To Hades with honor and repaying one’s debt to king and country. Her brother lived by one rule alone: duty. And whatever debt Markwick believed he was repaying, it wasn’t worth losing him and her brother, too, for she would never forgive Pierce if he killed Markwick.
Chloe’s heart seized more cruelly than the pull of her wet garments against her skin. Like Isabella in Otranto, she’d handle her personal despair like the long-suffering heroines in her beloved books. In the past, she’d had no other choice. She’d stepped back and watched Markwick do his duty by Pru, incapable of denying anyone else the happiness they truly deserved. That simply wasn’t in her nature. To some, that might make her appear dowdy and meek, but she was far from either of those characteristics.
So was Markwick. He was neither a captain nor a pirate, and yet he was . . . altered.
If only he could see the truth, see that love could redeem him.
As they walked through the orange-lit passageway where shadows danced at every turn, she pondered the differences in him. His brash confrontation with Captain Teague, the capable way he’d resolved the danger threatening countless lives, the remarkable changes to his body in a matter of months, not that she’d ever been given an opportunity to see him shirtless before. Muscles flexed in his marvelous shoulders, the straining hills and valleys tempting her sight, making her want to reach out and touch him to prove he was real. He was a magnificent example of manhood—more attractive, more virile than any man she’d ever imagined in her dreams.
But this time, the hero who’d save her life wasn’t a fixation of her imaginings. She wasn’t asleep, as Jane had so obligingly shown her. And oh, she was most grateful for it.
Markwick hastened their pace. She marveled at his new home, adjusting to the rhythm beneath her feet, absorbing everything she saw on the gundeck. Cannons were positioned for battle, long sections of rope were coiled around the capstans, and hammocks stretched out between the guns along the hull for his crew.
Coarse odors of sulphur and grease invaded her nostrils. After days sailing from Torquay, she didn’t have to knuckle her nose to staunch the smell as she had the moment she’d boarded the Mohegan.
Bare feet padded faintly around them, the sound joining their booted footfalls as he led her past gun tackle and equipment and through a passageway leading to a grouping of closed screen doors. He stopped before one and opened it, gesturing for her to cross the coaming before he followed and locked the door behind them.
Iron-latticed lanterns hanging by chains dangled at intervals in the cabin, their muted light casting an orange glow on furniture affixed to the floor, including a sideboard with washbasin, a table with several chairs, and a monstrous desk.
She glanced around the cabin, eager to get out of her wet things but even more intrigued and restless to discover what it was about the Regent’s ship that had seduced Markwick into a life of piracy.
The screens encompassing the cabin were made up of mahogany panels. Black damask curtains, which were drawn back from the stern windows, danced with shadows in the lantern light. And joy of joys, cushioned seats stationed under the windows provided an excellent place to read by day.
Continuing the mysterious decor, black fabric shrouded the bunk and coverlets, too, giving the cabin a ghastly soul. Weren’t captains’ cabins supposed to be well-lit places for strategic planning? Who in his right mind would want to reside in this dark lair?
Poor Markwick. What has happened to you?
About her, lining the bulkhead, glass-encased shelves provided ready access to liquor and, praise heaven, more books! Chloe set down her parcel and walked to one case, lifted the lid, and stroked the aged spines of the nautical library. Was this where Markwick had learned to manage sea life? If so, she must make use of the books, too. To know a person, one need only sample his tastes.
She closed the glass and searched the cabin, taking in the spyglass, cutlass, and several daggers affixed to the bulkhead. Her gaze finally settled on Markwick, who stood there staring back at her, bare-chested and more handsome than she’d ever dared believe. Something raw and primal radiated from his silver stare, making her want to swoon and prompting her to cinch his linen shirt tighter about her shoulders.
I’ve dreamed of this moment. It’s finally here. We’re alone.
“Are you done with your inspection, my lady?”
His dull wit didn’t upend her. “I’m shivering. Seeing you standing there as you are . . . Well, I just realized you gave me the shirt off your back. You must be cold.”
