The Wicked Lady

by Julia Knight

  He hesitated once more. He should at least pretend to be a gentleman, even if he wanted to be anything but right now. What he wanted was to see what was under that shift. What he wanted was to have her believe his lies, the sweetest lies that got women into bed. He looked up from a furtive glance at her body and caught her knowing gaze. He was lost for words. Any lady of class would have had a fainting fit by now, but she seemed to be enjoying herself at his expense. He wasn’t quite sure how to react, feeling on the back foot for once. Time to remedy that. “Lady, forgive me, but your reputation, if I should—”

  “I told you to call me Catherine, and if I’d a reputation to lose, then perhaps I’d protect it.” She sat gracefully in a chair, pulled her legs up underneath her, curled almost like a cat, and leant forward to pour him a tot from a bottle of cognac. Good cognac too.

  Paul tore his gaze away from where her body pressed into thin silk. He sat opposite her, took the glass and gulped down some brandy. Catherine poured one for herself, and a drop of blood fell onto the table and splashed the stem of her glass.

  “You’re bleeding. Are you all right?” Paul put down his glass, glad to have a distraction from his thoughts, which were becoming more ungentlemanly by the moment.

  She looked down in surprise and then laughed shakily. “A small cut, nothing too bad.” She turned her hand palm up and showed him a cut along her wrist. “One of them got a bit too close. Unluckily for him, my father made sure I knew how to defend myself.”

  He couldn’t resist the perfect opportunity to touch her, and took her hand to make a show of inspecting the cut. A waft of perfume came from her, a spicy scent that seemed to lay heavily on his senses. “Really?” he asked, more for something to say than because he thought she wanted an answer. The cut bled freely, though it wasn’t a bad one, but if he bandaged it, he’d have to get closer. At the moment, that was all he could think of. That, and just how glorious she’d look naked.

  She leant in, and now he could smell the woman under the perfume. Feel the heat of her arm along his, the hint of her breast pressed into his shoulder. He looked up and her face was next to his as she inspected the cut along with him. She looked at him from under her lashes with an enticing smile. Was she trying to seduce him? If so, she was doing a good job. His breeches had become decidedly uncomfortable. He’d never known a woman to behave like this, as though she knew what she wanted and was doing all she could to get it. At least not any woman who wasn’t a whore. Her audacity was almost as intoxicating as the breast that pushed gently into his arm, her perfume or the soft curve of her lips that begged to be kissed.

  Her flirting completely unnerved him for a moment, but, being the man he was, only for a moment. He cleared his throat. “I think I’ll need to wrap this, to be on the safe side. Do you have anything to use for bandages?”

  He couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers. They were a dark blue-grey, like the sea, and full of impish fun. She raised an eyebrow. “Well, there’s always my shift.”

  With a laugh, she bent down and, with a little difficulty, tore two strips from the bottom of the shift. It was very hot and stuffy in the room all of a sudden, and Paul passed a hand over his forehead to blot his sweat. He took another gulp of brandy. A few minutes were all he’d wanted to spare. He should be out on deck. He’d bind her cut, then go and check all was well. Get some air. For the first time in his life, he cursed his choice of career. Maybe he could come back later…

  Catherine handed him the strips of cloth. “Will this be enough?”

  He had to get a hold of himself instead of behaving like a half-wit boy on his first time. Take charge, man! “It’ll be plenty, I’m sure.” She held out her arm, and he began to wrap it. After every other twist, he smoothed the cloth down with a thumb, making sure he went well past the actual cloth. The beat of her pulse at her wrist fluttered under his touch. Once the first strip had been finished and tied, he let one hand linger on her wrist and stroked his thumb along the soft skin there.

  Her pulse sped up under his thumb, and a rash of gooseflesh ran along her arm. The corner of her mouth rose in a satisfied smile, and she reached out with her other hand to pick up her glass. “To Lieutenant Ambury. My hero.” She toasted him and took a tiny sip.

