was glorious. He deeply feared he was going to embarrass
himself and disappoint her, coming the moment he slid inside her.

Bending low, he slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting

her as she let out a shocked gasp. He placed her on the high tester bed and she purred
trying to pull him down on top of her but he drew back, keeping his hands on her knees
as he took in the beautiful sight of her in the silver highlights and black shadows of
moonlight. Her hair spilled out on the white bedclothes like a pool of black flames. The
shreds of her gown parted easily and the sweet mounds of her breasts, the tender curve
of her stomach and the delectable triangle of her sex were revealed in all their glory.

He bent over her, pressing dry lips to her navel, praising the heavens that she had

been born into this world as his mate. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked
down at him with curiosity and desire warring in stormy gray eyes. Her face glowed,
whether from the power lying dormant within her or from the whisper of moonlight, he
knew not. Regardless, he was left breathless at the sure beauty of her, the knowledge
that he loved her and would have the chance to spend the rest of his life with such a
woman warming him despite the cool April night.

She brought up one hand to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing aside a tear that had

formed and fallen. Her brow wrinkled adorably in concern and he could not face her
questions. He had to convince her they were meant to be and the best way he could do
that at this moment was to be the best lover she had ever welcomed into her bed.

Returning to the soft, sweet skin of her belly, he ran the tip of his tongue in circles

around her navel, drinking in her flavor and the laughter that slipped from her lips
with his teasing. He hoped he could bring her a lifetime of that—pleasure and
laughter—enough to chase away the sadness he could see in the depths of her eyes.

Moving down her body, he spread soft, openmouthed kisses across her delicious

skin. He crept closer to the lips of her pussy. He could feel her tense under him,
knowing where he was headed but full of uncertainty. Good, he thought. No one else has
done this for her.

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Elaine Lowe

Fierce possessiveness flooded him as he parted her thighs, kneeling on the floor to

worship at her feet. His hands moved again behind her knees smoothing over the
delicate skin and wondering how any person could feel so incredibly soft. He nuzzled
the even softer skin of her inner thighs, reveling in the tiny whimpers she made, her
fingers clutching at the sheets as she continued to watch him love her. The scent of her
drew him in, though torturing her with anticipation held its own allure.

Her arousal was evident. The lips of her pussy were parted in welcome. He was

finally at the source of her scent, the scent that had drawn him in from the moment
she’d thrown herself into his arms on the road. He touched the tip of his tongue to the
beautiful pearl of her nub and she drew in a gasping breath, arching up from the bed
and collapsing as he began to trace circles through her folds. No longer capable of
perching on her elbows to watch him, she lay back, replete, one hand over her mouth
trying to suppress the sounds of her pleasure.

Damn it but he wanted to hear her, see her! He wanted to take her out into the

forest and in the dappled sunlight kiss every inch of her body and make her sing her
ecstasy to the skies. But for now, he could content himself with the taste of her, fuller
and richer than anything he might have imagined. Each shiver running through her
body, each sigh, each circle of her hips trying to get closer to the light touch of his
tongue, all of it was a conversation, weeks of courting and questioning, long
uncomfortable silences and flirtatious banter coalescing into a brilliant moment when
she surrendered control and shuddered in climax.

But it wasn’t enough. He had to be the best. He had to chase away even the

memory of any other man, just as he would never be able to think of another woman.
His cock was screaming at him with the need to bury itself within her, dripping with
readiness to explode. But for her sake, he would ignore his cock to woo her with
pleasure.

His fingers pressed into her sheath, the heat searing him. One and then two fingers,

stroking into her tight pussy.

“Marcus?” she whispered, her voice unsure. The sound of his name on her lips

made his cock twitch, once again demanding its due, to be buried to the hilt in the
sweetness of her channel. But he wasn’t ready yet. She wasn’t ready. He worked his
fingers in and out, passing over her clitoris with his thumb as he nibbled at the delicate
folds around that delicious nub. A long breathy sigh was his reward, along with the
insistent tug of her fingers in his scalp.

She wanted him. She wanted him within her. But he didn’t want to succumb until

she needed him as badly as he needed her. Her sheath felt like slick silk and he searched
until he found the softer spot within. Pressing gently, her reaction was all he could have
hoped for and he had to chase her bucking hips in order to keep his fingers within her
and his lips tugging gently at her pearl.

“Stop! You are driving me to madness!” Her harsh, breathless whisper chilled him.

Had he pushed her too far, or not far enough?

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Command the Wind

He stopped, his lips hovering a hairsbreadth from her folds, his fingers halting the

teasing, twisting motion within her. The effect was instantaneous.

“Don’t stop! Oh by all that’s holy, please don’t stop!” A breeze gusted through the

room, fluttering the remains of her nightdress and creating a halo of her hair.

He laughed against her and ended her brief torture, swirling his tongue over her

and beckoning her pleasure with a crook of his fingers within her. With a burst of her
juices within his mouth, he could taste the explosion of her pleasure and feel the spasms
traveling through her muscles as a stronger wind swirled around them both.

He brought her down slowly, luxuriating in the flavor of her as she became

boneless and lax in afterglow. The air died down to stillness once again. He could have
let her relax and recover, given her time to think but he didn’t. He stood, kicking off the
slippers and loose sailor’s trousers that he’d worn for creeping into the house and stood
at the end of the bed. Gripping her hips, he pulled her toward him, pressing the tip of
his cock against the warm wetness of her pussy and shivering with the need to plunge
his full length into her.

“Cora. Ashavi?”
Her beautiful eyes fluttered open, her full lips curving into a hint of a blissful smile.

“Umm…”

His cock throbbed with the knowledge that she was left speechless. “Please,

ashavi?”

She moaned and clutched at his hips, wrapping her legs around his ass and pulling

him toward her, his cock sliding the first sweet inch into heaven. Her eyes flared from
satisfaction to need. Her nipples drawn into tight peaks called for his attention. But he
could focus on nothing else but the long slow slide of his cock into her sheath.

Heavens, she was tight. No matter how wet and ready she was for him, her walls

gripped him so hard he knew that there had not been dozens of men and certainly none
at all in some time. She flinched slightly the deeper he went and he forced his mind
away from the hot ecstasy jolting from his cock to his brain. He tore his eyes away from
the alluring vision of his cock sliding into her and stared at her face.

Her expression was an odd mix of wonder, pleasure and fear. He realized that

really, she had no idea what the act of making love should be. Whatever her experience
had been, it had been simple rutting. He was her first lover and he would be her only
lover. He would please her for the rest of his life and enjoy every last second of it.

His thumb moved to her nub and the other hand skimmed up her ribs to pinch one

rosy nipple between his fingers as he cupped the curve of her breast. Again, a breeze
swirled around them, wrapping them in a cocoon of wind. Her hips circled slightly, like
the movements of a Romani dancer and Marcus sucked in air through his teeth. The
shock of sensation was almost overwhelming, almost driving him to thrust and thrust
until the orgasm building within him exploded outward.

But he had denied himself pleasure like this for years and his goal was to bind Cora

Searle to him in every way possible. He could wait even if his cock was threatening

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Elaine Lowe

mutiny. He did begin to thrust but with a slow, sure rhythm meant to give her
maximum pleasure. He angled his hips as he watched her face, shifting until he could
see her eyes fill with awe, her jaw slack with mindless bliss.

Feeling the muscles of her pussy fluttering around him was an incredible reward

and he ground his teeth and tried to name every sail and rigging on the Peregrine in
order to keep himself from joining her in ecstasy. His hands moved back to her hips,
holding onto her for dear life as he rode out her orgasm.

She lost the ability to silence herself and he bent over her kissing her soundly to

swallow her cries. He continued to thrust, determined to bring her to climax again,
determined to show her she belonged with him. The depth and force of his thrusts
pushed her farther and farther back on the bed and he awkwardly clambered up onto
the bed without breaking their connection. This new position was even more
pleasurable, if that was possible and he could feel a white cloud of need descend over
his eyes and his mind.

Cora was whimpering, writhing, her nails digging in to his hips as she arched into

him. The wind blew in gusts that danced around his naked skin like a thousand of her
hands, pleading for him. She tore her mouth from his, gasping for breath. “Please!
Please come with me!”

He buried his face in her neck and shook his head. “No. This is for you.”
She let out a cry, half of rage and half of pleasure. Her hands curled up over his

back and left deep scratches as she arched into him. Tears leaked from her eyes as she
bit her lip to keep from moaning loud enough to bring the house down. She was
breathtakingly beautiful, even with his eyes closed and his cheek pressed to hers. Once
again, she shuddered in climax and he tensed, trying to hold out against the storm of
pleasure washing through them both.

But this time, she would not let him fight. The wind became a maelstrom. Planting

her feet on the bed she managed to roll them both over. She sat atop him, conquering
him in her triumph and looked into his face with eyes flaring gray fire and her hair
blew around her face in like a goddess of the tempest.

“You…are…driving…me…mad!” With each word, she rose up on her knees and

slammed back down onto him and before he could think, before he could breathe, a
wall of white fire engulfed him and he came like never before, pulsing semen into her
with enough force to make her cry out once again in pleasure.

He was lost in a sea of blind bliss and when he bobbed to the surface of

consciousness she was collapsed on top of him, her head on his shoulder and her body
covering his like the most beautiful blanket in the world, a cloud of her black hair
tickling his nose as she breathed in and out deeply in satisfied sleep. The warm wind
whispered over their skin, a breath and a contented sigh. He had no choice but to follow
her, happier than he’d been since childhood, knowing he held the rest of his life in his
arms.

40

Command the Wind

Chapter Six

Dawn crept into the room and Cora Searle ignored it entirely. Her sleep was

blissfully deep and undisturbed by any dreams. It was restorative, revitalizing and
thoroughly delicious. There was no reason she should stir.

Particularly comfortable was the firm, warm pillow that chased the chill from the

bed. It smelled intoxicating. She cuddled closer, willing herself not to notice that she
was nude. Her mind shied away from taking note of the luscious ache between her
thighs. No, nothing could perturb her rest. She was too content.

Unfortunately, her pillow began to snore. Not horribly but enough to make her eyes

pop open in sudden, terrible knowledge. Marcus Mares was here. In her bed. In the
morning, when Sarah would be knocking on the door any moment to wake her.

“Wake up!” She pushed against the hard, unyielding wall of his chest and got

nothing in response but a grumble and his arm wrapped even more firmly over her
stomach.

“You must go! My father will be awake and about all too soon.” She whispered

against his shoulder but the scent of him distracted her. It was easy to imagine waking
up so satisfied every morning. To be able to touch and caress the beautiful muscles, to
enjoy the impressive erection that was pressing against her thigh where their legs were
intertwined.

He was beautiful in his sleep. How could she have ever thought he was not truly

handsome? His hair was as black as hers but the shock of white within it made him look
older than he truly was. He could not be more than five or six years older than her
twenty-four years. The lines in his face from sun and sea smoothed out when he slept
and the soft light of dawn made him look boyish and happy. She wondered what their
children would look like, before she shook herself from her reverie.

She would have no children. Not from this man or any other. And though she

would never regret the magnificent night past, she was not certain that the memory of
such rapture would have her happy or even more melancholy. Cora was seized with
the need to make more memories, to cling to the man while he was with her, as all too
soon he would be gone and she would have to face a lifetime alone.

Forgetting her father or Sarah or anything at all but the desire that still burned hot

with her, she ran a hand over the man in he bed, from the hard pectoral muscles over
his ribs and abdomen, down until she held his cock in her hand. She had never
considered herself a small woman and though he was not much taller than she,
everything about him was large. She knew from memories of last night that his hands
were large. She knew that his feet were large from those ridiculous boots he’d worn
yesterday. And she knew from the feel of his cock in her now small-seeming hand, that

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Elaine Lowe

his glorious erection was truly impressive. She had the ache to prove it and longed to
suffer such an ache as often as she could before he inevitably left.

He groaned as she stroked his hard cock. None of her past lovers…hell they weren’t

lovers, they were a pale shade of what Marcus was capable of. With him, not only had
she felt pleasure the likes of which she had never dreamed. She had felt cherished. She
found tears in her eyes that she had no business crying. She could not mourn that which
she never truly had. This man would make some woman a fine husband, someday. She
hoped she’d never meet the hoyden, for she’d no doubt try to wring the poor thing’s
long graceful neck.

She pressed kisses against his chest and her curious tongue darted out to lick the

dark brown nipple she found there. With each stroke she could see his eyes flicker and
she hoped that he would stay asleep long enough for her to drive him so mad with lust
that he would forget any instinct to flee.

She bit her lip with a moment of indecision. All three of the men she’d been with

had begged her to take their cocks into her mouth, a degree of intimacy she had never
truly considered before and had not gifted any of them with. But given their
desperation, it must be very pleasurable. If it was even half as wonderful as his tongue
on her folds had been, then he would enjoy it immensely.

Now decided on a course of action, she moved her kisses along the same paths her

hands had taken. Down his ribs, over the flatness of his abdomen and across his hip,
until she was staring at the full glory of his cock before her face.

She licked her lips, suddenly ravenous. And not for food to break her fast. She

started at the very base, where his cock rose from his balls in full salute and ran her
tongue slowly from base to tip, savoring the flavor of him. By the time Cora took the
head in her mouth and glanced up at his face, he was awake and looking at her with
undisguised hunger.

She had succeeded in her task of keeping his interest, as he certainly made no effort

to leave the comfort of the bed and her attentions. In fact, his hands slid into the wild
messiness of her hair with reverent care, not pushing her down onto his cock but telling
her without words how very much he was enjoying what she was doing.

Feeling strangely powerful she took a deep breath through her nose and tried to fit

as much of his considerable length within her mouth as she could, trying not to choke
as his leaking tip hit the back of her throat. His hips bucked under her for a moment, his
hands clutching her hair before releasing any pressure and letting her slide back up his
length. Deciding that she could not accept all of him for the present but that she would
love to learn such a skill for him, she clasped her hand around the base of him and
sucked greedily on the rest, sliding her tongue around him and moving up and down
as he had moved so perfectly within her the previous night.

His breathing grew labored, the fingers in her scalp tightened ever so slightly and

finally he arched up off the mattress with a shout. He exploded into her mouth, warm
and slightly salty, tasting of the sea and man all intertwined. She loved it. If he would

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Command the Wind

go now, at least he would go satisfied and she would have the memory of giving him
some sliver of the pleasure she had been blessed with at his hands.

But he would not let things rest at that. He leaned forward, grabbing her underarms

and pulling her up his body until she covered him like a blanket. Then he kissed her,
wide and deep and wonderfully, tasting himself on her tongue as he made her bones
melt with his kiss. She felt his hands running up and down her naked back, huge hands
that made her feel small and soft and womanly. Then those hands took hold of her hips
and rolled them over, crushing her just a bit with his weight. She was surprised how
much she liked it.

He pushed up onto his elbows and looked down at her, a look in his golden eyes

that she could not fathom. It was—loving? How could a man lie so with his eyes? He
could not love her! He barely knew her!

Suddenly panicky, she closed her eyes, throwing her head back against her pillows.

Marcus took the opportunity presented to lavish attention to the length of her neck,
kissing and nibbling until she could not help but moan at the sensations coursing
through her. She could feel his cock already becoming hard against her stomach and
she knew he would not leave her unsatisfied. Ignoring the fear in the pit of her stomach,
she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his back.

He reared up slightly, shifting his hips until his cock was brushing the folds of her

pussy with the slightest of teasing movements.

“Good morning, ashavi.” With those whispered words and an endearment that she

knew not the meaning of, he entered her slick sheath.

She had lost the power of words, crying out softly with the joy of feeling him within

her again. Opening her eyes, she looked into his face, seeing in those eyes in the fiery
desire that she had seen in all of her dreams of him. As for the other emotions hidden
amongst flecks of brown and gold, she was too caught up in the pleasure of their
joining to think of it.

And what pleasure. His thick cock stretched her almost to the point of pain but

made her feel incredibly full. The folds of her pussy wrapped around him and with
each thrust of his hips her nub was rubbed in the most pleasing way, so that even with
so little preamble, her state of arousal rapidly grew to match his completely. Lifting her
hips off the bed in concert with his motions, she tried to take every bit of him into
herself, over and over until she was sent over the edge into climax, her body
shuddering and her nails digging into his back hard enough to draw blood.

But he did not follow her into bliss. Once again, he seemed determined to drive her

to madness. He slowed his thrusts and as she came down slightly from the heights of
pleasure, his rhythm kept her poised on the knife edge of orgasm. She arched her back
and thrust her hips upward, trying to force him to give in and come within her.

He gave her a feral grin and she growled at him. Suddenly, she noticed the

bedcurtains flapping as the air within her bedchambers swirled and played over their
entwined bodies. Awe filled her and a fair bit of terror.

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Elaine Lowe

Marcus noted her changing expression and followed her glance to note the breeze

in a room with no open windows. She bit her lip, knowing now that he would flee,
unable to bind himself to a witch. She closed her eyes once again, not wanting to see his
look of disgust.

She felt the feather softness of his lips against her eyelids, her cheeks and then he

whispered softly in her ear, never stopping the undulating rhythm of his thrusts within
her. “This is your gift, my ashavi. You can command the wind. It is more beautiful than
ever I could have imagined and I am blessed to have you be mine.”

She shattered. Tears leaked from her eyes as impossible pleasure bloomed within

her heart and her womb. Through a haze of ecstasy she felt his rhythm grow faster, his
cock swell even larger as he spurted hot within her depths. She clasped him to her, too
overcome to speak. The softest breeze whispered around them, warm and caressing,
before disappearing and leaving them to the quiet of heaving breaths.

But even words so welcome could not rip away a lifetime of fear and restraint. A

corner of her heart was healed but it would be some time before it would be made
whole.

He rolled off her, tucking her firmly into his side as he placed a kiss on her temple.

She blinked at the canopy above them and forced herself to succumb to the inevitable.
She whispered urgently, “You must away! The household will awaken and we shall be
exposed!”

He chuckled. “Would that be so terrible, my love? Perhaps it was a very short

courtship but I would marry you as soon as the banns can be read. In my heart, you are
already my wife.”

Cora raised herself up on one elbow and stared at him, his eyes full of teasing

challenge. She opened her mouth and words tumbled out before she could dull their
edge. “Love? Love? Of what drivel do you speak! We barely have spoken ten minutes
altogether and you would claim to love me! To want me as your wife, for a lifetime. Do
you take me for a fool, sir?”

She scrambled out of the bed, picking up a discarded sheet and covering her naked

body. She could not look into his eyes, to his look of triumph, or worse, of pity. “I
wanted you and you have gotten what you truly wanted of me. Is that not enough?
Must you try to make a conquest of every part of me? Make my heart your slave before
you leave me?”

He jumped to his feet, standing nude before her like an ancient god. Her eyes

flickered up to his face and she saw not derision, not pity but raw anger and pain. “You
think so little of me? You give your body to me but you think I would leave you?
Dishonor you in such a way! Do you not feel the magic between us? We are fated to be,
woman. You are mine!”

His eyes were fire and she felt burned by the command in those eyes and the harsh

tone of his voice. She still could not believe, could not understand. “Leave me, Marcus
Mares. I need time to ponder this.”

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Command the Wind

He gritted his teeth and bent to retrieve his scattered clothing. All too soon, his

magnificent form was covered in shirt and trousers. Part of her wanted to tear them
from his body as he had torn her nightdress, and cavort for days in this bedchamber,
thinking of nothing and no one but each other, learning all they could of each other
with no thought to future or past. But she was a Searle daughter and she would not
bring her curse down on him, especially if he was truly as wonderful a man as he
seemed.

With a last searing glance, Marcus moved the obstruction from the door and

slipped out into the dawn without a word of parting. Cora could feel her heart contract
in pain and longing for the happiness she could never have. Better that he be hurt now,
than burn with her for a lifetime of regrets.

* * * * *

The cliffs called her again and the weather suited her mood. The fog of the morning

had never lifted and the gray skies and still gray sea spoke of loneliness without end.
The edge of the world disappeared into nothingness and not a breath of wind
whispered its secrets to her. If the wind had abandoned her, she felt it only fitting.

She had worried that he would try to track her down. She’d spent all day in the

house, until her father had left for the prearranged meeting between Captain Sheffield
of the Guard at Sandham Castle and Marc—Master Mares. Then she had fled to the
cliffs and sat with arms curled around herself, staring out at the endless expanse of gray
as though it were the rest of her lifetime.

Cora knew not how long she sat, her skin growing cold in the chill air, her thoughts

swirling in endless circles of longing and denial. But she knew the moment she was no
longer alone.

Marcus sat by her side, making no effort to touch her. Simply sitting and waiting

and staring out at the same unchanging view of sea and sky. He was again dressed
more formally than he had come to her last night, doublet and hose rather than simple
trousers and shirt. Cora chewed on her lip, not knowing what to say and hoping that he
would break the silence—or simply take her in his arms again and make her forget
everything but the incredible pleasure of his touch. Though he had not laid a hand on
her, the moment she breathed in the scent of him, she grew wet with the memories of
how he had wrung more pleasure out of her body than she knew could exist in the
world.

Shifting uncomfortably, she felt she had to say something, anything at all!
“How went your meeting with my good father and Captain Sheffield?”
He did not turn to look at her but a smile tugged at the corner of his full lips. “Well

enough, I suppose. I do not think Captain Sheffield completely approves of the
disreputable rabble of the Navy being involved in anything on land in his jurisdiction.”
He laughed again and Cora felt her heart warm at the infectious sound.

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Elaine Lowe

The wind had returned softly and she was briefly mesmerized by the tendrils of his

long dark hair fluttering from his loose queue to tickle his neck and face. She longed to
bridge the gap between them and brush that hair from his eyes, to run her fingertips
over his face so she could commit every last detail to memory to hold in her heart
forever.

“I must leave soon.” His voice was deeper than normal, full of a strange stillness. “I

must restore the rest of the watch fire network along the coast, from here to the
Needles. All before the Spanish risk the Bay of Biscay and the Channel.”

She closed her eyes, surprised at the tears she had to fight. With all of her callous

attitude, deep in the pit of her soul she had wanted desperately to believe him.

Marcus unexpectedly continued on, speaking with fervor. “When I return, I will

win your trust, if it is the last thing I do in my life.”

Pretty words. Empty words. She remained silent, staring out at the sea and the slowly

retreating fog.

“I know you will not believe me now, Cora Searle but I have much to tell you. I was

angered at your words, your aspersions of my character. But you did say one thing
most clearly. You do not know me. But you will.”

They sat in silence for another full minute. Cora could not make heads or tails of

this compelling man. She turned to look at his profile, the strong chin, the long nose and
again she was struck with his resemblance to an eagle. She knew that such birds mated
for life. But was she his mate, or his prey?

He turned and her eyes met his again. His emotions were unreadable. He was no

longer the joyful man she had welcomed to her bed. She swallowed the lump in her
throat at having caused him pain and for once let her instincts rule her mind.

She opened her arms and embraced him, turning into him and nuzzling his neck,

inhaling his scent. He placed a soft kiss in her hair and wrapped his arms around her
gently, like she was a fragile flower. Before she could stop herself she was kissing his
neck, licking his jaw and then sating herself with his lips in a ravenous kiss.

She straddled his lap, rubbing herself shamelessly against him, wanting him to take

her right there on the cliffs, wanting to feel him pulse within her one last time. But he
groaned loudly and ripped himself from her, pulling back and balancing on his arms as
he took deep breaths. His cock was hard beneath her and she could not prevent her hips
from circling against him. His eyes practically rolled up in his head and she smiled with
the knowledge of her power. Her hands went to the ties of his codpiece but he
scrambled backward, effectively dumping her onto the carpet of seagrass upon which
they sat. She could not keep the hurt from her eyes.

