India followed his gaze and blushed furious crimson to see that her shirt had worked free in her struggles. Now the pearl buttons gaped open over the creamy sweep of her breast, where one rose-pink nipple rose taut and bold.
“And judging by the look of that lovely bloom, your blood has been just as fired as mine.”
She jerked the shirt closed and backed toward the door. “With fury. With contempt. Nothing more, on my honor.”
In the cold gray light of dawn, his eye patch lay black as the road to Waterloo, black as the cannonballs lined up in the carts rattling to the front. His voice hardened. “Honor? Now there is a strange word to hear on a woman’s lips. Have you honor, my anglaise? Do you keep your vows sworn in honor?”
“Always!”
“Ah.” His fingers quivered faintly. “And when you give your vow to the man you will one day marry, you will make your answer with honor?”
“Yes,” India said flatly. “I will. Why do you stare at me like that?”
“Because you will not find joy in the arms of any proper English lord. There is too much fire in you, too much need. He will never make you cry out in passion. If you marry such a man, you will soon make him a cuckold.”
“Never. When I marry, it will be out of love. I will be honest and faithful, and, oh, the most dutiful sort of wife!”
He gave a hard laugh. “But a man does not want duty in his bed.”
“Have you no decency?”
He looked very thoughtful, then shook his head. “No, I think I have not. It vanished when I left my country and tried to learn your cold, hard English ways.” There was bitterness in his voice. Then he shrugged, a most Gallic, philosophical gesture. “Decency, she does not fill my stomach. Nor does she warm my bed. Not like you, sauvage. No, we will speak no more of decency. Perhaps not even of honneur will we speak. We will speak only of heat and blindness. Of the coup de foudre, for the thunderbolt is what I felt when I first saw you, wild and splendid on that great white horse you stole.”
“I didn’t steal—”
The Frenchman laughed darkly. “Yes, I forgot. You simply removed that which was yours from the duke’s stable.”
“You can’t hold me here! And I won’t have you as you want me. Never! Not if you were the last living man on earth.”
“Par Dieu, such a tongue. But soon I will feel a different lash of its soft velvet.”
“Never! And if you don’t open this door right now—”
“Captain! Open up!” Rough hands banged at the cabin door. At the same time boots hammered across the deck.
Scowling, the Frenchman crossed the room and threw open the door. “Well?”
His first mate stood in the hallway, frowning. “It’s those scum from downstream, Cap’n. They decided it was time to drive you out of their territory once and for all. Must be fifty of them, and every one armed.”
The Frenchman cursed. He took the saber Perkins held out and strode toward the companionway.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Captain?”
“What?”
“The boy. The boy what ain’t a boy,” he added quietly.
The Frenchman turned.
But it was too late. India Delamere flew through the door, rammed the first mate and sent him stumbling sideways, then hammered up the stairs toward the Gypsy’s noisy deck.
CHAPTER 25
The deck was covered with clouds of smoke. Cannons boomed from the rival vessel. Through the smoke and chaos of fighting bodies the Frenchman finally made out his captive’s slender figure running toward the starboard railing. Mid-deck she was waylaid, but she twisted away from her attacker, kicked him in the groin, and wrenched his pistol from his hand. This she tossed to her companion and then the two of them started toward the side of the boat. When another man attempted to stop her, she waved the gun until he retreated.
The Frenchman watched in horror as four more men began to circle her slowly. Now there was only one way to reach her in time.
Grabbing a cable, he launched into the air, swung wide and dropped onto the deck. In the process he knocked out two cursing sailors and kicked a pistol from the hands of a third.
But he was too late. His captive was already perched nervously on the edge of the Gypsy’s aft railing, waving wildly to her companion back on the deck.
“Jump, Froggett! Jump now!” And then her slender form went hurtling toward the foam-streaked waves below.
By the time the Frenchman reached the railing, she was a small figure bobbing up and down in the water.
Her friend was standing white-faced at the rail. “I can’t swim. Never learned how.” He looked pleadingly at the captain. “You have to understand. You can’t hurt her. She’s—”
Perkins grabbed his arm. “Quiet, now.” His voice fell. “The captain will have a care for the woman.”
The Frenchman only hoped he could. Wincing, he touched his shoulder, feeling pain gnaw at the joint. Hardly an auspicious start. Grimly, he tossed his pistol to his first mate. “See that they don’t destroy my ship while I’m gone, Perkins.”
And then he sailed down into the river after her.
The force of the impact slammed through him, yanking his breath away. When his head broke from the waves, the Gypsy’s captain saw the woman already had twenty yards on him. He watched her cut through the water with sure, fast strokes and maneuver past three more rowdy sailors looking for a fight.
The fool was lucky to be alive, he thought, grimly closing the distance until she was mere yards before him. But when he had almost reached her, she spun about and aimed a punishing blow with her right heel on his shoulder.
He fought a wave of pain, gulping water and going under. When he came up, his jaw was hard. She was going to pay for that.
Of course, that was if he could ever manage to use his arm again. At that moment, the bone felt as if it were being pulled from its joint.
