Her Master and Commander

by Karen Hawkins

  “My lord, please! There is no need for an apology.”

  “Yes, well…you may take an extra day to pack, if you need it.”

  “There ye go, Cap’n,” Stevens said, nodding as if he’d solved their difficulties for them. “We’re back on course!”

  Reeves smiled at the first mate. “Master Stevens, I hesitate to ask, but would you like a bit of supper before we pack our belongings?”

  Stevens looked at Tristan. “Would ye mind, Cap’n? I mean—me lord?”

  “Stop that! I won’t have that ‘my lord’ balderdash spoken in my own home.”

  Stevens’s brow lowered. “I don’t know that I can call ye Cap’n anymore. ’Tis an insult to the king, not to respect the gentry.”

  Reeves nodded thoughtfully. “Rules have a place in our lives, do they not, Master Stevens?”

  “Indeed they do.” Stevens opened his mouth to say something else when he froze, then slapped a hand to his forehead. “Gor, Cap’n! I almost forgot! Mrs. Thistlewaite is in yer study.”

  Tristan straightened. “More sheep troubles?”

  “She brought one of yer sheep with her; says ’tis the very one as has been breakin’ into her garden.”

  The news transfixed Tristan for a moment. “She brought a sheep?”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Tied her muffler about it and dragged it all the way from her house.”

  Despite himself, Tristan chuckled.

  “Goodness,” Reeves said, his eyes bright with interest. “Who is Mrs. Thistlewaite? She sounds like a lady of great resources.”

  “Lud, Master Reeves! ’Tis the smoothest little schooner ye ever saw, smart as they come and trim as a gull! She and her mum wish to start a school for comportment near here, and we’ve all been waitin’ to see what happens. They’re widows, the both of ’em, but I’ve yet to hear a bad word spoke about either.”

  “A widow, hm?”

  Tristan shot a hard glance at Reeves. He didn’t like the way the butler said the word “widow,” as if it opened up a whole new avenue of hope.

  But Reeves met his look blandly enough, so Tristan asked Stevens, “Where is that blasted sheep now? I hope it is not also residing in my library.”

  “Lord, no! Although, I do think that’s what Mrs. Thistlewaite wished to do. But as soon as she crossed the front doorway, it took off for deeper water. Some of the men are chasin’ it now.”

  “Good. I hope they may catch it so we can have it for dinner. Reeves, we shall speak more later of your use of my barn.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Tristan turned and limped his way back toward the house. He reached the terrace and opened one of the doors into the study, then halted. There, balancing on a chair seat, was his neighbor and chief irritant. She stood on the edge, raising up on her tiptoes. One hand rested on the shelf above her, the other held something that glittered. But what interested him the most was that she was, for once, devoid of her cloak.

  Tristan quietly closed the door. Stevens was right—the little widow was indeed a sight to behold. She reached up on the shelf, her gown pulled tightly over her generous chest, outlining the full swell in a way that made his body hum.

  More tantalizing still was the way the light from the fire backlit her skirts until he could just make out the length of her legs and the seductive hint of her backside curve. His body tightened with need and he was assailed with a strong sense of vexation. “What are you doing?”

  His guest took an instant and startled step backward, her foot coming precariously close to the edge of the chair. Tristan was there in a trice, dropping the cane and striding forward regardless of the pain, arms outstretched. He caught her just as she fell, collapsing into his arms, flailing wildly.

  One of her elbows caught him in the chin. He blinked as white spots danced before his eyes, even as he pulled her tight against him, pinning her arms. For a heart-splitting second, he wobbled in place, struggling to gain purchase on his stiff leg as she squirmed against him. “Hold still, you fool!”

  His harsh tone must have cut through her panic, for she stilled and looked up at him, her eyes wide. She had the most beautiful brown eyes, Tristan decided, fascinated once again with the slant of her brows. She was almost exotic in her features, and he liked the faint laugh lines that danced from the edges of her lashes, tempting him to try and win a laugh for himself.

