Lord of Temptation

by Lorraine Heath

  “That look never bodes well.”

  Tristan grinned at Peterson as he came to stand beside him.

  “What are you scheming now?” his first mate asked.

  He studied what he could see of the masts against the star-filled sky. “Considering our passenger.”

  “We have two.”

  “Yes, but I’m only interested in the one. You’re interested in the other.”

  Peterson didn’t bother to argue. He simply grumbled, “She’s a fine lass, but not too keen on a man who’s married to the sea.”

  “It’s a rare woman who is.”

  “Do you ever think of giving up this life?”

  Tristan heard a whale lowing somewhere off in the distance. “When we were in England two years ago, I constantly felt as though I would crawl out of my skin. I’ve been too long on the water, Peterson, to be content on the land.”

  He had his swine of an uncle to thank for that. If he hadn’t had to run, he’d be a very different man. He would be a man who visited Rafe’s gaming establishment and enjoyed the vices he could experience there. He would be welcomed at balls. Mothers would want their daughters to catch his fancy rather than shielding them from his sight. He would be proper. He would be tamed.

  Having known nothing different, would he be content? The answer mattered little. He was what he was, set in his ways, too old to change. He would never settle into marriage. He would never be embraced by Society.

  Once they returned to England, he would never again see Anne.

  But they’d struck a bargain. It was past time he collected payment—whether she was ready to give it or not.

  Lying in the bed, Anne watched as sunlight filtered in through the mullioned windows. She was sad, remarkably sad. She’d known she’d weep at the cemetery. Had known grief would overcome her, but she’d expected to cry and finally be done with it.

  Instead she continued to think about the last time she saw Walter and how awful it had been. The argument, the unkind words, the tempers flaring. Oh, if she could only have that night over—

  But she couldn’t. And that’s what hurt the most. She’d made a dreadful mistake and she had no way to right it.

  At Martha’s insistence, she finally dragged herself from the bed. Raising her arms, she stretched from one side to the other. “I must have finally become accustomed to being on a ship. I feel as though we’re doing little more than bobbing.”

  “We are only bobbing,” Martha said. “When I went to the deck earlier for some fresh air, the sails were down.”

  Anne lowered her arms. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to take it up with the captain.”

  “Is there another storm brewing?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  Why was he delaying their return to England? She hired him to make a short trip of it. She didn’t want her family worrying about her any longer than necessary.

  “Quickly. Help me to dress.”

  She had just finished buttoning the final button at her throat, when a knock sounded. She and Martha exchanged quick glances before her maid hastened to the door and opened it.

  “May I come in?” the captain asked, and yet the authority in his voice indicated it wasn’t truly a request.

  She’d seen him very little since leaving Scutari. She’d almost forgotten that he was a man accustomed to being obeyed on all matters.

  Martha opened the door wider, and he strode in. She was surprised by the newly acquired deep lines on his face, as though he wasn’t sleeping any more soundly than she. She didn’t want to admit how many nights she had contemplated seeking him out, asking him to simply hold her while she fought for sleep. His gaze traveled over her, and he seemed none too pleased by what stood before him. She straightened her shoulders, angled her chin. She had a right to grieve, but this journey was supposed to allow her to put it all behind her. Why didn’t it?

  “You’re wasting away,” he said.

  Selfconsciously she plucked at her skirt. The dress did seem looser than it was when she wore it to travel through the streets of Scutari. “The sea is not agreeing with me. Why are we stopped?”

  “I have a surprise for you.” He tossed a bundle of clothes to her. She juggled them before finally securing them in her grasp. “Put those on.”

  It was a small bundle. She peeled away a pair of trousers and a shirt. “These are britches.”

  “I’m not in the habit of carrying around items without knowing what they are.”

  “Ladies do not wear britches.”

  “Those who wish to look out from the crow’s nest do.”

  She clutched the garments to her chest. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Was he implying what she thought he was? “How do you propose I get there?”

  “You’ll climb.”

  He said it with such assurance that she couldn’t help but laugh. “And if I fall?”

  “You won’t. You’ll be secured with a rope and I’ll be there with you.”

  She shook her head. “It’s far too dangerous.”

  “You never struck me as cowardly.”

  “I’m practical,” she bit out.

  “Scared,” he taunted.

  “I’m not.” He made her feel like a child, but it wasn’t the height or the climb that terrified her. It was the thought of falling, not to the deck but into his arms.

  “I’ll show you a view of the world you may never have an opportunity to see again.”

  “I can’t parade about in trousers in front of your men.”

  “They’re all below deck, except for the three I need to assist in getting you into the crow’s nest.”

  “Will they be climbing with us?”

  “No, but we’ve rigged a winch and pulley. Someone has to man it.” He touched her cheek with a featherlike graze. “Trust me, Princess.”

  Hadn’t she from the beginning, when she’d had no true cause to except for another’s word? But always something about him, something deep within him had calmed her nerves, quieted her doubts. If she believed in magic, she’d consider that he might be a sorcerer weaving his spells over her. But if nothing else, the state of his back proved he was merely a man.

