The men left on guard were down there, likely drinking and gaming exactly as he’d expected. He made his way aft, toward the door that would lead to the captain’s cabins. He may not be a sailor, but he’d been a passenger, and he knew it was possible to access the holds from here.
It was dark, almost pitch-black. He felt his way, found the stairs, went down, and now it was pitch-black. He struck a match. It flared. Gun deck. The flame lasted just long enough for him to get his bearings and then snuffed out.
Ten minutes later, he was tucked among the cargo in the hold, and he leaned against a wall to wait. And he waited, and waited, all night and all morning and most of the next day, until he was sure the ship was in open water.
Then he went to find Jaxbury.
* * *
TWO DAYS OUT of Malta, Millie finally stopped crying over Winston.
All these emotions had to be the pregnancy. They couldn’t be her. She didn’t cry over irrational, senseless things.
He’d asked her to become his mistress, she’d said no, and that was the end of it.
She came up from the infirmary to the quarterdeck in the evening and ducked out of the way as sailors heaved on lines and the boom of the mainmast began to shift.
And then something caught her eye.
She looked.
Looked a little closer. And her heart leaped into her throat.
Winston.
Here, aboard the Possession, dressed like a common sailor, acting like a common sailor—except nothing about him could ever be common. He was too strong, too beautiful, too—
She spun on her heel and went to find William. Found him in his cabin, leafing through his logbook and smoking his hookah.
“What is Winston doing aboard this ship?” she demanded.
“Snuck aboard.”
“Without your knowledge? I find that difficult to believe.”
“Under way by the time I realized.”
“I want you to put in on Sicily and force him ashore,” she said.
“Take too much extra time. Besides—” William inhaled off the hookah, exhaled a puff of smoke “—I’m rather enjoying watching him suffer.”
“I’m the one who’s going to suffer.” Millie jabbed at her own chest. “Me.”
William looked at her. “Went to a bloody lot of trouble to join my crew, don’t you think?”
“He went to a bloody lot of trouble to get what he wants, regardless of anyone else’s feelings.”
“What he wants, being you,” William clarified.
“He doesn’t want me. What he wants is—” Suddenly she wasn’t sure what he wanted. “He wants a mistress.”
“Seems like a damned lot of effort just for that.”
“I haven’t heard any proposal of marriage, have you?”
And there it was, out in the open, with William watching her through the smoke of his hookah, and her standing there with her arms falling at her sides, scarcely believing the words she’d just spoken aloud.
“Not that I want a proposal of marriage,” she said now. “Or would ever expect one. He’s a duke. And I’m not a fool.” Not a complete fool, anyhow. Besides, “Pity the woman who ends up his wife. He’ll be in every bed in the hemisphere but his own.” She looked down, fussed with the cuff of her sleeve.
“Might be worse things than being a duchess.”
“And perhaps I could have tea on the moon, as well,” she snapped.
“These things can be arranged.” William’s blue eyes glittered. “Been thinking perhaps I ought to arrange it on your behalf.” His mouth curled with satisfaction at whatever coercion he was imagining.
“I already have an arrangement.”
William exhaled three perfect rings. “Your babe could well be Winston’s heir.”
“She is nothing to him. Only imagine what he would say if he knew— Dear God. William, you didn’t tell him—”
“Of course not,” William said sharply.
“You must promise me you won’t breathe a word.”
“Took some balls to climb aboard the ship and hide among the crew, don’t you think?”
“No,” Millie said, even though William was right, and now her insides were beginning to tremble because Winston was here, aboard the ship, and there was no denying it was because of her. “It took impertinence.” William just looked at her. “And dishonesty. Promise me, William.”
William turned back to his logbook. “If Winston finds out about your child, it won’t be from me.”
* * *
BEING ABOARD THE SHIP, with nowhere for Millicent to run, should have eased the tension inside him.
It hadn’t.
And Winston didn’t know one bloody thing about sailing—had never needed to lift his hand to a single task he didn’t want to, let alone been shouted at for being slow to learn—but he welcomed the task now.
The boatswain ridiculed him, goaded him, shouted orders at him, and all the while Winston’s brain stored each piece of information carefully away. Each day he made fewer mistakes.
He put his full attention toward pulling lines. Raising and lowering canvas.
And developed horrible, stinging blisters on his hands.
He watched Millicent when he could and tormented himself with all the ways he wanted to make love to her.
The other sailors accepted him easily, which in itself was somewhat disconcerting. He might have liked to think there was something about him that could never pass for a common sailor.
But there was something about the sea that stirred his blood in a way he’d never noticed before. Before he’d gone to Malta—and not counting the channel crossing on the way home from Paris—his last voyage had been to Spain, and he’d been preoccupied with a Spanish contessa who’d been practically insatiable.
Now, in the afternoon as they were passing by an island on the southeastern end of Greece, the boatswain came over as Winston was coiling a line. “If I didn’t already know ye weren’t a seaman, I’d bloody well know now,” he said, shaking his head. “Go see the surgeon an’ take care of yer hands.”
