The Heart of an Earl (A Box of Draupnir Novel Book 1)

by K. J. Jackson

  Her gaze lifted to Des and she stared at him, searching his face. Solid. He was solid. Centering her. He remembered her—who she was before. A direct link to the past. To the reality that once existed.

  The room stilled.

  It took several breaths before she could make her tongue move. “You survived?”

  “I did.” He sank downward, balancing on his heels in front of her. Eye level with her, his right hand lifted, going to her knee, clutching it. “You survived.”

  She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. Tears she’d banished to the depths of hell six years ago.

  No tears. No fear. No feeling.

  That was how she’d survived.

  His brow furrowed. “Are you injured from the battle? Does something pain you?”

  She shook her head, her trembling hand going to the front of her neck, her fingers playing on the scab from his blade. “Just some minor scrapes and the scab where I cut myself. You are truly him? Truly that man from the Primrose?”

  “Des.” He nodded, looking to say more, but then his face blanched. Without a sound, he abruptly stood and took a step backward. He paused by the door. “You can wash—I will go and retrieve some food and bring it back. Best that you stay in here for the time being.”

  He waited until she nodded, her vision still blurry with tears, and he removed himself from the cabin.

  She stared at the vertical boards of the door for long minutes, wondering on the man that had just saved her—and had tried to save her long ago.

  Had her tears made him scurry away? Or the fact that she’d known him once, even if it had been for only a second in time?

  One thing was certain.

  He wanted as little to do with the past as she did.

  { Chapter 4 }

  Des paused outside the door to his cabin, memories from years ago rushing madcap in his skull.

  Memories he’d had no time for since stepping out of his cabin hours ago. There had been too much to do. Conferring with Captain Folback about the attack, setting course with the men, tending wounds sustained in battle—so much so he’d almost forgotten he’d promised the woman food.

  Des looked down at the plate balanced in his hand next to the brandy bottle and two glasses tucked into the crook of his elbow holding tight to his body.

  The Primrose.

  The name a distant memory—a touchstone in the fog of the years since he’d left England.

  The day all hope had left him.

  Before that day, he’d always held hope of getting back to Corentine—fought for it, held his tongue against injustice for it, took beatings for it. But that day on the Primrose all hope had been lost. No longer necessary, for there was nothing left to go back to. Not if his wife was dead.

  The day he had set foot onto the Primrose was the day his world had collapsed.

  And he’d been struggling to rebuild himself ever since he’d been knocked unconscious on the deck of that ship.

  He’d woken up, confused, the Primrose adrift in the ocean.

  The letter from his brother-in-law, gone, blown out to sea.

  One of the last able-bodied men onboard the Primrose, he’d taken control and limped the ship back to port.

  A week into drowning in his cups in Barbados was where Captain Folback had stumbled upon him. Des had been backed into a corner by three sailors he’d grievously insulted—minutes away from his throat being cut. The captain had taken pity upon him, saved his hide, and then set him on his ship, the Firehawk.

  Des had been loyal to the man ever since.

  His look centered on the wood planks of the door and Des gave a slight shake of his head. Memories he couldn’t revisit. Hard to do when a direct catalyst to those memories sat on the other side of the door.

  Yet she still had to eat, and whether he liked it or not, she’d just inadvertently become his responsibility. A sigh lifted his chest and he rapped the door with his knuckles. A muffled “Come,” drifted out to him.

  Des opened the door, finding the woman standing by the chest adjacent to the foot of the bed. She’d washed her face, her hands and arms, the splatters of blood from the battle now cleared from her skin.

  Her hands clasped together in front of the mess of clothing she had on—the ragged strips of what was once a peach skirt, trousers, a black corset that held tight to her body over a too big lawn shirt that had the sleeves cut off at her wrists. The large coat she’d had on earlier was in a crumple at the head of the bed. She looked at him, suspicion lining her blue-green eyes.