“Sea life takes getting used to.”
Did it? Perhaps he was right, but she didn’t intend to be at sea long enough to find out.
She turned toward the center of the room, facing the desk that was bolted to the deck to control her beating heart and hide the flush rising to her cheeks. “The decor needs work. Black reminds me of mourning.” Her heartbeat slammed against her chest as memories of all that Pru had been through and thoughts of the widows of the slain Mohegan’s crew filled her mind to overflowing. She cinched Markwick’s shirt tighter then spun around to face him. What would happen to the families left behind?
“Mourning?” Markwick’s eyes widened with astonishment. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Chloe bit her bottom lip. Perhaps mourning wasn’t the right word. Gloomy? Tomblike? “I understand that you are the Black Regent, but isn’t the black overmuch? A touch of red would do splendidly here and there to liven the place. As a matter of fact, purple is a much richer, more regal color. With a name like Regent, one pictures royal furnishings.”
“The Black Regent isn’t a hero from one of your books, Chloe.”
Oh, but you are exactly as I pictured my swashbuckling hero to be. “Perhaps you are right. Every one of my heroes wears a shirt.”
Markwick’s attention dropped to his chest. “You are wearing mine.” He looked up and frowned ruefully.
“Easily remedied.” She began to pull his shirt from her shoulders.
“No. Keep it.” He put up his hand to halt her progress. “And do not try to give it back until you are out of those wet clothes.”
The idea of standing before him naked sent a delightful shiver from her head to her toes. She gasped. “I . . . I have nothing else,” she said, conscious of the fact that she was standing in his cabin with her clothes plastered to her skin.
“Your maid had a satchel, did she not? Perhaps there is something in it you can use. If not, I shall dig into my trunk to find something . . . less . . . revealing.”
“Revealing?” She hugged his shirt even closer. What did that mean? The cut of her pelisse was quite practical. “I’ll have you know my modiste is a respectable woman and an excellent seamstress.”
She might not be as lean as Pru had been during her supposed widowhood, but their modiste, Mrs. Stratton, raved about Chloe’s curves. Why, Mrs. Stratton had told her a man could do no better than a vigorous woman, one capable of taking care of herself. After all, her legs had been strengthened by horseback riding. Her arms were firm and strong from practicing archery. Her hips were wide enough to prove useful balancing baskets when she picked flowers in the gardens and for bearing children.
“I wasn’t speaking about the quality of your clothes, Chloe, but the fact that they are wet.”
“Oh!” She suppressed a shiver of apprehension, allowing her gaze to trail a path down Markwick’s stomach, imagining herself carrying the future Earl of Markwick. What would Lady Osgood, known to readers of the prestigious paper Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post as Lady O, a widowed gossip and frequent informant, say about that?
She rubbed her arms briskly to summon warmth to her limbs and steer her thoughts away from Markwick and babies, for as surely as she’d been brought up in the country and desired to be married to the earl posthaste, she knew how children were made.
Markwick spoke no more as he leaned against the cabin entrance. Was her presence in his cabin so intrusive that he refused to relax?
Her heart sank in her chest. Markwick looked so dashing and heroic. Different somehow from the nobleman who looked gallant wearing gentlemen’s attire, and yet the same. Except he was perhaps more masculine—if that was possible—resembling a god who’d stepped out of The Mysteries of Udolpho as he scrutinized her from neutral ground.
It was barely tolerable, indeed painful, for her to see him this way and know he didn’t want to be with her. Defiance, undefinable in its intensity, burned in his eyes when he looked at her. What caused him so much pain? She’d never meant to hurt him—far from it! What more could she do to make Markwick understand that she loved him and never wanted to be parted from him? Was that so wrong?
Her shoulders sagged. Life. Death. Markwick’s contempt. She’d seen and heard more this day than she’d ever imagined possible. And the weight of Markwick’s derision proved almost too much to bear.
