“Well?” Martha asked as soon as Anne was comfortably settled in the carriage and they were on their way.
“Your brother was unfortunately mistaken,” she said succinctly to her lady’s maid. “He has not the makings of a hero at all, and he is most certainly not an honorable man.”
“Are you certain you spoke with the correct person?”
“Quite.”
“I don’t understand. Johnny sailed with him, spoke so highly of him—”
“Yes, well, I assure you that he is a man with whom I have no wish to associate.” She balled her hand into a fist. Blast it! She’d left her glove behind. Her hand was still so warm from the journey his fingers had taken over it that she’d not even thought about the silly glove. She’d never known such a sensuous touch. It was dangerous. So very dangerous. “Please, speak with your brother and ask him for another recommendation.”
“Would it not be better to simply book passage—”
“I will if I must but I’d rather not.” She didn’t want a long sojourn. She simply required a little bit of time with Walter to say good-bye. But when she had mentioned this to her father and brothers, they’d thought it an awful idea to go there. They didn’t understand, but then how could they? She loved Walter, but during their last night together before he left, she’d hurt him with words and deed. Perhaps if she hadn’t, he would have come home. She needed to apologize, to ask for his forgiveness.
He’d sent her his wages every month. It wasn’t a great deal, but she invested the funds for them, for their future. It was those funds that she would now use to visit him. She would leave a note for her father to find after she was gone. She feared that her departure being at the mercy of schedules and other passengers would result in her family being able to find her more easily, prevent her from leaving.
But a ship at her beck and call—they would leave during the dark of night and be well out to sea before her family discovered she was gone.
She gazed out the window and strove not to think about how Crimson Jack quite possibly ruled the night as easily as he did the sea. He no doubt was accustomed to women fawning over him, crawling into his bed with no compunction whatsoever. A naughty part of her that she didn’t wish to acknowledge could hardly blame them.
He was devastatingly handsome and something about him was regal in bearing. He’d ruined the illusion, though, when he’d turned down her offer for passage in exchange for money and asked what else she might barter. His smoldering gaze had revealed exactly what he had in mind.
She’d not given it to Walter. She certainly wasn’t going to give it to a crude sea captain, even if he did cause images of them tumbling between the sheets to invade her thoughts with little more than the tip of a finger caressing her skin. It was only because he was earthy and rough. A heathen. A man for whom lust was common. He was interested in the conquest, but his interest would wane once a lady was conquered.
She had no interest in being conquered.
She would find a more suitable captain. An old one with more experience. A hideous one who did not cause her heart to flutter. A poor one who had need of coins.
Captain Crimson Jack might believe he was tempting—and she had to reluctantly admit that he might be a delicious morsel of manhood—but she was made of sturdier stuff and was not going to be lured by smoky eyes or the promise of passion they held. She had denied Walter, after all, while loving him with all of her young heart. Every day, every night, she lived with regret over their parting. She needed to go to Scutari so she could assuage her guilt, so she could find happiness—if not with him, then with someone else.
“What do you know of the Earl of Blackwood?” Tristan asked, standing in the doorway. The clocks had only just tolled midnight, and he’d known he would find his brother in his office. After all, vice dens were busiest when decent people slept.
Rafe gazed up from his ledgers and glared. “I’ve not seen you in two years and you can’t even bother with a proper greeting?”
“Hello,” Tristan said laconically before wandering into the room and glancing around. His brother had added a new globe to his collection since Tristan had been here. Interesting. He wondered why his brother fancied them.
“How long have you been in London?” Rafe asked.
“A month, give or take a week. Blackwood?” Bless Mouse and his eagerness to prove his worth to Tristan for providing him with a place aboard his ship. He’d not only followed the lady home, but he’d managed to speak with a servant in order to acquire the particulars regarding the household. The earl had four sons and a daughter.
Studying him intently, Rafe leaned back in his chair and rubbed a thumb over his smooth chin, making Tristan wish he’d tidied up a bit; on the docks the rougher one looked, the tougher he was thought to be. Although Tristan had obtained a reputation for being incredibly tough. He suspected he could prance around in lacy shirts and no one would mess with him. At least not with Crimson Jack.
“Does Sebastian know you’re back?”
With a sigh Tristan dropped into a chair across from Rafe. “I’ve not alerted him to my return.”
“He has an heir now, you know.”
