by Christine Merrill/Marguerite Kaye/Annie Burrows/Barbara Monajem/Linda Skye
Her hand still rested on the latch. ‘What do you mean, justice for you? I’d already said I didn’t blame you.’
‘Because of what people were saying,’ he said. ‘That Timothy and I were fighting over some doxy. It wasn’t true.’
She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered on a sigh. Why did it still hurt that Timothy had turned to prostitutes so soon after their wedding? ‘Why should it matter to me what you were fighting about?’
‘Because whatever you believed of Timothy, I couldn’t bear that you would believe the same of me.’ Last chance. ‘Frances, we were fighting about you.’
She dropped her hand from the latch and turned. He stood naked before her, face drawn and shoulders slumped, and she wanted to take him into her arms, hug and hold and comfort him… but she mustn’t. She twisted her hands together. She would want to stay there forever.
‘I was so angry,’ Cam said. ‘You were innocent and lovely when you married—I remember thinking what a lucky fellow Timothy was—and a fortnight later you had become pale and listless and so very sad. I asked him if you were ill. He’d hardly noticed, damn him, and he didn’t even care. But that got him talking, and then drinking, and gradually it all came out. In two short weeks he’d destroyed you. I told him what I thought of him, and I didn’t hold back. I said he didn’t know a thing about women. I told him he should be horsewhipped for what he’d done to you, ordered him to mend his ways, and proceeded to give him advice on how to woo you gently and patiently to pleasure.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Frances hiccupped on something approaching a laugh. ‘Timothy had a temper and a lot of pride.’
‘We both did,’ Cam said. ‘Words became blows, and Timothy demanded whether I fancied I drove better than he did, too. He knew I didn’t. I suppose he wanted to salvage his pride by beating me in a curricle race. When we met an hour later, ready to start, he’d been drinking even more. I should have insisted on racing some other day when he was sober, but at that point I didn’t care. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my life. I even said, “If you want to break your neck, it’s fine with me.”’
‘And then he did.’ She set the candle down. ‘Oh, poor Cam.’ Nobody had told her about that; they’d probably been trying to protect her from the worst. ‘If I’d known, I wouldn’t have refused to see you.’ To hell with the consequences to her own heart. She crossed the room and his arms came around her; he let out a long, shuddering breath.
‘You didn’t mean him to die.’ She caressed his hair and softly kissed his cheek. She loved him so very much.
‘No, but it’s no wonder people blamed me,’ Cam said.
‘I don’t, and I wouldn’t have even if I’d known.’ She should pull away again, but she couldn’t make herself let go. Not yet. ‘It’s over, Cam. You did your best to make amends, and you’ve helped me so very much. Everything’s all right now.’
‘Not unless I’ve succeeded in my goal,’ he said, ‘of convincing you to marry again.’
She tried to twist away, but he tightened his arms. ‘Don’t go, Frances. This needs to be discussed.’
‘Why?’ She pushed at him, but he didn’t budge. ‘It’s none of your business whether I remarry.’
‘I beg to differ. What if you choose wrong again? I can’t make a habit of accidentally killing your unsatisfactory husbands.’
She huffed. There was nothing amusing about this. ‘Since I don’t plan to marry again, that won’t be a problem.’
‘Ah, but you’re awakened to passion now. You don’t want to live the rest of your life without it.’ He kissed her hair. ‘Do you?’
‘No,’ she said into his banyan, softening briefly, then struggling again. ‘But if I must, I shall.’
He didn’t loosen his hold. His cock was already reacting to her again. With luck this would be a long, lovely night. ‘I don’t suppose you’re willing to try your suitors out in bed to make sure they’re both considerate and reasonably competent before marrying them.’
‘Definitely not.’ None of them would hold a candle to him anyway, and he knew it. She shoved, and he let her go.
‘Then there’s only one way out of this fix,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to marry me.’
‘Marry you?’ Her words came out as a squeak.
