Grayson Prentiss's Seduction
Bronwyn Scott
Spring, 1831, Spain
Elena di Duero is desperate for a husband. But not just anyone—she needs to find her husband, the man given up for dead almost a year ago. If she doesn’t bring Alejandro home alive within the next month, she will be forced to marry cruel Don Alicante and cede all of her land to him.
Then the lone survivor of a shipwreck washes up on shore with no memory of who he is or where he came from. And he looks remarkably like Alejandro. Elena knows he is not her husband, but he could be. She needs him to be. She just has to put it to him the right way, with the right incentive.
And so begins the seduction.
Chapter One
Grayson Prentiss had minutes left to live. He had no illusions about how long he’d survive in the frigid, churning waves of the Atlantic if the ship sank. So—futile though it might be—he threw all his muscle into turning the great wheel of the ship in a last attempt to counter the fierce storm winds, relentlessly driving the Bluehawk off course.
Above him, thunder boomed over the cacophony of waves. Jagged lightning slashed a brief illumination of the ship’s ragged rigging and revealed the few men left to man the sails. In that moment, Grayson knew it wouldn’t be long before the ship gave way completely to the destruction of the storm.
The storm had overtaken them two days ago despite the captain’s best efforts to outrun the foul weather. When the captain’s strength gave out, Grayson had taken over at the helm, struggling to keep the ship on course. But his skills and the sturdy build of the Bluehawk had not been enough. Nor had it been enough to save the ship’s precious cargo, the financial salvation of his family waiting in England. None of them, let alone the valuable cargo of cotton and indigo from the Southern States, would see the fair shores of England again.
The ship keeled hard to the right and Grayson’s feet slipped. Only his strong grip and the rope he’d knotted to his waist and tied to the ship’s wheel-well prevented him from slamming into the ship’s sides. A crewman screamed as he slid past Grayson, catapulting over the edge into the roiling seas even as Grayson reached out a hand to seize him.
Breathing hard, alternately cursing and praying between hard-won gulps of air, Grayson righted himself and reclaimed the wheel. He shouted encouragement to the men remaining on deck, though the words were useless, swallowed by the wind and inevitability. Around him lay shattered pieces of wood, parts of the ship that had already succumbed to the weather. Above him, a snapping sound drowned out the storm and grabbed his attention. Lightning struck and Grayson saw the mast nearly split through, teetering in its downward descent.
Grayson dodged to the right as the massive post crashed onto deck, destroying the ship’s final hope of outlasting the storm. Flame from a toppled lantern burst into the night. Fire spread on the deck in spite of the wet weather. Grayson slipped and felt the heat of flames as he collided with the starboard wall. Heat surrounded him. Below him the cold Atlantic mawed.
The rope that had so recently been a source of safety now dangled him in a perilous purgatory. Grayson fumbled at his waist for the knife strapped to his belt and used the sharp blade to saw through the rope. To stay meant he would burn. To choose the sea kept him alive, even if it only prolonged the inevitable. Grayson chose life. He made a final slice through the coarse hemp.
For the sake of the nearly bankrupt viscountcy, for the sake of his two brothers, for the sake of his cousin Julia, Grayson took his chances with the sea.
Chapter Two
The clang of bells woke Elena di Duero with a start. The Costa da Morte, the Coast of Death, had claimed another ship.
In the past, the sound of midnight bells would call Elena and the villagers of Camarinas to dutifully search for survivors. But over the last year, the sound of the bells represented more than duty for her. They were simultaneously a call to hope and fear.
Elena dressed quickly in warm, serviceable clothing and joined her household and the villagers on the beach, lanterns bobbing in their hands, rain drenching them entirely, goaded on by the sharp-cutting wind. It reminded Elena of the night nearly a year ago that her husband’s ship had foundered so close to home, the lighthouse beacon failing to bring the men safe to port. Her husband’s body had not been found among the wreckage that lined the beaches the following morning or in the weeks afterwards.
