Holly settled on the window sill next to the vase and watched him. Her husband. She had a sacred place in his life now, that of wife. And he equally shared a sacred place in hers, that of husband. But she had done him great harm, forcing him into wedlock. And she vowed to be a good wife, a pleasing wife. She would make amends to him—somehow.
His shadow shifted and he turned toward the house, his eyes lifting to her. Her breath trapped in her throat as he studied her with unwavering intent. At last he ambled across the lawn toward the house.
Holly quickly returned to the bedside, her heart booming like canon blasts. She had already kissed him once, a fiery explosion of feeling. She wanted to taste him again. To touch him. And as she heard his heavy steps ascend the creaking stairs, she gasped for air.
He stopped at the door. She noticed his shoes under the crack. After a brief pause, he rapped on the wood.
“Come in,” she all but croaked.
He opened the barrier. His sensual blue eyes settled on her as his robust frame filled the small space. He had loosened his cravat and waistcoat, his cuff links, too. His informal attire suggested more was to be removed, and she pinched the fabric of her wrapper in anticipation.
He was beautiful, she thought. And she had a deep yearning to explore his beauty. She wondered if he found her as attractive. Would he kiss her with the same spirited hunger as he had on the night of the ball? Or had their unexpected marriage hardened his desire for her? She hoped not. They were virtual strangers. But they shared a mutual heat. From the night they’d first met at the gaming hell that fire had burned between them. It wasn’t the strongest foundation to build a marriage upon, for a fire, if unattended, could burn out. But it was a foundation.
A beginning.
He reached for his luggage. “I’ve come to collect my belongings.”
Her heart dropped. “I-I don’t understand.”
“I’ll be leaving in a few hours, and I don’t want to disturb you at dawn. The maid tells me there’s a third bedroom around the corner. I will take that chamber.”
Her mother’s old room. But why? “Where are you going in the morning?”
“To sea.”
She gaped, stunned. “You are a sailor?”
“I am.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. He was a sailor. Her clandestine source had been right about his identity. But why had Quincy withheld the truth from her until now?
“But . . . I . . .” She fumbled, confused. “How long will you be away?”
“Three months, at least.”
“I see.” She twined her fingers. “Are you an officer?”
“A privateer. I serve alongside my brother, William, in the Royal Navy’s African Squadron. I’m the ship’s surgeon.”
“A doctor?”
He shook his head. “I’ve no formal training. I studied under the previous surgeon.”
Holly sensed a tightness in her throat. He would be absent much of the time. “What will become of Emma and I? Where will we live?”
In the rickety cottage? On the fringe of society?
“Choose whatever house you’d like in Town,” he said, indifferent. “I have a few furloughs each year and spend little time on land, so I’m not particular about our abode. I’m sure my sister will help you find an appropriate dwelling. She’s rather fond of you, I’m told.”
Of course the duchess was fond of her, compassionate toward her, even commiserating. The woman believed her an innocent damsel seduce by her rakish brother.
Holly winced at the grisly falsehood.
Quincy headed toward the door.
“Wait!”
He stilled. “What is it?”
She lifted from the bedside, her legs shaking. “What about tonight? Our wedding night?”
He turned toward her again, his eyes charged with fierce resistance. “Do not assume our marriage is real, wife. It is in name alone. What you took of my body and put in that infernal painting is all you will ever take of me.”
He stalked from the room, leaving the door ajar.
Holly blanched. She dropped backward, plopping onto the bed. She would never be with her husband? She would never run her fingers across his rolling muscles or feel the heat of his flesh beneath her hands? She would never taste his sensuous lips again or hear his seductive voice in her ear, arousing her senses? She would never know the intimate feel of him inside her? Or have children? Ever?
Her heart ballooned. Her lungs expanded like storm clouds. To be leg shackled in matrimony without any of the sensual benefits was unrighteous. And Holly wouldn’t stand for it. Her husband desired her, she knew it. He’d revealed a fervent passion for her on the eve he’d ravaged her with his covetous lips. And she would have him again. All of him. Even if she had to seduce the stubborn rake.
CHAPTER 8
Quincy leaned against the starboard rail, watching the Nemesis navigate through the Thames. As the schooner neared port, the noise, bustle and stench of sewage bombarded his senses, and he slowly adjusted to the turbulence of city life.
His disorderly thoughts drifted with the current toward the bright lights of Town, and he wondered about his wife. During a sea voyage, he usually refrained from opium. His mind tended to clear amid the waves and stars, and he needn’t the drug’s amnesic effect. But Holly had followed him aboard ship, the wench. He had sensed her presence throughout the journey, heard her silky voice, tasted her wanton lips. And he had searched for respite in opium paste. Instead, he had found only more hellish suffering. She had breached the foggy barrier in his mind and had teased him in his dreams with her promises of a sensual wedding night.
After three celibate months at sea, Quincy ached for a woman, for the warmth of a supple body in his arms and the taste of sweetly perfumed skin. He remembered his wife’s wild strawberry tresses and slender figure under a slim white wrapper. His blood heated and his muscles hardened as he heard her inviting voice calling him to bed.
But he would not bed her.
Ever.
