The Road to Ruin

by Bronwyn Stuart

  “No fear? I thought you were actually going to strangle the life from me. I was terrified and ready to cut your throat.”

  “I should count myself fortunate that you are a pirate and not a genteel flower.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “Never in a thousand years did I imagine you would make such an admission.”

  God, she was amazing. He wanted to tell her how strong he thought her for fighting him off, for not screaming for help or killing him after she’d disabled him. Never had he thought he would ever meet someone like her.

  He should never have fallen asleep. He’d only meant to lie next to her until she’d dozed off herself.

  “You’d better cast off your hopes of finding a biddable wife,” Daniella told him.

  His pulse jumped. “What do you mean?”

  “What are you going to do when you marry and still have dreams such as these?”

  Hobson had asked him much the same when he brought up the notion of finding a wife. And then once more when they moved into Daniella’s brother’s stable and passed themselves off as servants. Each night when he found the courage to not sleep on a bed of rocks he asked himself whether he was doing the right thing by his family to even reside in the same house as them.

  Now he would give anything and everything he had to be in the same house as Amelia and his mother again.

  He had to change the direction of their conversation lest he become even more morose. “I will not sleep in the same room as my wife.”

  She stopped moving, stopped laughing; he almost believed for a moment that she stopped breathing. “You need to make an heir, do you not?”

  Despite the only light in the room being the full moon’s glow, and despite their earlier intimacy, the blush was visible on Daniella’s cheeks.

  “This isn’t an appropriate conversation.”

  “What is the appropriate conversation after midnight with the man who just tried to kill you?”

  He’d never known anyone like her. He had to stop his mind from imagining her his equal. He’d already warned himself not to do that.

  “A man does not share a room with his wife.”

  “Ever?”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps in a love match but no, a man generally visits his wife in her rooms and then returns to his own.”

  “You English are a bizarre lot. How does a wife stand it?”

  “She is raised to know it as the way things happen.”

  “What if your wife does ask you to stay with her all night? What if she falls deeply and madly in love with you? Will you tell her about your dreams then?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it is my weakness. It is my demon to battle and no one else’s.” Henri’s cherubic face flashed before his eyes and he had to close them, had to find a way to bring back the numbness and drive away the despair.

  Daniella huffed. “Why do men choose to bury their heads in the sand rather than admit what they did was wrong and move on from it?”

  “You don’t move on from the lives I took, Daniella. It changes you. Forever.”

  “Only if you let it. Did you ever kill for the sake of killing? Did you ever stab someone in the heart or run them through with your sword for the joy of it? You aren’t the monster you seem to believe you are.”

  “Not a monster. Not quite. But I followed my orders and not all of those people were dangers to the crown or the war effort.”

  “How do you know?”

  Little Henri had been an innocent victim of the war. James had just finished killing his parents. The Sheppartons had sold British secrets to the French for a paltry house and vineyard on the outskirts of Calais. Hundreds had died because of them. They had thought they’d got away with it too. Until James had been sent back from the front in Egypt to find them.

  Their deaths were quick. Clean. Uncomplicated. Until he’d heard the sobbing of little Henri. He’d already lit the fire that would see the house burn to the ground when he’d turned to find the sobbing four-year-old.

  It was one of the rare moments when James had felt more than the Butcher’s chilled numbness. He’d stared at the child, flames reflected in the midnight depths of his eyes. He’d wanted to say something, anything, to the child. But then he’d fled down the hall, his little legs pumping up and down.

  James tried to look for him, tried to find him and get him out of the burning house. He was doubling back in case the boy had too when he’d heard the pop and felt a burn in his thigh. At first he’d thought debris from the growing fire had exploded and hit him, but almost before the truth registered he was falling with the collapsing staircase and had to drag himself from the house.

  Henri never emerged. The boy had avenged his parents by putting a ball in James’s leg and James had killed him as surely as he’d slit the throats of his family. That was to be his last mission for king and country.

  For days he’d sat in that damp, depressing makeshift hospital bed and endured the image of the little boy every time he closed his eyes. Marie’s taunting face was nothing compared to a four-year-old fair-haired child’s. Years in Egypt and half the continent fighting Bonaparte and it was a small French child who brought the Butcher to his knees.

  Coming back to the present, James locked eyes with Daniella again. “Do you see the faces of the men you’ve killed?” he asked her.

  “I don’t. When I close my eyes, it’s my father’s face and the look on it when he—well, when he found me in a…compromising situation that I see. I don’t regret the lives I’ve taken.”

  When he raised his brows, she held up a hand to stop him. “When it’s kill or be killed, I would always save myself and so would you. I believe it is a benefit of piracy—I have very little in the way of a conscience.”

  When she grinned, James couldn’t help but grin back. The minx flat-out lied to make him feel better about himself and he liked her all the more for it. Damn.

  “Now please let me check your nose to make sure I didn’t break it.”