It had been a stupid idea to swing across the deck. Clearly, he wasn’t the man he had once been, the Frenchman thought bitterly. Meanwhile, he had a captive to catch and she was halfway to the shore, while he was gasping for air.
He put the pain out of his mind and cut a straight path toward the rocky cove. Years of practice had made him a strong swimmer, so the Englishwoman was barely working her way along the top of the bank when the pirate heaved himself out of the water.
With a running dive he shot forward, tackling her not ten feet up the bank. In the process she slammed into his chest and he was thrown shoulder first onto a row of rocks.
This time the pain was blinding. He closed his eyes, white-faced and sweating, unable to move.
“You’re hurt!”
She sounded surprised.
But her face showed no triumph. She was shivering and her eyes were anxious.
A strange ache invaded his heart. “Why did you run away?”
“I had to go.”
He eyed her shivering, bedraggled figure, auburn hair slicked to her neck. “As you say. But we cannot stay here and argue while you freeze to death. And we can’t go back to the ship. One look at you in that wet shirt and every man in my crew will know you are no boy.”
India’s head slanted down toward the soft cambric. After her swim it lay damp, molded to her chest like a second skin. She flushed red.
He shook his head, muttering. “Let’s go.”
She followed him through a line of trees that bordered a stream. Beyond stood an old stone cottage, covered by wild brambles. The green vines hung lush with berries, red against the weathered stone. Together they managed to clear away the overgrown foliage and push open the front door. “I keep this cottage for safety, in case things grow too difficult aboard the Gypsy,” he explained. “There’s wood over here.” He winced as he bent toward the grate. “I’ll make up a fire.”
“No, I’ll make the fire.” India was studying his arm, frowning.
Without giving him time to protest, she expertly stacked logs in the fireplace, then struck the fl
int she had found on the dusty mantel overhead. Soon the fire gave a comforting crackle and heat began to fill the room.
The Frenchman closed his eyes and eased his long body against a pile of grain sacks. Yes, it had been amazingly stupid to swing across the deck. His only excuse was that he had been worried about her, surrounded by grinning sea vermin. “Where did you learn to lay a fire so well?” he asked.
“Egypt, India, Greece.” She smiled faintly. “A small schooner pitching in a very rough sea off the coast of the Hebrides.”
“You’ve led a busy life, anglaise. Busier than I, it seems. But leave the rest of those logs. I’ll tend to them.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m supposed to.”
“Who said?”
“Nature says. Society says. I said.” He turned slightly, cupping his shoulder. “I am the man, after all.”
Her eyes were thoughtful as she studied the planes of muscle where his shirt had billowed open. “But you’ re hurt. I’m probably better at making fires anyway.” After setting a final log on the snapping fire, she sat down nearby. “In my family we all help each other. It is the Delamere way.” Her eyes darkened with challenge. “And we help each other equally, male or female.”
“Then you’re … very lucky, sauvage.” The Frenchman’s jaw hardened. “I would be a fool to argue. But you must be freezing.” He patted the sack next to him. “Come and sit here.” When India moved carefully beside him, he tugged an old cloak around her shoulders.
It was dangerous to be here with her like this, but the room was quiet except for the crackling of the fire and the heat left him increasingly drowsy. He was only half awake when her hand moved over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
Her fingers traced an old, jagged scar, copper in the firelight. “Looking.” Her voice was husky. “How did this happen?”
He shrugged. “It was … a long time ago.” He rubbed his beard, which had begun to itch from the saltwater.
“Don’t you want to talk about it?”
“No.” Flat. Unrelenting.
“When?” She turned to study the hard lines of his chest as he stripped off his wet shirt and tossed it over a wooden crate before the fire to dry.
He sighed. “Later, anglaise. And you should take off those damp things too.”
There was an odd intensity to her face. “Should I?” she asked softly. “When I’m alone with a pirate and a stranger? Would that — give you pleasure, Captain?”
“If I wanted to have my barbaric way with you, anglaise, I could have done it long before this,” the Frenchman said roughly.
“Yes, you could have. And that’s exactly what bothers me.” India’s fingers slid over the warm planes of his chest. “Do you like this?”
The Frenchman frowned. “I might.”
“And do you like this?” She teased the hard ridge of his stomach, until heat gnawed at his groin. “No,” he lied.
“Indeed.” Smiling, India raised her hands to the dark strands of his beard.
And then she jerked sharply.
The Frenchman sat up with a shout. “Mille diables! What in the name of all that’s sacred was that for?”
India barely heard him. Her body was tense and her fingers were locked tight.
“That was for lying to me,” she rasped as her palm opened to reveal a strand of thick black hair. “You bloody, bloody fool!” she cried.
To the man whose false beard had begun to dissipate in the saltwater. To the man whose shoulder still pained him, as Alexis had said.
To her husband.
India fought waves of anger and shock. “Did you think you could hide your identity from me? I remember every inch of your body and always will. “ Her voice broke. “Now I want the truth. Every word of it!”
~ ~ ~
The Duchess of Cranford paced her sunlit conservatory, while Beach hovered anxiously behind her. “Where can that impossible creature have gone? I visit a friend for one night and return to find the whole house in turmoil. What happened here, Beach?”