  “I’ll need a few moments,” she said flatly, quelling any anticipation she might be feeling at the prospect of what she was about to do.

  “I’ll be waiting.” He headed for the door, stopped, glanced back. “No shoes. It’ll make it easier. But do wear gloves.”

  He quickly left. She met Martha’s gaze. “Do you suppose I should wear a corset with this attire?”

  Martha smiled. “No, m’lady. I suspect for this adventure, it would be best if you wore as little as possible.”

  When she was finally in the shirt and trousers, she felt rather very much like a heathen. A rope threaded through loops on the trousers kept them hugging her waist. She had to roll up the hem to prevent herself from stepping on them. Now her ankles were exposed. Scandalous. The shirt was loose, the linen fine, and it felt almost as though she wore nothing at all. Martha had braided her hair, securing it with the leather strip she had yet to return to the captain.

  She had no cheval glass in which to peer. Martha removed the captain’s shaving mirror from the wall, but it only provided glimpses as though she were pieces of a puzzle and not the whole.

  “I’m certain my appearance will suffice,” she said succinctly. After all, what did her clothing truly matter when she would never again see these people once she got off the ship?

  He was waiting for her on the deck. His feet were also bare, and her toes curled at the intimacy. His feet were long, slender, as bronzed as his face. She’d never looked at a man’s feet before—not even her brothers’.

  With his bare hand, he took her gloved one, and she had an irrational urge to remove the protection so her skin would touch his. Ludicrous. Where were these strange notions coming from?

  He led her to the mast where the crow’s nest perched near the top. The sea was calm, yet a slight
breeze gently lolled the ship. She craned back her head. “It’s so high.”

  “Imagine the view.”

  Shifting her eyes to his, she could see within his blue depths that he understood her hesitation. He wasn’t mocking or chiding. He was waiting patiently for her to gain her resolve. Taking a deep breath, she angled her chin. “I don’t want to imagine it. I want to experience it, to see it.”

  With a jerk of his head, he signaled Mouse and Jenkins over. They brought with them the lassoed end of a rope. Strips of what she was fairly certain had once been woolen blankets were wrapped around it, offering a bit of padding. She raised her arms and the captain lowered it over her, securing it beneath her arms.

  “This is only to stop you if you fall,” he said. “They won’t be pulling you up. You’ll be doing that on your own.” He explained the climbing process, showing her notches and handholds.

  She did wish that she hadn’t been so prim and proper growing up, that she’d followed after her brothers, racing barefoot across fields and climbing trees. But then, if she hadn’t been so prim and proper, she probably wouldn’t be weighted down with regrets and so she wouldn’t be here now. She would have said yes to Walter when he asked of her what he did. She would have scoffed at Society’s rules as he’d wanted to. Instead, she’d remained steadfast in her determination to hold to the higher ground.

  Yet here she was wearing clothing that outlined her form to such a degree that she might as well not be wearing anything at all. Nothing prim or proper in that.

  But then who was to see except for the four males in view of her now, Martha, and the occasional porpoise that leapt out of the sea?

  At the captain’s urging she pressed against the mast and used his wrists as her handholds. She didn’t know how this would work at all if he wasn’t so much taller than she. He wedged his right foot into a notch, then instructed her to place her foot on his. She did—

  And froze.

  The top of his bare foot was warm and soft beneath her sole. It shot sensations through her. Naughty, wicked sensations. She’d never touched a man so intimately. It was unsettling, yet reassuring at the same time. It was marvelous. It was—

  “The other.” His silky voice danced around her ear.

  “Pardon?”

  “Place your other foot on mine. I’m hanging here, Princess. Can’t hang forever, you know.”

  Why not? Why couldn’t she stay here where his nearness distracted her from her misgivings?

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” She rose up, placed her foot on his.

  “There we go,” he murmured. “Now, just relax and climb with me.”

  Relax? With him cocooned around her, with her clinging to him as much as she was to this cylinder of wood?

  “If you’re afraid of heights, I’d advise you not to look down,” he added.

  She didn’t think she was afraid of heights, but then she’d always looked out through a window. This, she realized as they slowly made their way upward, was a very different kettle of fish.

  His foot slipped, she screeched. He snaked an arm around her waist, held her tightly against him, as his other arm wrapped around the mast. She was breathing heavily while he seemed not to be breathing at all.

  “I won’t let you fall,” he said quietly.

  She nodded jerkily. “Yes, all right.”

  “Calm your breathing.”

  “How can you not be rattled?”

  “Because I’ve done this a thousand times.”

  “Taken a woman up to the crow’s nest?”

  He had the audacity to laugh. “No, you’re the first. But I’ve climbed often enough that I’m intimate with every knothole. I know the rough grain, where to place my hands and feet for the best purchase. I’ve never fallen, Princess. I’m not about to today. Besides we’re almost there.”

  She glanced up at the basket high above her. “I’m not certain you have a clear understanding of the term ‘almost.’ ”

  He chuckled low. “Come on, up we go.”

