Nicole Jordan

by Wicked Fantasy

  Deverill cursed silently. He didn’t want to want her this way. Rather, he should be remembering the accusation she’d thrown at his head only moments ago, when she’d accused him of murder.

  But then, he understood why she had lashed out with wounded fury and knew he had to make allowances. She hadn’t asked for any of this—her revered father conceivably murdered, her own life in danger, an abduction in the middle of the night, a blow to her head that had rendered her unconscious. . . .

  With a jerk, Deverill shed his shirt, then sat in the stuffed leather wing chair to remove his shoes and breeches.

  Antonia watched him wide-eyed, tensing when he wadded up his blood-soiled clothing and tossed the bundle in the wastebasket.

  “If you want to burn something,” he said dryly, “you can burn those.”

  She scarcely heard his comment, though, for Deverill was now wearing only his drawers. He was apparently unconcerned with the lack of privacy, yet her senses jolted at the sight of that sleek, heavy body half naked.

  He was broad and lean and hard, with muscles rippling under the smooth skin of his chest, sinews chording his arms. There were wicked patterns of crisscrossing scars on parts of his torso, but despite the ugly disfigurement, his body was sinfully, beautifully male. It was alarming how badly she wanted to touch him.

  When he stood, he glanced her way. “Don’t you intend to undress?”

  Antonia had to clear her throat before she could speak. “No, of course not. Surely you realize I have no clothing other than the gown I am wearing.”

  Deverill’s green eyes gleamed at her. “I will be happy to loan you a nightshirt.”

  “I am not about to undress with you in the same room.”

  “Please yourself. But it will be two and a half days before we arrive. I thought you might want to keep your gown fresh until Lady Isabella can supply you with more.”

  “I will make do,” she said stiffly.

  To her surprise, Deverill crossed the cabin to her. With determination, Antonia stood her ground, but his starkly masculine appeal was having a deplorable effect on her weakened senses. The scent of his bare skin, warm and faintly musky, assailed her, making her impossibly aware of his heat and vibrancy, while the span of his naked, hard-muscled chest made her feel small and utterly feminine.

  Her body reacted to his nearness as well. Her breasts suddenly became acutely sensitive against her bodice, while a treacherous tremor of desire pulsed between her thighs.

  Deverill apparently noticed her growing arousal when his gaze drifted down her body. “You might want to reconsider. That muslin gown is almost as revealing as my nightshirt would be.”

  Antonia drew a sharp breath, realizing he could clearly see the sharp points of her nipples through the thin fabric.

  Her lips parted wordlessly, and she took a step back, but came up against the bunk.

  Deverill smiled knowingly before shaking his head. “I told you, sweeting, I don’t intend to ravish you. I wouldn’t even if you begged me to.”

  “Beg you . . .” Antonia’s eyes widened, and she nearly sputtered. “You arrogant lout. I am not about to beg you. And if you dare touch me—”

  Provocatively, he tapped a gentle finger on her nose. “Easy, love. I’m putting out the lantern. Get into bed. You need to rest after that blow to your head.”

  She obeyed, although mutinously, cursing Deverill beneath her breath all the while. She had never met a man so abominably sure of himself. She took off her half boots and stockings, then slid beneath the covers.

  A mistake, she shortly realized. The cabin was warm, even with the porthole window open.

  Suddenly darkness enveloped them, and she heard the creak of the hammock ropes as Deverill settled in.

  Quietly she pushed off the blankets, leaving only the sheet, and turned her back to Deverill.

  But it was awkward, being in the dark with him, in the same small enclosed space. His cabin was not much larger than the gazebo at home. . . .

  Antonia shivered at the reminder. Her body tingled as she remembered the way he had touched her, aroused her that day. She was aching just thinking about the pleasure he had given her.

  Trying to force away the memory, Antonia buried her face in the pillow.