His lust for her would burn out in time. Then, he would be free of her. He would always provide her protection from gossip and the security of a house. But he would never offer her a part of himself. She had his money, his name. And no more. She had already stolen too much from him . . . like a bloody pirate.
A figure approached Quincy in the dusky light. He recognized his brother’s build. William had been unusually thoughtful throughout the voyage. On several occasions, Quincy had found him reflective, staring out at sea, instead of patrolling the decks or scouring the waters with his spyglass or journaling in his captain’s log. He wondered what had captivated his brother’s mind.
William settled beside him. “We’re third in the queue. It should be another hour or so before we dock.”
Quincy had reconciled with his brother, not in words, but the men had grown comfortable eating together at the same table in the mess hall or sharing sea shanties with the crew.
In truth, there was no cause to resent his sibling for his unfortunate marriage. That honor belonged to Holly. She had painted him without his permission and released the work into society. She had recklessly followed him to his carriage in public view. She, and she alone, had trapped him in wedlock, intentionally or not.
“Care for a pint after we dock?” asked Quincy, hoping to avoid his wife for as long as possible.
“I have to prepare my final report. I meet with the Admiralty in the morning.”
Quincy sensed something was amiss in his brother’s stiff voice. “Is there trouble with the Admiralty?”
Their tour had been routine. The only real threats had been the merciless heat and heavy rains off Africa’s west coast. Regrettably, most British slavers sailed with foreign flags and papers, preventing the Nemesis from legally apprehending the ships. But a few brazen captains still sailed under the Union Jack, and it was those brash ships the Nemesis hunted and battled.
“No, no trouble,” returned William.
It wa
s still there in his voice, that reflective, almost absentminded tone. What had distracted the otherwise highly focused captain?
Quincy thought of asking him outright. He never withheld his opinions or queries and that penchant sometimes—always—got him into trouble. But he sensed it wasn’t the right moment to invade his brother’s pensiveness.
“I suppose I should go home then.” Quincy heaved a deep breath. He would rather rove the high seas until he’d strangled every carnal impulse he had for his wife. “I wonder where I live?”
A rare chuckle from William. “Head back to St. James’s. I’m sure Eddie knows your new address. And send word to Belle that we’re safe. You know how she worries while we’re at sea.”
“Aye, Captain.”
After more than an hour, the Nemesis finally docked in the Thames. A rugged Quincy with his bushy beard and tousled curls disembarked the ship. Slinging his pack of possessions over his shoulder, he wended through the blusterous throng, heading for his old bachelor abode.
By the time he reached the townhouse, it was dark. The butler greeted him at the door and informed him Edmund was not at home.
“Where is he?”
“With Her Grace, the Duchess of Wembury.”
At such a late hour? An unbidden memory invaded his mind—his sister’s ashen face, her hopeless sobs of grief. He shut his eyes against the tortuous images, his chest tightening. He had yet to harden his soul against the nightmarish visions. And he wondered . . . he wondered if they would haunt him forever.
“What’s happened, Benson? Is she unwell?”
“Her Grace is in excellent health, sir.”
Quincy released the breath trapped in his throat.
“She is hosting the engagement ball for Mr. Hawkins and Lady Amy.”
“The annulment between Lady Amy and Gravenhurst is final?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Ha! That’s wonderful news. I have to change.”
Quincy dashed into the house and pounded the stairs.
“Your belongings are not here, sir.”
He stilled. Of course not. Damn! “Where are they?”
“Mrs. Hawkins had them moved to your new residence in Grosvenor Square.”
“That’s on the other side of Mayfair.”
“Indeed, sir.”
There wasn’t time to travel to Grosvenor Square, change his attire and shave. He’d miss the ball!
Quincy looked up the stairs. “I’ll have to burrow Eddie’s togs. Send up hot water, Benson. I stink like the Thames. And fetch me a runner!”
In less than an hour, Quincy had shaved his whiskers, bathed and donned his brother’s fancy duds. He’d also penned a note about the ball and paid a runner a full pound to deliver the message to William in all haste aboard the Nemesis.
Quincy then took to the congested roads by horseback, sidestepping the blockade of carriages, and reaching his sister’s swanky townhouse just before eleven in the evening.
The crush indoors was unmaneuverable, worse than the choked Thames. Flowers filled the ballroom, hanging in swags from windows, pouring from urns on pedestals, and reaching toward ceilings in tall ceramic vases. Brilliant candlelight burned the eyes. And melted wax filled the lungs with its scorching thickness.
After several minutes, Quincy spotted the engaged couple performing a waltz. Without misgiving, he crossed the floor, weaving between the other spinning dancers, and elbowed his way between the twosome.
“Quincy!” Amy threw her arms around his neck, and he crushed her in a tight hold, twirling her in the air. She gasped when he set her back on her feet. “I’m so glad you’ve returned in time to be Edmund’s groom’s man.”
“When is the wedding?”
“In a month’s time.”
“In the heat of summer? You won’t wait until the spring?”
“I’ve waited almost a year to marry your brother. I’ll not wait another, no matter how unfashionable.”