“I love you, Cora Searle. And I want you. I want to fuck you in every position

possible and some that are impossible. I want to hold you when I go to sleep and wake
up next to you and not have you chase me out of our house.” He laughed ruefully. “But
I don’t want you if you won’t believe that. I have to make you believe, ashavi. It is my
task. If I did not have a duty to my country, I would never again leave your side. I

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Command the Wind

would follow you about like a lost canine until you grew so sick of me you would have
to believe!”

She could not help herself, she laughed. He looked so sincere and his words filled

her with unrecognizable warmth and tenderness. He smiled at her and she smiled back,
unable to have her heart keep its distance completely.

But she couldn’t believe him. “I’m cursed, you know. All the woman born unto the

Searle line have been cursed as witches. Barren. Alone. Fated to tragic lives of misery.”

He cocked his head at her. “Your father made that quite clear to me when I asked to

court you. I don’t believe your family is cursed. And even so, you don’t have to be the
same, Cora. I don’t believe it for a moment.”

He stood quickly and held out his hand to her. She took it and he pulled her to her

feet. He kissed her sweetly, softly, lovingly. By the time he turned to walk away, the
tears she held back were flowing freely.

Such pretty, empty words.
She watched him walk away for a long time. He did not turn to look at her. The

wind picked up slowly, blowing from the south into his face. Cora, even in her exposed
position atop the cliffs, was untouched by the gale. The wind blew harder and harder
until finally he did turn, looking at her with a huge smile and a fair bit of triumph that
she saw in his eyes though he was near half a mile away.

Damn my foolish heart. She was well on the way to losing the battle to keep it.

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Elaine Lowe

Chapter Seven

One day. One damn day. He’d been in the little town of Sandown for one single day

and it was torture to leave. He’d packed his bag the instant he’d returned in the early
morning light and he’d grumbled and ranted at her, at God, at fate, at his ancestors and
hers but most of all, he’d ranted at himself.

Marcus Mares had traveled the world entire. He’d seen the icy cold shores of

Muscovy and he’d sampled the beautiful women of the Orient. He’d tasted the fiery hot
stews of India and baked in the hot sun off the coast of Africa. But he sure as hell didn’t
know how to talk to a woman.

He might as well have slapped her silly and carried her off like some of the less

savory pirates did all too frequently. Drake never let his men do such things but the
reputation of sailors in general was just that. He should have fucking known that he
couldn’t spew out mad tales of fate and destiny and not expect a worthy woman to
think he was insane or a rakish liar. A stupid woman, perhaps but Cora Searle was
neither stupid nor gullible. He should have told her the whole of his history and that of
his family before taking her to bed. But the lush invitation of her body, her willingness
to learn the art of pleasure—ah, that was impossible to resist.

He was walking again and the growing erection at simply the thought of her made

each step just that much more difficult. At least on this journey, he had properly fitting,
if ridiculous looking, boots. It meant that though his feet still stung, at least his blisters
weren’t about to erupt as bloody boils. He’d made better time from Sandown to
Lowtherville than he’d expected, in fact he was less than a mile from the next sizeable
village and the magistrate that he’d need to speak with. Hopefully they’d be as
accommodating as Enoch Searle and not as ornery as Captain Sheffield.

He heard the sound of a horse approaching from over a hill in the distance and

spotted it the minute it appeared. The rider barreled down at him but Marcus stood his
ground on the rough road, feeling somehow hostile toward this cloddish rider abusing
his lathered horse. Dressed in severe black, the man pierced him with a look of
dismissal and rode close enough that Marcus was forced to the side of the road, under
threat of decapitation from the horse’s flailing hooves.

He stared at the back of the retreating ride, a coldness settling in his stomach.

Marcus was already in a foul mood, having to choose duty over desire. The rider filled
him with dread. He hoped that the cursed lout rode fast and hard past Sandown and
onto Ryde. He hoped the man left the Isle, or even England, as quickly as could be.

Marcus forced himself to continue to walk on, though his boots and hose were

spattered with mud and he was again far from presentable. He had to get to
Lowtherville, then Niton, then Chale, then— Bloody hell. It would be an age before he

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would be back. There was no help for it. He was going to have to find himself a horse.
Bugger.

Navy men made terrible horsemen. For the child of Maggie Smith, who could woo

any animal to her will, it was embarrassing that horses found him such a disagreeable
burden. But even an ornery horse was faster than his own two feet. And time was of the
essence. As the thatched roofs and church spire of Lowtherville and Bonchurch came
into view, Marcus quickened his pace. Not only were the Spanish not cooling their heels
through the spring but their agents were at work collecting information in England. The
watch fires had to be in place before the Spanish came. Speed was England’s only
advantage against the might of Spain.

If he wanted Cora to be safe, for the village of Sandown to be an untouched gem of

an England at peace, then he had to complete this mission before returning to her. It
would be the hardest thing he’d ever done.

* * * * *

Walter Swidden was magistrate for Lowtherville, St. Lawrence and Bonchurch. He

was every bit as jolly as Enoch Searle had been serious and reserved, and though
friendly, he was far from efficient. Marcus had come very close to bellowing at the poor
fellow in his haste to convince the man of the necessity for speed. The whole area was
sparsely populated and Marcus doubted there were a hundred people living in the
three tiny towns in this isolated corner of the Isle. Swidden had been overjoyed to see
him.

“Oy, two visitors in as many days! We are truly blessed this spring. Why, some

years ’round these parts, we see maybe one stranger the entire year long. Two fine
seamen like yourself and Master Lambert, why, it is a pleasure, a pleasure.”

Marcus had tried to interject but Swidden would not be gainsaid. “Now, some said

that Master Lambert was a nasty fellow, cold in his manner and odd in his requests but
I simply think the man was not from around here and we don’t much understand the
ways of outside folk. Now you sir, what would you be doing around here again?”

Marcus wanted to ask who the hell “Master Lambert” was and what the hell he’d

been doing here. He had a bad feeling it had been the rider he’d met on the road to
Sandown. But given an opening to finally explain the watch fires and Drake’s orders, he
again chose duty over instinct. Swidden had hemmed and hawed and generally made it
known that there wasn’t a man to spare during the planting season. When Marcus had
suggested using women or children, the man fair had an apoplexy on the spot.
Lowtherville was not going to be easy to handle.

At least Swidden had given Marcus a somewhat dry room in the attic of his cottage,

the largest in the village. Given the howling rainstorm outside, it was far better than a
barn or bedding down by the side of the road. Marcus stared at the thatch under the
rafters and scratched where he was poked by the hay stuffed in the musty mattress on
which he lay. It was hard to believe that the night before he’d been happy and satiated,

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a warm and willing woman asleep in his arms, his heart more content than ever in his
lifetime.

Now, the ache in his chest would not leave and the cold in his blood was from more

than the nasty weather. He closed his eyes and huddled under the rough homespun
blanket, determined to lose himself in sleep. Exhausted from the mental and physical
exertions of the day, he was asleep in mere moments.

The sky and sea were misty gray, the green grass soft and inviting under his bare

feet. He looked down at his feet in surprise, only to discover that he was bare from nose
to toes. Covering his cock and balls self-consciously, he looked around trying to
recognize where he was and how the hell he’d gotten there.

He’d been there just this afternoon. It was the cliff where he’d seen Cora sitting

when he’d walked out of Sandham Castle. He had just spent a tense hour trying not to
step on the toes of an old, scared captain who was in no condition to lead his motley
band of lazy soldiers in defense of the beachhead against a landing by hardened
Spanish troops. And given that the water in Sandown Bay was the least treacherous in
the whole of the Isle of Wight, it was infuriating the lack of preparations being taken.
The captain had finally committed to the watch fire project but it would take Enoch
Searle breathing down the man’s neck in order to get him to back up those promises
with action.

When he’d seen Cora up on those cliffs from a mile away, the desolation in her

manner was more than he could bear. Yes he was angry but more so at himself than at
her. His feet were moving toward her before his mind had made a conscious decision.

Now he was in the same clearing, the air preternaturally still for the seaside, the

world seeming to hold its breath. But where was she?

A movement in the tall grass at the edge of the clearing drew his predator eyes like

a shout in the timeless quiet. The warm peach tone of flesh peaked out from the brown-
green of the grass.

“Cora?” he whispered, unsure of everything, whether he was awake or asleep,

dreaming or being dreamed into existence.

He heard a great resigned exhalation and the screen of grass parted, revealing his

lover in all her rosy, naked glory. She blushed from the rosy tips of her beautiful breasts
to her hairline. Her hands fluttered about, as if searching for a place to rest—covering
her breasts and the dark curls at the top of her thighs for a moment, then falling to her
sides, knowing that such coverage was useless.

Marcus let his hands drop as well, revealing the considerable erection that had

sprung up the instant he’d glimpsed her beautiful nude form in the light of day. Or
night. Or whatever and wherever they were. Truly, this felt more real than any dream
he could recall and he felt fully awake and aware of every breath, every sigh, every
uncomfortable silence.

“Hello, ashavi.”

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She bit her lip, her eyes remaining everywhere but his face. He watched as she

unconsciously looked slowly up his body and noted the flare in her eyes as she took in
his cock at full salute. When her eyes did finally meet his, she opened her arms,
beckoning him to come and embrace her. He could not say no.

He took a few steps, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her sweet lips with

every hope and prayer that he did not have words for. She kissed him back with
desperation and he ran his hands over the smooth skin of her back, equally desperate to
renew the connection that had been broken between them. But something was wrong.

He pulled away and looked into her eyes with unflinching honesty. What was there

was not love, not even passion. There was a cold need, a hopeless yearning. She was
still curled up on that cliff, looking out over the blank gray water of the Channel.

He stepped back, pushing her grasping hands away and trying to think with his

head instead of his cock, a fairly hard thing to do when there’s a naked willing woman
writhing in one’s arms. She blinked at him, looking hurt by his perceived rejection.

He took a deep breath. “We need to speak of things, Cora. Many things stand

between us.”

She sighed and nodded, suddenly sitting in a heap as though her bones had lost the

strength to hold her up. He wondered if this was truly all his dream and he was about
to hold a difficult conversation in his own mind simply to torture himself, or if
somehow she really was here. Should he just fuck her and give himself at least that
much satisfaction?

When she looked up at him, her eyes full of trust and resolution, he had his answer.

Talk first. Whatever came after, well, best not think about that when trying to woo a
worthy woman. There was little enough blood in his head at the moment.

He sat next to her, close enough that his toes brushed hers but far enough that he

could almost keep a coherent thought in his head.

Her voice was soft and sad when she spoke. “This is an odd dream. I expected you

to just take me again. As you have every night since I saw your ship—dreaming or
awake.”

His brow furrowed. He’d had the same intense sex dreams but he’d never

considered that they were somehow shared. Yet, there was little question in his mind
now that Cora was having the same dream as himself. But there was something else in
her tone…something resigned and full of sorrow.

“Ashavi…although I love your body and the pleasure I can give you, that is not all I

want of you. I want…”

She interrupted him, holding up a hand. “Spare me, sirrah. Talk to me of things

other than your supposed love for me. I do not want to hear of something I cannot yet
believe in. Tell me. What is the meaning of ‘ashavi’? I have never heard that word
before. In what far-off country and with what whore did you learn such an
endearment.”

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“No whore could be my ashavi!” His voice was filled with affront and she was taken

aback at his vehemence. “Only you, in all the world are my mate, my soul, my ashavi.
Do not cheapen that which you do not yet understand.”

He covered his face in his hands, trying to stop his anger and recover his

composure. She could not understand until he explained and he could not explain until
he found the calm within to do so.

Another deep breath and he began his tale. “Ashavi is a word in the ancient

language of my ancestors. It means, well, I suppose it means companion or mate but it
is much more than that. It is the tradition of the men in my family, back for a thousand
years or more, that each one searches the world for the woman who can complete them.
There is only one. Some men search all their lives and never find that one. But I found
you.”

She looked at him with disbelief written on her fair features and he gritted his teeth.

She would be a frustrating woman to live out his life with but he knew she would never
suffer fools.

“So, you are in the English Navy but your ancestors are some mysterious tribe full

of strange tales and traditions. Where do you hail from sir? To what do you owe your
allegiance if not England?”

“I am English. I was born here. My mother is as English as can be—a buxom blonde

milkmaid with roses in her cheeks. That is how my father always describes her. But my
father was born in Bohemia and roamed with the Eastern Rom as a child. You would
call them gypsies.”

Her eyebrow raised. “Your father is a gypsy?”
“My father is a Magi.”
There was a long pause. She pursed her lips. Marcus wanted to kiss away that

lovely pout and all the questions that went with it but he knew that would not solve
their problems, only his lust.

“A Magi? Magi, like the three kings of the Christmas story?” She laughed in

disbelief, then furrowed her brow.

“I tell the truth. The Magi are an ancient tribe, masters of the supernatural to such

an extent that the word in English…”

“Magic? Your people invented magic? Or are you in league with the Devil and seek

to draw me in?”

It was his turn to laugh. “No one invented magic, ashavi. Its gifts are boons from the

heavens, from God. There is no devil in magic itself, only how it can be abused.”

She nodded once, her mind working furiously to take in all that he told her. “You

are a Magi then, as well?”

“As will be our children.” She snorted and he changed the angle of his attach. “If

we have any. But more than anything, I am your mate. I am meant for only you. Your
ashava.”

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Her silence was neither accepting or accusatory. Her tongue licked at her dry lips

and he followed that simple action with far too much interest. “I was always taught
my…my magic was something evil. A curse bred into the family from the pagan
Romans who are my ancestors. But…it is beautiful as well. It feels as though…as
though my spirit flies free in gratitude to Heaven for the beauty of the world and each
wisp of wind that swirls across the land and sea.” She ran a hand through her hair and
flopped back onto the grass, staring up at the blank gray sky. Her voice dropped to a
whisper. “You offer me an answer for something no one has been able or willing to
speak to me about. An answer that does not brand me a thing of evil but one simply
given a gift. I do not know what it will take for me to set aside the thinking of a
lifetime.”

He lay down beside her, staring up into the sky as tension coiled in his gut. Minutes

passed, until he felt her fingers touch his hand with tentative care and he took her hand
in his with a glad grip.

“So, how did you know I am your ashavi?”
Marcus grinned to the heavens. A victory, however small.
“My gift is the gift of sight. I see farther and sharper than any man or beast.

Sometimes I can see too much and sometimes my gift is a blessing. It was most
definitely a blessing when I saw you from the deck of the Peregrine, the ship I was on. It
was like my heart and my body were no longer my own.”

“Oh? And has this happened often?”
He grumbled. “You know it has not! And the same happened to you.”
She whispered, “Yes.” He smiled again.
“I never thought in all my journeys, traveling the world entire, that I would find

you less than a hundred miles from where I was born and raised. A good English girl.”

“I do not know if good is precisely…”
He rolled onto his side and cupped her face in his hand, turning her face to his.

Those gray eyes reflected the depth of the sky, the breadth of the sea. “You are precisely
what I want. And you are good in all the ways that truly matter to me.”

“Oh truly?” A flash of impertinence sparkled to life within those wondrous eyes

and a long delicate hand snaked between them to stroke his half-hard cock. “Perhaps I
need to prove myself to be as ‘good’ as you would wish?”

This time, when he leaned toward her and captured her lips, she met him with a

full measure of passion. Suddenly, it was as though he held her in his arms once again,
real and alive, not the pasty shell he’d first touched in this dream landscape. Her skin
was warm and silky and the soft moans in her throat inflamed him to a fever pitch. He
was a mere moment away from pushing her back and thrusting into her pussy, taking
her with no preliminaries like a savage. But she had other ideas.

Her nails sank into the skin of his shoulders, making his cock throb with the

delightful pain of it. Her hot mouth ran over the cords of his neck and down to the

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planes of his chest before he could even do more than enjoy the sensation. He wanted
her to linger over his skin and torture him a bit more. He wanted to take her and be
wrapped inside her instantly. Damn my mind for being so indecisive whilst dreaming.

She laughed suddenly, almost as though she could read his mind but continued her

downward journey, lavishing attention on his nipples, his ribs, circling her darting
tongue around his navel and generally driving him mad.

Just as he growled and prepared to yank her back up to meet his hungry mouth,

she quickly swooped down to capture his cock in her mouth and his growl turned into
a gasp of pleasure. Oh, she was good. She was most wondrous. But her clever tongue
sweeping along the most sensitive parts of the head of his cock was not enough for him.
He wanted to give, not just take. He groaned as she swallowed his cock until he was
deep in her throat and he could feel her cough at the size of him.

He slid his hands into her hair and pulled away, an audible pop as he left the warm

wet heat of her eager mouth making him laugh at his own desperation. She gave him a
disgruntled look, as though being interrupted at her work. Marcus drew her upward by
her upper arms, his cock crying as her soft skin dragged along his sensitive cock head.
He kissed her with hot need and she wriggled on top of him until he thought he would
go mad but found that he was good and trapped between her thighs, the lips of her
pussy embracing the throbbing ache of his erection like a balm that soothes and tortures
all at the same time.

His hands moved from her arms to her hips as his own hips bucked under her,

seeking sweet friction. She angled herself as best she could, parting her legs so her
knees bracketed his thighs and tried to take him inside while unwilling to give up the
drugging taste of his mouth.

But it wasn’t quite right. If the agony wasn’t so goddamn delicious and his brain

wasn’t sapped of any sense by the blood pounding in his cock, he might have thought it
odd that a dream could be so very raw and real, with inconveniences and ticklish
spots—like the one she’d just hit upon as she ran her nails down over his ribs.

But the only thought in his head was gratitude. For that which he had found and

almost lost. When he leaned upward she wiggled some more. With a bit of sliding
around and a good deal of muffled laughter that tasted like happiness, finally he was
deep inside her again. She was hot and tight and absolutely bloody perfect and he
didn’t know how he had survived all the years of his life without this.

This time, she did not rise up above him in all her wild glory, though he would not

have minded. This time they stretched and strained to stay together, sharing countless
kisses as her breasts were crushed against his chest, her arms winding around his neck
like cords binding them together. This time was all about the tiniest motions of knees
and hips, flexing and contracting, skin against skin. Marcus now knew it was possible
to crawl inside another’s skin and want to stay there forever.

When they finally came together, it was almost a surprise. It had been building up

for seemingly hours of slow burning bliss. Fire shot through him from his cock to his

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balls to straight up his spine, like a coiling snake of flaming pleasure. White engulfed
him, erasing the gray sky and the soft grass. Even the warm woman in his arms
disappeared as he woke, cold and alone, in an attic in Lowtherville. A gust of wind
traveled through the attic and he shivered at its touch, thinking for a moment it was
hers.

“Damn. Damn and blast. Damn damn double damn. Just a fucking dream.”
There was a thump on the floor below him. “Quit your bellyaching, young man. At

least you’ve got somebody to be dreamin’ about. All my suitors have been dead for a
quarter century! Now, shut yer trap and let an old woman get some sleep.”

Marcus stared at the thatch in shock and suppressed a laugh as he realized that

Swidden’s old mother had the room beneath him. Pushing off the sticky sheets and
promising himself he would leave half a shilling for the housemaid, he turned onto his
side and stared out into the predawn drizzle through a crack between the roof and the
walls. After a dream like that, sleep should be impossible. Nevertheless, he did sleep
again. And though he would not remember it, he held Cora in his arms as she too slept,
finding elusive comfort in each other from miles apart.

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Chapter Eight

Cora woke up warm and happy, until she realized that her bed was cold and all it

had been was a dream. Drawing in a deep breath to try to stifle the sudden tears that
threatened, she sniffled once and then let out a small breathy chuckle. What a dream it
had been! More real than the fantasies she had been plagued with after she had first
seen Marcus’ ship from the cliffs, this had been visceral, more realistic than any dream
she could recall. And the sheer inventiveness of it! Some ancient cult of the Magi…bah.
What folderol! She was a lovesick fool.

She flung her legs over the side of her bed and hopped onto the cold floor, yawning

and stretching. She was determined to work hard today, finding some way to banish
that man from her thoughts and dreams. Now, if only she could wake up without her
pussy being slick and wet with wanting him, she might have a hope of success in
forgetting him.

The sun was already high, no doubt her father would berate her for sleeping late.

But she had lain for hours staring at the canopy above her and trying not to think about
the night previous. Which of course meant that she could think of nothing but. Cora
had not known it was possible to feel as though she was made of pure sensation, that
her body was holy and pleasure divine.

No wonder she had dreamed of him and been in his arms though he was a

madman and her future cursed. They could not possibly make a match. She should not
even contemplate a future of such happiness.

Shaking her head clear of pestering thoughts, she dressed in a simple kirtle and

apron, intent on working in the kitchen garden. But when she got down the stairs and
to the kitchen, she finally realized from the laundry drying over the fires that it was
raining outside. Opening the back door and watching the rain mist over the new leaves
on the grapevines she blinked in a fair bit of shock.

“Oh deary, you are in a tizzy, aren’t you? I can’t remember the last time you didn’t

know what the weather would be long before any of the rest of us.” Maggie wiped her
hands on her own apron and walked over to watch the rain fall. “Don’t worry, love.
Your man will come back to you soon enough…rain or no.”

Cora couldn’t deny it. Maggie had known her too long. “How do you know for

certain?”

“Pshaw, child. I saw how that man looks at you. I’ve seen the deadly sins often

enough and a fair amount of lust in my day, though you wouldn’t know to look at me
now. But that wasn’t just lust in those uncommonly strange eyes of his. That man loves
you.”

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Cora closed her eyes, trying to ignore the hopeful surge in her blood. Maggie

always wanted to make the best out of everything and everyone. She also ignored the
voice within her begging her to whisk away the English rain so she could stick with her
original plan and work herself into a dreamless sleep in the garden.

“Maggie, give me something to do.” Her voice sounding just a touch desperate and

whining.

“Ha! I thought never would I see the day I had a Searle child begging for chores.

Still, best way to forget the itch is to stay occupied. I’ve got some young beans to sort
and the bread starter to turn. Me old back complains too loudly about the task and I
would be happy to leave it up to someone young and spry!”

Ah bread. Making bread could most certainly make her forget for at least a little

while.

* * * * *

She was elbow-deep in dough when her father stomped into the kitchen, soaking

wet from the rain and a fair way toward working himself into a fine snit.

“Bloody Sir John! The man will not give up and I have no interest in offending the

buffoon. He’d let his sheep over the fence and into my grapes and then where would
we be! They’ll be two more for supper, Maggie. Sir John and his new guest.”

Cora wrinkled her nose and pushed off from her hands as much of the dough as

she could, scooping the precious starter into the basket where it lived by the warm
embers of the fire. “I thought you were to be checking the west fields, Papa. However
did Sir John manage to finagle an invitation to supper?”

“It was a bad bit of luck. He was there with his houseguest, a Master Limber or

Lumber or some such. Showing him the view from the high crags out to Sandown Bay.
Why the man would be interested enough in such a thing to stand out in the rain for the
view, I will never know. Maybe Sir John just didn’t want to provide the man another
meal and knew I would be out there this morn. That man would spend a fortune on
fripperies but sets a sorry table, that’s for certain. Let’s do something impressive then,
Maggie! Between you and my Cora, we’ll show them both how a proper supper is
done!”

Well, Cora had wanted more work. And this would fit the bill, if only she could

stay in the kitchen for the meal…

“And don’t you think of flying off and hiding, missy! I’ll need you to be hostess,

nice and cleaned up by the time they arrive. And talk some! It will keep them from
drinking all the good vintages. Perhaps your wit will scare off the bloody sponge and
we can finally have some peace!” He stomped out, muttering under his breath about
being eaten out of house and home.

Cora sighed. Although she did not welcome another meal with Sir John and his no

doubt uninteresting houseguest, she did remember with fondness a time when the

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house was full of guests and conversation, when her father would welcome good
company. When her mother was still alive. Would this old house ever see those days
again?

She set four rounds of the fresh dough to rise and be baked for supper. Fresh bread

was always a treat and mayhap Sir John would keep his mouth full long enough to stop
his annoying courtship. Perhaps it would all turn out well and Marcus’ declaration of a
formal courtship would convince the man to stop his unwanted attentions.