He waited as Rafe poured whiskey into a tumbler and set it before him. He downed the amber liquid in one long swallow before saying, “I hadn’t heard, but I’m relieved. Takes the pressure off me.”
“You’ve no desire to be a duke?”
“None whatsoever.”
“You’re not going to follow in uncle’s footsteps and try to take the dukedom?”
“Uncle’s actions would indicate that he was mad, I believe. I’m not. His demise was welcome.” Especially as his last act was an attempt to kill Mary. Attacking the brothers was one thing, but to turn his bloodlust on sweet Mary—
“Sebastian and Mary should be arriving for the Season soon,” Rafe said.
Tristan tried not to look taken aback. “I assumed they would forever stay at Pembrook.”
“I think Mary convinced him that he must be accepted by Society for the sake of his heir, and any other children that come their way.”
They could be of assistance in his quest to entice Lady Anne into his arms, but he didn’t want to wait until she returned from sailing on another ship.
“So—Blackwood. What do you know of him?” Tristan prodded, wanting to get the conversation back to his purpose for being there.
“He doesn’t belong to my club. His two youngest sons do. Mine is not quite as posh as other clubs, so it appeals more to younger men who are not so keen about keeping up appearances.”
“And his daughter? What do you know of her?”
Rafe arched a brow. “I don’t believe she’s a member of my club.”
“Aren’t you quite the hilarious one? I see you’ve not grown more communicative in the months I’ve been away.”
“Why do you care about her?”
“She sought to hire me to take her to Scutari.”
“Why? The war is over. Nightingale is no longer there to lure nurses.”
“She wishes to visit with her fiancé.”
“Are you taking her?”
“Only if she’s willing to pay my price.”
“And that would be?”
He grinned wolfishly. “Between the lady and me.”
Rafe scowled. “I see you’ve not grown more communicative either. But if she is betrothed and a lady, you would be unwise to seek a dalliance. Especially as she has four strapping brothers. You could very well find yourself in a bit of bother.”
“I’m not certain she has shared with them her desire to make this trip.”
“Why would you think that?”
“She has an air of mystery about her, and she is almost as tight-lipped as you. I sensed there was a good deal she had no wish to share. I rather enjoy unraveling mysteries.”
“Let her go, Brother.”
“Why?”
“My gut tells me that nothing except trouble awaits if you pursue this path.”
“You’re no doubt correct.”
But in his experience trouble was seldom boring.
It was a week before she returned to the tavern. He’d known sooner or later she’d seek him out. What surprised him was how quickly the sight of her inflamed his desire. He knew, as a gentleman, he should stand as she approached but then all would know how badly he wanted her. So he stayed as he was, lounging in his chair, stroking the dew from his tankard as lazily as he’d like to caress her damp skin after a rousing session in his bed.
She marched across the room with the force of a summer gale, purpose in every stride. Fire ignited those silver eyes, turning them pewter. He could see the pulse at her throat fluttering with her anger. Her high cheekbones carried a red hue. Her lips were pursed tightly. How he dearly wanted to part them, dart his tongue between them, and taste the honeyed nectar of her mouth.
He’d never in his life had such a strong reaction to a woman he barely knew. He wanted her, he couldn’t deny that. But it was more than the physical that appealed to him. What sort of woman would risk life and reputation to journey toward a man she’d not seen in four years?
He was not a great believer in love, could not claim to have ever loved a woman enough to risk all for her. Love was the domain of poets . . . and perhaps Sebastian. The last time Tristan had seen him, he’d claimed to love Mary. While Tristan held a fondness for her, he wouldn’t change his life for her. He didn’t understand emotions that ran so deeply.
“You cur!” Lady Anne spat.
Tristan arched an eyebrow and lifted a corner of his mouth in a mocking smile. “Good evening to you as well, Lady Anne.”
“I’ve approached five captains, seeking passage on their ships. They’ve each turned me away.”
“I told you: women on a ship is considered bad luck. Sailors are a suspicious sort. I doubt you’ll find any willing to risk it.”
“Not when you’re paying double what I offer to those who turn me down.”
He fought not to show surprise that she’d managed to uncover that little fact.
She took a step nearer, gripped the back of the chair in her gloved hands, and leaned forward, confusion marring her brow. “Why? Why would you seek to undermine my efforts? Why would you care?”