He’d risked his title, his reputation, and left everything and everyone in Exeter behind. He was a pirate, the celebrated and feared Black Regent. What would he want with the poorly dressed sister of his friend, a man who’d seek to collect a reward for the Black Regent’s capture without any consideration for her feelings?
She forced a smile, fighting back fatigue as a chill settled deep in her bones. If Markwick didn’t return her love, what then? She’d have to return home in disgrace, and her family would never trust her again.
Bother. She couldn’t think about the repercussions of her actions now.
Her lips began to quiver. Gooseflesh pricked her skin. She was colder than she’d ever been, even in the heart of winter. She wanted—no, needed—to borrow Markwick’s warmth, to open her heart, to tell him how she felt before it was too late. She had to try.
Overcome by a surplus of emotions, Chloe wasted no time seeking solace in the earl’s arms. She rushed to him theatrically, throwing herself on his chest, flattening her body against him. “Oh, Markwick! How I thank God it was you who saved me!”
For a moment, he stood there, his hands lax against his sides.
A heart-wrenching sob escaped her breast that he should be so distant, so unfeeling. More than anything else, she couldn’t bear his indifference.
But then he eased his hands over her shoulders, tightening his embrace. “Yes,” he said. “Divine intervention led me to you.”
She fed off his heat, turning her head to hear his heart pound against his rib cage, the beat speeding, drumming out an uneven rhythm. What if he didn’t care for her? What if she’d risked everything for nothing? She raised a fist to her mouth to silence herself from displaying her anguish. She’d never endured such emotional turmoil in her entire life.
As if knowing exactly what she needed, he stroked her hair with measured skill. “You have no idea how worried I was when I learned you’d come searching for me.”
“You knew?” Afraid to speak, to let him go, she clung to Markwick’s wet skin like a buoy thrown from a ship in heavy seas. “How?”
“Blackmoor told me.”
My letter to Pru!
She angled her head up to look at him. “When did you see the Duke of Blackmoor?”
He pressed her head against his chest again. “Right before I set sail for Penzance.”
Penzance! “You did go there.”
“I’ve been there many times.”
“But not in the capacity contacts in Torquay had me believe.” That much was clear. She didn’t harbor any ill will to the men who’d plied her with false information. In the end, her voyage had led her to Markwick; that was all that mattered.
He rubbed her back soothingly, helping her forget the horrifying events that had brought them to this moment. But for how long? She flattened her hands across his chest, absorbing his heat like a glutton, wanting to feel his arms around her as she kneaded his flesh.
The Earl of Markwick had always been her anchor, her lifeblood, even if he’d not been aware of it. But now, after her inflexible resolve had brought them together, she allowed herself to loosen her tightly bound control.
“I have a confession to make,” she whispered.
Laughter rumbled from his chest. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I never wanted you to marry Pru.”
“I didn’t know.” He caressed her back, drawing circles there, easing some of her aches and distress. “Prudence and I—”
She raised her head and placed her finger to his lips. “No. Don’t speak. Words will only ruin this moment.”
He’d done his duty as a friend. So had she. She’d lied to get where she was now, concocting reasons not to accept suitors. She’d promised her best friend that she no longer loved Markwick in order to hasten Pru’s happiness. She’d excused herself early from dinner to prepare for a visit to her aunt, all the while planning to run away with Jane. And she regretted nothing. Just as Markwick must not regret teaching Pru how to live again.
Yet above all, one thing twisted cruelly inside her, influencing their happy reunion, preventing her from reveling at so intimate an embrace—the wreckers.
Nausea swept through her, and she fought the urge to heave the contents of her stomach onto his boots.
Her heartbeat thumped wildly in her chest like a beast clawing its way out of a den. Her pulse throbbed in the sides of her neck, making it harder to breathe, to speak. She splayed her hands over Markwick’s ribs, marveling and lamenting her good fortune at the same time, plagued by memory, weighted by the guilt of countless men who’d been less fortunate than she.
Thirty-six men are dead . . .