  Her gaze narrowed. “Why are you smiling?”

  “Was I smiling?” he asked, turning on his good heel and sitting in the chair she’d fallen from. He nestled her in his lap, her scent tickling his nose. She smelled of fresh cut lemon and something else…Was it pastries?

  “Captain Llevanth, you may release me now.”

  “I could,” he agreed, noting how her hair shone in the light streaming from the windows. She was a trim piece, but rounded for all of that. He rather enjoyed the feel of her in his arms.

  “Captain Llevanth!”

  He raised his brows.

  “You will release me at once, or—”

  He waited.

  “Or—”

  Her expression went from outrage to irritation in the space of a half of a second. “Put me down this instant!”

  He was well aware that he should do as she asked. But she felt so damned good, warming his lap, her lily-fresh scent tickling his nose, that he simply could not. Could not put her down. Could not even loosen his hold, not for a thousand pounds and ten earldoms. “I will put you down when I want and not a second sooner.”

  Her mouth dropped open, all prim astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

  Tristan couldn’t help himself; there was something irresistibly tempting about Mrs. Thistlewaite. “You may beg all you wish, sweetness. I won’t stop you.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Captain Llevanth, I will not be treated in such a—”

  Tristan kissed her. He hadn’t planned on kissing her, but somehow, it seemed the logical way to stop her ranting. He was prepared for her anger. What he was not prepared for, was his own reaction to such a basic, simple touch.

  The moment his lips covered hers, something changed. The amused attraction he’d been fighting exploded into a million raging fires. He paused, his eyes opening. He found her looking back, her gaze clouded by the same shocked passion.

  Tristan didn’t give her time to think; he kissed her again, more forcefully this time, splaying his hands along her back, molding her to him.

  After a second’s hesitation, she gave herself to the kiss. Her arms crept about his neck and her lips parted beneath his. Time held still as Tristan mingled his breath with hers, shared the tumultuous beat of his own heart, her low moan spurring him on.

  Tristan heard the noise first, the unmistakable creak of the front door somewhere far down the hallway. Somewhere in the back of his lust-emblazoned mind he knew what that meant, that someone would soon be entering this room. Unfortunately, the part of his mind that was able to reason through what this interruption meant was unable to penetrate the deep, tightly closed, and far more sensually occupied recesses of the rest of his mind. Thus it was that when Stevens walked into the library after a brief knock, Tristan was not surprised to see him. He was, rather, surprised he hadn’t done anything to stop kissing his delectable neighbor.

  Prudence, on the other hand, apparently hadn’t heard the door, for she gasped when Stevens’s rather shocked, “Gor!” rang through the room.

  “Oh my goodness!” She immediately tried to gain her release from Tristan’s arms by wiggling madly, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with such an inane idea. He liked her there. Wanted her there. Wanted it more than anything he’d wanted in a long, long time.

  “Captain Llevanth!” she hissed under her breath.

  He noted how a long strand of her hair had been released from the knot of hair at the base of her neck. “I believe you should call me Tristan.”

  “I will do no such thing.”

  “And I will call you—” He frowned. “I don’t know your name.”


  Stevens cleared his throat. “Her name is Prudence, me lord.”

  Prudence cast a baleful gaze at the first mate, who reddened and shuffled his feet, though that in no way diminished the huge smile on his face. “Sorry, missus,” Stevens said. “Yer upstairs maid is a bit of a talker.”

  “And your employer is rude. Captain, release me.”

  Tristan supposed he really didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t hold her forever. “As you wish, madam.” He sighed and set her on her feet.

  The instant he loosened his hold, she whisked herself as far away from him as the room would allow, moving so quickly her skirts hung on the small tea table and pulled it with her.

  Stevens looked at the crooked table, his brows high, his face red. His smile widened. “Well, now. I didn’t mean to interrupt ye, Cap’n. I mean, me lord.”

  Prudence’s face was about the same shade as she reached down and unhooked the hem of her skirt from the edge of the table. “Dratted table!” she muttered.