“Because I want you on my ship.” Damnation. He’d meant to toy with her a bit longer, like reeling in a fish. His bitter confession was prompted by her eyes. The sorrow there that he didn’t understand, the pain that he wanted to ease.
“But you won’t take my money.”
“No.”
“You want me to give you something else.”
“Yes.”
“I know exactly what you want and you shall never have it.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Careful, Princess. That sounded like a challenge. And I’ve never walked away from a challenge . . . or lost one.”
“Rot in hell.”
She spun on her heel and stormed from the tavern with the magnificence of the fiercest tempest he’d ever encountered. Dear God, he should accept her offer, take her money, anything to have her on his ship. Once on the sea, she couldn’t walk away.
Once on the sea, he would have her.
Anne was furious, so furious that she could pull out her hair. No, no, that would not do at all. It was ridiculous to cause harm to herself. She was angry enough to yank out his hair. That’s what she should have done: simply reached across the table and jerked out a clump of those long ebony strands. That would show him that she was not a lady to be trifled with.
“I don’t understand,” Martha murmured meekly as though she feared Anne would turn her fury on her. “My brother speaks so highly of the captain—”
“Yes, well, how he treats his men is quite obviously very different from the manner in which he treats ladies.” But why? To ensure captains wouldn’t accept her offer, why would he pay double what she would pay them? He could have any woman he wanted, of that she was certain. Why her? Why did he want her on his ship? So he could lift her skirts? He’d damned well discover that where she was concerned, they’d be made of lead. “Tell your brother to find me one more captain. I shall offer to pay him five hundred pounds.”
“My lady,” Martha gasped. “This goes too far.”
Anne didn’t bother to inform Martha that she’d overstepped her bounds. They’d been together too long for her to chastise the maid, especially when she knew she was right. “We’ll see how Captain Crimson Jack likes paying a thousand.”
Martha reached across and took her hand. “Talk to your father again, explain why you need to make this journey. Surely he’ll arrange it.”
“It will take longer to journey on someone else’s schedule.”
“Not that much longer.”
She released a defeated sigh. “No, not that much longer. I’m being stubborn, I know.” But this captain had made her angry, and to go by other means now would make her feel as though he’d somehow won.
“It would be safer,” Martha added.
Would it? A woman traveling alone with only her maid? She might run across someone she knew and tongues might wag. She didn’t want anyone to know. That was the thing of it. It was her business and hers alone. “I just want to make this sojourn in my own way.”
“Lord Walter won’t care.”
With the tears stinging her eyes, she said quietly more to the night than to her maid, “No, he won’t.”
Her fury dissipated into sadness. They spoke no more as their carriage journeyed through the fog-shrouded London streets. Dear Walter. She longed to see him once more, to hear his laugh, to have him tease her, to have him hold her in his arms as he swept her over a ballroom floor in time to the music. Ever since he left, she’d avoided the balls, soirees, dinners. She’d devoted her time, along with Florence Nightingale’s sister, to gathering the much-needed supplies for the hospitals in the Crimea. She’d visited the returning soldiers in hospital, bringing them what comfort she could. And then she’d gone into mourning when she received word that Walter had died. Any chance for forgiveness had died with him.
Two years. Two years of being dead as well. Of feeling nothing. Of walking around like a silent wraith. She lost weight. She took joy in so little. Even her favorite pastime of reading brought no pleasure. She would reach the end of the book with no memory of any of the words, of the tale. Yet she had dutifully turned pages, thought she had been concentrating on the task. She forgot things so easily.
Then a month ago her father had barked that she needed to snap out of this melancholy mood, as though she was a pea that could be snapped in half and the shell of her life discarded, while the soul remained. He wanted her to return to Society, to find another husband before she grew much older. She was all of three and twenty. So difficult to look back and realize how very young she’d been when Walter left.
Now she felt so remarkably old.
She knew her father was right. She needed to get on with her life. She knew Walter was not returning home to her, but she wanted the opportunity to say good-bye to him on her schedule, in her way.
Dear Lord, but she missed him. So much. Even after all this time.
She didn’t want to admit that the fury tonight felt good. So good. It had been so long since she’d felt anything other than grief. Well, except for the night when she’d met Crimson Jack and felt a slight stirring of—dare she admit it?—desire. When he removed her glove, when he touched her. Afterward she’d been glad that he declined her offer. She couldn’t imagine being enclosed on a tiny ship with him. Martha would be with her, of course. Perhaps even a second maid. The sensuality that oozed off the man would require an entire army of maids to protect her.