  He guided her with gentle murmured words, his hands, and his feet. Before long, she was scrambling over the side of the basket and into the crow’s nest. What surprised her was how small it was, how inconsequential it seemed. Especially when he joined her. She thought that she should have felt as though he were crowding her. Instead, she found that she simply wanted to lean into him.

  She also discovered that she wasn’t terribly afraid of heights, especially when such an incredible vista swept out before her. The deep blue water melting into the light blue, billowy white cloud-filled sky.

  “Oh,” she said as her breath escaped. “It’s stunning. What is that shadow over there in the distance?”

  “England.”

  Her stomach nearly dropped to the deck. “We’re almost home.”

  “Tomorrow evening, most like.”

  “Tomorrow.” Holed up in her cabin, mourning, filled with sadness, battling regrets, she’d lost track of the time. One day had rolled into the next and she’d not been counting. The purpose of this journey was to prepare her for reentering Society. She would be expected to attend balls, to embrace gentlemen’s advances, to encourage their interest in her. To engage in flirtatious banter. To place herself back on the marriage block. “I don’t know if I’m quite ready.”

  “Say the word, Princess, and we’ll sail right on by.”

  She tilted back her head to study him. It was a lovely thought, but she couldn’t do that to her family. Become a vagabond, a gypsy. To turn her back on what was good and proper. Regretfully, she shook her head. “No, that would accomplish little except to confirm that I’m a coward.”

  “A coward would not have hired me to take her to a place with a past tainted by horror in order that she might say good-bye to someone she cared for.”

  “Someone I loved,” she felt a need to point out. But not enough. If she’d loved him enough, she would not now have so many regrets. “I thought it would heal this terrible hole in my heart, and yet at times I still feel as though I’m drowning in the sorrow.” Tears stung her eyes. “I wish I could have brought him home. I hate that he’s there.”

  Gently, he touched her cheek. “What do you see when you look out?”

  “So much water.”

  “All the way to the horizon and beyond. When a man dies on a ship, he’s given to the sea. Over the years, Anne, I’ve learned that it matters not where a man is buried. It matters only where he is remembered.”

  She thought she’d cried her fill in Scutari, but it seemed she had more tears to spill. They rolled over onto her cheeks and he gathered them with his thumbs.

  “I would take your pain if I could,” he said in a low rough voice.

  When she thought her heart could ache no more, he bent his head and tenderly brushed his lips over hers, before gathering her into his arms and holding her near.

  Nothing he might have said or done could have devastated her more. He understood loss, he understood pain, he understood walking away when one dearly wanted to stay.

  For the first time in so long, the fractured remnants of her heart felt as though they might finally heal.

  Chapter 11

  Damnation! Through the long nights and days since he met her, when he envisioned claiming his kiss, he certainly had never envisioned it being so uneventful. It was never supposed to offer comfort; it was never supposed to be little more than a brief touch, a quick taste.

  Blast it all! It was supposed to be designed to have her gasping and clinging to him. It was supposed to have her begging him to take it further. It was supposed to end with a tumble on his bed.

  As he jerked free his unruly cravat to once more begin to properly tie it, he wasn’t certain he’d ever been more disgusted with himself. He couldn’t very well deliver the sort of kiss he’d dreamed of when she was moping about. Hence the journey to the crow’s nest.

  But she’d seemed so vulnerable, the pain still in her eyes. Whatever had possessed him to utter such poetic
nonsense about where people were buried? If that was not embarrassing enough, he’d dipped his head and grazed his lips over hers as though his body were not in a constant hardened state by the mere thought of her.

  Now they were going to have dinner together—their last dinner together—after which he would not be at liberty to claim her mouth as though he owned it, because—dammit all—he’d already claimed the promised kiss!

  Not only that. He hadn’t bothered to give her a kiss that any woman in her right mind would want to experience again. There had been no heat, no passion, no swirling of tongues.

  Good God, it might as well have not happened.

  But it had happened, and she would hold him to it. Debt paid and all that rubbish.

  If he wanted another kiss, then he was going to have to well and truly seduce her. Tonight. Because the sails had captured the wind and they were nearer to England’s coast.

  Whatever had he been thinking this afternoon? He hadn’t been thinking at all. The woman had the ability to send his thoughts scattering. It was unsettling, this strange influence that she had over him.

  His cravat finally to his liking, he grabbed his jacket and slipped it on. He’d bathed and shaved. He hadn’t bothered to cut his hair because he didn’t want to appear totally civilized. He didn’t want her thinking of him as anything other than the sea captain that he was.

  He wondered if he sailed by England without delivering her to its shores, if he would rot in hell. Having spent a considerable number of years in that horrendous pit, he supposed he shouldn’t be giving it any thought, and yet he couldn’t quite quell the niggling temptation to keep her with him for a time at least, until he grew tired of her. He always grew tired of women. Never had there been one that he wanted to keep for any length of time. He just hadn’t had his fill of her yet.

  Hadn’t even had a proper kiss.

  He cursed himself once more, then headed out of Peterson’s cabin and into his own.

  If Anne’s experience with Walter had taught her anything at all it was that she was far more likely to regret things she hadn’t done than those she had.