Somehow she doubted it.
“Maggie, give me something else to do. Anything?”
“Go track down your brother. I’m afraid he’s off starin’ at the sea again or mucking

about in your father’s books.” Maggie went back to her stew.

Cora gave a halfhearted laugh, “Edgar has long surpassed Father or me at

mathematics. I do wish we could engage a proper tutor for him to study on farther. But
perhaps that would just encourage him toward things that cannot be.”

How she wished that Edgar could have life at sea. He was a bit old now to start as

an apprentice or cabin boy but he was as smart as a whip and full of enthusiasm. If
only…

She cleaned her hands with the water pitcher and turned to watch Maggie as she

tended a simmering pot with care and concentration, already planning all that would
need to be done to finish a much expanded supper.

“Once you’ve tracked down your brother and made sure he’ll be respectable, then

find Sarah for me. I’ll need a bit of help later on and you’d best not be getting dirty.”

Cora looked at the pile of shelled peas, the rising bread, the peeled turnips and felt

some small sense of accomplishment. At least she’d managed not to stand about like a
lovestruck fool for an hour or two. She untied her apron and went in search of her
brother.

Edgar wasn’t in her father’s study and neither was her father. She made a dash out

to the stable to discover that Edgar had not had a horse saddled and that none of the
stable lads had seen him walking out. Now thoroughly wet, she went up to her rooms
for a dry kirtle, only to find that Edgar was sitting in his own chamber, staring out the
warped window glass into the gray sky, looking toward the sea.

She knocked lightly upon his open door and he glanced at her, his eyes full of

something eerily familiar. Resignation.

“Hello sister. How goes the day?” When had his voice become deeper? The voice of

a man, not the child she had helped to rear?

She could have lied, told him that all was well. But for some reason she knew he

would see right through that. “Not well. Trying to stay occupied, rather than dwell on
the morass of my thoughts.”

He gave her a half-smile. Their mother’s smile. He, more than any of the children,

resembled their mother, who he had never truly known. “I am not surprised. Master

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Mares left and after that argument I suppose you must question whether or not he will
return.”

She blushed to the roots of her hair but did not deny what he obviously knew.

“Does Father…”

“Nay, you were mostly quiet and Papa takes a few nips of his brandy to sleep. I

awoke early and happened to hear him leaving.”

There was an awkward pause. Cora sat down on Edgar’s bed, looking at the

sketches of ships that papered the walls, from Spanish galleons to the nimble English
privateers to the wide Dutch merchantmen.

“You’re wrong, I think. He will come back.” Edgar looked out the window once

again. “If he’s half as smart as he looks, he wouldn’t give you up. And you shouldn’t let
him.” He swung back suddenly, piercing her with a stare. “Be happy, Cora. I know that
it’s hard for you, but be happy. Don’t worry about me or Papa or anything. I know my
duty but I would not have you stay because of me.”

“He was not asking me to leave. He…” What could she say? What had she done?

Marcus had simply asked for her love, her trust. And she had refused him, not even
given him a chance. “He wanted something I was not yet prepared to give.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You weren’t that quiet, Cora.”
She pursed her lips and gave him her best elder sister glare. “My heart and my

hand.”

Edgar rolled his eyes heavenward. “Ah, leave it to you to… You are so lucky. You

love it here and a fellow strolls in, practically designed for you and you manage to
muck it up.” He snorted derisively. “If I had the chance to have what I wanted, I would
take it.”

He stared out the window again and she knew from his tone she would get no

more out of him. “There are guests for supper tonight. Sir John and a guest of his. Be
ready and somewhat tidy, please? For Papa?”

He nodded short and sharp and she stood, wishing that she could embrace him like

she had when he was a little boy. As she reached the door, she heard him whisper. “Be
happy, Cora. Try.”

She smiled, wishing it was just that easy.

* * * * *

Cora was still in no mood for company and certainly no mood to deal with

obsequious Sir John and his guest. But she was the hostess of her father’s home and so
the family shared a Friday’s supper with Sir John and one Master Nigel Lambert. Sir
John leered at her as usual, the disappearance of her erstwhile suitor having made him
a good deal braver in his “appreciation” of her assets. Cora contemplated the need to
start carrying a small dagger on her person, or her behind would be covered with
purple pinch marks in a week’s time.

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Perhaps a dagger was truly not a bad idea. Sir John was one thing but the way

Master Lambert stared at her— It set her skin to prickling, as though a bad wind was
coming. The kind that started fires in the forest and made men speak of ghosts walking
the earth. There was a hunger in his gaze, not for her body but for something she could
not name. As though he wanted to consume her very soul.

Sir John noticed nothing and her father seemed slightly uncomfortable but nothing

more. Only Edgar seemed equally disturbed by the silent brooding man who shared
their supper. As it was Friday, there was no meat, but fresh cockles, fish stew, broiled
mackerel, a stout bean potage, peas, turnips, the first of the season’s strawberries,
honeyed walnuts, yellow cheese and her warm fresh bread. Sir John ate his fill of all but
the bean potage, as he was deeply suspicious of anything that smacked of the vegetable,
except of course for the onion, which he had a devout fondness for. Such insights were
the breadth and the breath of his conversation, which he kept up throughout the
evening with little effort or attention on anyone else’s part.

Master Lambert was silent, except for acknowledging the occasional question from

Sir John or more rarely, Master Searle. Cora had the oddest feeling that her father was
trying to pounce on the man and get him to say something unguarded. Master Searle
interrupted Sir John’s treatise on the best way to stew lambs’ brains for just such a
parry, “Master Lambert, I was quite curious as to the project you are working on. Sir
John said you are here on behalf of the Navy. Do you perhaps know a Master Mares?
Marcus Mares?”

Cora felt a chill in her bones and she wished fervently that her father had not

mentioned her lover to this man. Lambert looked up from his trencher with wide, cold
blue eyes and stared at her father just a moment too long for comfort. “No, sir. I am not
familiar with the man.”

Cora wished she was sitting closer to her father, rather than on the opposite end of

the table. If she were closer, she could give him a good swift kick in the shins to shut
him up. “Really! He is also involved in a project for the Navy. Setting up a warning
system of sorts. Really very clever. I’m sure the two of you will meet, as you both seem
to require going up and down the coast.”

Lambert’s eyes narrowed and Cora was certain he clutched his eating knife a bit

harder. “How…why do you say that?”

“Oh, well, some of my men have seen you out on the cliffs, sketching away. And

you’ve hired some of the boys from the village to carry you out in rowboats to take
soundings. It is very hard to keep a small village like this from talking about your
activities, Master Lambert. You are far too interesting.”

Cora felt her stomach drop at the look Lambert leveled at her father. She thought

she would freeze when that look traveled to her. “Young Mistress Searle. Sir John tells
me that you have quite a number of swains. I can see why, you are quite a beauty.”

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Instead of a blush rising to her cheeks at the compliment, she felt herself drain to an

unnatural pallor. She muttered a quiet, “Thank you,” for the compliment but her father
could not let such praise lay still.

“Oh ho, Master Lambert! You would not want to give Sir John competition for the

lovely lady. He’s had an eye on my daughter for years.”

Lambert gave a small smile that did not reach his eyes. “I can assure you, Master

Searle, that if I settled my mind to have something, then I would not dither about for
years. I would have it.”

Cora sank her nails into her knees under the table. She knew her complexion must

now be ghostly pale.

Sir John sputtered in some approximation of laughter at the insult but mostly the

echoing silence reigned. Edgar looked at her over the goblet he gripped in his hands, his
eyes full of fear but more than a little bit of fierce protectiveness. Her father may not be
as sensitive to the threat but Edgar at least understood that Nigel Lambert was no one
to take lightly. He was deadly serious.

* * * * *

Cora thought that given the disturbing nature of supper, she would certainly have

similarly disturbing dreams. But she actually fell asleep quickly and slept well. In the
morning, she did not even notice the breeze in her room or remember the sensation of
being held through the night in comforting arms.

The weather had cleared and so she spent the day in the gardens, tending young

vegetable plants and reveling in the simple peace of spring blossoms. May Day was
next week and on the Isle it was a festival of flowers and one of her favorite holidays.
As she knelt in the midst of the fragrant herbs, she imagined herself strolling arm in
arm with Marcus through the happy crowded town square, dancing and laughing
under the maypole, even jumping through the ancient Beltane fires at night. A wicked
thrill ran through her at what would surely follow. Beltane was still a day of power,
even if its ancient roots had been covered over with religious piety. The day was still a
fertility festival and every year Cora had snuck out to watch the fires, she had felt the
throb of her magic within her, a thrumming need for something she could not identify.

Now that she knew true passion, May Day would be almost unbearable with

wanting a man who would be miles away. One who may already have forgotten her.
She sighed loudly. If it meant that he was safe and happy, she would suffer gladly. But
she would not be able to forget him so easily.

Cora attacked the unlucky weeds with particular vigor, angry though she could not

say at what. Every head of burdock seemed to have the sallow staring face of Nigel
Lambert, accusing and condemning her, making her life a misery because of the way
she had been born. She had made no secret pact with the Devil. She had not broken
every commandment, or drunk the blood of innocent infants. She did not deserve to be
cursed!

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When she came back into the house bearing a basket of parsley, spring onions and

sage, she was muddy from head to toe. Maggie did not ask about the tear tracks
staining her cheeks. Cora could not truly have explained them. She might have tried to
claim her courses had come early but Maggie would know better, as she oversaw Sarah
and the laundry as well as the kitchen. No, self-pity would be the only cause Maggie
would see and she would simply cackle.

“I am quite fatigued, Maggie. I will not be down for supper.” Cora escaped to her

rooms, locking the door and shedding her dirty clothing. She stood nude in the light of
the late afternoon. Pouring water from the clay pitcher into a shallow basin, she wet a
cloth and drew it over her sunburned skin, the sting of the burn bringing more tears to
her eyes, tears she had no will to fight. The cooling cloth was no substitute for the
lover’s hands she needed and longed for. Even trying to touch herself, an activity that
had long brought her relief, was unsatisfactory now. When she was clean, she simply
crawled under the soft sheets and heavy blankets and let her tears flow until sleep
claimed her.

* * * * *

She stood once again behind a hedge of witch hazel, contemplating the man

walking south on the Ryde road. This time was slightly different from the first though.
Not only was she completely naked to the elements, the soft breeze tightening her
nipples to hard points but the man walking flagrantly down the highway was also
wonderfully nude. Well toned calves, hard muscular thighs, his cock proudly on
display already half hard as his golden-brown eyes searched the woods with uncanny
accuracy.

She knew she could not hide for long, nor did she want to. She wanted to run her

hands through the untidy mess of his white-streaked black hair, kiss the sun-baked
lines on his face, be held in the strength of his tanned arms. Ignoring the sting and
scrapes from the branches, she walked around the bush, smiling at Marcus while
appraising him from head to muddy toes.

“Your footwear has improved.”
He grinned back, looking her over just as thoroughly, making her shiver with need.

His cock revealed as much of his thoughts as did her blushes.

His voice was deep and rough when he returned her quip. “You do not like my fine

red boots? You must own that they are an improvement over what I wore the first time
I traversed this road. And they’ve been kind to my poor feet the rest of the journey,
though I hate every step that takes me away from you.”

She stared at him a moment, realizing how very odd this dream was. It must be a

dream, for she could not remember how she could have ended up naked on the edge of
the North Forest. She was certain that in her fantasies, she would not have him speak
so. It was almost as though it was him, not a dream of him. Cora was not certain which
she would prefer.

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“No matter how comfortable those garish things may be, I prefer to see the feet they

cover.” Perhaps not the most witty of retorts but her mind was all a muddle. And it was
true. He did have handsome feet, not horned or furry, just strong and sturdy. She never
thought a man’s feet could be attractive but his were. She wanted to hold them in her
lap and rub the soles after a long day. Then, to hear him sigh in pleasure as he relaxed,
then yell in surprise as she leaned over to kiss the tip of his cock.

She blinked, trying to understand how she could fall into a lust-filled reverie in the

middle of a dream. He smile quirked sideways and amusement made his eyes bright
and showed off the dimple in his left cheek. He must have suspected what she was
thinking of. “It is a pleasure to see your…feet again as well. And the lovely legs that rise
above…and…” He took a step forward and her heart fluttered.

If this was a fantasy, she would be more than happy to fuck him right here and

now, in the mud of the road under the open sky with nary a care in the world. But
something made her hesitant. Something at the edge of her vision that flickered and
made her nervous. And the simple fact that he was not the brash demanding lover of
her past dreams, now he was the complex man she longed to know body and soul. Even
if this was a figment of her imagination, she wanted privacy to be able to explore his
body and his mind.

Marcus reached out, closing the gap between them not with a fervent kiss but with

the gentlest touch, cupping her cheek in his hand. She leaned slightly against him,
reveling in the warmth of him and his unhurried tenderness. With his other hand, he
took hers and tugged her back toward the forest, unconsciously taking the same route
by which she had sprinted away from him only a few days previously.

His fingered entwined with hers, they walked slowly through the dappled shade,

catching glimpses of each other’s nude body but keeping apart out of an unspoken need
for time.

“What troubles you, ashavi? Talk to me, sweet one. I would know anything and

everything of your life, your thoughts, your dreams…” His voice pitched lower and his
eyes drifted over her body to rest on the peaks of her nipples but suddenly those eyes
closed and his gaze returned to her face. He seemed determined not to make the first
move toward realizing their passion. It would be easier to simply have wild sex on the
forest floor and awaken, rather than having to talk about her innermost thoughts. And
yet it would be such a relief to speak.

“We do not need to speak of us, our connection. Tell me of your childhood and I

will tell you of mine. For that is where everything begins, does it not?”

Before she could think of stopping herself, words poured forth, with Marcus

listening attentively even when she seemed lost in another world.

“Papa and Edgar and Edmund worked hard managing the vineyard, tending the

grapes with all the care that Mama had given us when she was alive. But Mama knew I
was different and impressed upon Papa that he let me be if I could be spared. So as
often as I would dare, I ran far from the vines and fields and clung to the coast, feeling

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the salt air touch my lips. The beauty of the sea entranced me, the clouds of fog, the
roiling and flash of a storm, the warm kiss of summer-hot waters lapping at my feet.
And then, when a ship sailed too close to the coast, what was it other than the blessing
of God that I should look upon it and the wind would gust from nowhere and it would
turn to safety before encountering the rocks I knew would tear its hull to shreds.”

Tears ran down her face. “Mama knew that I had to stop. The legends were known

everywhere in the Isle. She made me promise to do nothing, to hold it inside. And I
have, I did! So, why do the old women of the village either ask me to touch their
children in blessing if the crops are good and the weather fair, or look upon me as a
blight if the season is too wet or too dry, even if that is what nature requires for this
time.”

“They do not understand, ashavi. They fear what they do not understand.”
“I did not ask for this! It is because my blood here runs too deep, as deep and old as

the vines. Romans planted them here on the Isle longer than there’s been an England.
The Searles can trace their history back to those Romans.”

“Then you too have a family legacy. A gift…”
“You keep saying that! It is a curse, not a gift! You can cover it over with flowery

phrases but I must control myself at all times, or the wind calls to me, tempts me, flows
all around me as though it longs to play! I would be burned for less!”

“I cannot change that this world is made of superstitious fools who have not the

understanding of a squirrel.” He jerked his head toward the precocious red squirrel that
perched on a branch near their heads, chittering at them. Marcus’ eyes shone bright
gold even in the shadows of the forest. “I promise you, the opinion of others matters not
one whit to me, nor should it to you. Short of bringing the law down upon your head,
be who you are, don’t try to repress your talent or you will suffocate your very self.”

His impassioned plea sounded so tempting. It made so much sense, to be true to

herself and in the bargain, accept him and all the sweet promises he made. And yet,
how to throw away a lifetime of learned caution and mistrust?

She could not speak and he did not try to force her. Instead, they continued to walk

hand in hand. When he did speak, he spoke instead of his own childhood. His parents
and his sisters. Working at pumping the forge for his father. Teasing his sisters. Playing
tricks on local boys with his extraordinary sight and getting beaten up for it. Learning
to balance using his skills and concealing them when necessary. The sound of his voice
flowed over her and drew her in. His story was one she understood deeply. And yet, he
seemed so much more comfortable in his skin that she did in her own.

He carried on, intent on putting her at ease. “My mother cried most pitifully the

day I left to go to sea with Drake. I am not ashamed to admit that once on the road
toward Plymouth, I let my own tears flow. I’m sure Drake saw me sniffle like a young
whelp but the man said nothing but that it would be different once we were at sea. And
it was!”

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“How so?” She could not help but ask, curiosity about his life overwhelming her

previous melancholy.

“Well, I was so sick the first three days at sea, I had not the energy for tears.” He

laughed and she did as well, loving the rich sound of his laughter combined with hers.
“And then of course, I was far too busy learning to climb the rigging, or learning the
proper math to plot charts, or cleaning some part of the ship, to be homesick for more
than a few minutes at a time. It was a good life and I did well enough.”

“You speak as though it is in the past. Are you not still an officer in Her Majesty’s

Navy?”

He stopped walking, his eyes piercing her with their intensity. “Not for long. Not

after the Spanish have been driven away. Then, I shall learn to tend a vineyard. Or farm
wheat. Or chase after sheep. Whatever you wish to do.”

She blinked at him, unable to accept his words. Letting go of her hand, he gripped

her shoulders, shaking her slightly and looking wounded.

“Believe me, ashavi! Damnation but I have a fortune sitting in a bank in London,

waiting for me to buy an estate anywhere I choose. I had shares in the bounty from
some of the most successful expeditions known in England. I could purchase my own
ship, or a fleet of ships, if I so choose. But I choose to be with the woman I love. The
woman I will marry as soon as I can return to claim her.”

His lips took hers in a kiss profoundly passionate. Cora could not hope to

withstand the onslaught and melted into him, her arms encircling his neck and her
body pressing against his. His words were too sweet, his cock too hard, the explosive
sensations within her too amazing to be real. But this was a dream and she needed him.
Now.

She pulled him backward until her back rubbed up against the bark of a tree, then

she hooked her ankle around his knee. He did not disappoint her and as her legs
parted, his cock slid against the wet lips of her pussy. Lust flared up like a bonfire
licking the dry tinder of her passion. She was primed to burn.

Cora didn’t think it was possible to need something so badly. She needed Marcus

inside her. He bent his head, his goal obviously to take her nipple into his mouth but
she raked her nails over his back to stop him.

“No! Inside me, now!” She circled her hips and Marcus sucked in a breath.
He shook his head and nipped at her nipple with his teeth. “Let me love you,

ashavi.”

He sucked on her nipple, sending pleasure shooting through her. She moaned,

giving in to being pleasured and threading her fingers through the long mane of his
hair. His lips traveled over her stomach, his tongue invading her navel and making her
giggle for a moment. He turned his face up to hers and smiled at her, his white teeth
sparkling. The honest happiness in his eyes brought a sudden flare of tears to hers. She
could not believe this was real…and it wasn’t, was it?

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Then his tongue traced through her curls and swirled around her nub and she

could not question anything anymore. The back of her head hit the trunk of the tree as
her back arched with pleasure. His large hands gripped the curves of her ass and he
drank from her pussy, sucking softly on her pearl and then running his tongue through
her folds, then thrusting and swirling at the opening of her sheath. Soon enough, his
hands were the only things holding her up. All her muscles were taut, her toes digging
into the earth as he brought her closer and closer to climax. She moaned loudly, making
inarticulate noises, at one moment demanding that he never stop and the next that he
stand up and fuck her properly. With a final stroke of his tongue she came, shouting as
the tension imploded within her as white hot pleasure. He continued to lap at her
lightly as she came down from the heights, his grip of her tightening to counter the
complex relaxation of her muscles. Otherwise she would have been a boneless puddle
on the forest floor.

As consciousness flooded back to her, so too did the need for him to experience the

same pleasure. If her orgasm had not woken her from sleep, then she planned on taking
advantage of this luscious dream as much as possible. She yanked mercilessly on the
dark length of his hair.

He obliged, standing up and kissing her. As she tasted her juices on his lips, she felt

his cock prod her open swollen pussy and she sighed happily. He pushed her into the
rough bark of the ancient rowan tree as she wrapped her legs around his thighs. When
his cock sank deep into her sheath her eyes rolled back into her head from the ecstasy of
feeling complete again.

His teeth scraped against her neck and the bark scraped her back and the pain

simply heightened the pleasure from the drag of his cock inside her. Her oversensitized
nub was rubbed just the right way as his hips snapped against her and she began to
sing a wordless song, emitting a gasp with the end of every stroke.

Sooner than she could have believed possible she was once again hovering on the

edge of climax but she refused to climb that peak without her lover. Her hands reached
down to his ass and her fingers dug in, insisting that he release his iron control and
come.

His tongue traced the edge of her earlobe, his breath searing and sultry and making

her burn even hotter. He stopped his thrusts and she groaned loudly in protest. He
made a sudden deep thrust and she let out a small scream of pleasure. Then he stopped
again. She swore in protest and he laughed against her neck.

In retaliation she scraped her nails over his ass and his lower back and he thrust

again, this time it was he who was groaning at the edge of control. She clenched the
muscles of her sheath and he tensed, his hands gripping her ass tight enough to leave
bruises. With a gasp he began to pound into her.

“You are too damn tempting…too fucking beautiful…and you…are…mine,” he

growled into her ear and she convulsed around him, yelling in triumph as she came
hard enough to see the stars above the cloudless blue sky. His hot seed flooded her as

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he pumped into her for a long minute, extending her orgasm with every stroke and
leaving both of them completely drained.

They slid down the tree as his knees gave way, ending up in a heap entwined on

the forest floor, still connected and unwilling to part. The breeze blew through the trees,
giving her goose bumps. She laid her head on his shoulder and let the sweaty heat of
him sink into her, warming her. The wonderful smell of him and sex and earth and
wind filled her nostrils, making her feel perfectly at home out in the untamed forest.
Lassitude overcame her and she could feel herself slowly drift off to sleep, more content
and happy than she could recall. The last thing she remembered was him pressing a soft
kiss into the wild mess of her hair.

“Ashavi.”

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Chapter Nine

Marcus woke to the sound of the wind rustling through the plank walls of the squat

barn he slept in. The taste of her pussy was still on his tongue and the feel of her silky
hair was still on his lips from that last kiss. He didn’t want to be here, he wanted to be
back in that forest holding her but he had to make the best of it.

Niton was bigger than Lowtherville but the magistrate lived in Upper Niton and

the old lighthouse was in Undercliff, right on the coast and that seemed to be the best
place to mount the watch fire station.

Perhaps it had not been the best decision to bunk with the lads who ran the

lighthouse, as his dreams had been incredibly graphic and he was not sure the noises he
had made whilst balls-deep in his dream Cora had been all within his mind. There was
a distinct lack of juvenile snickering though, so with the exception of the sticky mess left
in his bedroll, there was nothing left of his dream but fond memories.

Only his sense of duty made him arise and prepare for the day. He would talk to

the magistrate once more in Upper Niton and then continue on his trek to the goal of
reaching Brightstone by nightfall. Given the rough terrain of the coast, it was an
ambitious plan but he had no choice other than to push himself as far as his legs would
go. He wanted to get his job done and get back to Cora as soon as he possibly could.

The rest of the lads occupying this shed were still asleep. Marcus stripped and in

the morning chill, dipped into a basin of icy water and ran a cloth over himself, trying
to wash away the lingering desire in his blood. It didn’t work. Instead it made him
think of Cora doing the same task and how he would like to wash her rosy skin—then
follow the cloth with his tongue, tasting her flavor in lieu of his breakfast. His thoughts
led to his cock twitching again and Marcus cursed under his breath as he hurriedly
pulled on his pantaloons, shirt and doublet.