  “My nose is fine,” he told her, more worried about her neck. He hoped they weren’t going to spend the whole trip checking one another’s hurts.

  Daniella put her hands on her hips and shot him a glare. “It is still bleeding so it’s not fine.”

  He swiped a hand under his nostrils, which brought a fresh sting to his eyes and moisture to betray his words. “It’s not broken, just…sore.”

  She didn’t believe him but didn’t press the issue any further.

  James placed a finger beneath her chin and tipped her head back to inspect her throat. She flinched.

  “Oh my God, look what I did,” he breathed, running the tips of his fingers over her angry skin. “I am so sorry.”

  “I’ve had worse than this and am still alive to tell the tale.”

  “Worse? You should see yourself in a mirror. I don’t know how we’re going to explain this.”

  “I could wear a scarf?”

  James couldn’t believe she was still trying to lighten the moment. How was he supposed to look at her for the next few days?

  “Besides, we are going to have more than that to explain. You look as though you fell down a flight of stairs. I’m afraid both of your eyes are going to blacken if we don’t get something cold onto them. You’d better lie down.”

  She got to her bare feet and padded across the room to the pitcher of water. Wetting a strip of linen, she returned and glared at him until he did her bidding. Then she set the cool towel over his eyes and told him he had to stay like that for a little while.

  “Is this the part where you kick me again for being such a cad?” he asked, a smile on his lips.

  “I was serious before, James. This is not your fault.”

  “If I’d not been in your room, none of it would have happened.”

  “You would make the lousiest pirate.”

  He chuckled and then groaned when it hurt the bridge of his nose. He wanted to ask why she doubt
ed his pillaging and plundering skills but was slightly afraid of the answer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The very next day once again dawned.

  Odd that.

  James found himself waking up to wonder why he hadn’t been struck down by God Himself during the night. He kept closing and then reopening his eyes expecting the captain to materialize and run him through with his wooden leg.

  It would have been a fitting end to a night where the past had had a damned good go at flogging him senseless.

  Every muscle in his body hurt. His face felt tight and his eyes would not open all the way no matter how hard he tried. Daniella was right. He was going to have a lot to explain. He rolled towards her on the bed, to see how bad her injuries were in the light of day. Only she wasn’t there.

  James sat up so quickly his head spun and his stomach revolted. He mentally pushed it all down while he searched for his boots, having taken them off during the night to get more comfortable. He never dreamed the same twice in one night so he assumed they were both safe to sleep after that. She must have waited until he’d nodded off and then fled.

  A prickling of dread spread from his nape down his spine. How long had she been gone? Why hadn’t he heard her? Which direction would she take and could they catch her up?

  The door swung wide while he laced his boots. The relief he felt when Daniella tiptoed her way in was beyond anything. He wanted to kiss her and throttle her.

  Was he happy to see her for his mother’s and sister’s sakes or his own?

  “Oh good, you’re awake.” She stopped midsentence and midstep, her mouth open. “Oh dear God.”

  “Good morning to you too.” He inclined his head and then wished he hadn’t. He’d woken like this before, after consuming copious amounts of whiskey and port, tasting as if a dog had squirted in his mouth while he’d slept. But never after a fight. He wondered if she’d half brained him at one stage.

  “Your face looks just awful. You should have kept the cold press on it.”

  He rose and approached her slowly, her eyes never leaving his face as she studied him with pain in her gaze. He didn’t have to tip her head back to inspect her neck. He could well enough see the bruises and swelling from there. “You should have put the compress on your skin.”

  “I told you, I will be fine. You on the other hand need to get cleaned up. Hobson tells me a ship has been sighted off the bay. We need to investigate.”

  He said the first thing that sprang to mind, his brain trying to catch up and push away other niggling revelations. “The innkeeper said a ship could not get close. The waves are too high and the beach too rocky.”

  She threw him a look he was beginning to know well. The one that asked how he was still alive and if he was a complete idiot. “I suspect he lied. It sounds exactly what a smuggler might say to keep a nosy lord away from his less-than-legal activities.”

  James bristled. What in God’s name had she done to him? His instincts were one of his best assets and she was ruining them with her distracting presence.

  “Where were you just now?”

  “We needed clothes.”

  “So you went out into the inn dressed like that?” He could just about see through the cotton and her ankles were on full display.

  “I went out into the hall, yes. I found Hobson loitering there and asked him to find me something to wear.” She dropped one arm’s bundle on the bed and held the other closely to her chest.

  He deliberately ignored the matching bruises on her wrist and arm in favour of an argument. “He wasn’t loitering: he was ensuring you didn’t escape. He was watching out for trouble.”

  “Fine, loitering was an exaggeration. He was sleeping in a chair. I could have easily got past him and been on my way. You two really are very bad at this. He didn’t even wake while we were beating each other senseless.”

  James swore under his breath.

  Daniella smiled as she slipped behind the dressing screen, unable to resist another jibe. “You are lucky to have retired from the army before someone succeeded in killing you both. Do you think it is age that slows you down?”

