“I should enjoy that, Bella.”
“Excellent! Then I will leave you to yourselves.”
When Isabella offered her hand to Sir Gawain, he bowed gallantly and kissed her fingers. She patted his cheek fondly before sweeping from the room.
It had long been rumored that she and Sir Gawain had once been lovers, but Deverill suspected they were simply intimate friends. Not only because the age difference between them was more than two decades, but because Bella was too hot-blooded to give herself to any man who could not reciprocate her passion.
Possibly the baronet might once have been driven by passion. He was tall and lean, with chiseled features that women would consider handsome, and light blue eyes that were both penetrating and kind. But the burdens of his tremendous responsibilities had obviously taken a toll. His lined face appeared strained, and he wore his usual serious expression. He also limped slightly—the result of an injury during a mission long ago, before he had assumed control of the order.
Sir Gawain looked weary now as he settled on the sofa and invited Deverill to take the adjacent chair.
“So, my friend,” he remarked once they were seated. “I understand you saved Antonia from a disastrous marriage and perhaps worse, and in so doing, you became embroiled in a devilish coil.”
“Being charged with murder is indeed a coil,” Deverill responded with sardonic humor. “I have only myself to blame, though, for underestimating Heward’s malevolence.”
Sir Gawain nodded grimly. “I have hopes that with effort the damage may be remedied.”
“Have you brought any word from Macky, sir?”
“Indeed I have. I shall let you read his report for yourself, but the news is positive. Madam Venus in particular has been most helpful, and her discreet inquiries into Lord Heward’s predilections were informative. It seems the baron is rather fond of perversions. Specifically, he derives great pleasure from inflicting pain on the courtesans he frequents.”
Deverill winced. “I suspected as much. Which only makes me more thankful that Antonia is safe from that bastard.”
“Agreed. There is also success regarding the scar-faced knave who attacked you and killed the young woman in your company. They discovered his lair in Seven Dials and spied two rogues who might have been his cohorts in crime. Macky is only awaiting your return before moving against them.”
“Good,” Deverill said darkly. “I want to have a hand in their interrogation.”
Sir Gawain bent to retrieve his teacup. “I have spoken to Lord Wittington as well,” he said, mentioning the undersecretary of the Foreign Office. “Wittington is offended that you could even be suspected of murder, let alone arrested. He assured me that a number of his colleagues in the Foreign Office will vouch for you, and he feels confident that if you do return to London soon, you can avoid arrest and imprisonment, at least for the time being.”
“I hope not only to avoid prison,” Deverill replied, “but to prove Heward guilty of murder, both of the woman and of Samuel Maitland. Therefore, when I return, I intend to do so clandestinely, so Heward will have no opportunity to devise another treacherous scheme.”
Sir Gawain’s brow furrowed. “It outrages me to think that Samuel was poisoned. I am grateful to you for acting so swiftly to protect his daughter, Deverill. Samuel was an invaluable champion of our cause, in addition to being a trusted friend, and I would go to any lengths to see Antonia safe.”
Pausing, he took a sip of tea before focusing his shrewd gaze again on Deverill. “I understand your intentions toward her are honorable. Bella told me of your marriage offer.”
Deverill shook his head, a faint smile twisting his mouth. “I offered, but Antonia intends to make a noble marriage as her father wished. I don’t fit her requirements for matrimony.”
“Well, I should like to see her happy—and you also, Deverill.”
“Thank you, sir. Will your visit here be of any length?”
“I intend to remain a few days before sailing for Cyrene. I find I need to rest and recuperate some after a week of dealing with London bureaucrats and politicians.”
Though he was surprised that the stalwart leader of the Guardians would call attention to his failing vitality, Deverill politely ignored the comment. “Then you could do me a service by keeping Antonia company now and then. She is understandably restless, being confined here in Cornwall when both our fates are so uncertain, and I must leave tomorrow afternoon.”
“Bella informed me of your search for a pirate.”