He stepped outside, wincing at the light and wishing he could don his darkened

spectacles without receiving odd looks from all and sundry. Shielding his eyes from the
early morning sun, he looked up at the ancient lighthouse the locals called the
“Pepperpot”. St. Catherine’s Point was just down the slope, the southernmost tip of the
island and a place of countless ships’ demises. This lighthouse was perfectly situated to
try to prevent shipwrecks and its fires had been burning for nigh on three hundred
years. The main keeper was also the curate of the little chapel built next to the tower. He
and his housekeeper would no doubt already have breakfast on for the lads who
worked the fires and watched the sheep pastured in the grassy fields around the
lighthouse. Marcus wanted to just leave and get farther on his appointed course but he
knew it would be best to stay and eat and make certain that the watch fire plans were
set and understood, the signals clear and precise.

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The better he did his job, the less likely he would have to go back and fix mistakes

and take himself away from his ashavi again.

He knocked on the back door of the parish house and sure enough Mistress Eggle

had bread and cheese and a hearty porridge ready for the ravenous boys and she was
more than happy to feed one more. Davies, the curate, was still at his prayers, so
Marcus had the full advantage of Mistress Eggle’s giggling attention. She had seen the
far side of forty but she was still full of vim and vigor and more than anything, full of a
thirst for gossip. Niton only had a couple of hundred residents and news from the
outside was as valuable as a full boatload of cod, or even brandy “liberated” from
shipwrecks off the coast.

She pelted him with questions about goings-on in the world, England, Ryde,

Sandown, anywhere and everywhere he’d set foot in the last few weeks. The woman
had extracted a good amount of his life story before his porridge had cooled sufficiently
to eat.

“And then you must have met the Searles in Sandown then! Oh, it’s terrible what

happened to their mother, those poor children. And then to have a girl in the family.
Oh, what a shock. All those legends, don’t you know. Did you see the girl then? She
must be grown by now, unless something awful happened. Is she an odd one then?”

Marcus resisted the urge to roll his eyes heavenward. “Mistress Searle is a lovely

woman.”

“Oh, I’m sure she is beautiful. Witches are usually either as ugly as sin or as

beautiful as temptation.”

He could not disagree that Cora was the epitome of temptation but simply said,

“Cora Searle is a fine woman. There is not a bit of evil in her. If there were, I wouldn’t
be courting her, would I?”

The woman’s bushy brown eyebrows shot skyward. “Oh, begging your pardon

then, Master Mares. I didn’t know!” She turned back to her cooking, stirring with vigor
to cover up her embarrassment. Marcus made use of the awkward pause to redirect the
conversation in a useful direction.

“Mistress Eggle, have you perchance heard of a Master Lambert? A newcomer to

these parts. Was he here some days ago?”

“Oh him,” she said, scrunching up her nose like she’d smelled something foul. “He

was here all right. Spent all his time in the church, or finding a boy stupid enough to
row him out, even in bad weather, to get a look at the coast hereabout. Always drawing
somethin’ too. Not sure what. And not very friendly to me or the curate. I think he
suspected us of living in sin!” She gave a shocked harrumph and turned to start
chopping vegetables with an evil looking knife, leaving Marcus to mull over this new
information with each bite of his porridge.

He climbed around the crevasse separating St. Catherine’s Point from Upper Niton

and paid his respects to the local magistrate. The man was not welcoming and Marcus
was uncertain whether the man took umbrage with Marcus himself or with outsiders in

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general. Again, Marcus would have quite a bit to say to this Master Nigel Lambert
should he ever run into the man. If nothing else, he was making Marcus’ job that much
more difficult and slowing him down—robbing him of time he could have used to
return to Cora. That alone was worth a good satisfying punch in the face.

By midday, Marcus was scrambling over the rocky path that passed for a road from

Niton to Brightstone. The waves crashed into the coast below him and he could see the
swirling of dangerous currents that made these waters treacherous for ships. He
rounded one small bay after another and soon understood that he would have to man
more watch fires than had been predicted. It would take more than this one trip to
organize and it would definitely take the support of the magistrates and the local
people.

Fie, why had Drake saddled him with this infernal business! He had not the skills

or charm to carry this off. And lud, even with these fine boots, his feet still hurt.

But Marcus was not the type to dwell in misery. The rolling green hills off the coast

reminded him powerfully of the hills of his home in Devon. There was not a soul for
miles, just a few scattered sheep and cows and the squawking sea birds. He easily lost
himself in a world of his imagination, where Cora was by his side and he was
describing the Devon countryside around Marldon. Showing her the swimming hole
near a friend’s farm, or the twisting path down to the ocean. Stealing a kiss in the
hayloft of the dairy. Impressing her as he helped his father at the bellows of the smithy,
just for old times’ sake. His mother would love her, as would his sisters. He couldn’t
wait to take her there and see the happiness of his parents’ faces that he had found such
a treasure.

Lost in his musings, before he had quite realized it, darkness had fallen. Though he

could see the lights of a village in the distance, he had no desire to intrude on a small
hamlet in the darkness. The weather did not look like rain and Mistress Eggle had
generously supplied him well for any eventuality as far as food. He found a
comfortably sheltered knoll and settled in for the night. He unpacked a blanket from his
bag and brought out the bread and cheese and dried apples. Under the starry sky he
watched the white caps of the ocean and felt the breeze on his face.

Truly, it was no worse than the packed underdeck of a ship. There, the smells of a

hundred men and the creaking and swaying of a hundred hammocks made moving an
inch a process that made grumbles arise up and down the line. And lord forbid anyone
snore too loudly after a round of grog. Better by far to sleep under the stars and hear the
ocean’s call fresh and bright in his ears.

Wrapping himself in his blanket, he closed his eyes. But he could not find sleep

easily. Something was bothering him and that something was the stories he’d heard of
Master Nigel Lambert. He’d never heard of the man and he’d served at one point or
another with a goodly amount of the Royal Navy. And it was unlike Drake not to tell
him of another man with a mission for the Navy in such an unlikely place as the Isle of
Wight. Turning all the whisperings over and over in his mind, he finally fell asleep, still
unsettled.

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Once again, his dreams were of his ashavi, naked and smiling, free of the burdens

that she carried during the daylight hours. The place however, was nowhere they had
been together but the landscape of his childhood that had occupied his mind for most of
the afternoon.

“Where are we, Marcus?” She’d taken his arm, not bothering to try to cover her

nudity as she had previously. Apparently, she had become resigned to the odd nature
of these dreams. He was certain that this was no vision from his imagination. She was
truly here, in his dreams and this was his chance to court her as she deserved.

As they walked between the lush fields of growing wheat and barley, he could not

help but let his eyes roam more over the lushness of her body than the familiar
countryside. “We are in Devon, near Marsdon. The town in which I was born and
raised.”

Her eyebrow rose and she looked down at their mutually unclothed bodies. Biting

her lip in a manner he found to be incredibly sensual, she then asked, “I think perhaps
we are underdressed to meet any of your family, sirrah.”

He laughed and picked her up in his arms, whirling her around as she squealed in

mock protest. “Does this mean, my lady, that you would like to meet my family one
day?”

“As this is a dream and most likely I am speaking to a figment of my overactive

imagination, I will honestly answer that if you were to return to me and make me your
wife, I would consider it my duty to make the acquaintance of your relations.”

Ah, confirmation that this was much more than a simple dream. The blush upon her

cheeks was most becoming and he could not stop himself from pressing a loving kiss
against the ripeness of her lips. One thing led to another and both of them were
breathless with desire all too soon. His cock was already leaking in desire for her, hot
and hard against the softness of her stomach.

Drawing back, he smiled once again at the undisguised passion in her eyes. “Come,

my ashavi and soon to be my bride, let me show you all the haunts of my youth. I am
certain there will be no one to disturb us and there is a hayloft I am most eager to
introduce you to while we have this chance.”

Her bright laughter rang through the hills as he tugged her after him. He ignored

the dark figure standing on a hill in the distance and did not alert her to its presence. He
had no desire to turn her shy or worry her unnecessarily. He knew he had no doubts
about her, only his own worries about duty and deceptions on a grander scale. She
should not have to share that part of his life, not if he could protect her from it.

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Chapter Ten

The day was bright and sunny and the town square was gaily decorated in flowers

of every kind, from foxglove to dog rose, oxlip to daffodils. The maypole had been set
up last week and the ribbons tied to it fluttered in the breeze as children squabbled over
who would start off the maypole dance. The height of spring and the middle of the
planting season was a time of hard work and May Day was a much needed celebration
in the midst of toil. Today, there would be prayers and dancing and tonight there
would be fires and feasting and enough erotic adventures among a half-drunk populace
to make even the most pious remember that this was Beltane, the great fertility festival
since long before the Romans ever touched the shores of Britain.

Cora was locked in a bittersweet world, smiling and nodding to those she passed,

while her heart was miles away, being carried by a man who might never return. For
her, there would be no bouquet of flowers from a courting suitor, or a hot night of
passion culminating in the sweet gift of a child. Gods old or new would not smile on
her tonight.

All she had to rely on was herself and her memories. And the dreams she had

dreamed almost every night. Dreams where Marcus Mares courted her and made love
to her and won her heart over and over again.

The night before they had walked together in a land unlike anything she could

imagine. They had walked hand in hand on a broad beach where the sand was silky
between her bare toes. Strange trees swayed in a soft warm breeze, like bright green
flowers at the top of long swaying stalks. She’d seen pictures of date palms in the Holy
Land in her father’s books but these were taller by far. Marcus had laughed and using a
sharp rock he’d opened the fruit of these trees and had her sip the sweet fresh liquid
within. He’d called it coconut. He’d told her they were in the Pacific, on one of the
thousand of islands in an ocean unbelievably vast. Then he’d lured her into water warm
enough to be bathwater. All around them were brilliantly colored fish and there they
watched the sun set across a rainbow colored sky. In the salty warmth they’d made love
with a languid fervor, every sensation different while floating in the liquid embrace of a
faraway sea.

No man would give up such wonders for a woman. Especially not a cursed woman

like her. These dreams had to be simply wishful thinking, naïve and silly. She could not
find such happiness and she’d best not try.

So she poured out small beer for the children and new wine for the adults who

entered the reveries themselves soon enough, with morris dancing and laughter and
ribald teasing. Blushing girls and saucy men flirted with abandon and the haystacks
would be full this eve. Cora wondered if she would feel the same in twenty years,

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maybe watching Edgar’s children dance the maypole as she still ladled out liquid
courage.

Every so often, her eyes flicked away from the dancers and toward the dark figure

of Nigel Lambert leaning against the front wall of the parish church, staring with
disapproval at the crowd. As far as she could tell, the man had not gone in to the well-
attended May Day Mass in the morning and but had entered the church several other
times to pray alone at Matins, Lauds and Terce. She’d rarely heard of a man so devout
who was not a priest or a monk. Then again, she didn’t know he wasn’t.

One time, she stared at him a moment too long and he nodded his head at her in

acknowledgement. His eyes still carried that hungry look that so frightened her and she
shivered as he walked across the edge of the square and straight toward her table.

“Mistress Cora, good day to you.”
She bristled. He had no right to address her by her Christian name.
“Good day to you, Master Lambert.” She wanted no further conversation with the

man and refused to engage him with pleasantries. He had nothing to say but
complaints about every aspect of her way of life and Edgar told her he lapped up the
rumors of the Searle women told in the Fire and Flood when he’d bought rounds of ale
for all and sundry. Cora more than disliked the man.

She was afraid of him.
For all the legends of curses and strange powers and the sad fate of her female

Searle ancestors, none had been burned as witches. The word was never spoken in
Sandown, though she suspected many thought it. Especially when the wind came up
out of nowhere when she was about. But the fire in Nigel Lambert’s eyes was far far
different from that in the eyes of Marcus Mares. It was not the fires of desire and
passion but the cruel fires of a witch burning. Sometimes his gaze was so intense she
swore she could feel the fires lapping at her toes and smell the smoke in her nostrils.

“I do not think Saint Joseph would approve of such licentious behavior as this

dancing on his feast day, do you?”

Her eyes flicked over to the center of the square, where children had been chased

off by the young men of the village, who were cavorting between blushing ripe girls
and stealing a quick touch or a fleeting kiss where they could. It was harmless fun.

“I think that the young people are enjoying the gift of a fine spring day and

thanking the Lord with their joy and celebration. St. Joseph knows more than any soul
the beneficence of the Lord in his gifts.”

He pursed his lips and stared down the sharp slice of his nose at her. He did not

enjoy being bested by a woman. Cora could have kicked herself for drawing his
attention to herself, although she seemed to capture his interest just any by existing
within his line of sight.

“An interesting view, Mistress Cora. Most interesting.” His eyes narrowed and

went icy cold, cold enough that she shivered and had to look away. Thank goodness
Mistress Jones came up for her third glass of wine punch with three of her seven

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children in tow. The crowd of rowdy children chased Lambert back into hiding and
Cora tried to shake off the sense of foreboding she felt, for she was starting to make the
air around her quite chilly and though it might benefit the wine, she had no desire to
catch a chill and be sick and miserable when Marcus came back.

She blinked and realized that yes, she was certain he would come back. The thought

gave her such pause that she did not respond to Mistress Jones’ slurred gossip and the
lady walked off in a snit with her brood. Cora regretted her impoliteness but warmth
once again filled her as she clung to her newfound belief and the happiness it gave her.
Maybe, just maybe, her trust would not be broken.

When her father came to man the Afydden Manor table for a spell, Cora found

herself surprisingly willing to engage in being joyful, even dancing at the maypole with
children and young lovers. She tucked a flower in her hair and smiled more than she
had in a very long time. Edgar complimented her on her appearance, as did several
town matrons and even a couple of fishermen and shopkeepers. Though she had no
interest in any man other than Marcus, it was nice to suddenly be noticed as a woman.

By the time the shadows were lengthening and afternoon was turning into evening,

the gaiety had turned just a bit wild. Children went home and the festivities quietly
moved from the center of Sandown to the broad fields higher up, away from the cliffs.
The Beltane bonfires were lit, as they had been for thousands of years and two of every
kind of farm animal, from goats to doves, oxen to sheep, were driven between two tall
blazes, the blessing of the spring brought down from the heavens. Cora had always
come to the Beltane fire, even when she was very young. It was almost a compulsion to
watch the flames flicker into the starry night sky and feel the thrumming energy
surrounding all the courting couples who dashed between the fires, laughing and
kissing.

The sounds rising up from the surrounding fields were the sounds of pleasure, the

sounds of love made flesh, undeniable passion of a night made for lust. Cora felt the
pull herself but instead of the mild craving she had long felt, she now burned with need
for one particular man. Curse her luck that the man was by now on the opposite side of
the Isle. All she could hope for was to visit him in dreams this night.

The wind blew softly, making the fires dance and sing in their crackling bass. The

animals brayed and huffed in discomfort at the mystery of fire. She should go home, go
home and try to dream of her lover. But the fire called irresistibly. It sang a song of
passion and power. In its thrall, she felt Marcus’ hand in hers, his body sitting next to
her in the grass. The warmth of the fire was the warmth of his smile.

Finally, when the sounds of copulating lovers grew too loud to ignore, she stood

shakily and, all alone, began the walk in darkness toward Afydden Manor. The stars
shone down and the breeze blew gently, keeping her awake with its slight chill. She
knew once she found the warmth of her blankets she would find sleep and hopefully
Marcus would be there for her once again. She certainly needed him.

Halfway home, in a small stand of oak trees by the side of the road, a sharp crack

made her pause for a moment. It was a moment too long. She was yanked into the deep

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shadows, a hand covered her mouth even as she tried to scream. Frozen in fear, she was
pinned to the ground by a man before she could even think to fight back.

“Hello witch.” Nigel Lambert sneered at her, his eyes flashing hatred even in the

darkness.

Her body moved before her thoughts could command it. She kicked and thrashed,

desperate to get up and get away from the man. He hauled back and slapped her hard
and as blood trickled down her lip she kept thrashing so much that he sat on her,
pinning her down with his body so that his foul breath was right in her face.

“Settle down, Satan worshipper. You’ve tempted too many God-fearing men with

your devil wiles and I will put an end to it. I will inspect you from head to toe for the
Devil’s mark.” He gripped her hands in one of his, running the other over her breasts,
her ribs and poking between her thighs.

She spat into his face and he bared his teeth. “If it cannot be seen with human eyes,

then I shall mark you myself to reveal you for the whore you are!”

He yanked at the top of her bodice but the fabric was tougher than his mania. He

clawed at her, trying to bite her or kiss her, she knew not. All the time, she refused to be
still, kicking and screaming, though the wind swirled about them, so loud that she was
sure no one could hear her cries.

That wind howled around her, flattening the grain growing in the field beyond this

stand of trees. The trees themselves leaned groaningly toward the ground as though
reaching down to try to help her, to tear away the man pressing her into the ground and
laughing at her struggle.

She was angry and frightened. Would he kill her after he’d had what he wanted? Or

would he drag her family through a witch trial, claim it was she who had seduced him,
rather than the act of raw violence he was attempting.

She kicked and spat and prayed. She longed for Marcus, to see him before she was

defiled, before she was killed body or soul. Her longing was so profound, she swore she
could see him over Lambert’s shoulder as he reared up to try again to tear away the
bodice of her gown. But instead of the fabric ripping away, Lambert was pulled up and
off her. The wind suddenly quieted and as she blinked away blinding tears, her mouth
fell open in shock.

Marcus was there beating the stuffing out of Nigel Lambert. A blow to the stomach

and a knee to the groin, finally a crushing kick to the head while the man was down. It
may not have been gentlemanly but it was satisfying and effective.

Lurching to her feet, she threw herself into his arms and hugged him, before

turning slightly to add another kick to the man’s ribs. He hugged her tightly, kissing
her hair and holding her so closely she could barely breathe.

“Are you hurt, Cora?” He pulled away, looking into her eyes with only concern, not

condemnation.

“No. Only a few scratches. He did not… Did not manage to…”

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Marcus threw a searing glance at the heap on the ground. “Ashavi, next time you

call me from across half an island, make sure I am clothed properly for the task at hand.
I didn’t have my knife, or I would have sliced his throat then cut off his balls and fed
them to the bloody sharks.”

She finally noted that Marcus was in bare feet, hose and a shirt, as though dressed

to sleep. How he had come to her rescue, she knew not. “Nay Marcus, a quick death
may be too good for him, I fear he may be…”

“A spy for the Spanish? Yes, I have quickly come to the same conclusion. He is far

too interested in mapping the coast hereabouts with remarkable precision. I have just
had a letter from Drake saying that none of the Admiralty has any knowledge of the
project on which Lambert works. In fact, the Queen’s spymaster Walsingham has men
who are quite interested in finding this heap of dung and asking him some
uncomfortable questions.”

Actually, she had thought the man to be a witch hunter, but a spy for the Spanish

was not much better. “What shall we do with him?” she asked, not wanting to go
anyway near the groaning miscreant.

“Do you have any plans for your petticoats, ashavi?”

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Chapter Eleven

She blinked at him but so persuasive was he that he had her out of her petticoat in a

nonce and they both worked to tear the fabric into strips. Marcus bound the cad tightly,
planning on returning in the morning with Master Searle to see the man brought to
some kind of justice. If nothing else, the letter he’d gotten from Drake this morning
would help to establish the man as a miscreant. That and the sliver of map Lambert had
left in Brightstone. Too bad the letter and the map were still miles away in Totland with
the rest of his gear.

At least she could have brought him with his boots!
By the time Marcus was done and Lambert was groaning in semi-consciousness,

Marcus rose and turned to Cora only to see her trembling. He held her tightly, trying to
calm her but she simply clung to him, tears running down her face. Talk was useless
and he had no desire for the cur Lambert to hear anything he might have to say to his
love, so he picked her up in his arms and carried her toward Ayffden Manor, bare cold
feet and all.

The stars were bright but there was little moon to see by, still he managed somehow

not to stumble. The mighty wind that had swirled around them all had trickled to a
scant breeze whispering around them as though curious to discover the state of the
burden he held.

Once again, he stood outside the kitchen door of the manor, looking to see if anyone

was about. This time, he would have loved to encounter a servant to help him care for
Cora but she seemed to have other ideas. Just as he was about to yell for aid, she put a
hand to his chest.

“Marcus, don’t. I want no one but you right now. Set me down.”
Frowning, he obeyed and with a quick savvy twist of the lock she had them both

inside the kitchen and creeping past the still sleeping dogs.

Once they were in the dining hall, instead of heading out to the hall and up the

staircase to the relative quiet of her chambers, instead Cora stopped and turned to face
him, her eyes wide and questioning.

“How did you get here?”
He looked at her as though she was mad. “How did I get here? I might ask you that

question, ashavi. One minute I was standing in an inn in Totland, packing my things to
begin the overland trek across the island, to get back here as fast as I could. I went to the
tiny window that faced due east and gazed out over the countryside, cursing the tiny
mountains on this island that restricted my seeing as far as I might wish. The next
moment a hurricane blows into my chambers, picking me up and hurling me about as

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though I was a child’s doll. No ship could have survived that tumult and I feared for
my life. And then suddenly I was here, watching that piece of offal Lambert try to hurt
you. I still wish I had had my knife on me and I could rid the world of that braggart.
But to tell you the truth, the only reason I am certain this is not a dream is that we are
both still fully clothed.”

“But how… I cannot… Did you dream of me?”
He stepped closer, pushing a strand of her dark hair behind the shell of her ear.

“Almost every night. It was the only way I could stand to do my duty, to look forward
to my dreams and being with you.”

“The island… Marldon, your home…”
“You are my home now, ashavi. But yes. I remember loving you against the tree in

the forest and the cliffs over Sandown. And that nameless island in the wide Pacific,
which was never so beautiful as when you stood upon its shores with me.”

She looked at him and he could see tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. He had

no desire to make her cry but she had been through so much. He wanted to take her in
his arms and hold her, comfort her, make her believe that if it were up to him, he would
never leave her again.

Before he could step forward to embrace her, she slid her hands into his hair and

pulled him to her, bringing her lips to his with unrestrained need. Her kiss was raw and
vital, as though for the first time, she held nothing back.

Though his mind worried that it was too soon after she had been attacked, his body

demanded that he take what she was so clearly offering. She would not let him draw
away but pulled him forward with drugging kisses until she had backed into the
massive oak dining table. She hopped up upon the smooth surface and wrapped her
legs around him, using her feet against his thighs to press him forward so his cock
pressed against her cloth-covered pussy.

“Are you sure?” he managed to whisper between the ravenous kisses he felt would

consume him.

“Wipe away the memory, Marcus. Make me yours and only yours.”
He could not deny her this. With a speed he didn’t know he possessed, he untied

her skirts as she unlaced her bodice. Then he shucked off his hose while she pulled his
shirt over his head. The house was silent, the hour so late at night to be early in the
morning. None of the servants were awake. Still, there was a visceral thrill of
excitement at their daring. He knew that this was the magic of Beltane. He’d seen the
bonfires in Totland from his window, but he’d felt no wish to join in revelry when his
mate was so far away. Now though, now that she was here yearning for him, the power
of the heavens could not be denied.

Soon they were both naked and she was laid out before him on the dining table like

a feast and he a starving man. Despite her mewled protest, he leaned down to savor the
flavor of her juices, stroking her slick folds with his tongue, treating her with the
gentleness and reverence she deserved. When she was arching off the table and

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threatening to awaken the household with her cries, he rose from his knees and pulled
her hips to the very edge, finally quieting the screaming demands of his cock when he
slid into her hot, welcoming sheath.

The tears in her stormy gray eyes shone up at him as he looked deeply into her face.

But he knew instinctively they were not tears of sadness. The rapture and joy evident in
her expression showed that all too clearly.

He did not know whether it was the enchantment of Beltane, the intensity of

emotions of the day or the unique angle of the table as he stood almost on tiptoe to
thrust up into her but within a minute of entering her she was quivering beneath him.
She had to bring a hand up to her mouth and bite her fist in other to keep from
screaming as her sheath pulsed around him with the waves of her orgasm.