Millicent.
He could have gone to see her before now. But he hadn’t missed the looks she gave him when she was on deck. And he didn’t know what to say to her that he hadn’t already said in Valletta. And so he stayed away.
“I don’t need the surgeon,” he told the boatswain. He’d already torn up one of his older shirts and made bandages to wrap around his hands.
“Go.” The boatswain jerked his head toward the hatch. “Ye’r no use to me if yer hands swell up an’ fester.”
Winston went. He already knew she was in the infirmary; he’d seen her go below not long before.
Her little infirmary was dark, lit by a lantern, and she was grinding some herbs and measuring them into a spoon. He stood for a moment in the doorway and watched her before she’d seen him. Her braid fell over her shoulder when she leaned down to check her measurement. He followed the line of her back, over the curve of her bottom to her legs, encased in breeches like before but looking not the least bit masculine now.
And then she straightened. Turned.
“Winston.”
And for just a moment, before her eyes cooled, he saw a spark.
“The boatswain sent me.” He held out his arms. “My hands.”
“I suppose it’s no surprise,” she said, already opening a cabinet and taking out some lint and a roll of bandage, and then taking a bottle of something from another cabinet. She set them all in a boxed area where they couldn’t fall to the floor when the ship rolled. “Come here, under the light.”
He moved closer, breathing the scent of her, wanting to touch her but holding himself in check as she unwrapped the strips of linen he’d tied with his teeth. She hissed when she saw his palms, raw and bleeding from blisters that had long since torn open.
She looked up at him with his hands cradled in hers, and her eyes were anything but cool. “Why are you doing this?”
“You
haven’t given me a reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Winston—” She exhaled. “You’re not a sailor. You’re not even a laborer. You’ve never done this kind of work in your life, and you’re not meant to. You have an estate waiting for you in England, a valet, servants—” her lips curved a little and she shook her head “—and you can’t wear a banyan in the crews’ quarters or they’ll all laugh at you.”
The tender way she was looking at him took his breath away. “They already laugh at me,” he said. “And for some reason I left all my banyans behind.” And you still haven’t given me a reason, but he wasn’t going to say that for fear her eyes would cool again. “Cara told Edward that she’s with child,” he said instead.
“Oh...” Millicent breathed, looking up from his hands. “How is she? I’ve been so worried.”
“Well and happy, the last I saw her. She and Edward were very hopeful.”
“I’m so pleased.” She truly was, he could see it in her eyes, and it was one of the things he loved about her.
And he couldn’t help it now—he touched her cheek. “Millicent...”
“Winston...” She reached up, pulled his hand away, her voice barely a whisper. “Don’t.”
“I’m doing this for you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
Her rejection reached inside his chest like a fist. He wanted to grab hold of her, force her to look him in the eye and tell him she didn’t want anything to do with him, even though he... he wanted...
What?
To find something, anything, that would make her his and make it so she could never walk away.
Something like marriage?
The idea assaulted him out of nowhere.
He could marry Millicent.
Marry her.
Marriage would make her his. Irrevocably, permanently his.
But...
Good God.
She dabbed something on his palms and the sting startled him.
“You should be used to this by now,” she chided softly as she looked down at his hands, packing the raw places with a layer of lint.
He stared at the top of her head, stunned by his own thoughts.
Millicent, his duchess.
She wrapped bandages to keep the lint in place and tucked them in securely. “There,” she said. “Much better than those strips of shirt.”
“Yes.” He held his hands palms up, flexed his fingers. “Much better.”
But even if he offered her that, would she accept it?
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE MIDNIGHT SEA was calm when Millie took her turn on watch. A half-moon sat overhead, surrounded by stars, lighting a few cloud wisps that drifted by on faster winds up in the sky.
Millie stood on one side of the quarterdeck in the shadows between the railing and the stairs that led to the upper deck, leaning against the wall that enclosed the main cabins, looking at the glittery streak of moonlight on the water.
I’m doing this for you.
She didn’t know what that meant. But it was an intoxicating feeling knowing he was here because of her. And it had felt so good to tend to him today—to touch him, if only his hands.
The memory of his fingers against her cheek made a nerve leap in her belly even now.
Voices and laughter drifted from the crews’ quarters below, where the men were still drinking and gaming. She blew out a breath, laughing a little at the idea of His Grace down there swilling grog with them. He wore no wig now, no embroidered silk or neck cloth. Sacks would be speechless.
What would happen when they reached Turkey? He couldn’t go on like this forever. He would have to accept that she would not agree to be kept by him no matter what he offered. And then he would leave, and it would finally be over.
Just then a movement caught her eye, and she sucked in her breath. It was Winston, emerging from below.
She eased farther into the shadows beneath the stairs, partly hoping he wouldn’t see her, partly hoping—knowing—that he would.
Gentle waves lapped the hull, and the ship lolled softly from one side to the other as she watched him survey the lower deck and, not seeing what he was after, turn.
He was facing her now.
