The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  She stumbled as he yanked her to his chest and dragged her down the hatchway toward his private quarters.

  He jerked to a stop outside the cabin door and flashed her a look of disbelief. “You brought luggage?”

  “It’s not at all what you think,” she assured him, then blushed. “Actually, yes, at this point it is exactly what you think. But it didn’t start out being that. I just meant to look at apartments and have a bit of supper, but didn’t manage to do either once I’d spotted the Dark Crystal moored at the Port of London.”

  Steele turned his face toward the open hatchway and bellowed, “Galley! Tray of lukewarm scraps for the lady.”

  “Everyfing’s still hot,” came the return shout.

  “Dip it in the ocean,” Steele called back. He returned his gaze to his vexing stowaway. He still had not loosed her wrist from his grasp—or released her from his arms. “Well?”

  “I wondered what you were doing. How you’d been. If you ever thought about me, or remembered—”

  “I told you we would never see each other again,” he said firmly, then ground his teeth. Clearly he’d been mistaken.

  Clara bit her lip. “I—I missed you.”

  “We do not have a romantical understanding,” he enunciated, clearly and coldly. The sight of her face, the scent of her hair…dear God had he missed her. But this was his best chance to trap the Corsair. He could not let her get in the way. “I am a pirate. I am busy. This ship is and will remain my top priority.”

  “But that’s perfect,” she blurted, gazing up at him with wide green eyes. “I don’t want anything permanent. Not with you. I just want a spot of…adventure.”

  She didn’t want anything permanent. Not with him. Steele glared at her sourly. Never had getting his way been so anticlimactic.

  “Hot tray, Cap’n,” came a voice from above the hatchway. “And some wine for the lady.”

  Steele released his doe-eyed stowaway and reached up for the tray. He kicked open the door to his cabin and slammed the tray onto the small table. “Eat.”

  Clara slid into the corner chair and eyed the glass of port and array of fragrant dishes with delight. “It looks sumptuous!”

  It was sumptuous. The first meal at sea always was. Everything was still fresh, still plentiful. Everyone in high spirits.

  Until now.

  “Eat,” he commanded again.

  She ate.

  He flung himself into the chair opposite and made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was glaring in contempt.

  Of himself, mostly.

  Bloody hell. His hands grew clammy and his heart raced at the sight of her. He’d thought about her every day during the six interminable, land-locked weeks caring for his ward. His bed in Maidstone was larger, more luxurious. Lonelier.

  He’d wondered how the reunion had gone with her daughter. Whether she’d resolved the estrangement with her parents or given into temptation and shot her witch of a mother. How it felt to be back in England after more than two decades in America. Whether she still missed her dead husband…or if her thoughts sometimes turned to her black-hearted rescuer instead.

  “As soon as this is over, you’re going right back to London.”

  “Closer to Bath, I think,” she said with a pensive frown. “I’ve decided it’s more prudent.”

  His heart jumped in alarm. “But if you were still coughing, we would have found your hiding spot before leaving the dock. Are you ill? Do you truly need to drink those wretched ‘restorative’ waters?”

  She shook her head. “Not for my health. To buy property. Somerset seems like a safe but interesting place to call home, don’t you think? Bath has the Pump Rooms, the Assembly Rooms, the circus…”

  “It sounds horrid,” he said flatly.

  “Oh, certainly. To a pirate. A widow like myself, however, could be perfectly content with teas and dancing and afternoon promenades in Sydney Gardens, if no other options presented themselves.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. No doubt the average woman would be content taking tea with self-important patronesses and indulging in the occasional waltz with an ex-soldier. He doubted whether Clara Halton was an average woman at all.

  Steele returned her gaze in silence. The Dark Crystal had never before boasted a stowaway. There had never been even the slightest attempt at such a feat. Blackheart’s name alone was enough to equate crossing his path with certain death or visceral embarrassment. Respect was so easily and freely given, he rarely had to fight for much of anything anymore. Why, the last time his heart had pounded due to apprehension or uncertainty…

  Was when he’d caught sight of Clara Halton stepping out from behind the gunroom skylight.