‘You’ve already tried me out.’ His lips curled ever so slightly. ‘We can do it again, if you want to make sure.’
Between hope and fury, she barely managed to control her voice. ‘This isn’t a jesting matter.’
‘I’m completely serious,’ he said. ‘I should have thought of it long ago.’
‘Why? There’s no reason for you to marry me.’
‘Yes, there is. I love you, Frances. I’ve been in love with you for ages. I was envious of Timothy when he married you. I accidentally killed him because I was so enraged at what he did to you. I’ve spent a whole year thinking about how to heal the wounds he’d made. If that’s not love, what is? It just took me a while to figure it out.’
He loved her? More likely, he was being stubborn—he’d shown ample evidence of that—and fooling himself. ‘What about—what about your motto? What about making amends and doing no harm?’
‘It was far more than that. If Timothy had married and been unkind to some other woman, I would have chided him, but it wouldn’t have come to blows. I wouldn’t have raced him while he was so drunk. And God knows I wouldn’t have lost interest in other women and thought only about his widow for a whole year.’
He’d lost interest in other women? Maybe that explained all the laments she’d heard. She couldn’t help the dawning of a smile.
‘I try to make my actions conform to my motto, but it’s just a way to ensure I mean well, and it doesn’t always work.’ He shivered. ‘Come back to bed, sweetheart. We can discuss it whilst warm and cozy under the covers. Even I get chilly standing about in the nude.’ He smiled at her and pointed up. ‘You may not have noticed, but there’s a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, and several others are hidden above the canopy. We have dozens of kisses to get through before Christmas is over.’
She rolled her eyes but went to him. He stripped her nightdress over her head and they crawled into bed again. They wrapped themselves around each other, hot, smooth skin and long, warm kisses.
‘Well, my very own Frances, whom I love with all my heart,’ he said, between one kiss and another. ‘Will you marry me?’
She let out a breath of utter joy. ‘I will.’
‘You’ll have to fall in love with me, too. Do you think you can?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said on a laugh. She wasn’t about to tell him she already had. He was conceited enough as it was.
Besides, he probably already knew.
The Pirate’s Reckless Touch
Linda Skye
LINDA SKYE is a travel addict and a self-proclaimed food critic with an insatiable appetite for the written word. She first developed her love for reading and writing by browsing her grandfather’s dictionaries and etymology books—a habit she has yet to abandon!
Born to Filipino parents in the United States and raised in Canada, Linda is a modern-day nomad, moving across country and ocean with her military husband. She currently lives in the United Kingdom and spends her free time writing, practising digital photography, updating her food blog and dreaming of adventures at home and abroad. She has travelled throughout north America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Linda holds a Master’s of education and specialises in teaching languages and literature. She has been teaching English as a second language, English literature and literacy courses since 2001. Though she is currently teaching part-time at a local technical college, Linda is a full-time daydreamer with a passion for the strange, mysterious and exotic.
CHAPTER ONE
RAWDEN SCOWLED AT the winter chill, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his woollen trousers. Thick, heavy snowflakes drifted down lazily in circular patterns all around him, and a crowd of ratty street chi
ldren bustled around his legs, laughing and sticking out their tongues to catch the flakes. It was only a few days until Christmas Eve, and even the poorest boroughs of London seemed to have swung into the festive season. A few of the local taverns that lined the narrow alleyway had even hung evergreen wreaths from their doors.
But to Rawden, it just didn’t feel like Christmas.
Not when his ship, the Golden Maiden, was in such disrepair that he feared going to Davy Jones’s locker every time they were at sea. Not when his mutinous, grumbling crew had to be kept in line with constant threats of keelhauling. And not when his personal coffers were practically empty despite months of scouring foreign seas for booty-filled ships.
So it was not the warm glow of the Yuletide season that had brought him back to the London docks; it was the hope of finding information about fresh plundering grounds.