  Her cheeks were now clean, dewy almost, as though she had just washed six years of time off her face. She looked much more like the young chit he had barely caught a glimpse of on the Primrose years ago. Except for her eyes. Her eyes held far too much knowledge, far too much pain in them to be the young innocent she once was.

  Beautiful, even. Scarred, but beautiful. Enough to send his gaze down to the bare skin of her upper chest above the lawn shirt puffing out from the corset, and his eyes rested a moment too long on her breasts—too big for her slight form. Of course, she shouldn’t be as slight as she was—bones and not much else. Her body needed meat on it.

  His cock twitched.

  It hadn’t done that of its own volition in more than ten years. Not since the last night he’d been with Corentine in the East Indies before her ship had set sail back to England.

  Not that he’d been a monk—but no woman, no bare slope of a chest had made him react without direct concentration on relieving himself of his baser needs.

  His look snapped up to her face. Her eyes had narrowed at him, the stiff rod of resistance that had sent her defiant onto that pirate ship years ago shining in the green sparks of her blue eyes.

  He cleared his throat, inclining his head to her. “Please, sit. I apologize that there is not more space.”

  She shuffled to her right and sat on the foot of the bed.

  He set the plate down on the bed beside her, then pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “Or you could eat at the desk.”

  “This is fine.” She picked up the plate, setting it in her lap, her fingers breaking apart the biscuit. She popped a bite into her mouth, her look trained on him as she chewed.

  She swallowed. “You are not going to eat?”

  Des moved to the desk, setting down the bottle of brandy and the glasses. “I will later. My appetite is not yet back. Blood does that to me.”

  Her right eyebrow cocked. “You’re afraid of blood? I saw how you fought on the ship.”

  “And?” He turned around to her.

  “Of all the men, you’re the one I didn’t want walking under me.”

  “So why did you drop onto me?”

  “I’m not stupid. You were also the one I waited for. I had to take a chance on the strongest one of your crew—you were my best hope, if there was any hope at all.”

  She was shrewd—far too much so. No wonder she’d survived on the Red Dragon for as long as she did.

  His head tilted to the side as he studied her. “In battle I am fine. It is after. Seeing the blood on my mates’ limbs, on their faces, the deep cuts, the flesh inside.” He paled, shaking his head. “I don’t eat for a day.”

  “How peculiar.”

  He shrugged. “It is what it is.” His forefinger flung out to the plate. “But you still needed to eat and I wanted to talk to you.”

  “About?”

  He took two steps forward to stand in front of her. “Your father, the Marquess of Gatlong.”

  A bite of the biscuit halfway to her mouth, she froze, her eyes closing for several long seconds. Her fingers with the biscuit dropped to the plate in her lap before she opened her eyes to him. “I—I haven’t heard his name in…forever.”

  “I remembered him, but what I don’t remember is your name. I thought he mentioned it, but forgive me as I don’t recall it.”

  “My father is alive?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, swallowing hard. “And my mother
?”

  “Yes. Both survived the attack. Your mother was grief-stricken, though. I recall that as we limped to port. It was obvious you meant a great deal to her.”

  “I…I did.” Her eyes closed and a tear slipped down her cheek, but then her eyelashes flew open, her glossy eyes pinning him. “But you…you had that letter—Redthorn read it—he laughed. I remember him laughing at it.”

  “Aye. I had just cracked the seal on it.”

  Her head snapped backward. “You had just found out your wife had died? On that ship? Just before they boarded the Primrose?”

  Des nodded, his jaw set solidly closed.

  She stared at him. Silent. Silent seconds that ticked into a full minute. What should have been awkward, wasn’t—it just was.

  Neither said a word, neither moved past the stillness in the cabin until she cracked her lips open. “I am sorry for your loss. That was what I was thinking in that moment that you had just been beaten and collapsed to the deck and Redthorn stole that letter from your hand. And I was so sorry. Sorry that I was the cause of the beating. Sorry that she died. Sorry for all of it.”