  “How long does Hobson think we have?” James asked, ignoring her. He made a mental note to remind Hobson what was at stake and on which side his bread was buttered.

  “He is having the innkeeper’s daughter make a basket of food and Patrick is readying the carriage and horses as we speak. No time at all.”

  James rubbed a hand over his jaw, grimacing at the stubble covering his cheeks and chin. He no longer appeared the gentleman in any capacity.

  Her voice broke into his thoughts once again. “Let me know when you are decent. Unless I can convince you to return to your own room to dress?”

  He rifled through the clothing on the bed. There was a clean shirt, fresh breeches and hose, and a coat. “I have everything I need right here.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He wondered what Hobson had found for her to wear as he stared at his face in the looking glass. Dark growth covered much of his cheeks, chin and neck but he left it there. Better to be unnoticeable than clean-shaven and looking every inch a gentleman who had been robbed of everything including his dignity.

  Beaten by a woman.

  Hobson was going to laugh until he rolled on the floor.

  “Did you tell Hobson what had happened to your neck?” he asked as he used the strip of linen to wash the caked blood from his face and the top of his chest. He searched for the nick to his neck from the dagger, wondering if it was part of the dream or if she had actually meant to stab him in the throat. He breathed easier when he found no evidence.

  Daniella had said he looked awful and he did. It wasn’t even the worst it was going to get. That would come later in the day and into the night. He hoped his eyes weren’t going to swell shut. That was all he needed.

  Movement in the looking glass had him swivelling, the dagger in his hand before he’d even thought the thought. She made no sound as she moved; there was no rustle of skirts or petticoats to warn him she was there.

  “You…” he sputtered, swallowed, inhaled. “You are not wearing that. Who gave you those clothes?” The reason he hadn’t heard a rustle of skirts was because she wasn’t wearing any. Damn her. Damn Hobson!

  “There is nothing else. And anyway, I prefer breeches.”

  “And I prefer to not draw attention!” When had she worn breeches before? On the ship? With the shape of her calves on display? He damned her father while he was consigning all others to the deepest pits of hell.

  “I do believe you are going to have an apoplexy, my lord.” Her smile was too knowing in the dawn light.

  He lifted his gaze from her tightly encased legs. Could he actually see each individual muscle making up her thigh? “You did this on purpose?”

  “I did not. You were the one teaching me a lesson when you cut through my dress. I would have been happy to wear it again today. Well, not unhappy at any rate.”

  “So find Hobson again and tell him to buy or steal you another dress. The innkeeper’s daughter or wife will have clothing they will part with.”

  “No.”

  His fists clenched and he took a step towards her. “No?”

  “I am comfortable like this. I can run and ride and fight better.”

  “We are not fighting today or any other day. You cannot leave the room wearing that!”

  “I won’t be leaving the room. Danny the boy will be.” She flourished a cap and then edged him out of the way so she could look into the glass. When she began pinning her flame-bright hair, he still stood, shaking his head and wondering what deity had it in for him so badly that Daniella had been sent into his orbit.

  “Hobson also gave me a scarf and there is an oversize coat in the carriage. I’ll be your squire. Or footman? I could even ride on top of the carriage again.”

  The excitement in her voice fuelled the anger in his veins. “You cannot do this, Daniella. You’ll fool no one.” His eyes
travelled along the curve of her spine, the not-quite-white shirt almost hugging the contours of her arse where it wasn’t long enough to completely cover it. She wore a waistcoat but her breasts were mountainous beneath the coarse brown fibre. His eyes kept drifting down towards those tight thighs encased in black, and those shaped, toned calves.

  He groaned.

  “Granted I’ll be the prettiest boy you’ve ever travelled with. A little dirt on my face and the coat over my body—from a distance, I’ll pass.”

  Not bloody likely. “And up close?”

  “No one will be getting that close.”

  James wanted to. He remembered how smooth and supple the skin of her hip was. Would her ankles cross if she were to wrap her legs around him without petticoats to hamper her? Would he feel every inch of her through the suede of the breeches?

  “James?” She stared at him in the reflection. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?” He licked his lips but couldn’t drag his gaze from her backside.

  She turned from the mirror and slapped a palm against his cheek. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt but it drew him back to the present. “Pretend I am a boy.”

  “I’m afraid that is never going to happen.” He willed his voice back to its usual cadence but the huskiness had overtaken. What would she do if he kissed her right then? Reasonable thought fled.

  He cleared his throat and was about to forbid her to leave the room, perhaps make another suggestion as to how they might pass the morning, when Hobson exploded into the small space like cannon fire. “Pirates, Major. Making for the beach.”

  Daniella stepped forwards, the cap on her now tightly bound hair. “My father?” she asked hopefully.

  Hobson shook his head, his eyes wide when they glimpsed James’s battered face. He wisely did not ask questions. “These are real pirates, lass. Not your da.”

  “How can you be sure?”