Rawden’s eyes scanned the row of seedy back-alley taverns, stopping to rest on the crudely carved placard of a familiar door. The Mucky Duck. A favourite watering hole for London’s less savoury merchants. He strode over quickly and pushed his way past the heavy oak door and into the dank, dimly lit pub. Ignoring the late-night revellers and flirtatious ladies of the night, Rawden made his way over to the bar and lifted a finger. A heavy earthen mug slid his way almost immediately, filled with a dark, frothy brew. He quietly nursed his drink as his sharp eyes discreetly searched out the room for known traders or informants.
But all thoughts of piracy evaporated the moment he spotted her across the room. He didn’t know who she was or where she had come from, but she was almost blindingly beautiful. Her golden tresses were loosely pinned up so that a few wayward curls framed her delicate face. Her pale, slender neck was as elegant as a swan’s, and her bare arms were the colour of the finest fresh cream. Her light and flimsy frock was cut dangerously low, the sleeves just barely skimming the edges of her slim shoulders.
A drunken sailor might mistake her for a common whore—but Rawden knew better. Though her dress was similar to those of the other pub wenches, the fabric was too white, too clean. And rather than flitting from man to man with a salacious grin, she awkwardly wandered about, subtly cringing when meaty hands reached for her. But most of all, her dovelike face was just too innocent and too sweet to be mistaken for that of a tart. It was painfully obvious that she didn’t belong, despite her very best efforts to blend in. An amused smirk quirked the corners of Rawden’s lips as he watched her stumble from table to table. He wondered, briefly, what misguided notion had caused the young woman to engage in such a bold and foolish masquerade.
And then a cool blast of December air washed over him as the pub door swung inward and two marine police walked in. Conversation stilled for a moment as the burly men sauntered toward the bar.
Rawden frowned into his mug of ale before tipping it back and draining the bitter drink in one long gulp. Tossing a few coppers onto the bar, he stood abruptly, fully intent on leaving the scene. Finding information with police in the tavern had just become impossible, and he had no desire to get caught up in any shenanigans with the law. He had enough trouble as it was.
As he turned, he saw that the police had stopped in the centre of the tavern, their eyes roving over the raucous crowd of sailors and merchants. Feigning indifference, he casually ambled toward the exit. He felt the officers’ eyes on him as he approached, and he carefully kept his eyes averted. A flash of golden hair caught his eye.
Perfect, he thought to himself. Something to pretend to look at.
Rawden fixed a leer on his face, gluing his eyes onto the young woman and grinning like a hungry dog. He heard the police snort disgustedly as he passed. But even after the police turned their attention elsewhere, Rawden could not tear his eyes from the innocent girl. It didn’t help that she was heading in his direction. Just before he managed to make it to the door, she seemed to trip on some invisible obstacle—which sent her careening into his arms.
A cacophony of catcalls and whistles erupted from the onlookers as Rawden steeled himself against the young woman’s soft flesh. She had landed against his chest in a tangle of smooth limbs, and her silky hair was brushing the underside of his stubbly chin. She pulled away more slowly than he expected, bracing her palms on the rough leather of his vest. Then, with her ample bosom still pressed up against his chest, she tilted her head back to meet his gaze. Rawden’s arms tightened around her slender frame as he looked down at her sweetly upturned face. She was even more beautiful up close. Thick lashes fluttered over sea-blue eyes, and her pink lips were slightly parted in surprise. Rawden inhaled sharply, and he was overtaken by her pure, bright scent. She smelled clean and fresh, like a crisp summer’s day.
Too clean, a voice niggled at the back of his head.
Rawden sighed, remembering himself. He slid his hands to her elbows and steadied her as he stepped back resolutely.
“You should go,” Rawden said gruffly as he watched the police from the corner of his eye.
His suggestion was met with silence, and he glanced down at the girl with a dark frown. She had tilted her head to one side and was studying him curiously, blue eyes unblinking.
“Why?” she asked quietly.