  His own glass in his spare hand, he toasted her in return and let a long, slow smile spread across his face. There was an unspoken promise in her look, and he intended to collect. He had her. He shifted to relieve the ache in his crotch. “To Lady Catherine, my damsel in distress,” he said and drained his glass.

  Her gaze followed every drop as he drank, and he put the glass down with a frown. It was still very hot, hotter than it had any right to be. Sweat trickled down his back and face, sliding off him in waves. All his skin was on fire, not with heat, but with emotion. Catherine’s face blurred before his eyes.

  “I think that’s enough for you,” she said. “Don’t want you passing out just yet, do we?”

  Paul tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. They’d turned to wet rope. He slumped into the chair, blinking heavily and shaking his head, sure he’d heard some muffled thumps and shouts from out on the deck.

  “The bosun is a devil with the crew,” she said as she leant over him. “Shouts and screams half the day.”

  “What in God’s name—” He tried to push her out of the way, but his senses swam. All he could see was her, sensuously swaying with the ship. All he could smell was her perfume. Anger and lust swirled through him, each vying for his attention.

  She undid the buttons of his coat, and moved onward, her hands gliding over the smooth cotton of his shirt. Her breath tickled his cheek, her lips softly parted, and he forgot the shouts, forgot his anger at his helplessness. Lust won.

  Chapter Two

  Catherine smiled as Paul sagged into the chair, his eyes unfocused. It was a risk really, a great risk, for anyone to know it was Catherine Harcourt behind the surge in piracy of late, but this time it was necessary. Besides, he wouldn’t tell. Oh, no, not when he’d lost his ship because he was too busy with her. There’d been times since her husband’s death, not often, but sometimes, when she’d wanted a man, when she missed the feel of another body against hers, missed the slither of skin on skin, but she’d give all that up to be her own woman, in charge of her life. She wouldn’t allow a man to control her—she’d never bear that from anyone again.

  This was the first time she’d drugged the captain of a ship she’d stolen though, and the risk of being captured, of him disregarding everything to turn her in, only fired the thrill in her belly. She’d got as much information out of Matthew as she could without making him suspicious, and she thought that this Paul Ambury would have far too much pride to admit to losing his ship because he was distracted by a half-dressed lady. In fact, she was counting on it.

  With a long, drawn-out sigh, he shut his eyes. She hoped she hadn’t given him too much—she had plans for Paul Ambury. She sat astride his legs, took off his jacket and emptied the pockets. Nice watch, a few guineas and a rather fine eyeglass, and a sheath. Now that might come in useful. Nothing hidden in his boots. She unbuckled the sword, a finely crafted piece she might keep, and put it with hers, hidden but within reach if she should need it. It would do as a start to the evening’s theft.

  He was even more attractive up close than he’d been from a distance. Maybe she’d do more than just rob him blind. It would be well worth the risk. He opened his eyes and sat up a little. Good, she hadn’t overdone it. He stared at her for a moment, bewildered, then his eyes sharpened and he leant forward. Oh, no, that wasn’t how this went. He’d do as he was told. She’d had enough of it the other way round to make sure of it.

  She gently pushed him back and watched as his eyes slipped down to where her breasts peeked out from the low collar of her shift. His legs fidgeted under her, the throb of his erection pressing into her thigh. He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head and he subsided.

  She undid the last button and b
egan to slip the shirt off, enjoying the feel of his skin under her fingers. No flab and white skin here, like too many of the other officers. He was lean and muscled, with a fine down of hair. She was just sliding her fingers across to slip the shirt right off when his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Hell’s teeth! His fingers bit into the cut she’d given herself to make the “attack” seem more realistic, making her gasp. She wrenched free of his grip and stood over him, making sure she could see where her sword was. This was not how it was supposed to go!

