Good.
Terrible.
Steele couldn’t pull away if he tried. His back was to the wall and his arm was trapped beneath her head. It had gone numb hours ago, but she looked so peaceful as she slept… Now that she was awake, he had even less reason to wish to jar her. She was in his arms. The night wouldn’t last forever. Even if he suddenly wished it could.
“You’re awake,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question. She was gazing at him in half-lidded wonder, as if she’d expected to wake up to discover the entire trip a dream.
He pushed a stray tendril of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I’m here. Go back to sleep.”
“I don’t think I can.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I keep worrying about tomorrow.”
He nodded. That was the problem with ties to people or places. One couldn’t help but worry about them. That was why he strove to never have ties of his own.
“What would you do if you weren’t a pirate?” she asked softly.
Steele didn’t have to think twice about the answer. “Die.”
Simple as that. He loved being captain of his own ship. He was living the life he’d been born to lead.
Ten years ago, he’d been a simple barrister. No—not a simple barrister. A great barrister. His name alone shook fear into those who would argue against him. Law was his life. His steady, predictable, respectable, unremarkable, utterly boring life.
Until the day he’d found himself in a spot of fisticuffs at a dockside tavern. Two ruffians had instigated a fight with the protective brother of a barmaid. Steele had finished it. As he’d stepped out of the tavern, a bag had covered his head and he was immediately knocked to the ground whilst multiple assailants bound his hands and his feet.
When the ropes were untied, he was miles from shore—and one of a new batch of sailors in the King’s Royal Navy.
Much like a privateer’s legalized piracy, “pressing” unwilling or unsuspecting men into service was the most effective way the Navy had to recruit new sailors.
Despicable. And life-changing.
As much as he’d hated being pressed and resented being stripped of free will, life at sea was more excitement than he’d had in years. He’d always loved a challenge. The first was how to turn the tables, how to be the one with the power instead of at his captor’s mercy. From the moment his limbs were cut free from their binding, he’d vowed to be his own man again and to never give that up.
“Being Blackheart isn’t my job,” he said quietly. “It’s my life. It’s who I am. It’s freedom.”
She bit her lip, then nodded. “I did get that impression.”
“You’re a clever woman.” The words were flip, but he meant them truly.
Something in her eyes indicated she must have realized it, too.
She reached up and stroked a finger against his beard. “It’s getting longer.”
His heart raced at her touch. “I may have to change my name to Blackbeard.”
“That’s been taken.” Her lips curved.
“Then I’ll be ‘Salt-And-Pepper Beard.’” He massaged his jaw. “Although it perhaps doesn’t have the same ring.”
Her eyes crinkled. “It is quite unfashionable. You’d certainly be barred from Almack’s.”
“I barred myself when I learned they didn’t offer rum.” He caught her hand in his and placed her palm against the side of his beard. “Do you hate my whiskers?”
She shook her head. “I like them far more than I should.”
His body heated at the idea. “Oh?”
She licked her lips. “I like you more than I should.”
He swallowed the urge to give her even more reasons. Or meant to.
These were dangerous waters. His favorite kind. The wild impetus that sent him flying off a swinging rope onto a neighboring ship was the same impetus that had him stroking her soft cheek with the rough pad of his thumb and lowering his mouth to hers.
He should stay far, far away. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. His heart thumped in anticipation.
She parted her lips the moment his touched hers.
His kisses were demanding. Possessive. She twisted her fingers in his hair and met him kiss for kiss. Just as hungry. Just as demanding. He slid his hand down her back, down the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips.
Her breathing was as fast as his. Faster. Her fingers reached the waistband of his breeches right as he was bunching up her nightrail in his fist, raising it ever higher. Seeking to feel her hot flesh beneath his palm.
He lifted her leg, hooking her thigh over his hip. Tempting both of them.
No touching, he told himself urgently. Just another kiss or two. Nothing more.