  Her head dropped forward, her look going to her lap. “You stepped in to help me because of that—didn’t you? Because you didn’t care whether you lived or died?” Her gaze lifted to him. “I thought about it after. How my father would not step forward to defend me, but you—you did. A stranger. But while my father wanted to live, you didn’t care one way or another.”

  Des’s eyebrows lifted. He hadn’t underestimated her. She was far too astute—had learned far too much about what made the world work—what made men fall to their knees.

  But he wasn’t about to answer her suppositions—couldn’t answer her, for her words were far too close to the truth.

  Des cleared his throat. “And your name?”

  “My name? Penelo—” Her jaw dropped, but no words came from her mouth. An awkward smile, and she chuckled, strained, and the sound drifted higher into manic trill. “No. Not Penelope. My name is not Penelope.”

  “You are going to have to tell me more on that.”

  Tears brimmed on her lower lashes as she looked up at him. “I never told him. Redthorn. It was what he wanted—demanded—to know my name. I refused for weeks. Refused him, starving myself. Until I realized I could lie. It had never occurred to me before that—to lie to anyone about anything important like my name. Silly, now that I think on it. Lying is easy if you set your mind to it. So I never told him. I never gave him that part of me. I gave him the name Penelope—she was my favorite horse in my father’s stables—a speckled mare that had a heart-shaped splotch just above her nose.”

  She exhaled a deep sigh. “Penelope. That was all he ever got from me. Of the real me. Of the me before. My horse’s name.”

  “What is your real name?”

  She stared at him, her voice cracking. “Julianna. My name is Julianna.”

  Where there should have been doubt in his mind about the name—for the story she’d just told him was evidence that lying about the issue would be no problem for her—Des knew, instinctively, that she was telling the truth.

  The corners of his lips twitched upward. “Then it is good to meet you, Julianna.”

  “Jules—everyone calls me Jules…did call me Jules.”

  “I am Desmond Phillips—Des to everyone aboard.”

  She nodded.

  “There are three other things I need to tell you, Jules. One, our course is set. We are travelling to England. Captain Folback wants to get home to see his wife, as it’s been eight months since we’ve been there. Which behooves us in getting you back to your family. If the weather and winds hold, we should be there within four weeks’ time.”

  A visible inhale lifted her chest high. “And the second thing?”

  “I want you to know I will get you home—you are my responsibility until you are under your father’s roof.”

  “You—you would do such a thing? Why?”

  “What happened to you on the Primrose was wrong. I right wrongs. I couldn’t at the time, but I can now. Fate has graciously offered me another chance.”

  She nodded, her gaze curious on him. Certainly not trusting. Apparently honor had been hard to come by on the Red Dragon.

  She cleared her throat. “The third thing?”

  “I need to sleep in here.”

  Her head jerked back and forth. “No, you don’t.”

  “I do.”

  Her hand flipped into the air, waving about. “No. There are plenty of hammocks on a brigantine like this—I’ve seen enough of them to know.”

  Des’s gaze went hard. He wasn’t about to argue this with her. “It isn’t about a lack of hammocks, Jules, it’s about you.”

  “What about me?” Suspicion laced her words.

  “I need to own you.”

  Her jaw dropped. “No—no, you said you wouldn’t hurt me.” Lightning quick, she set the plate of food onto the bed, her knee jutted upward, and she yanked a dagger from the side of her boot. She whipped the point of the blade directly at him. “I beg ye to keep yer promise, or yer blood’ll be spillin’ right off.”

  Des didn’t move, didn’t react, even though the blade was within striking distance. A show of force at this juncture would do him no good. “You misunderstand.”

  “Do I?” The blade went higher as she came to her feet, closer to his throat.

  “You do. I’m not going to touch you. But to the crew you must be my property. My property alone. Not something to share. I sleep outside these quarters and that turns you into fair game for the lot of them.” His voice dipped deep, though he attempted to keep his words at an even keel. “You chose me for a reason, Jules. Don’t be stupid now.”