  He stared at her with bleary brown eyes, blinked rapidly until they cleared a little, and struggled to sit up. His breathing was rapid from the drug, and his gaze fell to the rise and fall of her breasts. She almost laughed to herself. Men were too easy sometimes—show them a bit of skin and you could lead them by their cocks to anywhere. It was a shame about this one. He’d seemed to have a bit more fire in his belly than the rest.

  Paul opened his eyes to find Catherine leaning over him. What the— He caught hold of her wrist, more from instinct than any clear thought. She pulled away easily enough. There was a soft heaviness to his limbs, a warmth that seeped through him and made his heart clench. A glass of brandy shouldn’t leave him so weak, or with such fire in his veins. He recalled the avid way she’d watched him drink it. She’d rigged the drink, that was plain, but while brothels often drugged clients to rob them, he’d never heard of any physic that had this effect on a man. He blinked his vision clear, but all he could focus on was the way the shift clung to her, how he could almost but not quite see her through the flimsy fabric. The fact that she was hidden stirred him more than if she’d been naked.

  She stood there without a hint of coyness, confident in herself and the effect she had. His gaze followed a trickle of sweat that ran down her neck and disappeared from view into the shadowy recess between her breasts. All he knew was that he wanted to follow it, and that one thought pounded in his brain.

  He sat up, clearer in his mind now but still far from sober, wanting only to lose himself in the lips that parted in a soft, knowing smile. He reached out to take her arm, but she batted it away and pushed him back into the chair. It wasn’t only his body she threw off balance—all the women he’d known, and there had been more than a few, had wanted to be chased, for him to take the lead, in bed or out, and that suited him very well. Not this one. She leant over him so that her neck was scant inches from his lips, but when he tried to kiss the soft skin there, she shoved him away. Her leg wafted tantalisingly over his until she sat on his lap and wriggled on the erection that threatened to break free of his breeches.

  Her lips were close, so close he could almost touch them with his own, but when he tried, she pulled away. The way she ground onto his cock as she moved brought a groan from his lips. Only the fabric of his breeches kept them apart, kept him from plunging straight in without a thought for her. Just a piece of cloth between them. What was wrong with him that just the thought of that had him close to coming? Everything was strange, his thoughts not his own. He tried to regain some control, but she wriggled, and the shiver that ran up his cock put anything else from his mind.

  Her eyes held him, half-lidded in anticipation, or maybe only in pleasure that she had him at her mercy. He struggled against the languor in his limbs, to take control as he always did, but it was hopeless. A lazy finger tracked over his chest, trailing goose bumps behind it, worked its way down to the top of his breeches and hesitated. He could barely breathe for wishing she wouldn’t stop. All the time, she watched his face. The finger trailed back up, and he almost swore in disappointment, but something in her eyes told him not to speak, that if he did it would be over. He wanted to—he wanted to grab her, take her, make her his, but he couldn’t make his body move as he wanted.

  Her hand moved across his chest, across his nipple where it paused to let her thumb flick at the erect flesh and send a shiver through him that ended as a twitch in his cock. Her hips ground down as his cock hardened, and she lowered her head. Her lips teased at the nipple, and then her teeth grazed it. His cock swelled against her, and only an effort of will kept him from coming. What had she done to him? Not now, not yet. He had to take her first, had to slide inside her and make her twitch and cry out. He pushed her back and tried to kiss her. All he wanted, for right now at least, was the taste of her lips on his, but she smiled seductively, and sat upright on his lap. The heat of her skin seeped through his breeches, enveloped him in its warmth. He wanted to dive in, to take her and wrap his cock in her.

  He slid his hands around her waist, marveled at the feel of the silk as it moved over her skin, and tried to pull her down to him, but she wouldn’t allow it. Whatever she’d drugged him with had taken all the strength from his arms and pushed it into his cock, made him sweat and pulse at a touch. Yet he couldn’t submit.