He grinned. “I couldn’t be happier for you, Amy.” He next turned toward his brother and extended his hand. “Congratulations, Eddie.”
Edmund pushed aside the offered hand and embraced him. “Thank you.”
Quincy laughed. His surly brother wasn’t the sort to express affection. The man’s inspiring fiancée had spurred the uncharacteristic sentiment, Quincy was sure.
“I sent word to William aboard the Nemesis. He should be here soon.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Edmund. “Welcome home, Quincy. And look out. James is heading straight for you.”
Edmund then swooped his intended bride away.
Quincy groaned. He turned and witnessed his eldest brother cutting a line through the dance floor, intimidated couples whisking out of his path. The generational gap between him and James, almost forty-two years of antiquity, placed them in the more contentious positions of father and son, rather than siblings. Quincy was closer with Edmund in more ways than age, though. They had both endured “the rules” of their controlling older brother.
“Hullo, James.”
James was taller than him by two scant inches but brandished the most formidable features, his long black hair tied in a queue, his blue eyes always hinting of violence. He of all his brethren had endured the most difficult transition from pirate to gentleman. His gruff ways and inhospitable manner had made him an outcast, earning him the reputation of “barbarian” in high society—until he’d “killed” the pirate Black Hawk.
James had staged his own death to protect their pasts and secure their futures, and he’d become the nation’s hero for ridding the waves of the infamous rogue. There was irony there, somewhere, thought Quincy, that to live, one first had to die.
Quincy wondered if his own death was looming, his brother’s gaze inscrutable.
“I understand you’re married,” said James.
Quincy waited for the rest of the sentence, the inevitable reproach, the thrashing, and when all failed to follow, he frowned. “And?”
His expression stony, James reached out his hand. “And congratulations.”
In a wary move, Quincy returned the handshake. “Thank you.”
“I admire your wife. She’s a spirited lass.”
And with that unexpected compliment, James sauntered off, leaving Quincy bewildered in the middle of the dance floor. Where was the tirade? The broken legs?
He stared after his brother, who joined his wife near an alcove beside the musicians stand. Sophia lifted a glass and smiled at Quincy. He returned the salutation, still stumped.
Quincy hadn’t a moment more to mull over the inexplicable exchange with his brother when his sassy sister scooped him in her arms and whirled him across the dance floor.
“You’ve returned,” she said with a mumpish frown. “Good. I’ve a bone to pick with you.”
As he waltzed with her, his ill humor darkened. First, he had to contend with his brother’s queer behavior. And now Mirabelle was making an unjustified fuss. He had been at sea for three bloody months! How could he have made a blunder and grieved her?
“What bone?” he demanded.
“Why didn’t you tell me Holly was Lord H?”
Quincy missed a step. “How did you find out?”
“She told me, of course.”
“The devil she did!”
What was the wench doing, confessing her notorious identity as the erotic artist? To his sister, no less?
Quincy scanned the ballroom, peering over winding couples, searching for his wayward wife. Soon he spotted her across the room, radiant in a bronze satin gown, her strawberry locks appearing more golden under the burnished candlelight. He also noticed she was surrounded by mooning, winking, lustful men.
Quincy saw red.
CHAPTER 9
Holly had sensed her husband’s presence the moment he’d entered the ballroom; the air had changed somehow, the nattering men around her had dissolved like ghosts into obscurity. She searched the crowd and as soon as she spotted him, her heart s
tomped with the unbridled passion of a race horse eager to take to the tracks—and win.
He had bronzed in the African sun, she mused. His muscles had swelled. His wavy black hair had grown unfashionably long, but he’d smoothed the tresses behind his ears, soft curls stroking his chiseled jaw line.
She had missed him. He had been her husband for a single day before he’d gone to sea. And yet she had missed him. Or perhaps she had missed the desire to know him better. He had left her wanting, yearning for more than a marriage of convenience.
Holly observed his every movement, waiting for the moment he’d look in her direction. He had greeted his brothers and was dancing with his sister at present, his features a scowl. Whatever their conversation, it wasn’t a pleasant reunion. Suddenly he stumbled, then his head snapped up and he scoured the ballroom.
When his smoldering eyes lighted on her, a shot of pure pleasure ripped down her spine. He stalked away from the duchess, leaving her on the dance floor with her arms akimbo, and headed straight for Holly.
Her skin sprouted gooseflesh, her lungs craved more air. The room grew hot, sweltering hot. The licentious men around her disbanded in haste. And then he was there. Her husband. Towering above her. Fire in his eyes.
“Welcome home, Quincy.”
He hardened. It was the first time she had used his Christian name, and the implied intimacy had obviously unsettled him.
She smiled and lifted her gloved hand. “Shall we dance?”
Not only had her husband abandoned her on their wedding night with the unexpected declaration that they would never have a real marriage, but he’d also informed her he was a privateer, spending most of the year at sea chasing slavers.
The first revelation had struck her with dismay and eventually a hard-headed determination to improve her circumstances and become a real wife. The second revelation, however, had jarred her at a later date.
It had taken her a long while to accept the harsh possibility that one day her husband might not return from the sea, that a brutal storm or fierce clash with a slaver might take him away from her forever.
How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) Page 5
