If he were a smart man, he’d sail out of here tonight and leave her to Delmore. But he was a proud man, not a smart one, and there was no way on God’s green earth he was going anywhere.
Not now, when Sir Graham had all but thrown down the gauntlet.
Not now, when Delmore had set his own eye on the woman that he, Connor, had found first.
Not now, when his insides felt like someone had twisted them into a knot and set them on fire.
Oh, he had his pride all right. Rhiannon Evans was his.
Ahead, the moon was poised above the western horizon and lighting up the sea. He reached the water’s edge and reaching down, picked up a stone and flung it, hard, out over the water, trying to get it to skim and skip the surface as he and his siblings had so often done as children.
What are you going to do, Connor?
Yes, what was he going to do?
He picked up another rock. Sent it flying out over the surface.
She was just a young girl. Too young to appreciate him for anything more than the careless daredevil she knew him to be, too young to want him for the real man he actually was. A man who couldn’t stop striving to be all that his father had been before him. A man who wasn’t, in some respects, quite as confident as he would have others believe. A man who had a secret so shameful that she would surely pity him, maybe even laugh at him, if she were to ever find out about it.
So what are you going to do, Connor?
The hell with pride. He would be smart, just this once. He was going to go back to Kestrel, that’s what he was going to do. And he was going to stay there until every last man of his crew returned and then, he was getting the devil out of Barbados and going back to work.
He pitched one last stone and headed back up the beach.
* * *
Rhiannon had intended to just spend a few moments outside, but the night was quiet, the front gardens deserted, and a gibbous moon was just setting over the western horizon, lighting a serene path of gold out over the water and seemingly into forever.
Above her head, the trades whispered through the palms and in the near distance, Rhiannon could hear the gentle, timeless rhythm of surf against the beach.
She headed toward the sound, thinking to find a place to sit and watch the moon setting over the sea, and to think.
“Connor Merrick.”
There, she’d said it. Breathed life into the name and, in so doing, made this strange, exciting, shivery feeling of infatuation, real. But was it infatuation? Or was it something more?
Was it possible for a woman to fall in love at first sight?
Of course it is. He saved your life.
And, your sister’s.
She’d had infatuations before, of course. What young woman didn’t? But she had been younger then, and there was a big difference between the shy, pimply, insecure youths she’d known back in the little Welsh village where she’d grown up, and a confident and virile man like Connor Merrick.
What would Gwyneth—who had raised her and Morganna after their parents had died so many years before, who had taken a position in the local public house so the three of them would have enough to eat, who had married the elderly Lord Simms in order to give her little sisters a better life— have to say about her obsession with Connor Merrick?
Ahead, the beach glowed pale in the light of the moon. Sighing, Rhiannon moved closer to the waves breaking gently against this protected western shore, kicked off her shoes and, arranging her skirts around her, sat down, curling her toes in the warm sand. She folded her arms across her knees and, resting her chin on her wrists, gazed morosely out over the path of moonlight that led out over the sea and to the horizon.
Down here, the riding lights of the ships anchored in the harbor were brighter, glowing like stars from rigging and tops alike, casting their own tiny reflections over the water.
“Connor Merrick,” she said again.
And sensed movement behind her, and a presence.
She knew who it was before she even turned and saw his tall, lean form leaning against a palm tree a short distance away.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, mortified—and grateful that the night hid the sudden, hot blush that filled her cheeks.
“Long enough to hear my name uttered.” He bowed, and she could see that he was smiling. “At your service, ma’m.”
“Were you spying on me?”
“Actually, I was on my way back to my schooner when I noticed you sitting there. My curiosity was aroused. Forgive me.”
“You were spying on me.”
“Very well then, I was spying on you. And thinking of a million ways to send Deadly Dull-more to hell and back for the fact that he had the good fortune to be sitting next to you tonight, and I did not. Pardon my language, ma’m.”
“Why, Captain Merrick . . . if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous!”
“Hmph. Of that starched up prig? Hardly.”
He came forward, and her heart began to pound.
“I should go inside, this is not proper.”
“Proper? What, Miss Evans, about the world is?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Our president Madison declared war against your country when he should’ve declared it against the French, who were guilty of many of the same insults that offended us in the first place. I’m an American privateer supping with a British admiral who only tolerates my presence here because he’s married to my sister. My nephew and nieces speak with an English accent, my normally fierce sister is an emotional, weepy mess, and my dead-bore of a cousin claimed the seat at the dinner table tonight next to the most beautiful woman in Barbados.” He gave a little grin, acknowledging her blush. “And you speak to me about ‘proper?’ The world is a strange and confusing place, Miss Evans. I should think that two people enjoying the beauty of a tropical moonlit night might count it as one of the only things in this world that is proper, given the upside down state of affairs in which we find ourselves.” He smiled. “Would you care to walk?”
“I think you should take me back to the house. If anyone discovers us out here alone, it would be disastrous.”