  He yanked her to him and clasped his arms around her. She wriggled furiously to free herself, but he held tight. Her face was next to his, her skin under his lips at last. He went to kiss her, but she turned her head away. No matter. The soft skin of her throat lay there instead, under the scented sweep of her hair. He nudged the hair away and laid his lips on her throat, ran them down to the soft hollow at its base. She gasped and moved against him, her nipples taut under her shift. He raised his hand to tease them through the soft fabric, to hold them and feel their softness under his calloused fingers.

  Without warning, she twisted on his lap, drawing a tortured groan from him as she ground on his straining cock, and she was free. She stood before him, her eyes hot and wild, and he could barely think for desire. No idiot blue blood this. No brainless actress willing to believe all his sweet lies. A woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it. His blood pounded, in his brain, his chest, his cock. The Kittiwake shifted under them, moving against the wind. He should be out on deck. Thoughts of his crew, his duty, rose in his mind, swiftly buried under a tide of lust.

  He went to move but she shoved him into the chair once more. He’d never known a woman like this, never known one who knew her own mind and what she wanted so well. Never knew one who’d done half as much to tease him, or make him want her so much his cock strained with need before he’d even so much as kissed her.

  Then, just as he thought she would turn away, that he’d lost his chance, she sank to her knees in front of him. He hardly dared to move. She pinned him with her gaze and ran her hands along his thighs, slowly, agonisingly slowly, up. Her fingers skirted his cock, oh so close, and onwards to the buttons on his breeches. His arms shook on the chair. God’s blood, maybe it was what she’d drugged him with, maybe it was just her, but even the high class whores of London had never made his cock this hard. He had to have her touch him. He had to have her skin against him somewhere, now. And yet he couldn’t move for fear that she’d change her mind and stop.

  The first button opened, the rest in quick succession. His shaft sprang free, and he gasped in relief as she snatched his breeches off and threw them carelessly behind her. Now, surely now. The drug sped heat through his body, centred it in his groin till he thought he might catch fire. Still she hesitated, made him grind his teeth in frustration. God, how long was she going to do this? Was she just going to tease him and never give him what he needed? She ran her fingers along his thigh, eased up to his cock until he thought, yes, now, yes she must! Then they drifted away, accompanied by his groan of disappointment. He grasped the arms of the chair for all he was worth as her fingers came up once more. This time she tantalized the soft skin of his balls and touched the base of his shaft before trailing away. The tip of his cock felt ready to burst, and pre-come trickled down its length. He couldn’t hold on much longer. Barring two nights at Mrs. Quinn’s that hadn’t done enough to ease the cravings, it had been too long since he’d been with a woman, the drugged fire in his blood too hot, and she teased too much. He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head and he kept quiet. No matter what, no matter how she tormented him, he didn’t want her to stop. If she wan
ted him silent, silent he would be.

  His legs trembled with need, a desperate desire to have her body against his, to thrust inside her until they both cried out. Finally she let her fingers caress the soft skin of his prick. They touched so lightly, so softly, he could barely feel them, but his cock twitched at her skin on his, just where he needed it. He swelled and pulsed, more than he thought possible, harder than the iron of a cannon. His hips rose from the chair. He had to explode, oh God he had to…

  She stopped, waited till his breathing slowed, then wrapped her fingers round him, one by one. They moved gently, up and down, her thumb caressing across the tip with each stroke. She pulled him toward her, then her lips were on him. He gripped the chair until his knuckles were white. A soft, wet sensation enveloped his cock as her lips and tongue flickered across the tip. She found his most sensitive part, brushed at it with her tongue, soft yet firm, and his balls tightened. He cried out loud, a nothing word of want and need, and she stopped just before his point of no return. Oh, God damn her, she stopped. “Fuck!” he groaned.

  She stood in one graceful movement and looked at him with one eyebrow arched. “Who said you could talk? Don’t.” She grasped the ragged hem of her shift, pulled it over her head and threw it heedlessly behind her. Lamplight gleamed off her smooth curves, along muscles that were taut yet soft-seeming, up to her breasts. He could imagine his hands cupping them, their soft flesh fitting perfectly into his palm. “Or do you want me to put it back on?”