Chapter 12
Adam didn’t care. Not a bit. He stormed up his gangplank as night fell, a mist rolling over the river, ready to demand his bosun be sent to him in his cabin.
He’d been in London too bloody long that’s what it was.
All these damned larks. They’d been entertaining at first, but good God, he hated them now.
He hated the feeling of complete recklessness flooding him. He hadn’t felt that way in years. Not since he’d learned to keep the darkness at bay. But at this damned moment, he wanted a fight. The idea of hammering his fist into some man’s face sounded like heaven.
Yes, it was time to make sail. The office was almost ready. Surely, he could leave orders to have it completed. For his own sanity, he could justify it.
But it would take time to make departure. Half his men were, no doubt, lounging about the city, drinking, whoring, enjoying the good times to be had.
What in the blazes had he been thinking, befriending a ton girl?
He’d been setting himself up for hell from the beginning.
Throwing open the door to his cabin, he was ready to get dead drunk. The need for her hammered through him. It had raced through his blood since he’d finally kissed her. It was relentless. It was all he could do to stop himself from turning about and demanding more from her. Like a man in need of opium.
Damnation, but he wanted to pull her to the floor after she’d opened her mouth to his kiss, pull her skirts up and thrust up into her sweet, wet heat, making her his and his alone.
Who the hell was he fooling?
Coupling wouldn’t make a woman like Beatrix his.
But it would have been a damned good start.
“You planning murder, old boy?
Adam twisted to the low voice and his hand went to the dagger concealed in his coat.
There in the shadows on the bench at the windows which provided his view, a man lounged, black boots up, big hat propped atop his head in the style of the previous century. It fairly shook with a peacock feather and a jeweled buckle.
The man’s coat was rich and embroidered with gold, a tattooed hand rested on his large belt. He was a picture out of the golden age of the high seas.
And Adam knew him on sight. He didn’t need to see the wicked face beneath the brim.
“Aston,” he bit out.
“Indeed, ’tis me,” the fellow replied, jolly as ever.
“What the hell are you doing?” Adam hissed.
“I missed you, too, sweetheart.”
Adam rolled his eyes. He’d known Aston years ago, when the English duke had made an outcast of himself and had made his living in more nefarious ways. The man was a legend and not necessarily a notorious one.
There were no accusations of vicious bloodshed to be put at his door, but he was as dangerous as any squall. His presence, since his marriage, had become more benign and they had seen each other several times since being reunited the year before on Adam’s ship when he had commandeered Alexander and his soon-to-be wife.
“I’m not in the mood, Aston,” he bit out, tired and not in the mood for a verbal sparring session.
“You seem in the perfect mood, if you ask me.” Aston let his hand drop from his belt. “I love a man in a temper.”
Searching the shelves for his brandy, he denied the accusation. “I’m not in a temper.”
Aston arched a brow.
“All right then,” Adam admitted. “I wouldn’t mind punching someone’s nose in.”
“I’d volunteer, but the wife adores my face. She can’t stand to see it bruised.”
Adam was not misled by this boisterous claim. Aston was a devil in fight. It would be touch and go as to who came out bloodier between them.
“What do you want?” Adam demanded, rummaging through his cabinets.
“How direct.”
“I was to see you tonight in any case.” He shoved aside a cask of tea leaves. “You must want something.”
“Indeed, I do,” Aston merrily agreed.
“Out with it then. You’re interrupting my drinking.”
“Hmmm.” Aston’s lips pursed in dramatic thought. “In love are we?”
Adam tensed. “Why in God’s name would you say that?”
“Only one reason a man wants to drown in a bottle, old boy. And that’s the kind with bosoms.”
Adam blew out a harsh breath. “I’m not in love, but I am at an impasse.”
“The lass will not open her lap to saint-seducing gold?”
“She’s not the kind you pay,” he roared, anger pumping through him.
“Ah.” Aston nodded as if he hadn’t just lit a match to Adam’s fury. “A Juliet then. She doth teaches to burn bright, and all that.”
Sighing Adam replied, “Yes, actually.”
“Ah, the bliss of a beautiful woman.”
“She’s. . .” He frowned. How did he explain it? How did he explain her? “Not exactly beautiful.”
“Worse then,” Aston groaned. “She’s interesting. Give up now, man. An interesting woman is the downfall of men like us.”
He was not about to pursue that he and Aston belonged in the same category of man.
“She’s getting married,” Adam informed him, the words a bitter gall on his tongue.
“Marvelous.” Aston took off his hat and twirled it on a black-gloved finger. “You can bed her then in a few weeks.”
Adam narrowed his eyes. “Would you say the same of your wife?”
“Don’t be a fool,” Aston replied simply. “She’s married to me.”
Adam snorted.
“And I might add,” Aston clapped his hat back on his head. “Ros is a superior sort of woman who’d never marry someone she was not completely and totally in loving lust with. Clearly, your lady is subpar.”
Adam paused. There was something wrong in all this. “I didn’t think so.”
Aston stared quietly then observed, “It’s a surprise then.”
He gave a curt nod.