Rawden’s fingers tightened at her elbow and he leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.
“Because I know you don’t belong here,” he breathed, his warm breath moistening her neck.
He leaned back, certain that the daring gesture had shocked her to her senses—only to watch incredulously as the girl took a bold step forward and placed an open hand on his forearm. Leaning against him, she rose to her toes and mimicked his actions, pressing her open mouth to his temple.
“And what makes you think that?” she whispered, allowing the very tip of her tongue to graze the ridge of his ear.
She smiled and slid down the length of his body, letting him feel her every curve glide down the steel planes of his torso. Rawden felt raw heat surge through his limbs, pooling where her hips meet his. Logic lost to lust as he revelled in the warm glow of her body pressed to him. His eyes dropped to trace the curve of her bare shoulder and the swell of her breasts. His rough hands fisted in the fabric of her airy shift and he walked her back into the door—through which he had been trying to escape just moments before. He pressed her firmly up against the rough wooden surface and smoothed his hands down her sides to grip her hips. She responded by wrapping her arms around his middle, her fingers tracing a distracting pattern on his lower back.
“Girl,” he growled low in his throat, “this is a dangerous game.”
“So?” she answered coyly, nipping at his chin. “Are you going to play?”
“Perhaps,” he said as he twisted his fingers in her hair and gently pulled her head back. “You certainly need to learn a lesson or two.”
“Oh?” she questioned playfully, allowing him to plant a row of rough kisses up the length of her exposed neck. “What lessons would those be?”
“Foolish lass,” Rawden grunted as he reached down to give her pert bottom a light pinch. “For one, that innocent, high-born girls should not pretend to be strumpets in sailors’ taverns.”
“I’m innocent, am I?”
Rawden stilled immediately, closing his eyes. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine her creamy legs wrapped around him, her pliant flesh yielding to his desire and her cries of passion at his ear. He could have her now if he wanted—let her think she’d won at her game of masquerade and sate his lust with her sweet body without caring about her reputation. And then… he would leave her ruined and sullied.
His breathing heavy, Rawden reluctantly pushed away from her. Planting his palms on either side of her head, he lowered his face to hers. Yes, he thought as he took in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes, you’re still innocent. Though her seductive confidence may have been the result of some previous carnal experience, her expression was not the jaded, calculating look of a wharf prostitute. Neither was her face marred by the bitter wrinkle lines of a woman
forced to pleasure others at her own expense. He inhaled deeply. Her skin was too soft and smelled of expensive oils. Rawden sighed.
“You don’t belong here,” he repeated gruffly. “Go home before someone ruins you.”
“Someone?” she asked, arching an aristocratic brow.
“Not me,” he warned through gritted teeth, pulling her away from the door. “But if you stay here, someone else will certainly force you to do something you’ll regret.” He stood back, his eyes hard. “So go home, little girl.”
With that, he brusquely brushed past her, pulling open the tavern door with enough force to send it slamming into the wall. He stalked out into the cold, frustration clawing through his veins. He tried to banish the phantom feeling of her body under his as he strode hurriedly away. It was so darned cold, and he quickened his steps. He shoved his hands back into his pockets—and then stopped cold.
Slowly, he reached deeper into his trouser pockets, fingers fumbling and searching. Jaw dropping, he turned out the fabric to be absolutely sure.
Nothing, he thought in disbelieving wonder.
That innocent young girl had just stolen all his money.
CHAPTER TWO
JULIANA WRIGHT PULLED her thick cloak more tightly around her shoulders and hurried through the twisting alleys. She was on a mission. She’d finally found the right man for the job—a rare type of honourable villain—and then he’d vanished into the night without so much as whispering his name. She frowned crossly. For a moment in that seedy tavern, she had really thought that she’d had him in the palm of her hand. Thankfully, it hadn’t taken too long for Juliana to pry his name off of a few inebriated sailors; apparently he was legendary for his former exploits abroad.