  The blade pulled slightly back. “You’re not going to touch me?”

  “No.”

  “Swear it.”

  “I’ll not touch you, Jules. I swear it. But I do need to sleep with you.”

  { Chapter 5 }

  Leaving his boots outside the door, Des stepped into his cabin on his toes, his breath held in the still of night as he clasped the door quietly closed behind him.

  The sliver of moonlight through the window gave him just enough light to see the lump of Jules on the bed. She was slight—so slight she almost disappeared under the sheet.

  He’d stayed up late, taking a turn at the helm, mostly so that he could delay coming into his cabin. He’d been dead tired when he was relieved at the wheel, his body starting to sway even as his feet were rooted onto the deck.

  Sleep.

  But where?

  The floor of the cabin left much to be desired. The open stretch of space shorter than him by at least two feet, he could maybe thread his head between the legs of the chair at the desk and then fold his knees up high.

  That was what he should do. He’d sworn to Jules he wouldn’t touch her, and he wasn’t about to break that promise just hours after he made it. Des pulled off his waistcoat and dragged his lawn shirt up over his head.

  A quivered breath lifted into the air.

  He looked at Jules, at her shoulder and left arm above the fold of the sheet she had draped over her body. Her shoulder shook.

  A sob—stifled, but still a sob—racked down her whole body. Another trembling breath.

  She was sobbing. Sobbing as silently as she could.

  He doubted she even knew he was in the room.

  Des stood, watching her form, watching every ragged breath she took, waiting for the sobs to cease.

  They didn’t.

  Minutes crept by and the sobs continued to come, rolling over each other.

  How long had she been like this?

  For everything that he could piece together of her, he didn’t think she’d care for him to hear the sobs, but now that he was in the room, he couldn’t leave.

  Couldn’t leave her.

  For the sobs cut through his chest, twisting something deep in the cold hollow of where his heart once beat.

&nb
sp; Pity.

  It had to be pity.

  But he could listen to the crying no more—and at the same time, he couldn’t leave her.

  He heaved a silent sigh, then stepped forward. Crawling into the bed behind her, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her into him before she knew what was happening. Before she could resist.

  He held her tight to him. That was it. Nothing more.

  Holding her against the sobs racking her body.

  She stilled for only a moment before a fresh wave of tears came, the quaking of her body harder now that he could feel her muscles along his. Feel the fresh torment each roll sent through her torso, her limbs.

  So much anguish that his soul ached for her. For all that she must have lost on that ship. Innocence. Hope. Probably her very sanity.

  “Des?” The word choked out between gasps for air.

  “Yes?”

  She coughed, clearing her throat. “You said you wouldn’t touch me.”

  “I lied. I tend to do that. Especially when it’s for a good cause.”

  A rough chuckle gurgled through her sobs and her left arm atop the sheet moved downward, clasping onto his arm draped across her belly.

  Though her face remained turned away from him, she wasn’t ready for him to leave her be just yet.

  He wasn’t ready either.

  “As do I—lie.” She drew a shaking breath. “I don’t recall the last true thing I’ve said or done.”

  Des stared down at the top of her head. A sliver of moonlight caught an auburn lock bleached by the sun in the braid running along the left side of her head, the shade of it almost white in the glow of the moon.

  “I know what it is.”

  Her head shook against the pillow. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “On the Primrose.”

  Her fingers twitched on the back of his left hand, and it took her a long moment to reply. “Yes?”

  “Redthorn struck your mother and she fell to the deck.” He paused.

  “Aye, I recall.”

  “You dropped to your knees after her, wrapping your arms about her, shielding her. She was trying to protect you and you were trying to protect her. I saw it. Saw what instinct made you do. You were determined to take any blow that was meant for her. Bold and brave without lending fear the slightest margin of strength.” His arm shifted along her side and her fingers tightened around his wrist, holding him in place. “It was purity of heart that sent you to cover her. That was true. It wasn’t a lie.”