“Something happened then to push her to the brink.” Aston tilted his head back gazing up at the stars hidden somewhere behind London’s coal-darkened clouds. “It’s never a whim. Women are not driven by whims as many men would believe. It’s usually cold, hard logic that pushes them into wedded misery.”
His breathing slowed. He’d never asked her why. God, what kind of a man was he? He’d proposed to be her friend. . . And what? He’d just thought the worst of her?
“I’m a total arse,” he breathed.
“As we all are in love.”
“Stop saying that.”
“That you’re in love?” Aston grinned. “Right.”
“Thank you.”
Swinging his legs down from the bench, Aston began boldly, “Since you’re in the bed of Venus—”
“Aston!”
Aston blinked innocently. “Yes?”
He sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “Have you seen my brandy? It’s not here.”
“I’ve got it.”
Aston had always been notoriously good with brandy. He could drink bottles of the stuff and still kill a man with the perfect aim of his pistol.
“Give it over then.” He extended his hand. “Why in God’s name were you drinking in the dark?”
“One has to do something when they’re waiting.”
Adam took the bottle from Aston’s grip and swigged.
“Oh.” Aston eyed the angle of the bottle. “You’re far gone, lad. Far, far gone.”
Adam leveled Aston with a ball-crushing stare to which Aston answered with another merry grin.
“Out with it then,” Adam growled, wiping the brandy from his lips.
“I’d like you to join a committee.”
“Pardon?” He could not have understood correctly. Aston and bureaucracy did not seem to go hand in hand. “Apparently, I’ve lost my hearing as well as my heart, if your accusations are to be believed.”
“You heard correctly.” Aston’s tone turned serious. “A committee.”
Adam gaped. He couldn’t help it. Was this the wicked captain of the high seas? “Good God, man, what’s happened to you.”
“The weight of a moral burden and my power has finally fallen upon me,” Aston intoned, a hand to his heart. “House of Lords, and all that. Dukes actually make things happen as opposed to the rest of the ponces littering that chamber.”
“A committee?” he repeated, still unable to give it credence.
“Mmm. Deuced boring, but that’s all those fools seem to respond to.” Aston stood. “I’d like you to speak about your work.”
“Ask my brother.”
“He’s got his own borough,” Aston pointed out patiently as he started to rifle through the maps on Adam’s desk. “And doing quite a lot to convince those ponces in Bristol not to go around the law and engage in the slave trade in any backhanded way.”
“The corruption—”
“Is rife,” Aston cut in quickly. “Now, we need more fight.”
“Fight?”
“Mmm.” Aston looked up. “The state of things betwixt our nations is. . .”
“Perilous.”
A shadow passed over Aston’s usually roguish visage. “I foresee another war, but that’s not why I’m here. I want you to convince the Royal Navy to stop slavers in British waters.”
“And if they did?” he asked, intrigued.
“With the might of Hail Britannia, they’d be able to free the souls aboard, of course.”
Adam did not immediately feel joy. Nothing was ever as it seemed when it came to nations and armies. “And what would happen to those souls?”
“That is unclear,” Aston sighed. “And another reason you should join the committee.”
“I was about to leave England,” Adam stated, the brandy not so appealing now.
“Were you, indeed?” Aston folded his arms across his chest. “Been planning the trip long have you? Or did a bit of unrequited lust drive you to the decision?”
He made no reply.
“Ah. It’s not unrequited. The lady isn’t quite ready to hoist her curtain, but she wished to.”
“Shut it.”
“Well, you can run if you like.” Aston sat on the desk, making the room his home. “What would you do?”
“I’d go back to work,” he bit out. Really, he should be annoyed, but the duke was just too odd and clearly passionate about the same causes to quibble with.
Aston looked about the cabin then stood. “Noble work it is, too, but just imagine. . . You’ve one ship. How many does the Royal Navy have? How many could be saved?”
“You make it sound so bloody noble.” Adam put the brandy bottle down on the desk. “I know the English. They don’t do anything out of the goodness of their hearts.”
“I’m not naive,” Aston agreed, his arms dropping to his sides. “But isn’t something better than nothing at all? Imagine the full force of Britannia fighting for what you believe.”
“I’m an American,” Adam reminded.
“Trifles,” Aston scoffed as he twirled a strong hand. “Many of your founders would have applauded your notions. I knew several. Comprise is necessary to achieve anything, but it can tire the soul. Let’s liven it up again.”
“I—”
“Don’t answer now. Give it some thought.” Aston clapped him on the back. “Come to the party. Your brother and his wife will be there.”
“She’ll be there, too,” he fairly bemoaned. Good God, was that him?
“All the better. Show her what a good time you’re capable of having without her. Drives the ladies mad, that,” Aston declared as he headed out of the cabin.
He didn’t wish to drive her mad. He wished her happy. But now, he also wished to know what had driven her to such a sudden and seemingly rash decision. She had no obligation to tell him, but he had to find her and at least try. Or at least, that was what he told himself as he backed away from the brandy bottle and decided to go in search of evening kit instead of a fight.