She could see his face in the moonlight. Knew that the sailor on watch up in the crow’s nest could see him, too. But here, beneath the stairs, she was hidden from both—for now.
Her heartbeat was a steady thump behind her chest as he worked his way closer. She breathed in the salt air, a waft of aromatic foliage from the Grecian shore, felt the solid wood against her back.
Just the sight of him made her go soft on the inside. Which was exactly why she should scoot out from beneath the stairs, confront him and insist that he return below. He wasn’t on watch until three.
Instead, she watched him pause in front of the stairs. Look through them, just as she was doing.
He veered to the side.
Her breathing turned shallow.
And then he was there, standing to her left between the stairs and the railing, looking at her. She opened her mouth to speak.
“You’re not on—”
He silenced her with his hand on her face and his thumb against her lips. The bandage around his palm felt a little coarse against her cheek. And then he kissed her. She didn’t stop him. He felt too good, and she wanted him too much.
She could taste the sailor’s brew on his tongue. Could tell, from the lazy but thorough way he was kissing her, that he’d imbibed a great deal of it. “You’re drunk,” she whispered against his lips, not quite ready to push him away.
“Not at all,” he murmured. “I’m pleasantly sotted.”
And now he was backing her against the wall, sheltered by the stairs and the darkness. It was time—past time—to scoot away from him. Instead, she pushed her hands beneath his jacket, splayed them across linen. Instantly his kiss went from lazy to demanding.
And instead of leaving, she drank him in. Dragged her hands over hard muscle to his hips. His buttocks.
He pushed himself against her. Found her breasts, cupped them, teased their peaks through her shirt and shift, and her intimate flesh came alive with need. There was no doubt now what he intended, but still she urged him closer. Pressed herself against the hardness at the front of his breeches.
This time, she worked his placket herself. Freed him into her hands and stroked his hot sex while he pulled her shirt from her breeches, pushed it up, covered a nipple with his mouth. She swallowed back a scream when he pulled her—hard—with his lips.
And then he was working her own breeches loose. Pushing them over her hips and reaching between her thighs, delving inside her, straightening to kiss her again while he plunged a finger inside her—two—three—
Oh.
And then he pulled his fingers out and turned her in his arms, pushing her breeches to her knees. He pulled her back against him, holding her tight with one hand cupping her breast and the other splayed across the vee of her thighs, delving inside, holding her folds apart while he sought her from behind with his sex. Found her.
She felt the large tip of him push into her body. His hips thrust forward against her bottom, and his shaft speared into her opening, filling her. In front, he found her pleasure and stroked little circles over its bud. Pinched and rolled her nipple, kneading her breast, while behind, he pushed powerfully up into her again, again, again.
Winston.
Her lover.
She felt the pleasure building. Spiraling. His lips pressed hot against the crook of her neck while he thrust into her. Her channel melted around him, warm and accepting. She clung to the wall, gasping, swallowing back the sounds that tried to escape her throat.
He breathed her name against her skin. Murmured something...
So beautiful. God.
Bent her a little more, thrust into her harder. Faster. And release came just as hard and fast, pulsing its explosion inside her, and she cried out a little. Bit her lip. Exhaled raggedly through her mou
th to keep from screaming.
And when it was finished he leaned against her, trapping her between his body and the wall with his arms still around her and his face buried against her neck. Breathing. Holding her in a way that she wished could go on forever.
“Why did you leave?” he asked against her skin.
“You were completely recovered. There was no reason for me to stay,” she managed, still shuddering inside with the aftermath of release.
“I wanted you to stay.”
“You want a great many things, Winston.” She felt him slip from her body, felt moisture warm on the insides of her thighs.
“Yes,” he breathed near her ear. “I want you to be my wife.”
Everything inside her stilled, and all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. “You don’t mean that.” He was more than pleasantly sotted. Even now she could smell the liquor on his breath.
“I want to make love to you every night, as many times as I wish, without anything to stop me. Ever.”
Which had absolutely nothing to do with her being his wife. They were the words of a man entirely in his cups.
“You should go below,” she said, easing away from him and reaching to pull up her breeches. “Try to sleep before your watch.”
“The ball, in London...”
“I don’t wish to speak of that.”
“You were beautiful. But you’re more beautiful now. Like this.” No, not in his right mind at all. “I owe you my apologies,” he said now.
“You owe me nothing. You can’t be anything except what you are.”
“Then let me show you what I am.” He cupped her chin in his hand, brought his face an inch from hers. “What we just did...” He searched her face. “Could never be done with any woman but you.”
If only that were true. Right now, he was holding her so tightly, so possessively, that she could almost imagine it was.
“I can’t be what you want me to be,” she said.
“Millicent...I need you.”
A terrible sadness gripped her heart. “Forgive me,” she told him softly, “but I do not need you.”
* * *
HE’D ASKED HER to be his wife.
Winston worked near the bow of the ship the next morning, pulling a line while another man tied it off. The ship cut through the blue water, her white sails billowing above.
A Promise by Daylight Page 27