“Frankly, I was glad for the task,” Deverill admitted. “Waiting for my fate to be determined is damned difficult.”
“I could easily assign you a mission to keep you occupied. Hawk is shortly to leave for Spain—to liberate a convent of nuns who are being terrorized by local bandits—and he could use some assistance. With half my agents away from Cyrene, your services would be welcome.”
“Ordinarily I would leap at the chance to help, but I want to remain close so I can return to London as soon as I hear from Macky that our plans are in place. And I don’t wish to leave Antonia alone for so long to brood over her circumstances. If you will see to her for a few days—perhaps provide her a distraction or two—I would be grateful.”
“Never fear,” Sir Gawain said with a reminiscent smile. “Antonia is a delight and it will be a pleasure to share her company. And it is the least I can do for Samuel Maitland’s daughter.”
Dinner was an enjoyable affair, but they had barely begun the fish course when Isabella received word that her sister-in-law, Lady Kenard, had taken to her bed in anticipation of an imminent birth. The midwife had been summoned, but since Isabella wished to be at Clara’s side for the lying-in, she made her apologies and hastened from the room, leaving her guests to finish dinner without her.
The conversation reminded Deverill of the first time he had dined with Antonia more than four years ago, for she asked countless questions of Sir Gawain about Cyrene and the people she had met during her one visit there. Apparently she and her father had been guests at Olwen Castle, which explained in part why the elderly baronet treated Antonia much like a granddaughter. And she seemed just as fond of him. Deverill wasn’t surprised when Sir Gawain invited her to return to the island someday soon, or when Antonia claimed she would like nothing more.
The gentlemen declined to remain at the table to enjoy their port and instead repaired to the drawing room with Antonia so as to keep her company. A short while later, however, Sir Gawain announced his intention of retiring early, pleading that he was weary from the voyage and that his old bones needed a softer bed than the lumpy berth aboard his ship.
Antonia kissed his wrinkled cheek and bid him good night, and the moment he was gone, she turned to Deverill.
“Did Sir Gawain have any progress to report regarding your investigation of Lord Heward?”
Deverill understood why she was eager to learn any news from London, but he had no intention of discussing her former betrothed’s predilection for sexual perversions, so he merely replied, “Yes, there has been progress. But nothing conclusive, so don’t get your hopes too high.”
Antonia gave him a long, shrewd look. “Do you know how frustrating it is for me when you fob off my questions? If you won’t tell me, I can always ask Sir Gawain myself.”
“You can, but he will likely consider the intelligence unfit for a lady’s ears.”
“Why? Is it so scandalous?”
Deverill emitted a sigh, knowing that Antonia wouldn’t easily give up. “My colleagues confirmed certain suspicions I had about Heward—that he enjoys hurting the Cyprians he patronizes. It’s how he experiences sexual pleasure.”
“Oh.” Antonia’s cheeks warmed with a faint blush even as she frowned at the news.
“You can see why,” Deverill commented, “I would prefer that you refrain from pressing Sir Gawain on the subject. He’s so courtly a gentleman, he would be uncomfortable discussing such a subject as Heward’s carnal proclivities w
ith you.”
Antonia nodded distractedly. “I never suspected Heward of having so dark a nature. To my knowledge, he never even kept a mistress—and I would have heard about that. My friend Emily, Lady Sudbury, was privy to all the ton gossip, and she would have told me.”
“He might have had difficulty finding a mistress willing to bear the pain of a long-term relationship,” Deverill observed. “But one thing is certain. You would not have enjoyed the marriage bed with him.”
When Antonia shuddered, Deverill knew she had drawn the same conclusion.
“Actually,” he added, wanting to drive home the point that her betrothed was a dangerous man, “this revelation only substantiates the rumors I heard about Heward when I first arrived in London—about him possessing a violent temper and physically abusing his servants.”
She regarded him in dismay. “You never told me of any such rumors.”