She had mourned her husband, but she had not been overwrought at his demise. Their marriage had been arranged, orchestrated by their parents and marked with indifference.
She had not become truly alarmed over his disappearance until Don Alicante swooped in and made it clear that unless he reappeared, she stood to lose the pazo and all that went with it—including her. So she’d struck her devil’s deal with Senor Alicante.
Elena shivered, not from the cold but from the remembrance of that awful day. In her mind’s eye, Senor Alicante’s “offer” was plainly etched. He’d had the audacity to stand in her front parlor just one month after Alejandro’s ship had gone down and put forward his proposal. As a woman, she had no rights to the property except through her husband or other male relative. So without a male heir, Alejandro’s property was for sale. Without the property or means of support, she would become a destitute widow.
Or she could marry him.
She’d pleaded with the don that her husband wasn’t dead, merely missing. She’d argued it was too soon to decide the fate of his estate. Senor Alicante had given her a year’s reprieve to produce her husband from the watery depths, alive.
But Elena would not countenance such a bald attempt at coercion. She knew that he had had two wives already who had met with untimely fates, and rumors from his villa had not painted him as a generous husband. She’d had a taste of freedom without Alejandro and she was not willing to relinquish it. While the work on the pazo was difficult and time-consuming, it was a price she was more than willing to pay for the freedom and little luxuries she enjoyed. Without the pazo, she had nowhere to go and no source of income. She needed the pazo regardless of her relish for the demanding work. Without it, she was nothing. Still, if she had to chose, she’d want life with Alejandro over the life she’d lead with Don Alicante.
That was why every time the bells rang, desperate hope rose for Elena. Perhaps the bells rang to signal Alejandro’s return. But each time she’d risen to answer the bells, there had only been disappointment; another wrecked ship, more lost crewmen, one more dashed hope. And time was running out. She had only one month left before Senor Alicante would press his claim.
Elena joined a group fanning out along the beach looking for survivors. It was not impossible as this ship had met its fate not far from shore. She could even see flames from a fire on deck. If the sea were calmer, a fisherman’s boat could reach it. But for tonight, the storm made such a journey too risky. Beside her, an older woman muttered prayers to Santa Carmen, the patron Saint of sailors.
There was a loud exclamation a short way ahead of her. Elena looked up, shading her eyes against the slant of the rain. “Senora! Senora! Come quickly!” A woman ran up to her, grabbing her hand. “There’s a man. He’s alive but barely.”
Elena followed her, tripping over rocks. She pushed her way through the little crowd and held her lantern high to illuminate the form. For a moment in the darkness the lantern highlighted his features and she’d thought wildly the man was Alejandro. But as she steadied the light, she realized the man was a stranger. She bit back her own disappointment and said nothing. Whether or not the man was Alejandro, he was in need of attention.
The seas had shredded much of his clothing, giving her a substantial glimpse of a muscled physique. Long dark hair lay plastere
d against a well-sculpted face. It would be a shame to lose such a splendid specimen of a man in his prime; he was too young to die.
He groaned and Elena swiftly knelt at his side, reaching automatically for his hand. She chafed it in her own, feeling the extreme cold of his skin. She spoke soft words, encouraging him to speak again but no sound came.
Elena looked up at the villagers and called out instructions. “We must get him warm.” She pointed to four men in the group. “Carry him to my house. It’s closest.” She tried to rise as men came to lift him but the stranger’s hand clenched around hers and refused to relinquish it, showing an incredible amount of strength.
They made an awkward entourage as they carried the man up the hill toward the pazo—four fisherman with a man slung between them and the senora walking alongside, her hand caught firmly in the unconscious man’s grip. Even before they’d arrived at the pazo gates, the speculations started. Elena could catch snatches from those who crowded close to them, eager to see the stranger:“Even unconscious he grasps her hand like he knows her…with the devotion of a husband. He’s got dark hair…Alejandro had hair like that, wore it long too like this man. Alejandro had wide shoulders.”
