Lord of Temptation

by Lorraine Heath

  “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.”

  Chapter 3

  The following evening Tristan stood outside Easton House, his older brother’s residence. He didn’t have time for such nonsense. He had a ship to ready. But after visiting with Anne the night before, he’d gone to the docks to alert his men they’d be setting sail at midnight tonight. Upon arriving at his ship he’d found a note from Sebastian, inviting—a polite word for commanding—Tristan to join his family for dinner. Obviously going to see Rafe had been a mistake. His younger brother had no doubt alerted the older of Tristan’s presence in London.

  He supposed he could ignore the summons, but during their youth they’d gone far too many years without contact. What was a couple of hours of inconvenience when they had the opportunity to be together?

  He remembered a time when he would have simply walked into the house, but Sebastian had been a bachelor then and the house had seemed to belong to all three brothers. Now Tristan was more a guest, and his brother’s marriage to Mary had changed the dynamics somewhat.

  He lifted the heavy knocker and released it. Just as he anticipated, a footman quickly opened the door and ushered him in. As Tristan was handing his hat, gloves, and coat to the servant, the aging butler appeared.

  “My lord Tristan, welcome home.”

  “Thomas, you’re looking well.”

  “Couldn’t be better, sir. Thank you.”

  “I assume the
duke is in the library.” Making use of his well-stocked liquor cabinet if he were smart.

  “Yes, m’lord. Shall I announce your arrival?”

  “No need for such formality.” He strode through the familiar hallways, noting an empty spot or two where their father’s portrait had once hung. Their uncle had destroyed a good many of them. Tristan felt the familiar fury rise with memories of the vile man who’d sent them scurrying for their lives. His death brought no satisfaction.

  As Tristan neared the library a footman bowed and opened the door. Tristan went through without slowing. This room had been his father’s domain. It brought a bit of solace but the sight of his brother standing near the fireplace brought more.

  “Tristan.” The right side of Sebastian’s mouth lifted in welcome, the left side too badly scarred to do much of anything. His brother set aside his tumbler and was soon giving Tristan a bear hug and a solid slap on the back.

  Then his brother released his hold and went to the liquor cabinet as though embarrassed by his warm welcome, one that was no doubt a result of Mary’s influence. “Why didn’t you send word when you returned to London?”

  “I hadn’t quite decided what my plans were,” he said as he took the tumbler filled with amber that Sebastian offered.

  “And now?”

  “I set sail tonight.”

  “So soon?” a feminine voice asked softly.

  He spun around and grinned at the slender red-haired woman who had slipped into the room. “Now, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

  He returned the tumbler to Sebastian, crossed the distance in three long strides, and lifted Mary into his arms, spinning her as her laughter pealed around them. Dear God, she almost made him feel as though he’d finally come home. By the time he eventually set her down, he was chuckling and they were both breathless.

  “I hear you did your duty magnificently and provided my brother with his heir.”