“At the time I had no proof, and you likely would not have listened anyway. But we can begin to build a case against Heward now, so you needn’t worry about it for the next few days while I am gone.”
To his surprise, Antonia suddenly rose. “You said you don’t intend on leaving until tomorrow afternoon. If so, I trust you will be free to visit Isabella’s cottage with me in the morning?”
At the odd note of determination in her tone, Deverill’s eyes narrowed. Her expression was dispassionate, but he had the distinct impression that Antonia had something more on her mind than a simple lovers’ tryst.
“Yes, I will be free the entire morning,” he answered after a short hesitation. “And I would like very much to spend it with you.”
“Good, then you may call for me at ten to take me riding.”
“What are you up to, vixen?”
“Why, nothing at all,” Antonia murmured. “Now finish your port and pray excuse me. I just remembered a small matter I must attend to.”
With a distracted smile, she swept from the drawing room, leaving Deverill frowning curiously after her.
Antonia did indeed have plans for Deverill.
His confession about his brutal ordeal haunted her. His torment—his eyes so dark with pain and the terrible knowledge of his guilt—had filled her with a burning ache to ease his hurt if she could.
She couldn’t banish his agonizing memories, she knew, but perhaps she could give him one single, tender memory to help distract his mind when the tormenting ones became too heavy to bear. She would be violating her own resolve to keep their relationship purely physical, Antonia knew, but it couldn’t be helped. A deep, powerful instinct—the primal, feminine need to nurture—was driving her to act. And she didn’t want him sailing away for days on end without her at least making an attempt.
She was dressed and waiting as usual when Deverill called on her at ten o’clock, yet it was difficult to pretend this was simply another glorious ride in the countryside.
They enjoyed a brisk gallop, and by the time they arrived at the cottage, Antonia’s heart was beating rapidly with anticipation and perhaps a little fear as well. She had already visited once here this morning and made her preparations, so all she could do now was hope that Deverill didn’t reject her efforts and storm out in fury.
Antonia showed him around the elegant little
cottage—first the parlor and kitchen, and then the large bedchamber, which was cheerfully decorated in yellow and cream damask.
Taking a steadying breath, she crossed the room and threw open both the lace curtains and the mullioned windows, so that bright sunlight streamed inside, along with the lush scent of summer roses. She wanted no darkness in this room with what she was about to do.
The windows looked out upon a charming walled garden, with a white-trellised gazebo in the center. Antonia spared a faint smile, remembering that Deverill had first introduced her to pleasure in the gazebo at home, before turning back to him. He had come to stand close, evidently expecting to make love to her.
When she reached up to untie his cravat, Deverill bent his head to kiss her. Shaking her head, Antonia pressed a hand against his chest to stay him. “No kisses yet. This is my fantasy, Deverill, and I wish you to play along.”
When he gave her a curious look, she turned away. “Take off your clothing, please. I shall return in a moment.”
Antonia disappeared into the small dressing room, where she made use of the sponges Isabella had given her and then changed her attire. When she came out, she saw that Deverill had obligingly removed everything but his breeches.
His eyebrows rose sharply, though, when he caught sight of her.
She was dressed as the feminine version of a pirate, complete with head scarf and eye patch, and a low-cut gown of scarlet silk that clung to her body, showing off the curves of her breasts and hips. Around her waist, she wore a sash and a painted wooden knife with a curved blade.
“I presume,” he said slowly, his tone distrustful, “you mean to enlighten me as to your intent.”
Hands on hips, Antonia sauntered barefoot toward him. “I am a pirate queen, of course, and I have taken you captive.”
He didn’t look pleased; far from it. “Where the devil did you find that costume?”
“It is Isabella’s, left over from a masquerade ball.”
“Surely Isabella never wore anything that revealing.”
Antonia flashed him a provocative smile. “I improvised.”
Bending forward to deliberately display her ripe cleavage, she drew up her skirts to show off a long expanse of bare leg and naked thigh.