But her kisses were intoxicating. He was drugged; he was helpless. Hungry for more.
He forced himself to sink his fingers into the silk of her hair, rather than bury them elsewhere. He could stop this kiss anytime he wanted. Maybe. But he didn’t wish to. Ever. He wanted her to feel the scratch of his beard against her breasts as his mouth sought her nipples. Feel it brush between her thighs as he sought something more. As he gave her release. Oh God, did he ever want release. If they could just—
“Land ho!” came the shout from above the skylight.
In one swift movement, Steele yanked the hem of her nightrail back down to her ankles and leapt off of the bunk as if it were about to burst into flame. It had been close.
He looked away. Caught his breath. Meant to catch his breath, anyway. There was no hope of calming his racing heart while his pillow still smelled of her perfume. While his fingers still tingled with the knowledge that if he’d wanted to…she’d wanted to. With the knowledge that his crew was on deck—and likely peering down the skylight, the bastards—and they’d be docking any moment and then she’d be gone. Forever.
There. That was the cold water he’d needed. It was over. They wouldn’t see each other again.
He tossed her the day dress hanging on the wall. “It’s time.”
Chapter 8
Clara couldn’t stop coughing.
She’d only been in London for a few hours—just long enough for Steele to take care of his men and his boat and find a horse to rent—but the frigid, coal-tinged air snaked down her ragged throat and into her weak lungs. She pressed a thin handkerchief to her chapped lips and tried to breathe as little as possible.
Steele’s strong arms held her steady on the horse. He’d barely spoken a word to her since the Dark Crystal had sighted the shore, his expression inscrutable. He had not asked for her parents’ address.
Good. She would not have been able to tell him. Not coughing required all of her concentration. Her lungs burned. She hadn’t felt this badly since the day they’d left Pennsylvania. Frustration strangled her. She had not come all this way after all this time just to stand mute before her parents. And Grace… She had so much to tell Grace…
Clara held her breath in an attempt to stave off another round of wracking coughs, yet they burst out of her lungs, leaving her gasping and lightheaded.
She sagged against Steele’s chest in exhaustion, grateful for his presence and strength. Her pirate in shining armor would keep her safe. His warm embrace all but crushed her in its ferocity.
She would miss him. They had met a little over a fortnight ago, but he had become part of her. ’Twas not the thought of sleeping alone that filled her with such aching loneliness. ’Twas the thought of waking without him for the rest of her life.
But adventuring was for the young and the reckless. She was grown. A mother. It was a diverting interlude in an otherwise staid existence, but diverting interludes were not meant to last. Not for people like her.
Her stomach grumbled. She closed her eyes as she realized she’d not only missed lunch, she’d also skipped breakfast in the excitement of reaching shore. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. Small wonder she was weak and dizzy. Not to mention the tendrils of ice piercing her belly from the decades-old fear of confronti
ng her parents.
If they refused her entrance, just as they’d done all those years ago…
Dawn broke as the horse clopped up her parents’ drive. Unlike the spectacular panorama of color that rose every morning over the Atlantic Ocean, this part of London merely lightened from black to gray.
The house was simultaneously grander and shabbier than her childish recollection. She’d forgotten the stately columns, the trellised balcony. The caked dirt upon the windows. The snarl of weeds devouring what was left of the grass. Her parents had more money than Croesus and still refused to spend it.
Steele lifted her down from the horse and touched his knuckles to the side of her face. “Ready to see your daughter?”
Grace. Sweet, aching relief flooded Clara as she nodded. She took a step forward and stumbled, her head and limbs a jumble of excitement and exhaustion.
Steele caught her to him as she crumpled, his eyes stormy. “Rest, do you hear me? Hold your daughter close, and then rest. Your health is your primary concern.”
She shook her head. “My daughter is my primary concern.”
“Eat. Sleep. Get better.” His tone brooked no argument.
She cast him a weak smile. “Or you’ll what?”