“Who would care, here in Barbados? You’re not in a London drawing room.”
“I—”
“Do you wish to go for a walk, Miss Evans?” His smile turned roguish. “Or better yet, that swim?”
Her eyes widened. “You were serious, then? About teaching me?”
“Indeed I was, ma’m.”
“Well, I confess the idea makes me rather nervous . . . it’s dark out. There might be sharks. I lack the courage you display in hurling yourself out of the rigging, you know. But if you vow to keep me safe. . . .”
“Courage isn’t defined by doing things you aren’t afraid to do, no matter how terrifying anyone else finds them. Courage is about doing the things you are afraid to do, no matter how un-terrifying anyone else finds them. Even so, d’you think I wasn’t just a little bit afraid, when I jumped out of the rigging like that?”
She laughed. “No, I do not think you were afraid at all, Captain Merrick, but having the time of your life.”
“Then you sadly overestimate the few qualities of my character, Miss Evans.”
“You were only doing that to impress me, weren’t you? Because you had a female aboard?”
“Oh, no. Though I do confess that knowing you were watching did compel me to jump all the higher. Come, let us walk. I know a quiet cove just south of here. The water is shallow, gentle, and warm.”
He reached down and, having no choice, Rhiannon slid her fingers into that broad, strong hand, picked up her shoes, and allowed him to raise her to her feet.
He was a tall presence beside her, one that made her feel both safe and protected and in great danger all at the same time, and she felt all the blood in her veins beginning to turn to steam.
I should not be doing this! How do I get myself out of this situation?
And the
n: Do you want to get yourself out of this situation?
No. Oh, absolutely, positively, not. She was having an adventure, she was with the devastatingly handsome Black Wolf, and he was jealous that another man had shown her attention.
She had nothing to lose.
And everything to gain.
He’s going to teach me how to swim!
She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, her heartbeat beginning to thunder in her ears. Oh, this was deliciously wicked to be out here alone with him. Forbidden, sinful, by every rule of society. But oh, if he could “live a little,” as he seemed to say so often, then so could she.
I wonder what it would be like if he were to kiss me . . .
The sand, still warm from the heat of the day, scrunched under her bare feet as she allowed him to lead her down to the beach, the lights of Sir Graham’s mansion receding into the trees behind them.
“So, what compelled you to become a privateer, Captain Merrick?”
“The money,” he said, with a half-apologetic smile.
“No overwhelming sense of patriotism or pride?”
“No.” He shook his head. “This war’s different from the one we fought thirty years ago. It’s not about independence this time. And to be fair, there are many of us in New England who were against it. Jefferson’s Embargo Act squeezed most of us such that the economy was in ruins. We could have done without another war, but since one was declared, might as well profit from it.”
“And so here you are.”
“Here I am. Destined, it seems, to ply the same course my Dadaí did back in the old war, and with the same ship, as well.”
“Your father was a privateer, too?
She leaned a little closer to him as they continued along, her hand tucked safely in the crook of his elbow, hearing his words through a strange, delighted thrumming of excitement at the fact that she was out here all alone with him in the dark.
Wicked.
Scandalous.
Forbidden.
Alone.
“Yes, and a good one. I grew up hearing the stories about him,” he continued, his voice fond with admiration, perhaps even awe. “He was a rising officer in the Royal Navy, but defected to the American side shortly after the war began and made a name for himself as one of the most legendary privateers of the Revolution. From the time I could remember, I heard the stories, told to me by my mother, by my aunt and uncle, by the townspeople of Newburyport, by everyone, really, except my father himself . . . stories of how he outsmarted the British by pretending to be in shallows when Kestrel was in deep ocean water . . . stories of the outrageous numbers of prizes that he and my Uncle Matthew brought back into Newburyport, making them both rich beyond imagining . . . stories of how he managed to save Kestrel when the British admiral blocked the American fleet in Penobscot Bay by cleverly setting a prize ship afire and using it to blast a hole through the British ships so he could escape . . . stories of Irish luck and miraculous survival, breathtaking feats of seamanship and daring. . . ” He looked up and out over the sea, his gaze far away, a little smile playing with the corner of his mouth. “I used to think that they were just stories, those tales of my father’s daring feats, but they were not.”
“What does your father say about them?”
“Oh, he’s a humble, self-effacing man. He doesn’t talk much about the old war, and is content these days to run his shipyard with my Uncle Matt, designing and building ships, investing in trade, timber, that sort of thing. He became quite wealthy during the last war and invested wisely; it is my intention to follow in his footsteps, and—” here, he grinned—“surpass his exploits, to the extent that I can.”
“Like father, like son?”
“Indeed.”
“And now you are here.”
“And now I am here. With you. Which, until I weigh anchor and go seek my own fortunes, is exactly where I want to be.”
“Are you serious, or just an accomplished flatterer?”
“Both.”
She couldn’t help it; she laughed, and so did he, and something connected between them.