Deverill’s gaze followed her movement, then lifted slowly, raking her bodice, where the mounds of her breasts nearly spilled over. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she could see his effort to remain calm. “So what is this fantasy of yours, vixen?”
“You said you would show me pleasure. Well, this is my pleasure, Deverill. To live out my own pirate adventure. With you.”
What she wanted more was to combat in some small measure his terrible memories of being held prisoner while his men were tortured to death. It might be impossible to bring him peace, but she intended to hold Deverill captive here and now, in order to give him pleasure, not pain. She was following her deepest instincts, along with an insistent inner voice that told her the festering emotional wounds inside Deverill needed to be lanced if he was ever to begin healing. And this was the only way she knew how.
Wishing the dampness in her palms would go away, Antonia managed another seductive smile. “In my fantasy, I am mistress of the high seas, and you must obey my every command.”
Deverill cocked a defiant eyebrow. “I’m afraid I am not inclined to play anyone’s captive.”
“You have no choice. Now take off your breeches.”
“Or what?”
Antonia withdrew the wooden knife from her sash and brandished it at him. “Or I will feed you to the sharks. It will only take a word from me and my crew will throw you overboard.”
Deverill hesitated a very long while before crossing his arms over his chest, the picture of stubbornness. “You will have to make me, your highness.”
A sigh of relief shivered through Antonia when she realized he didn’t mean to refuse her outright. “Very well, if I must.”
Crossing to him, she pressed the dull wooden blade to his throat and pushed him backward till he came up against the wall between the two windows. They both knew he could easily overpower her and take the toy away, but he made no move to stop her.
His eyes were bright with wariness and some other raw emotion, but he seemed willing for the time being to let her role-play her fantasy adventure.
When she repeated her order to undress, he reached obediently, if reluctantly, for the front placket of his breeches.
“Very good, captive,” she declared.
Stepping back, Antonia watched as he shed his breeches and drawers. The sight of him nude made her mouth go dry. He was full and swollen and obviously rock hard with desire.
He clearly wanted her, whether or not
he wanted this fantasy.
Taking heart, she unfastened the hooks at the front of her gown, opening the bodice to her waist, revealing her bare breasts and tight, budded nipples.
Deverill’s eyes flared with heat—and followed her every move when she ambled toward him again. He held completely still as she pressed her body against him slowly, tauntingly.
The swells of her naked breasts met the warm hardness of his chest with the impact of a searing brand, making her pulse leap and his jaw tighten. And when she ground her hips against his naked loins, Deverill’s breath grew shallow—she could hear it.
Despite the rapid beating of her heart, Antonia summoned a smile of mock triumph. Then taking a deep breath of her own, she brushed her fingers across the ridges of scar tissue on his bare chest. This time Deverill didn’t flinch away but kept his gaze locked hard with hers.
Swallowing, Antonia concealed a rush of tears with a forced smile. This beautiful, scarred god of a man made her heart ache. She had to remember, however, that while Deverill might be disfigured, at least he was alive. It chilled her to think how close he had come to death at the hands of his tormenters, but he had survived. And her own anger at what they had done to him was less insistent than the tenderness filling her, less powerful than the ardent need to give him intense pleasure, not pain.
“You are surprisingly beautiful for a man,” she drawled in a husky voice. “I think I shall allow you to pleasure me for the morning . . . if you promise to obey my every whim.”
His silence spoke of resistance, but she trailed her hand lower to fondle his thick length. Reflexively Deverill sucked in his stomach, and Antonia smiled in satisfaction. Already his phallus was lifting and jerking helplessly in response to her caresses.
She set about increasing the delicious torment. Her gaze dropping to his member, she rubbed her thumb over the swollen head, spreading the bead of moisture that had accumulated there. The low sound that rumbled in Deverill’s chest might have been a protest or a groan, she wasn’t certain.
“I think you desire me,” Antonia said with a saucy toss of her head. “Now, unless you want to suffer dire punishment, I command you to lie on the bed.”
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