“I’ll never see you again regardless.” He reached around her to bang the brass knocker against the door.
Heat pricked Clara’s cheeks and she ducked her face to hide her anger and embarrassment. What an expertly delivered cut. She forced her legs to support her on their own. He was right. She could not count on him any longer. She should never have let herself do so to begin with.
When no one answered the door, Steele rapped the knocker again and kept knocking. In moments, the door creaked open.
A harried butler glared at them from inside the gap. “The Mayers are not receiving.”
“They are now.” Steele shoved his boot in the crack of the door. “This is their daughter. Let us in.”
Shame and fever stole Clara’s breath. This was it. She would be turned away at the door once again.
The butler glared down his nose at them. “Doesn’t matter who she is. No visitors before noon. I have my orders.”
Steele’s tone was deadly. “I gave you new ones.”
“I must ask that you come back later or not at all,” the butler stammered.
“You have until the count of five.” Steele withdrew a pistol from inside his coat. “One…Two…”
“Sir, I absolutely—”
“Five.” Steele shot the pistol into the sky.
Noise and smoke rent the air. Clara covered her mouth to keep from coughing.
The butler blanched. “You’re mad. The Mayers—”
“Think they’re awake yet?” Steele returned the spent pistol to his coat. “I have another.”
“Actually, I believe the other pistol is mine,” Clara murmured.
“Technically yours,” Steele agreed, drawing it from his waistcoat. “Triple-barreled. Perfect condition.” He lowered his voice. “I swear I was going to give it back.”
She crossed her arms. “But would you have restored the ammunition?”
“Let’s find out.” He smiled at the butler. “I hope you have a skilled laundry maid. Bloodstains are beasts to remove.” He cocked the pistol. “May we come in?”
“What’s the meaning of this ruckus?” came a harsh female voice that sent shivers of anticipation and dread down Clara’s spine. “You know I am never to be wakened without my express permission. You’re sacked.”
Steele lowered his voice. “Your mother?”
Clara nodded.
He shot her pistol into the coal-stained sky and then returned it to her, handle first. “No ammunition. I’m saving you from killing her.”
“I’m not a pirate.” She shoved the spent pistol into her traveling bag as the front door jerked open.
Her mother’s steel gray hair was now streaked with white. The lines on her face had grown deeper, angrier. She seemed shorter than Clara remembered. More hunched, despite her aggressive posture and the constant curl to her lip.
“Get out,” she barked. “I have a well-paid constable who would be happy to toss a blackguard like you in prison for terrifying a sweet old lady in the middle of the night.”
Clara clenched her fingers to hide their tremble. “Mother?”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed, then widened. “Clara?”
“Did you say Clara?” boomed a familiar voice as Clara’s father filled the doorframe. “Don’t keep her to yourself. Come here and hug me, darling.”
Clara dropped her traveling bag and flew into her father’s arms. She was home at last. Her eyes pricked with joy and relief. Grace was here. Everything would be all right. Exhaustion sapped the strength from her bones.
“You received the ticket?” her father whispered.
“Thank you.” She hugged him tighter. “I also owe a debt of gratitude to—”
Horse hooves retreated down the drive. Clara jerked from her father’s embrace and gripped the doorway. Her heart sank. Steele was gone. He’d left without looking back. He wouldn’t be coming back. She was on her own.
No. She had her parents again. And Grace.
Determined to forget the blasted pirate, Clara spun away from the front lawn so quickly her vision swam. “Where’s my daughter?”
Father caught her as she swayed. He pressed the back of his hands to her forehead then shot a startled glance at Mother. “She’s burning up. Clara, are you ill? Can you hear me, Clara?”
Their voices grew distant as a coughing fit overtook her. She could no longer speak, no longer breathe. She was dizzy… gasping… fading…
Her legs crumpled as blackness engulfed her.