  After a few long moments, she could hear Deverill’s deep, even breathing. Yet she still had difficulty falling asleep—and not simply because of the unfamiliar pitch of the ship, or the appalling possibility that her father had actually been murdered by her betrothed, or the dismay she felt at her abduction, or her fury at Deverill for betraying her trust.

  But also because Deverill had promised that he had no intention of ravishing her. And somehow that smarted almost as much as all the other indignities he’d subjected her to thus far.

  Eight

  Waking alone in the cabin, Antonia winced at the bright sunshine streaming through the porthole window, then groaned upon recalling the events that had brought her here.

  For a moment she lay unmoving, taking stock of her predicament. She had slept fitfully, and her body felt bruised, but at least her head didn’t ache quite so abominably.

  Her heart was another matter entirely.

  Determined to keep despair from overwhelming her, she rose slowly and made her toilet at the washstand. She had no brush, so she borrowed one that must be Deverill’s and tied her hair back with a piece of twine she purloined from his desk. His shaving mirror showed her that the right side of her forehead was sporting a large, purple-black bruise, but her appearance was the least of her concerns.

  Wondering if she was his prisoner, Antonia went to the door. To her surprise, she found it unlocked.

  And to her startlement, the old man who had milled her senseless last night stood in the corridor, hand raised as if preparing to knock.

  His bronzed, weathered face drew up in a scowl when he saw her. “I brought yer breakfast,” he muttered.

  Last night, Antonia remembered, Deverill had addressed her assaulter as Fletcher. She stepped aside warily, allowing him entrance. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, missy. ’Tis my punishment for flooring ye. But I didn’t ken I could stand by an’ watch ye clout his nibs.”

  “His nibs?”

  “Cap’n Deverill. He was right unhappy that I scuttled yer nob, but ye had just done the same to me. I’m right sorry for that.”

  She supposed he was apologizing for hitting her on the head. “I am sorry I hit you, too, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Just Fletcher, if ye don’t mind. Name’s Fletcher Shortall, but I’m not partial to the short part.” He set the tray down on the desk. “I’d say we’re even with the mufflers. ’Course, at the time I didn’t know who ye were.”

  “And that would have made a difference?”

  “Aye. Ye’re Sam Maitland’s gel.”

  “You knew my father?”

  “Not him. Know his ships, though. Ye’re safer in a Maitland vessel than any craft on the seas. So ye can’t be all bad.”

  Antonia managed a smile. “I normally don’t go about, er, scuttling perfect strangers, but I was desperate. I suspect you would have acted similarly if you had just realized you were being abducted.”

  “Mayhap I would. But his nibs took ye for your own sake. There’s a bad man after ye.”

  Her smile faded. “Deverill told you about that?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “Didn’t say much. Just that yer both in the suds.” He gestured at the tray. “Eat yer breakfast now, missy. ’Tisn’t grand, but it’s tasty. I’m standing in as cook this voyage. We’re shorthanded, having to leave port so sudden-like. Now, if ye’ll give me leave to go, I’m ter clean up the cabin where ye set that blaze.”

  Feeling a trifle guilty, Antonia sent him a rueful look. “I expect I should be the one to clean it, since I made the mess. Especially if you are shorthanded.”

  He looked startled by her offer. “But yer a lady. And like I said, ’tis my punishment. I have to fancy up the cabin so ye can s
leep there tonight.”

  It was a small consolation, Antonia reflected, that Deverill evidently hadn’t liked their sleeping arrangements last night any more than she had. When the old sailor turned toward the door, she stopped him. “Fletcher, am I a prisoner here? Am I required to remain belowdecks?”

  “His nibs said ye could go topside if ye like. Just don’t get in the way of the crew. And take care ye don’t get too close to the rail, if ye please. If ye’re hurt again, he’ll have my nob on a platter.”

  The breakfast was tasty, Antonia discovered. Oat porridge, smoked ham, wheat-flour cakes instead of the usual sailor’s hardtack, and a mug of ale. And

  she was unaccountably hungry. She felt better after the nourishment as well.