“She didn’t return last night, Your Grace, and there’s been no sign of her today.”
The duchess’s cane struck the floor. “If we were in Norfolk, I wouldn’t mind. There India can run as free as Luna, if she likes. But this is London…” The duchess returned to her pacing.
“Your Grace.” The butler cleared his throat. “There’s something else, I’m afraid.”
“What now?”
The butler reached into his pocket and pulled out a clump of auburn hair.
“She’s cut her hair?” The duchess frowned. “What in heaven’s name was the girl planning?”
Abruptly she stiffened. India would never dream of carrying her masculine masquerade so far. The duchess refused to believe it. Then again, the girl had been acting strangely ever since Lord Thornwood’s return to London.
“Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but I also found this, shoved in a drawer of Miss India’s desk.” The butler held out a creased piece of paper.
The duchess opened the folded sheet, and her face paled. “Stay away from Voksal or youl b sory,” she read.
“This one was half hidden beneath a curtain in her room,” Beach went on nervously. “I found it an hour ago.”
The second note held ragged letters that raced across the page in angry slashes. “Leve London or die,” the duchess read.
Her hands closed tightly over the pages. “Oh, Beach, what kind of danger has the little fool gotten into now?”
~ ~ ~
“It’s done.”
The man looked up from the fire, which colored his face an angry copper. “The cargo is secure?”
“Exactly as you wished.”
“And the location?”
“Just as you indicated. Somewhere in which the — cargo — will attract no attention at all.” Helena Marchmont frowned. “But what about Thornwood? What if—”
Her companion smiled coldly. “He is no threat to us, not with his memory gone. And I will dispose of him long before his memory returns.”
“But what if he—”
“Forget about Thorne,” the man before the fire said harshly.
He turned, his body hard and pulsing. “Now come here.”
The widow toyed with the sash trailing at her waist. “But it’s barely been an hour since—”
He moved across the room and was shoving up her skirt before she could finish.
A moment later her sultry laughter filled the darkness.
CHAPTER 26
The man dangling half of a thick black beard, the man who was India’s husband, went very still. “How did you know?” he said hoarsely.
“I didn’t — not at first. You did a fine job with your wretched masquerade, but that scar made me wonder. And then it all fell into place. You’re very good at being a pirate.”
“I’ve had a fair amount of practice.”
“But why, Dev? Why didn’t you tell me?” India crossed her arms angrily. “What sort of danger are you involved in?”
Thorne’s jaw hardened. “I think the fire is going out. Perhaps you’d better stir it up.”
“Don’t think you’re going to avoid my questions, Dev! You’ve kidnapped me and my groom, and I have a strong suspicion that indirectly you’ve brought those children of yours into real danger. I want to know why.”
Devlyn watched the flames dance and leap, thinking about a diamond that could sway the fortunes of all Europe. “For a fortune in diamonds, India. Or maybe I should say for a king’s ransom — or an emperor’s ransom. A madman could fight his way back to power if I let them slip through my fingers. Again,” he added bitterly.
“Do you mean the diamond I found at Vauxhall?”
“That one and many others. I’m sworn to silence and I shouldn’t have told you this much, but you’re involved now and whether I like it or not, the children are too. Those gems were part of Napoleon’s private collection, but they went missing after Waterloo. Now our reports ind
icate that they will be brought into England very soon. It’s my job to find them — and whoever is behind this.”
“So Devlyn Carlisle is transformed into the notorious, cut-throat river pirate known as the Frenchman.” After a moment India nodded. “It’s very clever, Devlyn. I congratulate you.”
“Do you? Most women would have flayed the skin off my back by now, then sunk into a fit of shrieking hysterics. You’re not furious?”
“Oh, I’m furious all right. I’m furious at you for lying to me and for putting those children in danger. As for the rest, you are entirely effective as a pirate.” Her eyes darkened. “Too effective.”
“Come to me, ma mie.”
India felt the little hairs stir along her neck. A slow sweetness uncoiled through her. “I don’t think I will. That would be far too ease. No, not until we finally have the truth between us.”
“Maybe there are different kinds of truth, India. Maybe there’s the truth that comes heart to heart, body to body. Otherwise mere words are too easy to twist.”
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you? It doesn’t matter whether you’re Devlyn Carlisle, the returned war hero, or the notorious Thames River pirate! It doesn’t matter that you broke my heart!”
“It has always mattered,” he said roughly.
She strode to the hut’s single window and stood looking out at the shifting water. “They’re still fighting,” she said after a moment, watching distant figures twist and leap over the Gypsy’s deck.
“They’ll fight that way till morning. They need their few entertainments, the poor beggars, for it’s a grim life on the river. The few left standing at dawn will break open the rum and suddenly be the finest of friends. It’s the way of the river.”
India turned slowly. “And what about us, Dev? Can we be the best of friends? We married in blindness and haste, in the shadow of war. We loved before we even knew each other. We were young, we were strangers, and we had so much to learn — but we had no time to learn in. And then you came back, with all the memories lost.” An arrested look filled her face. “But that was a lie too, wasn’t it? You did remember. That was just another part of the masquerade.”
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