And here she was thinking about him again, the blackguard. He’d begun invading her dreams, her waking moments. She still seemed incapable of reading a book and absorbing the story. She would find herself drifting off with thoughts of him. She didn’t think of the old sea captain or the scarred one or the toothless one she’d approach about passage. She didn’t even think of the fair handsome one who had sat with a buxom redhead on his lap during their meeting. He had a boisterous laugh and a ready smile, but it wasn’t him she thought of. It was the captain with icy blue eyes that seemed to melt the longer they spoke. The one who made her wonder what it would feel like to trail her fingers over that unshaven jaw.
Walter had never been in her presence with stubble shadowing his face. All of his buttons were always properly done up. Not a single strand of his wheat-golden hair was ever out of place. The two men were complete opposites. The captain was not the sort to appeal to her in the least, so why did he plague her so?
She had no answer to that question as the carriage drew to a halt outside the manor. Suddenly she was incredibly weary. It seemed she only managed to attain any sort of energy when she was facing an encounter with Crimson Jack.
A footman handed her down from the carriage and she trudged up the stone steps, each one more laborious to reach than the one before. Once inside she felt the oppressive weight of despair. She would talk with her father. She didn’t want to enter the London Season. Not this year. Perhaps next.
“Martha, please give me a half hour or so of solitude and then bring me some warm milk with cocoa,” she ordered.
“Yes, m’lady.”
Grabbing the banister, Anne dragged herself up the stairs. The melancholy could overtake her without warning or invitation. It just seemed to slam into her of its own will. She didn’t like it, she didn’t want it. She needed Walter to conquer it. Her father didn’t understand that. He’d never needed anyone, not even her mother. Theirs had been an arranged marriage. They’d been content, but when her mother had passed away from influenza three years ago, her father had carried on.
Anne wanted to be that strong, but it seemed love made her weak, left her floundering when the one who held her affections departed this world.
She walked down the long hallway toward the corner room that was hers. Lamps were lit, but no sounds greeted her. Not a snore or a bed creaking or whispers. They were out, her brothers. Her father as well, no doubt. Why did men have places to go at night and women didn’t?
Going into her bedchamber, she closed the door behind her. After removing her pelisse and tossing it on a nearby chair, she began tugging off her gloves, refusing to remember how lovely it had felt as the captain had removed one. Fortunately she owned several pairs, but still she didn’t like that she had left one behind. When she was done she tossed them onto her pelisse and strolled to her mahogany wardrobe. The door released a quick snick as she opened it and reached into the back for the brandy she’d pilfered from her father’s collection. She knew ladies didn’t drink spirits, but she’d been so cold after Walter’s death that she’d been desperate for warmth. She’d found it one night in her father’s liquor cabinet.
She set a snifter on her vanity and poured herself a generous portion.
“I’ll join you.”
With a startled gasp she spun around, the decanter slipping from her fingers. It didn’t hit the floor and shatter into a thousand shards because Crimson Jack was close enough to snag it on its journey to extinction. Breathing harshly, she stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
Leaning slightly past her, he set the decanter on the vanity. Then he held up a hand before her face. Over it was draped her glove, the one she’d left at the tavern that awful night, the one he’d removed with such care.
“I came to return your glove.”
“How did you get in here?”
His gaze wandered over her features and she suddenly felt bared to his inspection. She desperately wanted to step back but she didn’t want him to view her as a coward.
“A tree grows outside your window. For a man accustomed to climbing sail rigging during a storm, a few branches offer no challenge.”
“If I were to scream, my father and brothers—”
“Are at their clubs. I doubt they’ll hear you.”
“The servants—”
“By the time they arrive, I’ll be gone.”
“Which is exactly what I want. Step back.”
With a slight bow he did as she asked. She could breathe a little easier now that she wasn’t inhaling his fragrance. Strangely his scent was sharp and clean. Tangy. Like an orange.
“You should not be here,” she said, wondering if she should in fact scream, not certain why she hadn’t as of yet.
“I do a good many things that I shouldn’t.”
He held up her glove again and she snatched it from him. “Thank you. You can be on your way now.”
“I thought to discuss your journey to Scutari.”
“As I shan’t be hiring you, I see no need.”
“You won’t find a captain willing to take you.”