  Afterward, she took the tray above decks. She knew enough about a ship’s design to locate the small galley, where she left the tin breakfast dishes.

  Then she made her way to the starboard bow, where she would have a good view of the ocean and the distant coast of England. She spied several seamen scurrying about the decks. And standing at the wheel was the man she’d last night heard addressed as Captain Lloyd. There was no sign of Deverill, however.

  Seeing the gray-blue waves rushing past the sleek ship’s hull, Antonia couldn’t help feeling an unexpected surge of elation. It was a glorious morning, with sunlight sparkling on the vast expanse of whitecapped sea and a brisk wind billowing the tall sails overhead, even though it was chilly enough to make her realize she should have worn her cloak.

  The truth was that she loved being on a ship. She had always longed to sail the open seas, always envied men like Deverill their freedom. She’d hungered for adventure her entire life.

  An abduction was not what she’d had in mind, but in any other circumstances, she would have thoroughly enjoyed herself here—although she would cut out her tongue before she admitted it to Deverill. Being the pragmatic sort, however, she was resigned to going to Cornwall.

  She was also being craven, she knew—for avoiding the terrifying reason she was even on board the schooner.

  Antonia bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She wanted desperately to deny that she’d been witless enough to be duped all this time by her betrothed. And more crucially, to deny that her father had been murdered for attempting to prevent her marriage. For if it was true, she would feel to blame for his death, and she couldn’t bear to face that possibility. Her union with Lord Heward had once been her father’s greatest desire, but even so, if she had never agreed to the marriage then her father might be alive today—

  Oh, God, she couldn’t bear to think of it.

  She wouldn’t think of it, Antonia promised herself furiously, or such tormenting thoughts would drive her mad.

  Crushing her ruminations, she spun around and focused her gaze upward—and then promptly caught her breath. She recognized Deverill’s powerful form high overhead. Coatless, he was moving along the rigging of the foremast, hauling in and letting out sheets. With less than a full crew, he must be pitching in to help . . . and perhaps working off some of his restless masculine energy at the same time, she suspected.

  Despite her vexation with him, Antonia couldn’t help but admire his efforts. In genteel British circles, no gentleman would deign to stoop to real physical labor. That was doubtless how Deverill had come by the hard muscles in his body. And his years of command had induced the innate authority in his stance—

  Cutting off her deplorable thoughts about his commendable qualities, Antonia turned back to the railing to stare out at the sea.

  It was perhaps a quarter hour later when she sensed Deverill’s nearness, even before he came to stand beside her at the rail.

  “You might as well go away,” Antonia advised, still feeling uncharitable toward him. “I am not speaking to you.”

  “Should I be glad for small favors?” he responded. “Muteness on your part might allow me time to recover from the wounds your tongue inflicted on me last night.”

  Glancing sideways up at him, she gave Deverill a peeved look. She had been awkwardly tongue-tied around him as a girl, but if her retorts now sometimes stung him, she was only acting in self-defense, attempting to stand up to his forceful personality. She refused to be bullied by him, even if she was at his mercy for the moment.

  Regrettably, he took the opportunity to inspect her injury. Laying his fingers alongside her jaw, he tipped her chin up, his gaze examining her bruised forehead.

  Antonia tensed, her senses assailed by his potent male presence. He made her feel as if she couldn’t take a deep breath.

  “You’ll live,” he pronounced, finally releasing her.

  “No thanks to you.”

  His smile was bland. “It is only reasonable that you don’t feel kindly toward me—”

  “How clever of you to comprehend the source of my aggravation.”

  “—but I consider your fortitude admirable. You are taking this better than I hoped.”

  “What did you hope?” Antonia asked, arching an eyebrow. “That I would fall into strong hysterics? A tantrum would achieve little beyond my own exhaustion and your disdain. And I don’t intend to give you cause to think me a weakling.”

  “I could not imagine ever thinking you a weakling, sweetheart.”

  She swept a hand out, gesturing at the ship. “Well, my fortitude is quickly failing me. Just what am I supposed to do for the next two days until we reach Cornwall?”