  Her heart was still thundering in her ears and blocking all coherent thought. Somehow, she feared she was making a horrid mull of things, though she didn’t know how. “I—I will leave now.”

  “Nonsense,” the captain said calmly, not looking in the least put out at being found in such a—Prudence didn’t know what she would call the embrace, other than “most improper.” “Mrs. Thistlewaite, I have some questions for you. You just arrived, and yet here you are, poking through my things. Tell me, is this the way they do things in London? Wait until a man is out of the room, then feel free to look at all manner of personal items?”

  Prudence’s cheeks heated. “No! Of course not. I didn’t mean to pry, it’s just that Stevens mentioned Trafalgar and I was curious, so—” She bit her lip. “I am sorry. There is no excuse for my curiosity.”

  “Hmm.” The captain crossed his arms over his chest and flicked a lazy glance at Stevens. “What’s toward?”

  “’Tis about Reeves, Cap’n.”

  Prudence paused in straightening her gown. “Reeves?” She hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud, but something about the way the first mate said the name sparked her curiosity.

  Stevens nodded. “He’s a butler. From London! He came to serve the cap’n.”

  Prudence looked at the captain. “You have a real butler?”

  Stevens nodded even more vigorously. “He does now! Reeves was the old earl’s butler and now—” He broke off when the captain sent his first mate a glare guaranteed to burn the man’s socks.

  “The old earl?” Prudence blinked. Heavens, what was this? “I am confused. Which earl?”

  “The earl of Rochester,” Stevens said, turning his shoulder a bit so he couldn’t actually see the captain. “The old earl was the cap’n’s father.”

  Prudence turned to the captain, her mouth agape. “Your father was an earl?”

  The captain’s expression darkened and he said in a heavy tone, “My father was a lazy, worthless jackanapes. Anything more than that is left for question.” He glared at Stevens. “What did you have to report about Reeves? I hope he is taking down that mess he made in the barn.”

  “Actually, me lord, he decided that since ye gave him one more night and he had all of that sauce readied, he might as well make use of it. So he’s invited the lot of us to join him fer dinner. Ye are included, o’ course!”

  “What?”

  “Aye, Cap’n! He’s havin’ them put white cloths over the table his men made and they set out the china as was packed in the barrels on that last cart that he lugged up the cliff. The lot of them is in there now, making a horrid noise and scaring poor Winchester to death.”

  “Winchester?” Prudence asked. Her breath still came rapidly and it was all she could do to distract herself from what had just happened.

  “Winchester is a cat,” the captain said quietly, his curiously green gaze flickering toward her a moment.

  His eyes were so unusual, she thought, so…beautiful. He raised his brows, his lips curving in a self-satisfied smile.

  Prudence blushed, realizing she’d been staring. She hurriedly said, “I really must be going.”

  “You only just arrived,” the captain replied.

  “Aye, missus! Ye’d like Winchester. He’s an orange tabby and the best mouser we ever had.” Stevens chuckled a bit. “We kept Winchester aboard the Victory right up to the very end. We never so much as saw one rat the whole time we was at sea.”

  Prudence managed a smile. “Indeed. Winchester sounds like a prime cat.” Somehow, she could not see the captain…no, the earl caring about such things as a cat.

  She tried to reconcile herself with the fact that her neighbor was not all he seemed. Still, she didn’t think she quite believed the earl story. Not that the captain seemed to, either. “Captain, about this earl question—”

  “There is no question,” the man said quietly.

  Stevens rocked back on his heels. “I remember one rat was so big as could lift the mainsail by hisself, he could.”

  Distracted, Prudence’s gaze narrowed. “Oh?”

  “Why yes, madam,” Stevens said, warming to his audience. “’Twas a huge rat, the size of a dog.”

  To Tristan’s delight, Prudence plopped her hands on her hips. “And how could a rat raise a sail? Did you tie his tiny paws to a rope?”