“What about you, Miss Evans? Tell me about yourself.”
“Oh, I’m not all that fascinating. I’m just a simple country girl from Wales who likes to read, and who wishes her own life had a little more excitement.”
“I could give you that, you know.”
“Give me what?”
He grinned, the charming rogue once more. “That excitement.”
“You’ve rescued me from bloodthirsty pirates, shown me flying fish and rainbows, and you’re about to teach me how to swim. I don’t know how you could make things any more exciting, Captain!”
“Have you ever been courted before?”
“Not by anyone whose attentions I particularly sought.”
“Did you leave behind any broken hearts in England?”
“Only my dog Mattie’s. I’m sure he’s missing me.”
“Have you ever been kissed?”
“Captain Merrick!”
“Well, have you?”
“That’s rather a personal question, don’t you think?”
“Indeed it is.” His eyes were laughing, and she was glad it was dark out so she couldn’t see how unsettled—and excited—such a probing question was making her. “Are you going to answer it?”
“All right, Captain Merrick. No, I have never been kissed.”
“I could give you that, too, you know.” He leaned down, close to her ear. “That first kiss.”
She couldn’t help a little gasp. How on earth was she supposed to respond to that?
He mistook her confusion for shock.
“I’m sorry. I have many flaws, Miss Evans, and one of them is a certain impulsiveness of thought that, all too often I fear, finds its way onto my tongue. You’re a pretty girl. It’s been a long time since someone’s turned my head and commandeered my thoughts the way that you have, and I’m just being honest.”
“Honest?” she squeaked.
“Aye, honest. I’ve been wanting to kiss you from the moment we stood together in Kestrel’s bows, and you took your bonnet off and let your hair free to fly in the wind.”
She just looked at him, not knowing what to say.
He paused and turned her to face him. “Live a little, Miss Evans,” he said, and then, before she could know what he was about, he put a finger beneath her chin, tilted her face up to his, and lowered his lips to hers.
She was unprepared. For the feel of rough male jaw-bristle against her tender skin. For the forcefulness of his mouth, the drive of his lips against her own, and then, the insistent pressing of his tongue against the seam of her lips until she opened to him. She tasted rum and felt his heat and hunger, the whisper of his breath against her cheek, the press of his fingers against her jawbone. She sighed and shut her eyes, her own hand coming up to hesitantly touch his shoulder, the base of his neck, and to push upward into his thick, loosely curling hair.
And then, suddenly, she realized what she was doing and pulled away. Wide-eyed, her hand went up to cover her mouth, and she licked her lips, tasting him.
“Oh,” she said, simply.
“Oh?”
She touched her fingers to her lips. They were tingling, and she felt a strange yearning deep in the pit of her belly, centering between her legs. This could get out of control if she wasn’t careful. She was playing with fire, and people who played with fire inevitably got burned.
“Perhaps I should take you back to the house,” he said, reaching out to touch her hair.
No!
“It would . . . it would probably be smart.”
“Nobody has ever accused me of being smart, Miss Evans.”
“And nobody has ever accused me of being reckless.”
They continued walking, slower this time, both thinking about the kiss, neither of them willing to actually end their time together but both knowing that a decision lay before them and once made, there was no turning b
ack.
“So what is it to be, Miss Evans? Are you feeling reckless? Or should I take you back to the house?”
If I let you take me back to the house, my adventure will end here and now. And I’ll forever wonder what might have been, if only I’d followed it through.
She boldly met his gaze. “You did promise me a swimming lesson, Captain.”
“Aye, that I did.”
“So, let us be about it, then.”
They had reached a clearing and there, ahead, was a small cove, with surf that lapped gently at the beach. Each tiny, curling wave sparkled like diamonds in the moonlight as it broke against the pale coral sand, then hissed and foamed as it retreated into the sea. Rhiannon trembled inside. She had just had her first kiss, given to her by none other than Captain Connor Merrick himself, and he was now about to teach her to swim beneath the stars of a Caribbean night . . . did life get any more magical than this?
Her heart gave a little flutter.
There would be no lamenting lost chances, no wondering what might have been when this night was over.
None.
She was going to do this. No matter how dark that water out there looked, no matter how many sharks might be lurking beneath the surface, no matter how conflicted she suddenly felt when she realized just what she was doing, and with whom.
He led her down to the little beach and there, reached down and took off his sandals.
“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” he asked, looking over at her.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.”
“Admitting a fear is the first step to conquering it.”
“Maybe some fears should be respected, not conquered. Maybe . . . maybe we could just sit here on the sand and talk. I am not sure there’s any real need for me to learn how to swim.”
He yanked his shirt free of his waistband, and pulled it over his head. “No, there is not.”
“It’s an utterly useless skill, really . . . not something that a person in my position has much need of.”
“Yes, utterly useless.”
“Are you courting me, Captain Merrick?”
Lord Of The Sea Page 10