His cock once again demanded he let go and explode within her but it was too

addicting to watch ecstasy flash across her beloved features. He bent to take a rosy
nipple in his mouth as he slowly moved his hips, letting her rise up slowly back to the
peaks of pleasure. Her hands stroked down his back and caressed his scalp, begging,
pleading for him to join her in rapture. But he could not go there unless he’d taken her
to the heights once again.

He wrapped his hands around her shoulders and pulled her upward, changing the

angle once again as he thrust up into her depths. Soon enough she got the idea and
propped herself up on one hand, the other digging into the flesh of his ass and she
pulled him deeper and deeper within. This time, there was nothing to silence her cries
except the heat of his own mouth and her kiss in the height of passion stole his breath
and fed his soul.

Her breasts were crushed against his chest and he’d never felt closer to her or to

anyone in his life. They moved together, faster, harder until they both sailed over the
edge, swallowing each other’s yells as they came. His knees almost gave out and she
pulled him forward on top of her as they caught their breath reclining on the ancient
table.

He laughed suddenly, sure that he’d never be able to sup at this venerable table

again without thinking of this night. His moved to press soft kisses against her neck,
thought to speak and make the suggestion that they should retire to her chambers to
continue their reunion or at least to try to come up with an explanation of how he had
come to be in Sandown without his clothes or other possessions. But the words that
came out of his mouth were something else entirely.

“Marry me?” There was a long empty pause and he swallowed loudly, cursing

himself for pushing her too hard once again.

Her eyes grew round and a hint of a smile curled at the corners of her swollen pink

lips. She was about to answer, when they were rudely interrupted. With a creaking
groan, once again the wind came up, violent and unceasing in its demands. It had
granted a boon to its mistress but it would not allow the balance to be altered for long.
Curtains whipped in the wind, their clothes disappeared in the blinding gusts. Cora

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screamed and Marcus gripped her tightly but as suddenly as he had arrived, Marcus
found himself torn from Cora and tossed and turned for endless minutes until he was
thrown naked in a heap on the floor of his room at the Totland Arms inn. Before he
could make the air around him blue with curses, his hose and shirt were blown into his
face and then the wind disappeared, leaving his possessions and the room in general
disarray.

He hopped to his feet and stared out the open window, desperately wanting to be

back in Sandown. He almost ran out the door to begin the long overland journey across
the backbone of the island but walking naked in the dark he was certain to be taken up
and imprisoned as a madman. Perhaps he was truly mad.

Mindlessly, he began to restore order to his clothes and his pack. Stuffing each item

into his travel bag he could not imagine how he could sleep, only that he would wait
until dawn touched the sky and hasten to her as fast as he could. But, when he touched
the shirt that had been carelessly tossed at him, he knew that it was not his own but her
soft chemise. Smiling, he raised the fabric to his nose and inhaled her scent. Exhaustion
overwhelmed him and, his bag packed and his clothes donned ready to leave in a
moment, he lay down upon the hard, unyielding bed and held the cloth to him. A poor
substitute for the woman but nevertheless, her scent allowed him to find a few precious
hours of sleep.

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Chapter Twelve

Cora awoke groggy, knowing that once again she had cried herself to sleep. Flashes

of the night before struck her like blows as she blinked in the morning sunlight. Making
love shamelessly on the dining table. Cleaning up the dining hall and finding her
scattered clothing. She still clutched his shirt in her hand and she brought it once again
to her nose to inhale his scent and try to prove to her suspicious mind that he truly had
been here. If not for that simple utilitarian garment, she would be convinced the entire
thing was yet another dream. He had asked her to marry him. Not demanded or
declared but asked. And she had not the chance to answer him. God only knew where
he was now or if he was safe.

As she climbed out of the bed and went to wash her face, she caught a glimpse of

her face in the small mirror. There was a livid bruise on the side of her face and the
memory of Lambert and his attack on her suddenly came back full force, making her
knees shake with the memory of terror. Lambert! He was still out there!

She tore off her nightdress and put on a kirtle and overdress as fast as she could.

She did not even bother with stockings, jamming her feet into her slippers as she ran to
find her father.

Banging on his door unceremoniously, she entered even before he had given her

leave.

“Cora, what is the meaning of this!”
“I’m sorry Father but can you please dress? I need you to come with me

immediately, most desperately.”

As he was still abed, he could not clomp across the floor in his usual interrogative

manner without looking quite ridiculous in his nightshirt and cap. “Cora! What in the
nine circles of hell…what happened to your face, child?”

“That is why you must come. I left him tied up on the path to Afydden…”
“Left who tied up?” He sprang out of bed. “Martin! Martin! Attend me this instant,”

he bellowed for his manservant. “Cora, you wait downstairs. I’ll be done in a nonce.
You’d best have a fine explanation for all this cursed business!”

Within ten minutes her father was dressed and they were out the door, walking

quickly while Cora gave him a highly edited version of what had occurred the night
previously. She had to think fast, given that the mystical presence of Marcus Mares had
to be covered over completely. Somehow she had made it seem that before any serious
damage to her person could occur, she had knocked the man unconscious and tied him
up with her petticoats. Her father looked at her quizzically but decided he would rather

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not know precisely how she had managed to save herself from a man who had
attempted to take her honor.

Cora was at least glad that her father did not try to convince her to be seen by the

apothecary or the midwife. It would be very difficult to explain that the stickiness
running down her thighs was not at all the result of a rape but the product of a very
welcome ravishment. By a man many miles away. Ay, she was losing her mind!

She did not know how she would counter any accusations leveled at her by

Lambert himself but despite the contentious relationship he had with her father, she
hoped that she would be believed over that insane, traitorous piece of scum. But, when
they arrived in the stand of trees where the attack had occurred, there was no bound
man waiting. There were the shreds of her petticoat and the impression of a body in the
soil but no Nigel Lambert.

Her father grumbled and ranted under his breath about his crazed daughter and

how he would find no peace in this life. Cora herself was more concerned about where
Lambert was now and what he had planned for her or for Marcus. Her fears were
somewhat relieved when Sir John on his horse encountered them halfway back to
Afydden Manor.

“I say! Master Searle, I have a report of the most alarming nature to make. One of

my men came through this road this morning and found my guest, Master Lambert,
bound like a trussed pig! He released him at once, of course and Lambert told the most
horrible story of being attacked by ruffians last night on his way back from the town. I
must insist we send out warnings to the neighboring villages at the very least and go
out and search for their lair!”

Did the man even stop for breath? Cora blinked at him in astonishment. “Where is

Master Lambert now, Sir John? Is he recovered from his ordeal?”

Sir John frowned at this. “Master Lambert was so disturbed by the experience he

has left Sandown with all speed. In fact, by now he is surely on the ferry out of Ryde
and heading back to his home near London.”

Cora breathed out a sigh of relief. Then she worried where the man was really

headed and with what information. If he was really a spy for the Spanish as Marcus
said, then he carried with him knowledge that could benefit England’s enemies. She
had to get to Marcus as soon as possible!

They bade Sir John adieu and walked back toward the Manor. “I am sorry, child. I

should not have doubted you.” Her father’s voice was grave, his manner pensive. “I
have been so frightened for you, Cora. All these years, I have worried about you and
your happiness. And here, almost at my doorstep, to have such a thing happen! I-I must
believe that whatever talents you possess are a gift from God, if they let you defeat such
a man from his foul intents.”

She blinked back sudden tears and gave her father a kiss on the cheek. The man

actually blushed for a moment and gave her a worried smile.

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“Do not worry, Papa. I am well. And once Master Mares returns, I believe it highly

likely that my happiness will be secure.”

His bushy eyebrows shot up at this news. “Truly! I am happy to know you are

positively inclined toward him. I have not told you but I received a very interesting
missive from a London bank yesterday, detailing the considerable holdings of your
suitor. The man could no doubt buy half the island if he was decided upon the matter.
At least I have no worries in regards to his abilities to support you should he declare his
interest. But with one short day’s acquaintance, how come you to know…”

She pressed a finger to his lips. “Do not ask that, Papa. I believe you would rather

not know. Know only that he is my match in body and soul and I love him.”

He smiled at her, a smile which reached his gray eyes and overflowed with what

she knew to be tenderness. “That is all that I ask for, my child. That is all that anyone
could ask.”

* * * * *

The day seemed to pass as slowly as honey dripping from the comb. As she helped

organize the weekly washing and steam filled the kitchens, she was lost in thoughts of
Marcus and how soon he would return to her. If he was safe, or if the wind had
deposited him even farther away than Totland. She did not know what business he still
had to finish on the other side of the Isle, or what route he would take to return to her. It
was a rough twenty miles through Newport and the surrounding hills to take the
shortest route. If more than a week passed without his return, she wondered if she
should set out looking for him somehow.

What she found most interesting was that, in all of her musing, she had no doubts

that he would, in fact, return to her. Somewhere in all of the extraordinary happenings
of their courtship, he had won her trust. She knew he would come for her.

By midday, she was sitting in the parlor, working on fixing some embroidery

stitches on a tapestry that had been somewhat damaged the night previously in the
flurry of wind that had sailed through the house. Cora was still amazed that no one had
awoken to find her naked and shivering on the dining table. It had taken her a good
hour to clean up the mess and try to put things back in some semblance of order.

She was trying not to prick her finger as her mind kept wandering back to the

passionate look in her lover’s eyes as he brought her over the edge of endurance over
and over again. Intent on fixing a small garden of flowers stitched into the heavy fabric,
she winced suddenly in pain. Not from a misplaced needle but a sudden sharp pain in
her womb, gone before she was sure it had been there. She shook her head at the odd
sensation, unexpected as her courses were not due for a fortnight.

Trying once again to settle her mind to her work, she was interrupted once again,

this time by a vigorous banging on the front door. Sarah and Maggie were still busy
with the washing and all the other servants were assuredly at their duties. No visitors
were expected. With a sudden rush of hope, she got up, abandoning her sewing as she

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ran to the hallway and peered through the peephole. With a happy cry, she hurried to
lift the bar.

Marcus almost collapsed into her arms when she opened the door. But heavens be

praised he was a sight for sore eyes. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his boots faded
from bright garish red to a ruddy tan, his hair plastered to his head under his wide-
brimmed hat.

He pulled off the dark spectacles covering his eyes and gasped one word from

chapped lips. “Water!”

“Maggie! Sarah! Some water to the parlor and be quick about it!”
Cora went to prop him upright and get him to walk with her to the sitting room.

But once she had ducked under his arm, he simply wrapped her in a tight embrace,
regardless of the location or the approaching servants.

He whispered in her ear, his voice rough. “You did not answer my question, ashavi.

I hurried to your side so I could hear the answer from your lips.”

She blushed and he tenderly stroked her cheek, even that effort obviously costing

him.

“Answer the man’s question, child! Before I ask him quite a few questions of my

own. Like why he is in such an intimate embrace with my daughter in the entryway to
my home!” her father’s voice boomed over them from where he had appeared outside
his study but Marcus did not even flinch. He just held her tighter.

Core smiled suddenly, not able to keep up a pretext of maidenly restraint given the

ridiculousness of the situation. All her doubts, all her fears melted into nothingness. She
would be happy. At least, she would try.

“Yes, you silly fool. I will marry you!”
A cheer went up from the small group of servants and her brother Edgar. Even her

father chuckled. “Good. Then I won’t have to beat anyone to a bloody pulp today.
Although with Master Mares practically falling at my feet, I believe that would be a
simple enough matter. Cora, my dear, I think you might wish to take your betrothed
upstairs to rest. We can discuss details when the fellow is conscious again.”

Cora smiled at him in gratitude for the implicit acceptance and blessing from her

father. But it was true that Marcus was in no condition for discussion of a marriage
settlement. In the joy of hearing her answer, Marcus had slumped in her arms, his head
nestled into the crook of her neck and his eyes closed in bliss.

The man must have set a record to cross the island by foot, if the wind had indeed

returned him to Totland. As such, he deserved to rest in comfort. Edgar stepped
forward and helped maneuver the dead weight of his soon-to-be brother so that both he
and Cora were supporting Marcus as he was half shuffled, half dragged up the staircase
to the bedchambers. Her father called up after them, “The guest chambers, Cora. He is
not yet your husband! I will have no talk about you in the village, even if you are to
marry a foreigner.”

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She blushed crimson in mortification at Maggie and Sarah’s loud laughter and

cursed her father for knowing too well what she had wanted to do. Only her father
could think of a fellow Englishman as a foreigner if he was not from the Isle. Still once
Marcus was ensconced on the bed, his hands refused to let go of her dress and she
succeeded in shooing Edgar out of the room.

Alone with him, she pressed kisses to his face, his hands and every inch of exposed

skin as she slowly undressed him. She tugged off his well-worn boots, managing not to
fall on her rump and alert her father to her presence in the guest room. She eased the
rest of Marcus’ clothes from his body and inhaled the musky scent of the sweat he had
worked up in order to get to her.

She was remarkably aroused and even if he was snoring loudly by now, she had to

touch him. She snuck out into the hall and retrieved the water pitcher from her own
bedroom, returning with it and wetting some soft linen cloths. Then she proceeded to
wash him slowly, reveling in having his body under her control. He thrashed slightly
under her ministrations and she felt guilty for indulging in her own desires when he
was exhausted. But as her eyes swept down the length of his body she could see that
part of him was responding very strongly to her attentions.

His cock was pointing toward the sky and simply begging for her touch. She moved

to settle between Marcus’ knees and set her hands toward working on the tense aching
muscles of his thighs. As one kind of tension left those muscles and his rest grew more
calm, another kind of tension grew as his delicious cock bobbed in front of her eager
mouth. When she could stand the temptation no longer, she licked the leaking tip of
him, tasting his flavor once again.

He grunted but lapsed back into the heavy breathing of sleep. Cora smiled and

circled the edge of the head with the tip of her tongue. He snorted loudly and she
almost laughed. Taking pity on the man, she took his cock into her mouth, her warmth
softly soothing and yet stimulating all at the same time. She wrapped one hand around
the thick base of his cock and moved up and down the rest of his length with her
mouth, the tip of him bumping into the opening to her throat with each down stroke.

His hips moved under her and he panted above her but as she looked up at him

through her lashes she still could not tell if he was asleep or awake, or somewhere
halfway between. The savory taste of him made her work harder and harder, loving
him and sucking until he curled into a ball around her and with a shout erupted
streams into her mouth. She lapped up his cum eagerly, letting his essence fill her as
proof that he was real, he was here. Dreams were all well and good but the reality was
so much more potent even than the extraordinary dreams they had been sharing.

Cora placed a last kiss on the tip of his softening phallus, then she backed away

climbing off the bed and pulling the sheets over his naked body. As she stood beside
the bed, she bent over him to kiss his cheek and let him finally rest undisturbed but he
turned and pulled her down into a deep, thorough kiss that made her toes tingle with
need. Then he opened those golden eyes and asked in a rough voice.

“You said yes?”

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She laughed softly. “I said yes.”
“Good.” And he was asleep the next moment.
She waited to roar in laughter until she was out in the hallway and the door was

closed. It would definitely be interesting to be married to Marcus Mares.

* * * * *

All in all, it was simple enough to give in. After all, she had given him her heart and

if he did leave her, she would feel no worse for having given him her hand. Marcus
stayed in the household, safely ensconced in the guest chambers and off limits. The first
night he’d been back, after having come down to eat supper with the family and regale
them with stories from the rest of the Isle, she had been more than ready to complete
the game she had started with him when he’d first arrived. But as both her door and his
opened once the house was dark and quiet, both she and Marcus were abashed to find
Master Searle standing in the hallway, his arms crossed in front of him.

“None of that, you two. The banns will be read and you’ll be church married soon

enough. I expect you to act with honor while in this house.” His voice was as stern as
his countenance. Marcus nodded gravely, while Cora wanted to whine like a
disappointed child. Three long weeks with Marcus so close and yet so far.

Still it was wonderful to talk with him and laugh with him, to plan out a life

together. There was a flurry of messages sent back and forth to London and to Devon.
Marriage contracts were settled and signed and when the first Sunday arrived and the
vicar read the banns in church, an audible gasp went up from the congregation.

Cora expected derision but she was surprised by the warmth of Sandown and its

people. The women of the village descended to help her with a flurry of preparations
once the banns had been read for the second time. Cora blamed Maggie for the invasion
of women talking about lace and embroidery and linens, and laughing with ribald
suggestions about the appetites of a sailor such as Marcus Mares. Or Marcus Searle, if
he was to be believed in his devotion to the practices of his people.

And he was chipping away at her disbelief, slowly but surely. Yes, Marcus left on

another brief trip to check on readiness preparations but he came back as quickly as he
could manage. He had even taken to riding an old horse from the Searle stables so he
could accomplish his journeys more quickly and given how much he seemed to dislike
riding, that was quite a sacrifice. And if he was not physically at her side every day, he
was in her dreams every night, where he worshiped her body and she his and then they
talked about everything and nothing at all.

When he was here, they talked. And her father and Edgar seemed to blossom in his

presence, becoming less morose everyday that he was part of the household. Just as she
herself was becoming more and more the person she should be.

If it wasn’t for the incessant giggling of the women crowding into the house and the

gnawing worry about the Spanish invasion that hovered over everyone and everything,
this would have been the happiest time in Cora’s life. It was almost as though she could

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lead a fulfilling life as a wife and perhaps if heaven was kind, even have children
somehow. By adoption or fostering perhaps.

But there were still shadows that crept in. Cora missed her mother’s calm sanity,

especially in the midst of the crazed bevy of women who were making eyes at her man
and taking joy in poking her with needles as she stood for dress fittings. So far, Cora
had managed not to cause a small hurricane in her desire to sweep these well-meaning
women from the house but oh she would be glad when this was all over!

Three Sundays finally passed and her wedding day arrived. The end of May was a

glorious time on the Isle, with flowers blooming in riotous abandon and the grapevines
beginning to bud with the promise of harvest. Her dress was finished, the wedding
breakfast planned and prepared and all was in readiness. Cora tried to ignore the
butterflies in her stomach and the urge to retch when she woke that morning.

Maggie spent her time between helping Sarah dress Cora and arrange her hair and

returning to the kitchen to oversee the helpers hired to finish the wedding breakfast.
The old woman was caught between smiles and tears all day, as was Cora herself. Her
dress was the finest she owned, the lightest, softest sky blue linen that the cloth
merchant had been keeping for a special occasion. It had long flowing sleeves. An
overskirt of pale cream silk accented the darts of blue and the bodice was laced to
display her firm breasts to their best advantage. She wore pale cream roses in her hair
and carried them in a small bouquet. Finally the appointed hour arrived and she found
herself riding in the best farm wagon with her father on the way to the church. Would
Marcus be there? She had not seen him all day, as was tradition but she knew she
would have felt better if she had. The swaying motion was not helping her nausea in
the least.

But then, the wagon had arrived and she and her father stood at the doors of the

parish church. And suddenly, all was right with the world. Her father gave her a
brilliant smile as she turned to him, pressing a kiss against his cheek just before the
doors opened. A voice within Cora had feared that fate would somehow prevent this
day from happening but when the doors swung open and the brilliant light of May
filled the flower-decked church, there was nothing but smiles greeting her from the
congregation, the priest and most of all, the wonderful man in dark blue standing at the
altar, most amazingly waiting for her.

She blinked back tears and took a step forward, her father supporting her as she

wobbled slightly. But soon enough she was walking so fast her father’s laughter rang in
her ears but the smile in Marcus’ extraordinary eyes led her forward toward something
she’d never thought she’d have. Happiness.

The ceremony went by in a whirl of praying and standing, kneeling and speaking

words that she could barely keep from shouting. The sound of his deep voice, the clear
devotion in his golden eyes as he pledged his troth to her for a lifetime, all bound her to
him completely. She realized that she had been his from that moment on the cliffs, from
before she’d even known for certain he existed. He truly was part of her soul and now
she felt complete.

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They stepped out into the sun as man and wife and though the announcement of

“Marcus and Cora Searle” had set tongues awagging, the oddity was accepted soon
enough. It had taken much longer to convince the old vicar that Marcus truly intended
on taking her name, rather then the opposite. The villagers were more interested in
getting back to Afydden Manor and the excellent vintages that Master Searle, well,
Master Enoch Searle, would surely offer on the day of his only daughter’s unexpected
wedding.

The wedding breakfast was a riotous affair, with much toasting and much feasting

and a good deal of singing. Cora couldn’t concentrate on much of that. It was quite
obvious that Marcus also could not think of the arrangements. He barely touched the
excellent wine. If not engaged in conversation with one of the well wishers, they spent
most of the time consuming each other with their eyes, trading unspoken promises for
the night ahead.

No matter how much they had talked of being bonded before their marriage was

official in the eyes of the law, for her wedding night Cora felt quite different. There was
an odd mixture of two completely opposite instincts—a release of all inhibitions and yet
a strange nervousness as though she was truly a blushing virgin. Tonight, there would
be nothing between them, not society’s disapproval or the need to hide or even her own
doubts and fears. She came to him reborn and renewed. Cora didn’t know if she could
contain such joy.

Every time Marcus looked at her, she could see the want in his eyes, the flare of his

nostrils as though he was trying to catch her scent and the slow but feral smile that
betraying his need to devour her. After the weeks of separation given the crowded
household and the watchful eyes of her father, she longed to escape the rows of tables
laden with roasts and potages, pies and sweetmeats and simply flee to the forest and
worship her husband under the beautiful blue sky.

But the happy smile her father wore, the look of pride in Maggie’s tearful eyes and

even the slightly tipsy grin her brother Edgar gave her all kept her there, smiling and
nodding to the guests. She even tolerated a sloppy kiss on the cheek from Sir John, who
seemed reasonably resigned to the loss of her and had already taken up courting the
Widow Falger from Shankin. She’d once worried that Sir John had somehow been in
league with Lambert and hence the Spanish, but it was soon apparent that Sir John had
known nothing about his houseguest other than the man had gossip from the Court of
Elizabeth.

The afternoon was bright and sunny, the vivid blooms for which the Isle was

known lending the air a sweet fragrance and a colorful festive feel. Wine flowed and the
buds on the vines surrounding the house showed every indication that wine would
flow for years to come. As for the gusts of wind, they blew the tablecloths askew and
fluttered women’s skirts above their ankles, but no one seemed to notice that the wind
gusted strongest whenever the bride and groom stood particularly close together. In
fact, the strength of the wind often appeared to be consistent with the intensity of the
rosy blush in Cora’s cheeks as the groom whispered promises in his bride’s ear.

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Finally, drunken revelers began to stagger home as the sun dipped toward the

horizon. Cora suddenly wondered where they would be spending their wedding night.
She was not sure if she wished to be quite so close to Edgar, not to mention her father,
when she needed to unleash weeks of pent-up desire for her mate.

Her father drew near and embraced her warmly, tears glistening in his eyes and

sparkling in the rays of the setting sun.

“Do you remember Stone Bower, Cora dear?”
She nodded, not certain why he should speak of it. It was a sturdy, ancient cottage

on the far southern edge of the Searle property. Made of stone and a good slate roof, it
strangely had never had a tenant in Cora’s memory but she and her brothers had loved
to come up with strange tales to account for its history.

“When your mother and I were first married, your grandfather was still alive and

we wished, as all young couples do, for privacy.” His mustache twitched upward with
a cock-eyed grin that made her blush. “And rightly so. So, for several years, until your
mother was first expecting Edmund…” His gruff voice caught for a moment with
emotion, as he spoke of two people he loved dearly who were no longer there to share
in this special day. “We lived in Stone Bower. It held some of the happiest memories for
me and I could never bear to have anyone live there except for my ghosts. But it needs
new young people to make new memories, my daughter. It needs happiness again. So, I
am giving you two the cottage as a wedding present, your own home to make merry
in.”

Speechless, she embraced her father with all the love in her heart and wept tears of

joy into his gray doublet.

“Do not cry, Cora love. Go with your young man. I don’t expect to see you for

several days, so do not worry about Edgar and me. We shall manage well enough.”