Elena was glad when the iron gates of the pazo swung shut behind her. The man wasn’t Alejandro, though he looked remarkably like him. But she was hesitant to deny the villagers' hopes. The whole village knew of her situation with Don Alicante. His superior attitude hadn’t made him a favorite with the townspeople and no one was in a particular hurry to have him acquire the Duero property.
She instructed the men to take their burden up to her room on the second floor. The other rooms weren’t made up and she didn’t want time wasted. This man needed help and comfort immediately. Servants came running at the sight of her and she gave them tasks. The pazo became a flurry of activity. There was water to draw and warm. After a bath, the man would need clothes and blankets and eventually hot food. Elena motioned for two of the women to follow her up to the chambers.
Once he was deposited on the bed, Elena and one of the women began the process of undressing him, stripping the cold rags from his body. The other woman built up a fire and laid out blankets from a trunk at the foot of the bed. “He’s freezing,” Elena exclaimed, finally succeeding in disengaging her hand long enough to tear away the remains of his shirt. A worrying blue tinge was visible about his lips now that there was light to see by. “We need those blankets!”
“Here’s a blanket.” The woman, Anna, shook out a blanket and passed it to Elena. “But it’s a shame to cover up such a gem—don’t see a fine healthy male like that just any day.”
Elena felt her cheeks flame. She was embarrassed to admit that she’d noticed the defined muscles of his torso, the lean curve of his hip, the long lines of his thighs and what lay between them. The cold hadn’t appeared to do too much damage to the member that lay snuggled against his leg in a nest of dark hair. Quickly, she snapped the blanket over him and chided herself for such unruly thoughts about a man in need.
Chapter Three
Servants came and went from the room, building up fires, bringing water and hot broth. Through it all, Elena stayed at the stranger’s side, distracting her thoughts with the task of warming him. Eventually, the activity in the room ebbed. The room darkened from the absence of lanterns and lights the servants brought with them. Quiet fell. Anna, the last to go, squeezed her shoulder. “There’s nothing more to do, Senora. Get some sleep. We’ll see what the morning brings.”
“I’ll stay with him,” Elena said resolutely, but she heard the underlying message—everyone had done what they could. They’d sought their beds because there was nothing more to be done. The man hadn’t warmed. The blue tinge still flirted about his lips. No one thought he would live. He had been unconscious with a low temperature for a prolonged amount of time. Elena had looked earlier for a bump on the head that might indicate an injury. There’d been none, confirming the worst: he was unconscious because his body hadn’t the strength left for consciousness. His life was slipping away.
“I’ll stay in case he speaks,” Elena said. “We might learn his name.” We might learn who he was and who to write to in case he doesn’t survive.
Anna clucked. “Suit yourself. You’re far too good, wasting yourself on a stranger who won’t wake up. Pity that.” She shot Elena a sly look. “He looked an awful lot like Alejandro.”
“People often see what they want to see,” Elena replied, taking the stranger’s hand again, feeling it flex about her own in reassurance that he was still alive, although the grip was weaker than it had been.
“Yes they do,” Anna said cryptically, softly shutting the door behind her.
Elena pushed a strand of hair back from the stranger’s face. Cleaned up and bathed, he was beautiful to look at. Long black lashes shuttered his eyes. “If you wake up, I can see what color your eyes are,” Elena murmured. It was all nonsense—what did it matter what she said to him? “You could tell me your name,” she cajoled in soft tones.
“Gray—” a hoarse sound came from his elegant lips.
“Gray,” Elena repeated, surprised to hear anything from him at all. The hand she held squeezed as if in affirmation. “Is that the color of your eyes?” Elena asked. It took a moment for it to register that he’d spoken English.
But there was no answer, no pressure from his hand. Elena had heard of those close to death rousing themselves one last time. She felt for his pulse and panicked. It was weaker now, slow and faint, his skin still like ice.