  “There are some books in my cabin that you can read. And you can have the freedom of the deck, as long as you don’t decide to jump overboard.”

  “I am overwhelmed by your generosity.”

  At her dry quip, his green, reproachful gaze ensnared hers. Antonia had difficulty looking away. Pursing her lips, she glanced back over her shoulder. “I should like to meet Captain Lloyd.”

  “Why?” His question held a touch of suspicion.

  “Because it is only polite. Will you perform the introductions, or shall I do it myself?”

  Deverill appeared reluctant, but he took her elbow and steered her across the deck to the ship’s wheel to meet his captain.

  A robust, muscular man with a touch of gray at his temples, Captain Lloyd seemed genuinely pleased to meet her as he bowed over her hand. “I knew your father, Miss Maitland. He was a remarkable man.”

  She felt a decided lump in her throat. “Thank you, sir.” She paused. “I was wondering, Captain, I have only been on one other voyage. Perhaps you might enlighten me about your ship. This is a schooner-rigged vessel, is it not?”

  The captain glanced questioningly at Deverill, as if asking permission to reply.

  Deverill took her arm again to lead her away. “I’ll tell you anything you wish to know about the ship. Captain Lloyd has his hands full just now.”

  Normally she would have loved to hear what fascinating things Deverill had to say about his ship, but not daring to subject herself to any extended time in his company, Antonia tugged her arm from his grasp. “Never mind. I believe I prefer to remain in ignorance.”

  She turned away, feeling the force of his gaze burning into her back as she paced over to the railing.

  Deverill refrained from following her, knowing it was wiser to keep as much distance as possible between them.

  He’d dreamed about Antonia last night, sweet erotic dreams that had left him feverish and aching. He’d woken at first light, his body alive with desire, keenly aware that she lay sleeping only a short space away.

  For a time, he couldn’t prevent himself from watching her, couldn’t stop imagining how she would look if he had shared the berth with her all night long . . . her hair tangled by the wildness of their passion, her mouth red and swollen, her body warm and sweetly flushed. Their lovemaking would be raw and hot and elemental, he knew—

  Cursing, Deverill had risen and dressed quickly. Upon leaving the cabin, he’d thrown himself into physical activity, determined to work off his sexual frustration as much as to aid his overtaxed crew.
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br />   But he swore that tonight he would return Antonia to her own cabin. It was far too dangerous keeping her in his. If he had to spend one more night with her, he wouldn’t be able to keep from taking her. And then he would never want to stop.

  The notion was incredibly appealing—spending weeks satiating himself with Antonia in his bed. Watching her now as she stood at the rail, her long, slender back held rigidly, sunlight glinting off her shining hair and turning it to flame, Deverill fully understood the lust that drove him. Her combination of defiance and vulnerability and vibrant beauty was impossibly arousing. And the hint of fiery, untamed sensuality that lay beneath her elegant demeanor was irresistibly tantalizing.

  He wouldn’t take up the challenge of uncovering her sensuality, though, Deverill promised himself. She was under his protection now, and he couldn’t take advantage of her defenselessness.

  The impropriety of her being the sole female on board his ship was bad enough. If their subterfuge about Antonia being chaperoned during her abrupt visit to the country didn’t work, her reputation would wind up in shreds, and he would have an entirely different dilemma on his hands.

  Even so, he couldn’t stop fantasizing about transforming his erotic dreams into reality . . . Antonia arching beneath him in passionate surrender as he drowned himself in the sweetness of her taste, the silken heat of her body. Just thinking about it made him so hungry, a deep ache settled in his loins.

  “Have a care, man,” Deverill muttered under his breath.

  He blew out a long breath and turned back to work, knowing it was going to be a long, tormenting voyage.

  When Fletcher informed her that lunch had been served in the captain’s stateroom, Antonia discovered Deverill already there before her. Not wanting to be alone with him, she turned to leave, but his curt command stopped her.