Marcus stood quietly by in his dark blue doublet and hose, the turn of his leg and

the breadth of his chest well displayed. She once again was struck by her extraordinary
luck in finding him. Or rather, in him seeing her across all that distance and coming in
search of her. To be wanted and loved by such a man was a remarkable experience.

She hugged her father one last time and hugged her drunken brother as well,

laughing as he whispered his relief at not having to hear the two of them for days on
end. Marcus shook both his new relatives’ hands and then he took Cora’s hand. They
walked through the vineyards and toward the wooded copse where the cottage peeked
through toward them. Marcus clutched a large iron key in his hands and Cora worried
what kind of mess would greet them in their new home. Then Marcus looked at her
with fire in his eyes and suddenly she could not care less if they fucked on a dirt floor
with bats hanging in the roof. She needed him now!

She picked up her skirts in one hand and as she gripped his large hand with her

small one she began to run, tugging him behind her and laughing at the stars just
beginning to glimmer in the late spring sky.

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Chapter Thirteen

He could barely run, his cock was straining against the confines of his codpiece. She

had a rosy blush on her cheeks, her hair was starting to tumble loose from its careful
arrangement and frame her beloved face in loose dark tendrils, the entrancing swell of
her breasts above the bodice of her dress was irresistable. Damn but he could barely
contain the urge to drag her down to the ground and ravish her between the
grapevines. If it had been later in the season and there had been more leaves to insure
their privacy, he would have done just that. But he knew that the cottage would be
perfectly, wonderfully private and he could make her scream in satisfaction and have
no worries of interruption or discovery.

Besides, he had worked hard in the last weeks to make it into someplace she would

love. Someplace he could keep her hostage to his roaring need for at least a solid week.
When she began to run, her eagerness matching his in every way, his desire grew even
more, until he was practically a rabid beast, ready to break free of every convention of
civilization. When they arrived at Stone Bower, he was barely in control. Instead of
opening the door, he pushed Cora up against the wood and kissed her, thrusting his
hips against her and demanding she respond.

He was met with enthusiastic agreement. Their kiss was searing, consuming, feral.

She bit his lips hard enough to draw blood and their tongues tangled as though fighting
for dominance. Both of them wanted the same thing—each other.

Cora whimpered slightly in pain and Marcus realized that the key he still held was

digging painfully into her ribs. He pulled away, breathing hard and finally put the key
in the lock and turned it. The door swung open without a creak, revealing the newly
polished and clean interior. He should have been proud and let her soak in the
surroundings as he gave her a tour of the four-room cottage and its new furniture and
fittings.

But she had no interest in the cottage. She wanted only one thing. She ducked

under his arm and walked into the cottage, heading straight for the soft fur rug in front
of the fireplace. She knelt in the welcoming luxury and before he could try to
understand what she was doing she pulled up her skirts and leaned forward onto her
hands. She wore no undergarments and the perfection of her ass was on display, her
pussy pink and glistening. She looked over her shoulder at him and raised an eloquent
eyebrow as if to say, “Fool, what are you waiting for?”

So much for a masterfully slow seduction. They both had bottled up too much need

for that. In a moment, the door was shut and locked and he was behind her, the ties of
his codpiece ripped off and his cock posed at her slick core. With a groan, he sank into
heaven as her walls surrounded him. She hissed her appreciation, pushing back against

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him until he was buried within her up to his balls. He paused for a moment, feeling her
throb around him, unable to tell whether the pulse he felt was her heartbeat or his own.
He realized that it mattered not, from now on, they were as one.

Unhappy with his lack of action, Cora pulled away from him slightly, only to ram

her hips backward and take him within her again. He gritted his teeth, resisting the
impulse to simply explode with the unearthly pleasure of being inside her after weeks
of abstinence. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on long but he’d be damned for a
scurvy knave if he’d not bring her at least one shattering climax.

Marcus set up a slow, teasing rhythm to keep her somewhat satisfied as he tried to

hold onto his sanity. He pushed up her skirts so he could see the luscious ass of his wife
and leaned forward, still slowly pumping within her, and yanked down the front of her
bodice, allowing her breasts to spill out into his greedy hands. Pinching her nipples
between his fingers he rammed his cock in just a tiny bit harder and drank in her moans
with gusto.

“Please! Please harder! Oh God, Marcus, harder!” Her yells were unrestrained and

words shifted into incoherent moans that ricocheted off the stone walls and made his
ears ring. He had to obey, shifting his knees and moving one hand down to her hip,
gripping her tightly so he could begin to ride her.

Letting loose some of his rigid control, he let the animal in him out much to his

wife’s satisfaction. Her moans grew into screams and once again the wind began to rise
as she got closer and closer to her peak. His fingers curled around her hips and began to
stroke her nub in time with his thrusts and she bucked like a wild horse. Just as she
began to convulse, squeezing him to the limits of his endurance, he slapped his palm
repeatedly against the beautiful pale curve of her ass and she soared over the edge with
a mighty gust, clamping around him until he burst. He thrust into her with a few last
strokes and erupted a huge stream of semen, the result of weeks of wanting.

Together, they collapsed sideways onto the rug, his arm trapped under her, still

cupping her breast. Slowly, full consciousness returned as the wind calmed and the air
was filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing.

“I am glad, wife, that I made certain there was nothing in the room to be blown

about. Otherwise, our home would be a mess before you even had a chance to view it.”

Cora snorted in indignation but gave him the slow smile of a pleased woman that

made a voice inside him growl with glee. She rolled away from him and onto her knees
to take a look around. For a moment, he wished he hadn’t said anything but then again,
he’d prefer their next encounter to occur in their bed rather than on the floor. He’d
stretched the rope bedframe himself and acquired the best feather bed to be had on the
Isle. He did not plan to let her leave the thing for at least two days.

She stood on shaky legs and looked from the large fireplace and the chairs and

settees surrounding it to the tapestries on the walls and the silver candelabras. Her
mouth opened in shock as she took in the fine carpets under her feet. Smiling at him

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coquettishly, she kicked off her slippers and ran to the next room, her hair slowly falling
out of its complex style with every step, flower petals raining in her wake.

In the kitchen, she hopped up on the fine sturdy table and bit her full lower lip,

cocking her head in invitation even as she inspected the cooking fireplace, the work
surfaces and all cookware stored neatly on the wall.

“No, ashavi. I want you in my bed!” He scooped her up into his arms and she

wrinkled her nose at him. Opening her mouth to speak, he shushed her with a searing
kiss. Breaking away, his cock once again at attention, he said, “There will be time for
everything, ashavi. I promise you that.”

He carried her to their bedroom with the fine big bed and its lush feather mattress.

They helped each other take off their wedding finery until all Cora wore was the
remains of her roses and a rosy blush. He worshipped her until dawn touched the sky
and they slept in each others’ arms until morning turned to afternoon.

* * * * *

Their week passed all too quickly, joy making time fly by with the wings of a

falcon. They laughed and loved, Cora showing him her cooking skills and Marcus
clearing the table in order to have dessert—which was her, of course. She loved the
house and all of the improvements he had made in the weeks prior to their wedding
and Marcus gave thanks every day to his father-in-law for his wisdom in opening this
home once again. Cora blossomed into breathtaking beauty and every day he loved her
more, until even the thought from being parted from her was painful.

But, duty began to press against his soul and he knew he would have to travel once

again to check on the preparations of the watch fires. In the beginning of June, word
had come by courier that a huge number of ships had sailed from Lisbon in Portugal on
the twenty-eighth of May and there could be no question their eventual destination was
the shores of England.

There seemed little doubt that Lambert had gotten his maps to the Spanish and if

so, then the Isle of Wight was open to them, a perfect trial invasion to set up a base of
operations across from one of the largest ports in England and the mouth of the
Thames, the highway into the heart of the kingdom. But when he finally brought up the
topic, Cora was quite ready with her response.

“I’m going with you. Simple as that. I’ve never been more than three miles from

Sandown on the Isle and I would like to see a bit more of the world while I’ve the
chance. Think of it as a practice for when we travel to meet your family.”

He blinked at her and then smiled, overjoyed at the solution she’d come up with.

“If you can stand the dirt and the inconvenience, whyever not? We are surely stronger
together than apart.”

“Exactly my point, sirrah. And I can stand the dirt as well as anyone, I assure you. I

warn you, I was a wild young thing, constantly with dirt between my toes and
brambles in my hair.”

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“I would not have you any other way, my heart.”

* * * * *

This time, the trip from village to village was not a punishment, it was a joy.

Marcus enjoyed every mile in the plodding little donkey cart. Every tree and blade of
grass seemed to soak up the summer sun and glow a vivid, lively green. Every pond
and grassy meadow was an invitation to stop and “rest”, to make love in the sunshine,
worshipping his wife in every way he could.

It was a delight to see her smile, to hear her laugh, to talk to her about anything and

everything. Beneath the cold and distant woman he had first met those weeks ago was
the charming lovely blossom now by his side. She wore a straw hat bedecked with dry
flowers and a comfortable traveling dress and the threat of the Spanish was far from
their minds as they enjoyed their honeymoon.

Master Swidden was quite happy to see them again and Marcus was pleasantly

surprised by how well preparations had gone in Lowtherville. This time, instead of a
drafty attic, Swidden seemed so enthralled with Marcus’ blushing and beautiful bride
that he found them a little cottage that had no tenant and though there was a bit of dust
about the place and the bed made a loud creaking noise, Cora’s giggles at the sounds
they made were a delight.

They stayed more than a week and Cora had made several fond acquaintances and

received a large new order for Afydden Vineyard’s wine from the local pub. Marcus
spent time overseeing the finishing touches on the construction of several fire towers
and the rest of the time enjoying his bride. Cora seemed to glow with more than the
touch of the sun and the soft sea breeze. He hoped it was with happiness.

Niton was equally charmed by his wife and Mistress Eggle was overjoyed to be the

first to receive a visit from the newly married pair. She would have grist for the gossip
mills for months with the sure and certain knowledge that the Searle girl was nowhere
near as odd as had been reported and that she was no more a witch or devil worshipper
than the vicar was. The oddest thing was actually the husband! He’d taken to calling
himself Searle now, rather than the normal way of things. Those not from the Isle were
mad sometimes. Simply mad.

Cora stood at St. Catherine’s Point and breathed in the sea air with a wide grin on

her face. The lonely majesty of the place was unforgettable, the power of wind and sea
undeniable. He took her hand to share in her wonder and looked at her sweet face for a
moment before gazing out toward the coast of France. Cora gasped and dropped his
hand, then looked back and forth between the sea and his face with a look of awe. Then
she gripped his hand again and stared in delight.

“This is what you can see? Every beach and cliff? Even the tiny fishing boats?” she

whispered reverently. “It is all so amazing. Thank you for sharing this with me.” He
gathered her into his arms and kissed the top of her head and they stood there until the
sun began to set.

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Accommodations in Niton were not quite as spacious as the cabin in Lowtherville

but the guest room in the parsonage was at least more private than the bunkhouse. The
bed was tiny and they had to sleep very, very closely, which was no hardship. In fact,
the night was a long languorous session of lovemaking. Face to face on the narrow cot,
sex was of necessity quiet and gentle. Slow and sensual, he brought her to climax and
then let himself fall over the edge, falling asleep while still embedded within her.

Throughout the night, one or the other would awaken and tease the other one with

slow, wet kisses or pinched nipples. Marcus would slide in and out of Cora’s sweet wet
pussy while she clung to him, panting her pleasure into his neck as she shuddered to
her climax. In return she would clamp the muscles of her sheath down around his cock,
making every stroke utter bliss until his orgasm burst upon him like a sudden summer
storm. Waking up with his hard cock embraced within his ashavi was like heaven on
earth and he thanked the heavens that he had finally won her.

Only his extraordinary happiness had allowed him to keep calm with the

magistrate in Upper Niton. Marcus had to endure a panicked lecture regarding the
impossibility of the Spanish landing on the Isle, given the gigantic size of their ships
and the notorious difficult currents in these waters. Marcus had been red-faced with
rage but Cora had smoothed things over with a deft hand, using not only her charms to
win over the magistrate, Master Giles but also his wife. Once Mistress Giles understood
the gravity of the situation as it would apply to herself and her daughters should the
Spanish try to land off St. Catherine’s Point, Marcus knew that Master Giles would find
no peace until he obeyed the Queen’s command and set up the watch fires on either
side of Niton town.

They moved on toward Brightstone and were honored guests in the tiny, beautiful

village of thatched-roof cottages and smiling faces. Midsummer was a joyous occasion
of celebration and they greeted the rising sun of the longest day of the year naked upon
a grassy hill in a secluded niche in the coast a mile from the town, watching the sun rise
over the Channel mist in an explosion of oranges and pinks. They made love as the
dawn bore full fruit, Cora sitting aside him and whimpering as he sucked and bit her
nipples, which seemed to grow only more sensitive with his attentions.

Her body fascinated him more and more every day, the weight of her breasts in his

hands, the strength of her thighs, the perfect flaring curves of her hips. The sun rising
behind her could not compete with the shining love and passion in her eyes. The
entirety of the world spread before him for the taking would mean nothing in
comparison with her love freely given. Be it their destiny, pure chance, or a blessing
from God, what they shared was more precious that all the gold on a Manila galleon.

This glorious morn was followed with days of ceaseless rain and Cora and Marcus

were trapped in the home of the village head, making silent love in the stuffy attic and
talking for hours. Marcus entertained Cora and the household with sea chanties, highly
edited for the wee ones who had large ears for the kind of language sailors made free
with. Cora told the children fairy tales and Marcus could easily imagine her with their

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own dark-haired children, laughing and singing and teaching. All in all, even the rain
could not repress his boundless happiness in her presence.

Once the rain let up, work could start once more. With the help of Cora, their

wagon and all the helpful villagers who had completed spring planting, the people of
Brightstone and Brook finished the series of low watch towers with their piles of dry
kindling ready to light at a moment’s notice. Every young man and boy competed for
the task of manning the towers, eager to be the first to sight the oncoming Spanish.

Although most of the work was done, they could not leave this end of the island

without a view of the Needles and the tall pillar of Lot’s Wife at the center of the sheer
chalk monuments.

They borrowed a small boat from a friendly fisherman from the town of

Freshwater, who was more than happy to earn a day’s wages to please the newlyweds.
Marcus rowed an excited Cora to the tiny strip of inaccessible beach called Scratchell’s
Bay. As the Needles came into view, Cora’s lips parted in awe of the remarkable work
of nature, as the sea wore away the rock into incredible pillars. Once properly beached
and the oars stowed, Marcus gave in to the insatiable need to kiss those lips and for a
fair few minutes, the glorious view was forgotten. A cry from a pelican interrupted
what was certain to become a passionate game and Cora once again turned her gray
eyes to the glistening sea and the towering rock.

The Needles rose from the ocean like the deadly teeth of a sea monster. It was the

currents around them that caught ships with their bite, crushing the pride of many a
fleet over the course of centuries. The gate of the Solent was not kind to strangers to the
English shore. Marcus could only hope the Needles cut the Spanish with the same
ravenous appetite.

Cora took his hand, using his eyes to see into the distance all the way to the coast of

Cornwall and the very tip of England. And farther, to the wide, wide expanse of ocean
stretching all the way to the mysterious new world Sir Walter Raleigh and others
explored in the name of the queen. Marcus could feel her shiver, taking in the vastness
of the world, just as he had once done as a boy first setting sail with Drake and losing
sight of land, even with his keen eyes. It had been a humbling experience but she need
not do it alone.

His own eyes grew wide as he looked and although he could not actually see the

swirling winds off the coast, he could somehow sense them, like a limb he had forgotten
existed, feeling the glory of the patterns they danced and their attraction to the woman
standing by his side. Life would never be completely smooth sailing when your wife
was a windsprite but he would never lack for wind in his sails either!

Disregarding the possible presence of observers on the tall cliffs above them,

Marcus leaned down to capture her lips in the kiss that sent a clear message of desire.
The sand was enough of a cushion as they succumbed to the need to ground themselves
in each other. He knelt above her, her ass in his hands and her legs resting on his chest
as he slid within her and watched her eyes reflect the blue of the sky and the fire of her
lust. Driven to please her over and over again, after her first bright sweet orgasm he

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circled her nub with his thumb, luxuriating in the flutters and shudders of the strong
muscles of her sheath as she writhed on the sand, her black hair speckled with sand and
rocks, which he knew she would complain about bitterly. But he would help her wash
those long wild tresses and make love to her in the warm bathwater afterwards.

Her nails bit into his ass as she pulled him toward her, intent on his joining her in

abandonment to passion and he could no longer deny her. He felt the wind sing around
them as ecstasy broke through, he felt the celebration within and without. When he
collapsed over her, her smile said everything and he kissed her full lips and pulled her
into his arms as they rested together on the sand, the seabirds squawking around them
and the song of the waves filling the salty air.

* * * * *

It was halfway through July by the time they settled into the Totland Arms, ready

to return overland across the Isle in a much more relaxed fashion than Marcus’ first
frantic march. The view from the rooms stretched across the Isle toward the heights
near Newport. In fact, it was the same room that he’d been swept from months ago to
her rescue. He had every intension of showing her several of the wicked fantasies that
passed through his mind as he first sat alone in this room but his first seductive kisses
were interrupted by a frantic pounding at the door.

Annoyed, he stomped to the door, leaving Cora on the bed to smooth her skirts in a

frantic attempt to appear composed. Hauling the door opened, he stared down at the
tiny, rotund innkeeper with mayhem on his mind.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Master Searle sir but there’s a letter here from your father.”
“My father?” How would Ladislav Smith know where his son was on his wedding

trip?

“Master Enoch Searle.”
“Oh!” Cora hopped up and snatched the missive from the man. “Thank you, good

sir.”

Breaking the wax seal on the letter, Cora began to read. Marcus watched her face

turn pale.

“What has happened?”
“Edgar! He’s run away to Portsmouth to join the Navy!” She bit her lip and looked

worried. “We should return right away, Papa will need me. Or perhaps we should go
directly to Portsmouth after Edgar to bring him back!”

“Are you sure that’s what he wants? To be brought back like a wayward child?”
“Isn’t that what he is?” Her lip jutted out in defiance and it took all his willpower

not to capture it with his teeth and kiss her back into bed. “We should get to
Portsmouth right away, perhaps we can find him, especially if he’s used your name to
find a position!”

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“He’s a smart lad. He might already have found a ship that has sailed. Clever boys

are always in demand and with my name to back him up, he would find a good ship,
I’m sure.” She pursed her lips and he cocked his head and considered her profile as she
gazed out the window. “Why does this upset you so? For your own sake? For Edgar’s
sake, or for your father’s?”

She rubbed her forehead with the fingers of one hand, her voice lashing at him.

“Did you talk him into this? I know that he listened to every word you spoke as though
it was a pronouncement from God himself!”

She began to pace back and forth and Marcus simply leaned against the wall, his

arms crossed in front of his chest, watching the heat of anger put a flush in her cheek
and a sparkle in her eyes not dissimilar to arousal. “You know your brother better than
I do, ashavi. And you know me. What do you think?”

She stopped and bit her lip, her eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, love. I-I am just

concerned for Edgar. He’s still so young and…”

“And he’s your only brother. But it is what he wants. From what you’ve said, what

he’s always wanted.”

She nodded. “I know we had spoken of visiting Cowes and Yarmouth but I would

get back to Papa as soon as possible and see how this affects him. He is counting on an
heir for the estate from Edgar.” She sniffled lightly and he could not longer resist her.

Stepping forward from his position at the wall, he enfolded her in his arms and

placed a soft kiss against the bridge of her nose, then kissed the tears gathering in the
corner of her eyes. The salty taste of her worry tore at his heart and all he wanted to do
was comfort her.

“I know you have been told that your lot is to be barren, but until you and I are old

and gray and married for forty years without issue, I will not give up on the dream of
seeing a babe suckling at your breast. I do not think you should worry so about it yet.
And if nothing else, there are foundlings aplenty in times of war or peace. You shall
have a child to rear, when you are ready for the task.”

She gave him a weak smile and pulled his head down for a more intense kiss. They

fell once again to the bed, losing their worries in a bout of tender lovemaking. Marcus
worshipped her slowly, letting no inch of skin go unkissed, from the rosy tips of her
toes to the curls at the nape of her neck. They rocked together toward an orgasm that
built slowly, but like a tidal wave it overwhelmed them with its force and power.

In the morning, they set off in their little wagon toward Newport and then

Sandown, intent on comforting Enoch Searle. They left just before the news arrived into
Totland via Yarmouth. The Spanish had been sighted off the coast of St. Michael’s
Mount in Cornwall. Invasion was imminent. God save them all.

* * * * *

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They swung around busy Newport, seeking to make time by bypassing the

crowded town. So, when they pulled into a frantic Sandown, they were unprepared to
see the garrison marching through the town square and men packing their wives and
children into carts to head for the hills.

Enoch Searle, as magistrate, was in the middle of the fray, trying to talk sense into

them and organize some order from the surrounding chaos.

Marcus left the reins in Cora’s capable hands and hopped down to inquire as to the

cause of the uproar.

Enoch pierced him with a baffled look. “What’s this? You spend nigh on two

months trying to get a system working to pass news of invasion across the Isle and you
yourself know nothing of it! Fie! The thrice damned,” he spat on the ground, “Spaniards
have been sighted with a hundred ships off the coast of Cornwall. Only the Pope and
the Devil know where or when they will strike.”

Marcus swore viciously under his breath and looked back toward Cora, nervously

sitting in the cart trying to control the flustered work horse. Part of him wanted to send
her back toward Newport. Hell, he wanted to send her to Scotland! Or India, or
anywhere far away from the raping, thieving evil of the Spanish mercenaries.

Then, he felt a sweet breeze sweeping across the milling crowd, a warm wind filled

with the scent of flowers and fruit and all good things. Without realizing what was
calming them, people began to lower their voices and arguments became discussions,
crying children fell into a restful sleep and animals calmed their frantic stomping.

And Marcus knew that whatever happened, Cora had to be at his side. She was too

strong and would not stand by calmly while a fight for her home brewed along the
coast. What they needed was to practice. To find the limits of their combined strength.

Finally, he made his way back to her. And he could see her hands shaking as she

held the reins.

“The Spanish?” Her face was pale, her eyes stormy.
He nodded, thin-lipped. He took the reins again and steered the cart toward Stone

Bower, knowing that they would not be leaving, no matter what befell the Isle. They
would help others prepare but they would fight.

Hours later, they stood at the height of the Culver Cliffs, three hundred sheer feet of

chalk rising from the sea. The moon shone down and the sea heaved beneath their feet,
white caps shining in the swirling tides of the Spithead channel. Each of them was
strained to their limits, resigned to a sleepless night.

Both had lain awake in Stone Bower, arms entwined but eyes hollow. Marcus had

thought of all his comrades from years aboard ships and how many of them would be
risking their lives for England and its Queen. The whipping of canvas sails in the wind,
the smell of gunpowder and blood and salt, the deafening thunder of a barrage of
cannon fire. He shivered with blood-soaked memories and the taste of fear.

While he was tortured with known terrors, he knew Cora faced the unknown. The

fate of her brother and their country. And the enormous weight of the task they’d set

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for themselves. Deep into the night, they had talked of what they might be capable of.
Until finally, with sleep a distant memory, they rose and walked to the shining cliffs.
This was to be a practice.

Could she truly command the wind? Or was her gift a fluke at the mercy of soft

feminine emotions? Could he guide her with his extraordinary vision, when farsight
was key to understanding the course of events?

In the depths of the night, with no fishermen out to sea or ships visible as far as his

keen eyes could see, she called on a gift she had only begun to let out from its cage. Her
eyes fixed on the sea and he took her cold hand in his warm one. Marcus could easily
see across the tidal whorls of the Spithead, toward the mainland. But now, with his
senses enhanced with her gifts, he could feel the currents in wind and water, the violent
collision of where air and sea met and dueled for domination. Then, from deep within
her, he could feel a bright fire flare, one that had been shuttered and waiting, like a
stray ember that could set forth a forest fire if left to burn out of control.