  “Of course not! Ye couldn’t make that work, ’deed you couldn’t. But we did make a little rope harness for the beastie. And off she went, pullin’ that blasted sail, even against the wind! ’Twas the damnedest—oh, sorry, madam. ’Twas the most twiddlepated thing I ever saw.”

  Prudence looked Stevens up and down. “Have you been drinking?”

  He blinked. “Why…no, madam! ’Tis scarce on ten. Now had it been noon, ye might have got me on that one.”

  “If you have not been drinking, then what on earth possessed you to think I’d believe such a tale as that?” She puffed out her cheeks in an exasperated sigh. “Rats hoisting sails. Next you’ll be telling me you used one to navigate with, too.”

  “Actually, madam,” Stevens said earnestly, “there was one rat as swallowed Johnny Barn’s silver pocket watch and—”

  “Oh! Not another word!” She rounded on Tristan well before he had time to hide his grin. “And you!”

  His smile faded of its own accord. “What about me?”

  “It seems that lying is a natural attribute of all sailors.”

  “Here now,” he protested. “I didn’t lie to you and neither did Stevens. We were merely telling you a yarn.”

  “Which time, my lord?” Her voice scoffed across the last words.

  Tristan shrugged. “I don’t like the title myself.”

  “Pull about there, madam!” Stevens said. “The cap’n is indeed a real live earl.”

  Prudence cocked a disbelieving brow at the first mate. “Of course. He is an earl. And I am the duchess of Devonshire.”

  Stevens gaped. “No! And right here, in our own little corner of the world! If that don’t beat all. I suppose ’tis a good thing then that ye’ve become cozy with the cap’n. He could use a duchess or two on his frigate, ’deed he could. Especially now he is gentry.”

  Prudence drew herself up to her full height, what there was of it, and flashed a distempered look at Tristan. “You’ve trained them well. They lie with authority, the lot of them.”

  Tristan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “That particular bit of information happens to be the truth. I am an earl.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “I am not saying it’s deserved. My father held the title, though he refused to acknowledge me.” He managed a faint smile. “I was born on the wrong side of the blankets, you know.”

  Her cheeks pinkened. “I didn’t know, but it does not matter.”

  “It eventually did to my father. When he discovered he was dying without legitimate issue, he did what he is best known for—blatant chicanery—and made things work to his favor, as ever
. Thus, here I am, possessor of a proud title.”

  Her brows lowered and she frowned, as if mulling this over.

  Tristan didn’t enjoy telling her this. He wasn’t really sure why he had bothered, except that he didn’t wish her to think him a braggart, holding a title that wasn’t his. “It’s all quite confusing. I won’t inherit the fortune, land or houses unless I comply with the late earl’s notions of behavior.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Bowing and scraping and kissing the arses of half the nobility.”

  “Goodness. You sound disenchanted.”

  Tristan scowled. “I’ll not dress in velvets just to win some blunt, no matter the amount.”

  Prudence sniffed. “That is quite noble of you, turning your back on a fortune in an effort to keep to your values of slovenly dress and rude behavior.”

  Tristan burst into laughter. “A man must have his principles.”

  “Indeed. I’ve often heard it stated that a man without principles is like a ship without a rudder. What would you be without your surly disposition and unmannerly outbursts? Certainly not the rough sea captain we’ve all come to know and…recognize.”

  “Please don’t hold back on my account.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Ah, but you are an injured man. I would so hate to insult you when you’re not at your full capacities.”

  Stevens threw his hands in the air. “Heads down! I think perhaps I’d best be going, I should. Mayhap I’ll bring back some tea, if there’s any to be had.” He scurried from the room, sending Prudence a warning glance before he disappeared.

  The woman had the audacity to smile. “Your man seems to think I am in some danger.”

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “So you are, sweetheart.” He leaned forward. “Allow me to assure you that I am at my full capacity, injured leg or not. The musket ball did not come anywhere near the Important Part.”

  Her cheeks bloomed. “That will be enough of that, thank you.”

  “You were the one who suggested I was not able to take the seas at full sail.”