Her body began to shake of its own accord.
“Easy now.” Markwick’s deep baritone wrapped her in a bit of warmth. “It’s never easy doing the right thing.”
No, it wasn’t. She bit her lip and clung to his solid torso. “When Jane and I thought we were going to die, I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing you again.” She slid her hands up the hardened planes of his chest, then pushed back, skimming her palms down his strong, powerful arms. “But here you are . . . in the flesh.”
His searching eyes, the silver color accentuated by his black mask, raked over her face with a stormy intensity she’d seen only once before. The moment he’d inspected her person aboard the Mohegan. But it wasn’t anger she saw mirrored there. No, desire. Her heart jolted, beating out of time as his muscles tensed and he stepped back, attempting to put distance between them.
She flicked a glance at his still-masked face. “Please don’t push me away. I couldn’t bear it.”
He nodded, albeit slowly. Then, after a distinctive pause, he reached for her neck and pulled her toward him once more. “I won’t. I’ve tried. Over and over again, I’ve tried to ignore the tether you are to my soul, Chloe. I’ve struggled to do the right thing by my family, your brother, Prudence. When Blackmoor died . . . was assumed dead . . . I did what honor bade me to do and offered the duchess my hand, hoping a marriage of convenience would offer the security widowhood had stolen from her. And yet, through it all, you were always there, forcing me to fervently deny the invisible thread between us.” He planted her head on his chest and then locked his arms around her, leaning his chin on her disheveled hair. “When Blackmoor returned and I learned the truth about my father, I felt as if every noble thought, every just act I’d tried to accomplish had been for naught. This,” he said, arching his arms wide, indicating the Fury, “is where I sought to earn back my pride, to become the man I thought I was before my father’s betrayal. But even this wasn’t far enough away to escape thoughts of you.” He leaned back and lifted her face to his. “What in God’s name are you doing to me, Chloe?”
“I’m loving you!” Wrapped in his warmth, she fought back tears. “I’ve come to make you see that we can have a future together.”
“A future? You and me? It’s too late. My father—”
“Was just a man who chose to walk the wrong road. You are not like him, Markwick. I know who you really are.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. Your
brother will not stop until he finds you. And if you are here with me, he’ll also find the Regent.” He exhaled a frustrated sigh and tried to push her away.
Was Pierce the only thing stopping Markwick from loving her? Hope sprang in her breast. Didn’t he know she’d risk a thousand shipwrecks, her family’s disappointment, and more to be at his side?
“I love you.” She placed her hand on his cheek. “That must account for something. We can make the Captain understand.”
“If I approached Walsingham in his study like an ordinary suitor requesting your hand, perhaps. But I am not an ordinary suitor, am I? I’m a pirate, and not just any pirate, but the Board of Excise’s primary target.”
“We’ll find a way together,” she promised. She caressed his cheek gently, then moved the tips of her fingers to his mask. He didn’t stop her as she inched it over his head and off his face. The last barrier between them fell to the floor, forgotten. “There is the man I adore.” She threaded her fingers through his shoulder-length hair. “You can leave the Fury and return with me to Exeter.” She eased into his embrace, fighting back the images that assaulted her with abandon.
Markwick sending her away . . . Pierce finding the Black Regent and killing him without knowing his true identity . . . Ships sinking . . . The Mohegan . . .
Her heart cried out against the horrific possibilities. “I cannot bear living without you.”
“You are being overly dramatic.”
“No. I am all agony. I have no shame when it comes to you.”
She clutched him tighter, fearing his immediate release. She was incredibly lucky—blessed, in fact—privileged, and grateful that Markwick had found her when he did. The alternative meant never being given the chance to speak her heart.
“Oh, Markwick.” She stifled another impudent sob. “Do not send me away. I cannot live without you.”
“Each man has a code of ethics he cannot cross. A man must adhere to that code or else he’s lost.”
“What does your heart tell you to do?” Her breath hitched as she waited for his answer.
When a Rogue Falls Page 36