The fire reached out to the air, pleading, cajoling, caressing and dancing, until the

wind spun harder and faster, first from the west, then from the east. Now north, now
south, now swirling into the makings of a crushing hurricane.

Then, with a punishing effort that seemed to sap the life out of her, she called it

back. He embraced her in his arms, holding her up and willing his energy to support
her as the gale subsided slowly, slowly, until there was nothing but the barest whisper
of wind. And then stillness.

The water was like glass and Cora sagged in his arms. When she looked into his

eyes, he could see the storm still lived in her. She kissed him, sharing for a moment the
mad whirl of power that breathed from her. As he tasted the maelstrom on her lips, she
collapsed, no longer able to stay conscious.

He carried her back to their home, his body rigid with tension and fear. He lay next

to her on their soft feather bed, stroking her hair and kissing her dry lips until, like a
fever breaking, her sleep became deep and restful rather than tortured.

By morning, she was kissing him awake and rose above him, ready to impale

herself on his morning erection. She had conquered the wind and now, she was its
queen.

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Chapter Fourteen

By July the twenty-fourth Sandown seemed empty, with so many having made for

the mainland or Newport, once word had spread. Cora walked through the town
square with fresh fish and five pounds of wheat flour in her basket, determined that she
would stay, even if she was the last woman left in Sandown by the time the damn
Spanish got here.

Rumors flew swifter than the birds. Elizabeth had already surrendered. The Spanish had

sunk in that freakish storm the other night. Drake had called up a sea serpent to defend England
from its enemies. They were more and more wild. She had sent Marcus down to the Fire
and Flood just to try to separate the wheat from the chaff and see what real news there
was to be had.

The best information to be had seemed to be highly mixed as to the fate of the

English. The Spanish had pinned the fleet into Plymouth harbor but had failed to press
their advantage and sailed away. Drake, Lord Howard and the best of British naval skill
had barreled out once the tide allowed them and followed the Spanish, using the
weather of the Channel and their speedier ships to force the Spanish to inconclusive
battles at Eddystone and the tiny Isle of Portland.

Now the question loomed, would the Spanish attempt to gain a foothold in

England, or would they sprint across the Channel to pick up the thirty thousand troops
said to be waiting in the Spanish Netherlands? The Isle of Wight lay across their path
and the ripe peach of Portsmouth with its deep harbors and control of the Thames was
a tasty meal for a commander as hungry as Medina-Sidonia.

Cora had listened to Marcus’ explanations and understood nothing so well as that

the Spanish would pass this way. Though it had taken all her strength to marshal her
powers, if she could do something to push them from the coast and her home, she
would.

Suddenly, there was a huge commotion from the barracks, as a cannon fired and

yells were heard. It was not time for practice and this was not the regimented firings
that signaled the division testing their aim. Cora’s eyes flickered toward the watch fire
tower that had been erected near the barracks and sure enough, the fire was burning
hot and high, the sentry waving his arms and yelling.

Grabbing her skirts in her free hand, she took off running to find her husband.

There was no time to lose. The Spanish had been sighted off the coast of the Isle.

Within half an hour, she and Marcus were once again at the top of the Culver Cliffs,

staring out at over a hundred ships of all sizes, from massive war galleons and galleases
to cumbersome storage hulks and merchantmen. England’s worst nightmare sitting off

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the coast of Sandown, anchored against the tides as today there was not a wisp of a
breeze to man the sails.

“The galley slaves are being saved for emergencies.” Marcus spoke under his breath

but Cora had a sudden horrible vision of her sweet little brother clapped in chains,
wearing away to nothing as a whip bit into the skin of his back as he worked to row the
Spanish behemoths toward more conquest and death.

“What can I do? Calling up a hurricane might seem a little suspicious given the

balmy weather.” She swallowed, in truth not wanting the deaths of so many on her
conscience.

“No, the Spanish would simply run from that. I am afraid we’ll have to wait and

see. If they attempt to land at the coast, or up the Spithead to try for Portsmouth town,
then we’ll have to do some quick thinking. But if they remain undecided and stay at
anchor, the British fleet will come and that would be the time to crush them.” Marcus
held out his hand and closed his fist around a distant ship, his eyes cold and sharp like
an eagle.

“But, if I call up a storm, I have no wish to hurt England’s sailors!”
“English ships are fast and maneuverable. We pick our admirals for skill, not just

for political position. All we need do is give them the right wind at the right time and
Howard and Drake will do the rest.”

His confidence comforted her. She stared out to sea and tried to calm her breathing.

There was nothing to do but wait and watch and pray.

* * * * *

The night passed with infinite slowness at the top of the cliffs. There was not a

breath of wind and she felt lost and useless without it. Marcus had retrieved blankets
and food from Stone Bower and they lay bundled in those blankets. The moon was still
bright and the sails of the Spanish flickered in the distance. Cora caught brief snatches
of sleep in Marcus’ arms but mostly she stretched out with senses she barely
understood, constantly seeking for a force she once tried to reject but now a power she
needed desperately.

As the moon set and dawn approached, Marcus sat silent and alert. Her head was

cradled in his lap and his fingers stroked through her hair and she lost herself to the
comfort of his touch, thankful beyond words for his presence in her life.

As she relaxed, almost asleep, she felt the tickling breath of wind begin. Marcus sat

up straighter at the same moment and her eyes opened as she shot upwards to stare out
to sea. And there, off in the distance she could barely make out with her own paltry
vision, more sails! Smaller, swifter ships crawled slowly forward into the Spithead
channel. As she gripped Marcus’ hand she could see the tiny boats set in front of the
warships, the men within those vessels straining to tow the English warships behind
them with the strength of the sailors alone. She could barely believe this to be possible
but there were thirty English ships creeping up on the southernmost group of the

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Spanish, determined to engage and defend their waters. Farther away, still in the
channel, there were another ninety odd English ships, small and fast but with an
impressive array of cannon pointing dead at the Spanish.

“Should I try to gather the wind to help them?” Cora whispered to Marcus, almost

afraid to disturb his rapt concentration on the slowly unfolding attack.

“I’m not certain what is going on. Hawkins must be mad to try this when England’s

only advantage is the bloody wind. Impatient madman. If it was Drake, I would let him
do what he thought best but Hawkins shall need our help. I know there is little wind to
be had but can you try?” He looked worried.

In truth, a sleepless night and tension had left her rather nauseous. But she knew

she could do this. She must. “A wind from the south, yes?”

“Yes, my sweet ashavi. Try but do not tax yourself to the point of exhaustion. The

English are fierce fighters and they can hold their own.”

She shook her head at him slightly. He underestimated her maternal instincts. She

may never have children but she would give her all to protect the children of the Isle,
the children of England from the blood and death and destruction that those Spanish
ships represented.

Holding his hand in hers, she closed her own eyes, using his abilities to extend her

senses, feeling the faint breath of wind and following it back to its source. Miles and
miles she traveled, coaxing and prodding and playing with the wind, bringing it closer
and closer to home. It was exhilarating, intoxicating to be dancing with the wind. If
Marcus had not been there to hold her, to ground her, she was not sure she would have
ever been able to return whole.

When she opened her eyes, she was amazed to see the sun was high in the sky.

Marcus held her tightly in his arms, his eyes full of concern. But she had succeeded,
though it must have taken hours to marshal the winds. She felt lightheaded and weak
and Marcus did not help matters when he gave her a meltingly passionate kiss to greet
her return to consciousness.

“Let me breathe, husband!”
He laughed lightly and held her tightly as they sat on the cliff top. Then his eyes

and hers returned to look at the battle below. The English had taken mean punishment
at the hands of the enormous Spanish ships but they had dealt their share of mayhem as
well. The fleets had drifted considerably since hoisting their anchors for the fight and
now they were at the very mouth of the Spithead. No matter how excellent Nigel
Lambert’s maps may have been, the English knew these waters all too well. One group
of ships was moving quickly on the wind, taking advantage of the fast coastal current to
gain a superior angle to the Spanish.

Marcus explained. “That’s Frobisher’s ship, Triumph. He’s quick, clever and dirty.

He’ll give the Spanish a roasting they won’t soon forget.” Cora nodded but she could
barely keep her eyes open. She’d been drained completely and before she even realized
her danger, she was fast asleep in the comfort of Marcus’ arms.

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As she slept, the wind lost the guidance that had brought it to this corner of

England. It curled and swirled upon itself, until it followed the direction of the currents
and flowed to the south-west, a far worse circumstance for the English. Marcus was
caught in a difficult position, trapped between concern for his wife and worry for
Frobisher and his squadron, trapped on the wrong side of the Spanish from the rest of
the English fleet.

All ships but Triumph managed to escape before the wind blew too strong to be of

use to retreat. Frobisher dropped a small boat to tow him and other ships sent their
boats to help. The Spanish crept closer and closer, intent on the destruction of one of
England’s best naval heroes.

Caught in the clutches of sleep, Cora felt like she was pounding on the walls of a

prison that she couldn’t escape. She could feel the winds swirling outside and Marcus’
worry became her own. Still, she was trapped by her own worries, her own fears. She
sat down in her cell, trying to be calm and think her way out. There was a sudden pain
in her womb and she covered her stomach with one hand, wondering why her courses
would come to her in her dreams. The pain eased and she patted her stomach while she
again tried to think.

She had accomplished so much but something was wrong. Marcus needed her and

she had talents no other could match. Roaring in sudden frustration, she stood once
again and spread her hands wide. “Come to me wind! I am yours and you are mine!”

With a howl and a caress, the wind blew in, shattering the walls and embracing her.

She awoke to the wind swirling around her and Marcus’ eyes pinning her with concern.
She would brook no coddling.

“What must be done?”
He shook his head and she gripped his arm tightly. “The wind is mine now. Tell me

what must needs be done!”

“Restore the wind from the south and Frobisher will be safe once more.”
She exhaled and with the speed of her thought, the wind tumbled and shifted to her

will. She stood on sturdy legs and watched as the wide canvas sails caught the new
wind and the cheer from the English could be heard even this far away. The speedy
English ships flew fast over the waves and the Spanish were slow to adjust to this
unlikely turn.

Half of the English sailed around to pin the Spanish from the south, the barrage of

English cannon ringing the trapped Spanish and bunching them closer and closer
together.

“They are heading for Owen’s Bank to the north. The Spanish will beach themselves

there and be caught on the rocks if they do not alter their course swiftly.” Marcus
pursed his lips and Cora prepared to watch the horror of twenty thousand men trapped
on the jagged coast.

But someone in the Spanish force finally recognized the danger and with not a

moment to spare, Medina-Sidonia managed to get all their ships to change direction,

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abandoning hopes of safe harbor and conquest on the Isle of Wight or Portsmouth.
They headed out across the rough Channel seas to Calais, where the army of the Duke
of Parma might be waiting.

Marcus and Cora cheered along with near two hundred English ships and countless

onlookers on the coast. A kiss more profound than passionate was their own private
celebration. It was a victory but the war was yet to be won.

Out from the English forces, a ship’s boat began to row straight for the Sandown

docks. Cora knew that Marcus would be there to meet them and there was no way she
would let him leave her behind.

* * * * *

It was a sacrifice for Drake to stop his pursuit of Sidonia and his fleeing armada in

order to send a boat to retrieve Marcus. Cora was again surprised by the man she called
husband. And she stood firm in her insistence on following him. Not because she didn’t
trust him. No, he’d shown her through the months of his sweet courtship and honest
devotion that he truly was the only man she would ever love, but she wanted to come
with him to fight for his cause, to fight for England and the life she had in her grasp.

But she never thought she’d be seasick. If the little ship’s boat made her stomach

churn and her brain spin, how badly would she feel aboard Drake’s Revenge?

Truly, she’d been sick long before she set foot on any ship. She had felt odd most

mornings for the past several weeks. For the past week, as word of the armada had
spread through the watch fire signals and the Spanish had been sighted off the coast of
Cornwall, her queasiness had gotten worse, to the point that she vomited several times
a day. She had done her best to hide it from Marcus but she knew he was concerned.
Concerned enough that he’d tried to forbid her to travel with him to follow the Spanish
to the port of Calais, where the Duke of Parma’s vast army was said to be stationed. But
she’d simply threatened to deaden the winds in the Channel and force all and sundry to
a complete stop. Since the cause of the England was dependent upon the Channel’s fast
winds and the quicker ships of Her Majesty’s Navy, Marcus gritted his teeth and
relented, cursing under his breath about how he would ever be able to get Drake to stop
laughing at him.

Cora tried to ignore the roiling of the boat and her stomach and concentrate on her

growing sense of adventure. Though she could never leave the Isle and travel the world
as Marcus had, it was nevertheless interesting to see a bit of the world away from her
beloved coast. Still, as they came closer and closer to the Revenge and its motley crew of
hardened sailors, and the impressive array of guns mounted to her decks, she wished
perhaps her sojourning was at a more peaceful time.

“Ashavi, you are as green as seaweed.”
She wrinkled her nose at her husband and stuck out her tongue. He laughed

heartily and took her hand, sweeping his thumb across the back of her knuckles in a

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comforting gesture. His touch was as soothing as always and she found the strength to
not embarrass herself and retch over the side of the little craft.

All too soon, the little boat was at the side of the great ship and a rope ladder was

lowered for the occupants of the boat to scramble aboard. As no woman was expected,
no allowances had been made for her and Cora hoped fervently that she could manage
the ascent without falling into the cold rough waters below. She gritted her teeth and
stared up at her goal, the deck of the Revenge.

She encountered nothing but scowls and leers as she climbed the rough rope

ladder, Marcus directly under her. She wasn’t sure if he was there to try to catch her if
she fell, or to make damned certain no one else could see under her skirts but him.

Once she was hauled aboard by men with too familiar hands, she stood as solidly as

she could and brushed off her skirts and adjusted the broad-brimmed hat securely tied
to her head. But once she had to nerve to look up and look around, she was
immediately skewered by the eyes of one particular man. He wasn’t terribly tall or
physically commanding but his eyes were razor sharp and the thrust of his chin and his
pointed red beard showed an undeniable air of command. More than that, the way that
every eye flickered between herself and this fellow, every body angled toward his in
some fashion, she knew instantly who he was.

“Vice Admiral Sir Francis Drake, it is an honor to meet you.” She curtsied as best

she could on the heaving deck. “My husband has spoken much of you, sir.”

“I do not care if the Queen herself has kissed your feet and called you a blasted

saint, what in the nine bloody circles of hell is a woman doing on my ship!”

Swallowing, she stood her ground, staring Drake in the eye and refusing to cower.

She would help this man, even if he treated her abominably, because it would help
England. Trying to formulate a response, she was grateful when the deep, familiar voice
of her husband broke the tension.

“Admiral Drake, Lieutenant Marcus Searle reporting for duty. I see you have

already met my wife, Mistress Cora Searle.” He stepped forward and placed his hand
on her arm.

Drake pursed his lips and looked back and forth between Cora and Marcus. The

crew and all assembled seemed to hold their collective breath until Drake’s face broke
into a brilliant, if slightly blackened, smile.

“Good work man! You said you were going to the Isle to search for a woman and

you must have found her. However,” he raised one hand to pluck at the ends of his
mustache, “no matter how devoted or lovely she might be a ship of war is no place for a
woman.”

“Admiral, I respectfully request that we get underway and you allow me to speak

with you on this matter in your quarters.”

That sent Drake’s thin eyebrows almost to his hairline and the metal helmet that he

wore bounced as though in shock. “Lieutenant Mares, or Searle, or whatever the hell
you are calling yourself…you know I find you a useful and skilled sailor but under no

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circumstances will I take orders from an underling. Out with your reasons or I’ll chuck
both of you over the side and be off to follow the stink of the Spanish across the
Channel.”

“I knew her as my bride the moment I saw her, Admiral. And she is my match in

every way.” There was a series of wolf whistles from the sailors surrounding them and
Cora tried desperately to keep the blush from her cheeks. Marcus merely raised an
eyebrow and brushed a hand over the knife he wore in his belt. Though he wore a
sword mostly to stave off trouble, with a throwing knife, he was most deadly accurate.

Cora decided it was time to stop playing mute. “My talents will be, in fact, they

have already been, of vast use to Her Majesty and the Navy. The winds themselves will
attest to that.”

Drake furrowed his lined brow and stared at both Marcus and Cora with

uncomfortable intensity.

“Very well. But take her into my cabin and keep her there for God’s sake. I’ll not

have a woman be a distraction to my crew while I try to outmaneuver the damn
Spaniards!”

Cora dropped a small curtsy and the crew hooted and hollered as Marcus took her

firmly by the arm and pushed her into a low door in the stern of the ship. In the small
set of rooms the captain called home, she could see out through the portholes toward
England's coast, which was disappearing as the anchor was taken up and the sails filled
once again with the favorable wind. Onward to Calais.

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Chapter Fifteen

Frankly, Marcus had managed to get past Drake with a lot less poetic railing and

merciless teasing than he’d thought he’d receive. And Cora, his lovely, brilliant,
stubborn wife, had not backed down a whit from the fearsome presence of England’s
greatest sailor. He was damned proud of her.

And incredibly angry with her. There was no reason that she should endanger

herself on this journey. Drake needed his eyes in order to plan moves against the
Spanish. The wind would be a mighty force to bring to bear but Marcus was far from
certain that Cora could take the repeated strain. It was an impossible situation, the lives
of thousand versus the life of this one, beautiful, extraordinary woman.

“There, Mistress Searle. Are you happy now? Ensconced in the captain’s cabin all

the way to Calais. Odds are three to one we’ll be hit by a broadside and we’ll be blown
to smithereens in here.”

Cora had the gall to calmly sit on a wide sea trunk strapped to one wall and

proceed to stick her pink tongue out at him. “You need me. You and Drake and the
whole damned English Navy. You’d best face the truth and stop your incessant
worrying. You are giving me a headache and that is the last thing I need at this
moment.”

She raised her hands over her head to unpin her hat and with the action she

managed to shake loose the glorious curtain of her black hair. His cock twitched in
appreciation and memories of a dozen encounters surrounded by that cloud of silky
black while she rode him like a prize stallion. Oh, he did not need this distraction.

Drake would no doubt be coming in soon and it would do no good to be half-hard

and incoherent, unable to explain the unique abilities he and his wife could share
because all his blood had run out of his brain. He flopped down on the opposite wall on
the matching trunk and crossed his arms, trying to hold onto his worry and resentment
at her interference.

It was especially difficult to avoid thoughts of fucking his sweet, succulent wife

when the most dominant feature of the room was a huge swinging hammock fitted
with a feather mattress. Drake was one of the earliest adopters of that Caribbean
invention and was actively trying to get the thing used by the entire Navy. He often
claimed after a round of ale that the most comfortable sleep he’d ever had in his life was
on the swaying contraption he’d had built.

Marcus had no desire to test the thing for its comfort, only for the amorous

possibilities it presented. He tapped the toe of his faded red boots on the floor,
impatient for Drake to come so that he could focus on something other than the sway of
his wife’s breasts as her body naturally worked to counter the jostling of the waves.

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After half an hour of this, he watched as Cora slowly drifted off to sleep, slumping
sweetly against the rough wooden wall of the cabin.

He could not very well let his bride rest in such an uncomfortable manner, could

he? Even the irascible Drake would be gentleman enough to give up his bed to a lady in
need. Standing up and walking to her on legs that had not yet gained their
seaworthiness, he put one arm under her knees and one behind her back, picking her
up and stumbling to the edge of the hammock bed.

He lay her down on the crisp linen sheets. Drake was a stickler for neatness, after

all. He swallowed thickly, determined to back away and sit back down. He would not
think about fucking his beautiful wife in the captain’s cabin. He would maintain
control.

What he hadn’t counted on was his wife’s acting abilities. The minute he tried to

extricate his arms from her body, Cora gripped the fabric of his doublet in her fist and
pulled him down to her, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. He couldn’t draw back. He
couldn’t stay sane under such an onslaught.

All his worry and anger translated into rough and ready passion. Within moments,

Cora’s skirts were up, the ties of her undergarments ripped open and two of his long
fingers plunged into her wet depths as she squirmed in the hammock, the motion
setting the thing swaying in a counterpoint to the roll of the ship.

“Fuck me, Marcus. Please! I need you inside me.”
Anger at her fled in the face of their combined need. He pulled down the modest

kirtle she wore under her bodice until her right breast was freed and sank his teeth
lightly onto her nipple while he worked to free his cock. She moaned loudly when he
slid inside and he had to cover her mouth with his to swallow her cries before she
brought half the lechers on board ship to listen in at the door.

His hips snapped against her and she wrapped her legs around his waist to pull

him closer with every thrust. Balance became precarious and he rose up to standing, his
hand gripping her hips as he leaned into her. She threaded her fingers through the nets
of the hammock, splaying her arms wide open and giving him a satisfied smile. Her
breasts bounced enticingly with each thrust and the breeze carrying the English ships
also seemed to ebb and flow outside the porthole each time his cock hit the entrance to
her womb.

“You are the most frustrating,” he thrust, “stubborn,” he thrust and she stuck out

her tongue at him, “infuriatingly tempting woman!” He thrust again, so hard that he
lost his footing and without her strong legs gripping him so tightly, he would have
surely fallen. Instead, he flailed for purchase and found it in the most amazing way. His
boots clomped against the wall of the cabin and Cora shuddered and moaned at the
change of angle. He did have much better control with his feet planted against the wall.
The sway of the hammock moved perfectly with each stroke, the roll of the sea seeming
to bring each of them higher and higher until they reached the crest of passion together.

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He erupted into her with a roar against her neck while she clutched his scalp, leaving
welts as she convulsed with her climax.

“Oh hell and damnation. May the sea gods give you blue balls for a month for that,

Marcus Smith Mares Searle.” Drake’s loud bellow brought him back to the real world
faster than his blood could redistribute itself. And as he pulled out of his sweet, soft
welcoming wife he managed to fall flat on his face on the deck.

Drake laughed long and loud and even Cora giggled in disloyal glee as she

managed to pull her clothing to rights and hide beneath the disturbed sheets. Marcus
adjusted his flaccid, sticky cock into his hose and then pushed himself off the floor,
staring right at Drake with those severe eagle eyes that few could stand to gaze into for
long.

Drake simply waggled his bushy eyebrows. “I don’t blame you, Marcus. If I had

such a bride, I would no doubt be just as enslaved to my cock as you are. As it is, you’ve
given me some excellent ideas should I ever relent and get me a woman in this cabin for
my own pleasure. But serious matters are afoot and I hope your head is clear now that
you’ve had your fun. So tell me…just what the hell can you and this little bride of yours
accomplish that it’s worth having to give up my comfortable bed to a pair of randy
newlyweds for the duration?”

Cora reappeared, her hair slightly more tame and her smile a touch more

restrained. “Thank you for your understanding, Admiral. As you know of my
husband’s talents and some of his history, perhaps you will not be so shocked when I
tell you that I have some say over the course of the unruly wind?”

Drake looked interested but not wholly convinced. “That would be a gift that any

sailor would give his eyeteeth to control, my lovely lady. What proof do you have that
you can do as you say?”

Marcus stepped forward, momentarily incensed that Drake would accuse his wife

of lying but Cora held up a hand. “It is a reasonable question and one I would expect
for a commander of his caliber. Be glad the man does not brand me a witch for the skills
I have been gifted with from heaven.”

Marcus was dumbstruck and then as proud as a new papa to hear those words

from her lips. Just as she had accepted him, she had accepted her gifts, embraced them.
Drake laughed again. “After that speech, you’d be a fool to be lying ta me. And
although I think you might be a fool for marrying my lieutenant, the scurvy knave,
otherwise you look mighty sane for a female.”