She awakened with her lungs on fire. Wracking coughs bolted her upright in an unfamiliar bed as she gasped and wheezed until she could control her breathing.
No. Not an unfamiliar bed. This was her bed. Her room. The colors were faded and the edges were worn, but it was otherwise the same as it had looked in 1793.
They’d kept it for her. The parents who had disowned her—the mother who had sworn she’d never be allowed back into her sight—had watched over a foolish young girl’s bedchamber all these years, keeping it ready should their romantical, headstrong daughter ever return home. Had Grace been in this room? What had she thought?
A glass of cool water stood on the nightstand. Clara brought it to her parched lips, grateful for its cooling relief upon her scratchy throat. The water made her think of the Dark Crystal. And Captain Blackheart.
Steele would have reached his boat hours earlier. By now he would be leagues from shore. She swallowed hard. Her fingers shook as she replaced her water glass on the nightstand. Steele was gone. She would have to forget him.
Somehow.
The bedchamber door eased open. Her father entered, bearing a tray overflowing with delicious-smelling plates. “How are you feeling?”
“Much improved.” Clara straightened against the pillows and accepted the tray. She salivated at the sight of so many of her old favorite foods, many of which she hadn’t had since leaving England. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation. She hadn’t eaten in more than a day. “I’m ravenous. Thank you.”
Her father pulled up a chair. “Eat. You must keep your strength up.”
Clara suspected she could find room in her stomach for everything on the tray. “What time is it? Where’s Grace?”
“Eat, and I’ll tell you.” Her father’s tone was easy, but his eyes did not meet hers.
Clara lowered a half-eaten pastry. “What’s wrong? Where is she?”
“Grace is fine.” He gazed at the wallpaper for a long moment. “This is the happiest day of her life.”
“She’s getting married?” Clara shoved the tray to one side.
Her father caught her arm and pushed the tray back onto her lap. “Eat. Then we will go to her.”
Clara shoved the rest of the pastry into her mouth.
“Slowly,” h
er father admonished, touching his fingers to her forehead. “Your fever has broken, but you have clearly been ill. It’s past noon already. Another hour or two won’t make a whit of difference.”
Past noon already. Clara stared at the breakfast tray with hunger and frustration. Weddings were morning affairs, which meant she’d missed the ceremony. For her own daughter.
She brought her fist to her mouth in dismay. This was devastating. She’d come so close…and it still hadn’t been fast enough. She hadn’t just missed her daughter’s wedding. She’d missed seeing Grace mature, blossom, fall in love. Everything Clara had ever dreamed for her daughter had happened in her absence. Life had moved on without her.
She rubbed her face. Nothing could be done. Sands could not be sent back up the hourglass. She straightened her spine. Now that she was back, she would never leave Grace again.
Fortunately, the child wasn’t even expecting her mother to arrive. Or was she?
“Did you tell her you’d sent me a ticket?” Clara asked hoarsely.
Her father nodded slowly. “But you arrived much sooner than expected. For which I am very grateful.”
“I didn’t take the passenger liner. The man who was with me—”
“Captain Blackheart.” Her father’s eyes crinkled at Clara’s surprise. “I not only read the papers, I also glance at the accompanying sketches.”
The corner of her mouth twitched as she took a sip of hot chocolate. Of course Steele would be in the London papers. He was an infamous English pirate. “He was paid to fetch me. Sent by the Earl of Carlisle.”
“I should have guessed.” Father shook his head with a smile. “It will not surprise you to learn that your mother still enjoys purchasing pawned objets d’art the ton can no longer afford. We were among the first to learn that Carlisle had put a family portrait up for auction. Your mother wished to purchase it out of spite.”
Clara was not surprised. “You didn’t let her purchase it?”
“I purchased it myself. Carlisle is utterly besotted with Grace. He’ll make her a splendid husband. He’s a good man.” Father’s voice began to fade, then he shook his head. “I intend to return the portrait to its rightful owner.”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 70