She angled her head haughtily. “Not even for five hundred pounds?”
Seeing a momentary flicker of admiration, she knew she’d gained the upper hand. The next captain she approached—
“Not even for five thousand,” he said.
Oh, now would be a very good time to yank out his hair. Instead, she heard herself ask, “Why?”
“I told you. I want you on my ship.”
“Yes, and in your bed, I’m bloody well sure. Well it won’t happen. Ever. You disgust me with your suggestion that I barter away to you the one thing I hold dear.”
“Your fiancé doesn’t hold that place?”
The crack of her palm hitting his cheek echoed around them. He hadn’t tried to stop her, although after seeing the speed with which he’d caught the brandy, she was fairly certain he could have. His reflexes were sharp and quick. So why did he just stand there and take it? Why didn’t he step away or grab her wrist or shove her aside?
She stumbled back until she hit the wardrobe. “Please go.”
She hated the pleading rasp of her voice. But he was right. Walter should have been more dear than her virginity. He’d wanted it, the night before he left, and she’d been too damned proper to give it to him. Now she would never know his touch—and worse, he died never knowing hers.
The captain just stood there, studying her as though he could decipher every thought that rampaged through her mind. She hated him at that moment, hated him desperately.
She straightened her shoulders. “I’m calling the servants now.”
Tossing the glove onto the vanity, spinning on her heel, she headed for the door.
“A kiss.”
She spun back around to face him. “Pardon?”
“A kiss. That’s what I want you to barter for passage on my ship.”
“A kiss? That’s all? A kiss?” Surely she’d misunderstood.
Slowly he prowled over the thick carpet, silent as a wraith, until he was standing before her, his gaze smoldering as it dipped to her lips briefly. Then he was looking into her eyes, holding her captive as easily as if he’d bounded her with silk.
“A long, slow, leisurely kiss,” he whispered in a velvety smooth voice that sent a shiver of something that resembled pleasure scurrying along her spine. She suddenly felt so remarkably alive, so engaged. “On my ship, the moment of my choosing. If you draw back, then I get another until I am the one who ends it.”
“A . . . kiss,” she repeated. “That can’t be all you want.”
“No, it’s not all I want, but it’s what I’ll be content to take. Anything more, you must be willing to give.”
She shook her head. “You speak flattering words, designed to lure me, but I know you expect me in your bed.”
He touched his finger to her lips. “No. I expect nothing more than a kiss.”
“So why not take it now? Be done with the bargain?”
“Because I want to torment you as you do me.”
She couldn’t miss the hint of glee that jumped through her at his admission. “I torment you?”
“From the moment you walked through the door of the tavern on that stormy night. I don’t know why. I only know that you do.”
“Because you can’t have me.”
“Perhaps.”
She shook her head. “How do I know that once aboard your ship, you won’t force me?”
“Bring your lady’s maid, bring a dozen. In spite of my behavior, I assure you that when it comes to the ladies, I’m a man of honor. I could have stopped you from slapping me. I didn’t, because I deserved it. The words were uncalled for.” He shifted and suddenly a shining dagger was in her field of vision. “Carry this with you. If you decide it should be plunged into my heart, I won’t stop you.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say now.”
“A kiss, Princess, that’s all I require to take you to your fiancé in Scutari.”
She was probably a fool to trust him, and yet—
“When would we leave?” she asked.
“When would you like to?”
“Tomorrow. Midnight.”
“It shall be done.”
If he’d given her a cocky smile, a triumphant sneer, she would have left him waiting on the docks. Instead he merely extended a slip of paper toward her. “Instructions for locating my ship at the wharves.”
“You were rather confident that I would accept your terms.”
“Not at all, but I believe in being prepared.” He turned and in long strides headed for the window.
“Captain?”
He stopped and glanced back over his shoulder at her.
“You could use the front door,” she told him.
He grinned, a devastatingly sensual grin that brought out the glimmer in his eyes. “Where’s the challenge in that?”
Then he was out the window.
She scurried over to it, leaned out, and watched as he scampered down the towering oak like a monkey she’d observed at the zoological gardens.
She heard a knock on her door and glanced over her shoulder to see Martha bringing in her warm cocoa.
“Is everything all right, my lady?” the maid asked, and Anne wondered what her face must show.
Perhaps a hint of excitement, of anticipation.
“Begin packing our things, Martha. We’re going to Scutari.”