Cora sat regally in the swaying hammock, like a queen on her throne. In response to

Drake’s words, she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. And then—silence. The
ship stopped its rocking. Above them, the sails fell flat and voices began to swear. The
wind which carried them in pursuit of the Spanish had abandoned them. Drake stared
at Cora with wide eyes until Cora breathed out once again and the wind sighed with
her. The sails filled once more and with a jolt that set the hammock bouncing and both

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men stumbling across the deck, Revenge was on the move once again to the east and
another battlefront.

“Marcus, you’d best stay here and keep my lady happy. Very happy. That’s an

order!”

Drake bowed as he left the room and Cora began to laugh lightly once he was out of

earshot. Her eyes drooped slightly, as it was obvious that such a display had taken
much out of her. But it would be hours before they were ready for another conflict with
the Spanish and Marcus would make damned sure his wife slept and slept well. He
launched himself at the hammock and the thing swayed violently as the air filled with
their laughter. He caught her lips in a kiss full of promise and she sighed happily into
his mouth, her breath soft and sweet with her happiness. He pushed all worry aside for
a brief time and reveled in the woman who was his.

* * * * *

By dawn of the next day, Revenge was riding the rough waves with the rest of the

English forces, staring at the defensive crescent of Spanish ships aligned against them.
In truth, arrival in “safe” harbor near Calais had not truly helped the Spanish. English
and Dutch spies had informed Lord Howard and Drake that the chosen harbor where
Parma was to transfer his thirty thousand troops, Dunkirk harbor, was being barricaded
from the Spanish Armada by a few brave Dutch flyboats.

But even more then that, the Spanish had a great deal of problems. Of those

heralded thirty thousand troops, only sixteen thousand were still capable of being
moved, the rest were sick or dead from disease. And they were nowhere near an
orderly formation for being loaded onto Spanish ships for transport. And more
amazing, those few Dutch boats were remarkably effective. Medina-Sidonia was so
frightened of the oncoming British, he refused to send out any smaller warships to deal
with the pesky Dutch. So now the Spanish stood at anchor, trapped between a closed
harbor and near two hundred British ships.

Still, Drake, Howard and the other British Admirals had no easy task of it. The

array of cannon pointing at the British fleet was fearsome. And if the British got near
enough for close fighting, they would be boarded and swarmed by thousands of
Spaniards waiting within the bowels of every one of those ships, the Inquisition at their
backs. Britain’s hopes for victory lay in their long-range cannons, their discipline in
quickly reloading said cannons and most of all, in winds that would allow their ships to
stay out of the grip of Spanish boarders. Drake had gathered on the Ark Royal, Lord
Howard’s ship, to discuss options for attack and to drive the Spanish from northern
waters.

Marcus stood at the rail, his hand holding Cora’s. She was wearing a heavy cloak

despite the summer heat, mostly to disguise her from prying eyes on this ship and the
others. She looked out across the water with his eyes, a look of contemplation of her
lovely, pale face.

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She had awoken in the hammock and immediately made use of a chamber pot to

retch. Seasickness was nothing to be ashamed of, in man or woman but Marcus wished
he could have spared her the experience. She ate a bit of the best ship’s biscuit he could
find and some watered wine and looked somewhat more composed now. Frankly, part
of him just wanted to keep her pinned in that ruddy hammock, fucking her until she
forgot about everything like duty or country and just longed for his cock.

He followed her gaze toward the rest of the British fleet. The best and brightest

were there, Triumph, Ark Royal, Elizabeth, Bonaventura, Swiftsure, Victory and a hundred
others. Some would not see the next day’s light. On Peregrine, Marcus’ last station, an
eager boy looked toward the Spanish with bright gray eyes and a broad smile on his
face. Cora squeezed his hand tighter when she realized that Edgar would be in this
battle as well as the two of them. But her own lips held a small smile as well.

“I’ve never seen him so happy,” she whispered, her voice touched with a mixture of

concern and awe.

“Whatever happens on this day, this is the life he chose.”
She nodded. “I know. I cannot let him have any less than the happiness I myself

have achieved.”

He longed to kiss her, to console her but he didn’t care for the vast audience of the

ship where men were packed like rats swarming over the deck, tending the sails and
keeping the guns in prime order.

Once again, his gaze moved back toward the enemy. Cora was already looking at

the Spanish line. She would have to kill today. Was she ready for it? Marcus had killed
before, had been in battle and survived. He did not like it but he had to protect his
country, his family, his wife.

Still, seeing the countless faces of strangers, some who might die at their hands, was

disconcerting. He was about to wrench his eyes away and draw her back to the cabin to
wait for Drake to return, when one familiar face appeared among the multitudes. Nigel
Lambert stood on the deck of one the formidable Spanish galleons, his cold eyes staring
with derision at the small but quick English forces.

Cora gasped, her teeth gritted and her face becoming hard and determined. She

whispered to him, her voice filled with conviction. “I was afraid. All those men who
might die, on both sides. But now, now I understand. I will fight against the kind of
condemnation and vicious hypocrisy that Lambert would bring to the shores of
England.” Her eyes held tears as she looked up at him, eyes like the gray choppy seas.
“If we are to have a life together, if the tales of the Magi are true and there were others
out there seeking to keep magic alive, then it is here and now that I…that we have to
take a stand.”

This time he could not resist the impulse to bend down and kiss her sweet lips,

ignoring the raucous catcalls and uncouth words that swirled around them. She smiled,
then turned once again to the enemy, a fiery gold touching every sail as the setting sun
turned the water and all upon it to shades of orange and crimson. A sudden angry gust

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lashed out toward the Spanish, their sails billowing and ships rocking from the
unexpected force of the blow. A storm was coming, though the Spanish did not know it.
The storm of a woman’s rage. Neither Cora Searle nor Queen Elizabeth were women to
be underestimated.

Marcus laughed ruefully, a hard hollow sound of a man entering battle. Now he

knew she was ready for this challenge.

A noise on the starboard side of the ship indicated that Drake had returned from

the conference.

When he was clear on deck, the saluting over with and the details ready to be dealt

with, Marcus did not wait for formalities. “Did they agree?”

“Howard thinks me mad, or brilliant. But fireships have been successful before. I

don’t think he wanted to ask too many questions about how we plan to steer them into
the heart of the Spanish line but to lose eight ships but no men is worth a little bit of
sheer faith. Ships we can rebuild, sailors are harder to find, as the pathetic Spanish
know all too well. If they could sail those ships half as well as their tercios fought on
land, you and I and all the world would have been speaking Spanish for a hundred
years already.”

Marcus nodded and he felt Cora grow tense by his side. This would not be easy for

her. She would be the one holding both of them to the deck of a swaying ship, as he
sailed over the water to pilot ships with no crew.

“Are you sure you are strong enough to do this, my love?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that you are? Will you come back and not be

stupidly heroic, trying to drive the ships straight up those royal Spanish asses?”

“As you would never let me forget your displeasure if I did try such folly and I plan

to live a long and happy life by your side, I give you my word, my lady.” He gave her a
bow, to further catcalls by the crew and she rolled her eyes. But he could tell some of
her nerves had been assuaged.

“To my cabin with both of you. Let us see if this damned folderol tale you tell will

be the salvation of us all.” Drake looked across the water to where eight fine ships were
being stripped of all that could be carried and filled to the brim with pitch, brimstone,
tar and gunpowder fuses. The cannons that couldn’t be salvaged were loaded and
primed, ready for one final broadside against the Spanish fleet.

Marcus held his wife closely to him, waiting and watching out the wide stern

portholes as the light of day faded into the darkness of night, each ship and its lanterns
floating upon increasingly rough seas. It was several hours spent in tense waiting as the
fireships were prepared and Marcus passed the time well, holding and caressing his
wife while they watched the lights dance on the sea. Even deep soulful kisses could not
chase away the specter of danger and it hung as a barrier between them, preventing
them from making love as they both longed to do.

At midnight, the signal came, a long blast on a trumpet. Drake knocked on the door

loudly and Marcus stood. “We are ready, Admiral.”

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Cora nodded and closed her eyes, holding Marcus’ hands in her own. Outside in

the blackness of night, the lights of hundreds of ships flickered as the wind shifted once
again. With a wild swirl, Marcus felt his stomach drop as a hurricane spun around him.
Instead of panicking, he fixed his gaze on the awesome visage of his ashavi, glorious in
the peak of her power, her hair swirling around her in a shiny black cloud, her face full
of concentration and quiet, undeniable strength.

Then, all was swirling darkness, as though he was trapped in the web of her hair,

spun to and fro like a mere child’s doll upon unseen currents. Suddenly, he was there,
on the empty deck of the ship Hope. Its wheel lashed to the post it stood near, thus
holding the rudder in position despite the wild wind filling the sails. Around him were
seven other ships, the decks and rigging ghostly in their emptiness, lanterns lit to reveal
kegs of tar and gunpowder waiting to explode at his signal.

He gasped as air returned to his lungs and his legs shook with awe that their plan

had actually worked. He was alone and responsible for the fate of thousands— No, he
was not alone. He could feel her, her hand holding his, the caress of her lips against his
neck, trailing fingertips down his stomach. Her strength lay within him, just as his lay
within her.

He took the wheel of the Hope, unlashing it and directing it unerringly toward the

crescent of Spanish ships glowing in the distance. The wind, Cora’s very breath,
followed his command and all eight of the fireships crept forward, intent on scattering
the Spanish and cutting off their ability to unite with the massive army on shore.

Closer and closer they drew, until some instinct told Marcus that it was time to light

the fires and begin the intimidation of the Invincible Armada and its cowardly
commanders. Using a crossbow left on board at his direction, Marcus lit arrows
wrapped in tar-soaked rags and shot them unerringly at each of his companion vessels.
As the fires began to burn, he lashed the wheel of Hope once more and strode to the
very prow of the ship, where an eagle figurehead flew on gilded wings toward her
prey.

Fire on ship was the nightmare of many sailors and Marcus shivered as he watched

flames climb toward the black sky and listened to the cracking of timbers and the
popping of burning wood and rope. Already, the cries in Spanish had gone up, alarms
rung across the Spanish fleet. With his extraordinary eyes, he could see even in the dark
of night the panic strike, the aimless running and even some men jumping overboard in
the grip of their fear. Anchors were cut and ships began to move, some forward to
attack, some away to flee. As he took in the view of mounting chaos with satisfaction, a
gust of wind spun around him angrily, bits of sand scraping against the skin of his face.

He almost laughed as he imagined his righteously nagging wife, incensed on the

Revenge, demanding his return. As he found the face of Lambert staring in horror at
death sailing straight his way, Marcus knew his mission was done. With one last rude
gesture at the Spanish, he threw the lantern toward the center of the ship, watching as a
pile of gunpowder caught flame and began to burn a slow line across the deck, to where

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each cannon lay primed to fire. The Spanish would certainly get a nasty surprise this
night.

Then he opened his arms wide and let the wind take him again, embracing the

swirling blackness as he would embrace the sweet form of his ashavi. And so she was
there, in his arms. The wind howled out through the wide open porthole and Cora
kissed him with anger, worry and desperation.

“You said you would come back to me, not be a hero!”
“And I did, once you gave me that gentle reminder.” He rubbed the raw skin of his

face and she peppered him with kisses. One thing led to another and this time, he
picked her up and pinned her against the cabin door, pushing up her skirts and
thrusting into her already wet pussy with roughness born of the rush of battle and the
raw need both of them shared.

She would have screamed loudly if his mouth hadn’t covered her, his kisses

stealing her breath as his cock drove into her sweet sheath over and over again. Her legs
gripped his hips with fervor and her nails tore rents into his doublet. There was a loud
knocking on the door but both of them heard nothing but the pounding of each other’s
blood.

Cora climaxed hard, her pussy gripping him so tightly he could not hold back his

eruption. He groaned his release into the wild mess of her hair and breathed in the
smell of his wife and the sea and sex.

Only then did he realize that she had fainted in his arms. Gasping for breath and

remorseful for the brutality of how he’d taken her, he lay her down on the soft
hammock bed and stuffed his cock back into his hose, yanking open the door to see the
face of an irate Admiral staring at him.

“Well! You are alive then. The Spanish are splitting six…”
“A doctor! Do you have a ship’s doctor on board? Cora, my wife…she…”
Drake did not like to be cut off but he was forgiving in this case. He barked an

order, “Smythe! Get the surgeon and be quick about it!”

Marcus turned back into the cabin, kneeling by the bed and stroking Cora’s

forehead, feeling for her pulse and praying to every god he could think of. She looked
pale, too pale, but her pulse was strong. He knew her will to be indomitable and he
would refuse to let her leave him.

The ship’s surgeon stomped in a few minutes later, a rather dirty man who smelled

of the alcohol he was supposed to use to treat his patients’ pain. “Oy, I ain’t never
treated a woman. Not a lady, leastways. All I could tell you is whether she ’ad a fever or
tupped up proper.”

Marcus scowled at the man but waved him in. The man scratched his chin and

looked at her for a moment, then wiped his hand on his doublet before gently touching
Cora’s forehead.

“No fever. ’As she been coughin’?”

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“No. Not in the least.”
“She felt sick…retchin’ and pukin’ sick? Not on the ship, landlubbers always toss

up their vittles onboard but before that.”

Marcus thought hard, trying to remember through the haze of tension to the

relative peace of his honeymoon and the week between the sighting of the Spanish and
the battle off the Sandown coast. “Yes, she had not been eating very well. But we had
much to worry over.”

The surgeon coughed and in a quiet voice asked a few more questions, “Um…I

mean no disrespect, Lieutenant but ’as she…are ’er…” He held his rounded hands over
his chest and waggled his eyebrows. “’Ave they been more…well bigger at all, more
touchy?”

Marcus pursed his lips and gave the man a cold stare with those piercing eagle

eyes. “Yes.”

“Congratulations, you’re goin’ ta be a father.” He tipped his cap and practically ran

out of the cabin.

“What did he say?” Cora’s voice called softly from the bed.
Marcus was caught between worry and elation. Was it true? Was he to be a father?

How the hell could he get the mother of his child off this pestilential ship and back
home? He knelt on the floor and took her cold hand in his. Smoothing the hair back
from her brow, he whispered to her, “He said that you were going to have a child.”

“But all…” An odd look crossed her features. She worried her lips and the silence

drew longer and longer.

Marcus had to say something. “Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry I was so rough…”
She rolled her eyes. “It was fantastic, silly man. You always are, you vain thing. You

didn’t hurt me. I was just very tired after reaching…” She blushed, still, after everything
they had done, she blushed. She never ceased to enchant him. “I’ve been very tired and
slightly ill with some food and I haven’t had my courses…”

Her eyes grew wide and a hand brushed over her stomach. “Could it be true?”

Marcus saw hope flare in her eyes and he wished that she would not be crushed in
disappointment if it was not the case. But as his hand met hers over her abdomen, a
calm surety filled him. Their child lay within, an unexpected gift during a time of
adversity.

The next hours Marcus convinced Cora to sleep and though he stayed by her side

often, he went up to the deck to assume his old role as the eyes of “el Draque” as the
Spanish called Admiral Drake. The English herded the dissolved Spanish lines farther
and farther north, away from any hope of finding a deepwater port in friendly territory
or ever meeting up with Parma’s army.

Few of the ships had been touched by the fiery death of those fireships but every

Spanish ship had suffered from the panic they engendered. Marcus felt a deep sense of

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satisfaction as dawn broke dimly through the dark storm clouds, revealing a Spanish
Armada in disarray, tossed by winds and rain that the English merely laughed at.

When the English began their bombardment, their cannonades felled ship after

ship, forcing others to run aground on the coast and the rest to flee. On Revenge, Marcus
called out commands to the gunnery crews with his unerring instincts and remarkable
vision. Within two hours, the English had run out of gunpowder and the Spanish had
run out of the will to fight. Without a single English ship lost, the Spanish were on the
run.

Drake, ever the privateer, ordered his ship after the Spanish paymaster vessel.

Marcus snorted in derision at the irredeemable pirate and went below to check on his
sleeping wife. Cora was green again but smiling just the same at the news of their
success.

Marcus distracted her from the screams and chaos of the Revenge’s attack on the

Spanish pay ship, unwilling for her to experience the true violence of a privateer’s life.
Her nausea seemed to be countered quite effectively by tender, thorough attention to
her sensitive breasts and Marcus was by no means unwilling to enjoy a breakfast of his
wife’s delectably soft skin and the sounds of her moans of passion. Soon, the swaying of
the violent seas disappeared as they hung suspended in that hammock, making their
own swinging rhythm as he thrust into her with thorough possession.

Some time later, Drake banged on the door once again, carrying a chest full of

Spanish silver in his massive arms. “I come bearing gifts for the babe to be born.
Consider it an investment in his no-doubt considerable talents!”

Cora looked up from where she was retching into the chamber pot and fixed Drake

with a deadly gaze. “Keep your ruddy gifts, old man! Get me and this babe back to dry
land and I’ll give you a chest full of gold!”

Drake laughed heartily. “As you wish, Mistress Searle, as you wish!”

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Command the Wind

Epilogue

England, July 1589

Cora Searle stood on the Culver Cliffs and looked at a calm summer sea. The night

was warm and the wind was a light breeze, not the typical gusts that made the trees
grow sideways and the waves sport crowns of whitecaps. The weather could not have
been more different from that day, one year ago, when Revenge’s boat had carried
Marcus, her and their unborn child back home to Sandown to a hero’s welcome.

The town had not known or cared why Cora had been onboard one of the ships

defending the English coast, only that she had been and the ships had been more
successful than anyone could have dreamed. England had been truly blessed and an
age of peace and prosperity under Good Queen Bess was assured.

At the moment Cora set foot once again on English soil, she was much more

interested in a cup of one of Maggie’s tonics to settle her nausea and to tell her father
that Edgar was safe onboard Peregrine. That and to thoroughly enjoy life with her newly
discharged husband.

The next year was full of more happiness than she could hold within. Her father

and Maggie surprised them all with the announcement of their engagement. Their
marriage brought a smile back to her father’s gloomy visage and the sound of laughter
back to empty Afydden Manor. The harvest season had been filled with the stomping of
grapes and Marcus’ intensity focused on learning the trade he would pass on to the next
generation of Searles.

For the Christmas season, Marcus’ family came all the way from Devon to visit their

son and his very pregnant bride. His father and mother were wonderful people and his
sisters and their husbands and children made Christmas a raucous, wonderful time. It
almost made up for the absence of her mother and Edmund and most especially, Edgar,
far away in some unknown land.

All and sundry told her she had glowed with her pregnancy and when the depths

of February gripped the cold gray seashore at Afydden Manor, all were joyful at the
birth of a fine baby boy. That very same day, Edgar Searle tromped back up the hill to
his home, to be greeted with the unexpected news he was an uncle and godfather to his
namesake, Lucas Edgar Searle.

Now, with Edgar once again back at sea and Stone Bower once again their home,

Cora stood on the coast she loved and looked over the water, confident that she would
never look upon it with lonely longing again. She knew that the “curse” was broken,
that she would bear more children, both to continue the Searle legacy as well as to
follow their Magi heritage. She could be happy on her own terms, and those children
would be happy on theirs.

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Her husband curled his arms around her and kissed her hair, cradling her in his

arms as they looked out over the peaceful water glowing in the light of the full moon.

“Ashavi, why have we come all the way out here tonight? Maggie has taken Lucas

for the night and we have the whole house to ourselves. I had plans to christen the new
kitchen table!”

She turned to him with a playful smile on her face. “After we managed to break the

last one the same way?”

“Why do you think I bought the thickest, sturdiest table I could find on the Isle?

Our great-grandchildren will still have that table!”

“And I don’t think they would want to know what their aged grandparents got up

to on its surface, or they’d never eat again.”

His laugh echoed out and she bathed in the sound that seemed to embrace her from

within. She reached up and wove her fingers through his untamed hair and pulled him
down for a scorching kiss. After more than a year by his side, she still was
overwhelmed with the intensity of her passion for him. From the day she looked upon
his ship out at sea and felt desire burning in her belly for the ghostly shape of an
unknown man, he had owned her body. With his unrelenting courtship and loving
tenderness, he’d won her heart. With the help of destiny, her soul had always been his,
from the moment she’d been born. She shuddered to think what her life would have
been like if she had not taken that fateful walk up to this clifftop and gazed out upon
the Spithead on that April evening.

“I first saw you here,” Marcus whispered in her ear, as though reading her

thoughts. “Your wild hair peeking out from under your cape and your gray eyes a
mirror of the sea I love. You held my soul in your hands from then on and I could not
rest until I had made you mine.”

“I have always been yours, Marcus. You just had to come and claim me.”
He gave her a devilish smile. “I find the need to claim you once again, ashavi.”

Ignoring their exposed position atop the cliffs and the bright summer moonlight,
Marcus proceeded to kiss her with a thoroughness that left her knees weak. Marcus
offered her no support, instead, they both sank into the sparse grass and lost all
decorum and restraint.

Her skirts and petticoats were untied and wrenched off, her loose bodice and shirt

followed suit. She pulled and tugged at his shirt and swore viciously at those damned
faded red boots when they prevented speedy removal of his hose. She came close to
sending the boots sailing over the cliffside to feed the fishes but he distracted her with
much needed attention to her heavy, milk-filled breasts.

His sucking, so completely different from that of their son, brought relief to the

pressure she felt but incredible pleasure as well. Dropping the boots and attending
instead to running her nails over the skin of his back, she wrapped her legs around him
and arched under him, making clear that at least for their first encounter of the night,

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she wanted no long, sweet and tender loving. She wanted to feel him within her, an
undeniable force.

He knew what she wanted and never giving up his worship of her larger, fuller

breasts, he stroked his fingers once through the folds of her pussy and knowing that she
was wet and ready for him, finally he thrust his cock into her.

Her cry rang out into the night, tumbling over the cliff to fall into the vast sea. The

moment when his cock made them one was always sheer bliss and this time was no
different. Her hips demanded that he move with her, setting a rhythm fast and hard
that he gave to her with no objections. Soon enough, he had reared above her, her legs
balanced against the breadth of his chest while his hands cradled her ass as he fucked
her hard enough to wring whimpers of delight from her throat and cause stars to
descend from the skies to flash before her eyes.

Her final, brilliant climax took them both by surprise with its intensity. The wind

swirled around them with fierce gusts, unrestrained though she had spent months
perfecting her ability to lessen the stormy chaos when her pleasure peaked. Tonight was
something special, something wild.

Marcus roared out his own climax, gushing his seed within her and collapsing onto

his elbows over her, a teasing smile on his face.

“Sometimes, my love, not even you can command the wind. It must have its

freedom to celebrate from time to time.”

She wrinkled her nose and pushed at his chest, rolling them over until she had him

pinned to the ground, the wind caressing her skin and the moon making her naked
flesh glow with power. Her eyes raked over his body with possessive glee. As she
descended to begin a journey with her lips from his neck to his already twitching cock,
she whispered words full of untamed promise. “Perhaps, husband, there are times
when the wind commands me.”

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About the Author

Elaine Lowe is a work-at-home mom in Silicon Valley, California. Of her many part-

time jobs, her favorite one by far is writing. She has a background in biotech, but she
has branched out into the demanding world of home management, toddler
entertainment, transcription, envelope stuffing and, of course, writing romantic and
erotic fiction.

A love of history, magic and romance combines to inspire a lot of her writing. That

and her wonderful husband, who is a fantastic sounding board, support system and
research consultant. He really enjoys research. And so does she.

Look for upcoming novels involving forces of nature, a touch of magic and the idea

that sensuality is not specific to any particular time period.

Elaine welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and e-mail

address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

Tell Us What You Think

We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can e-mail us at

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Also by Elaine Lowe

Lady Six Sky
Nancy’s Sweet Spelling Bee
Passion Magic: Enchant the Dawn
Passion Magic: Reveal the Heart
Scandalous Profession
Sea of Pearls
Seeds of Garnet
Veins of Turquoise

Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning

publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC
on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you
breathless.

www.ellorascave.com