“No!” Elena cried. She could think of nothing more to do. The fire had made the room uncomfortably warm, all to no avail for him—yet her own skin burned with the heat, sweat beading on her brow. If only she could give the stranger some of the heat that burned in her….
Elena rapidly shed the blouse and skirt she wore, her hands flying as she bent down to pull off the half boots she’d worn to the beach. Wholly naked and without a thought for her own modesty, Elena slipped beneath the covers and took the stranger into her arms.
Chapter Four
Ah, that was better. He moaned, responding somewhere in the deep recesses of his unconsciousness. The treasure of warmth had teased him for what seemed an eternity, lingering on the fringes of his skin but never completely penetrating the bone-deep chill. Now the warmth was all around him, enveloping him in its life-giving sanctuary. He was starting to thaw. Out of the warm darkness a voice called to him out, soft and inviting with its gentle mantra: “stay with me.”
Perhaps he’d been too quick in thinking the heat meant life. Maybe the voice belonged to an angel that had come to lead him to heaven. At least he was out of the sea, although he couldn’t remember why he’d been in it in the first place.
There was a disturbingly empty void where knowledge should have been. Not that it mattered. Not any more. He was on his way to the afterlife. Well, that was alright with him as long as it contained this pleasant warmth.
Whatever he didn’t know, he knew there was definitely an angel. A pair of hands went with the voice. He could feel them move on his body now, gentle and assessing. Then he felt the whole of the angel replace the skimming hands. The angel drew him into a full embrace, her front to his chest.
His angel was definitely a her. The weight of full, bare breasts met the cold skin of his torso. Long legs matched against his. The angel didn’t let any part of his body go without her heat. Her arms pressed against his back, her head found a resting place against his shoulder. He could smell the cleanliness of her hair. Grayson wished he could open his eyes and see its color. It felt like silk and smelled like roses. But there wasn’t enough strength in him for that yet.
Grayson felt calmness claim him. His mind began to free itself from the trappings of unconsciousness, finally able to embrace a true sleep. Beside him, the angel shifted slightly. Warmth and peace suffused him. He welcomed the tranquility. Grayson slipped into sleep thinking if this was death, then let it come. Oh yes, let it come.
***
He squinted against the brilliant rays of sunlight piercing the room, giving into the temptation to close his eyes again.
He wasn’t dead. The startling realization was evidenced by the extraordinary soreness of his body and extreme hardness of his cock. He was alive and for some reason that was a cause for celebration. Had there been a chance of death?
He felt as if that was a distinct possibility. But something was terribly wrong. He didn’t know where he was. The room didn’t seem familiar. Surely he should recognize the bed he lay in. Worse, he couldn’t remember who he was. A gaping emptiness swamped his mind. Don’t panic, he told himself. Something had obviously happened and he was merely disoriented. If he laid still and concentrated, everything would come back in a moment. But a few minutes later, all he could recall was an angel.
He remembered an angel bringing warmth with a soft voice and gentle hands, an angel taking him against her body until he’d been surrounded by peace and warmth.
He risked the agony of turning his head sideways and cracking his eyes open against the light, wanting to validate the presence of the pleasant weight nestled against him.
No, he was most assuredly not dead nor was he alone. The woman lying with him explained the angel and his substantial erection. He wished he could raise himself up on one arm to see her better. But even if he had the strength to do so, such a feat would dislodge her from the pillow of his shoulder. He had to content himself with an awkward view of her from his prone position.
Still, he could see that she was beautiful in her repose. Inky hair fanned his chest, curling slightly into waves at the ends. A neatly trimmed hand lay in the center of his torso, rising and falling with each breath. His blankets had become tangled in the night, leaving a long expanse of her leg bare to the morning air where it mingled intimately with his own limbs. He’d been right. His angel was entirely naked. The realization did nothing to alleviate the ache of his arousal.
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