  “Where are we headed?” she asked innocently.

  “Eat your supper.”

  “I have done so.” She smiled up at him. “There was enough to feed the entire crew and I managed to put away half of it.”

  He stroked the whiskers on his chin. Might as well tell her. She would find out soon enough. “We have come upon a treasure map.”

  “A treasure map!” She clasped her hands together in delight. “But you said—”

  “It doesn’t mean there’s anything to find. Real life is not an adventure story. There are no caves with skeletons and talking monkeys, or whatever nonsense you’ve read in the papers.”

  “Parrots,” she corrected primly. “The talking monkeys were a jest.”

  “’Tis all a jest,” he snapped. “Even if the map proves legitimate, there’s no reason to believe we shall arrive in time to collect any bounty.”

  “Then why are we going?”

  His smile was dark. “Because it belongs to the Crimson Corsair.”

  Clara clapped her hands. “Then there will be parrots!”

  “He doesn’t—” Steele let out a breath. The twinkle in Clara’s eyes indicated she was provoking him a-purpose, and besides. He had never met the Corsair. Perhaps the man had a peg leg, a hook hand, a missing eye, and a talking parrot. “You won’t be going anywhere near him.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll stay near you.”

  “You’ll stay far away from me. I’ll be stringing up the Corsair.”

  Her face paled. “You plan to garrote him?”

  “I plan to…bring him to justice” He pretended to think over her comment. “But lynching the bastard isn’t a bad suggestion.”

  Doubt clouded her eyes for the first time since her unexpected appearance.

  Good. He might not be the sort to take advantage of a misguided widow playing at adventure, but not all pirates would do the same. Not all men would do the same.

  He picked up the tray and placed it outside of the cabin, where one of his men would come by and return it to the galley. He turned to warn Clara he’d be right back after he walked his final round of the ship…and discovered her following him so close behind she’d nearly tripped over him when he’d turned to face her.

  He caught her. “Don’t follow me.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t.”

  He tightened his grip on her arms. “I’m serious. Go nowhere without my permission.”

  “What about the mess tables?”

  “You just ate,” he growled.

  She tilted her head. “What about breakfast?”

  “I’ll be back before breakfast,” he bit out. “You stay here.”

  “In your cabin.” She cast a glance over her shoulder then blinked up at him coyly.

  He released her. “Yes.”

  She arched a brow and smiled. “In your bed.”

  He leaned against the open doorframe. “Clara—”

  “I’ll be lying there, awaiting your next command.” She trapped her lower lip between her teeth. “Eagerly.”

  He pulled her to him, his voice harsh. His heart banged against his ribs. “Be careful what you start.”

  “Why should I?” She tilted her face up toward his.

  “Because you just might get it.”
/>   He closed his mouth over hers. She tasted as rich and sweet as port. As forbidden as a sacred temple. Every kiss was a promise he couldn’t keep. He would not be waltzing in assembly rooms or promenading in public gardens. He lived here, in the moment.

  And now, in this moment, she was right here with him.

  He cupped the back of her head and kissed her with the hunger he normally kept tightly leashed. Kissed her not like a man with a future, but a man who well knew tomorrow may never come. Kissed her with savage passion, with desperation, with every pulse of his blood begging him to take her here and now, up against the doorjamb, quick and carnal and satisfying.

  So he pushed her away.

  “You’re not cargo under contract,” he warned her, his voice ragged with checked desire. “Which means you’re no longer under Carlisle’s protection.”

  She blinked. “You were paid not to touch me?”

  He stepped out of the cabin. “I was. Not anymore.”

  She licked her lips. “Well, I’m certainly glad that’s over.”

  His blood heated. As he stared at her wordlessly, she swung the door closed behind him.

  Chapter 14

  Steele eased open the cabin door and slipped inside.

  It was late. Far later than usual. Besides his normal rounds, he’d had to discuss the new development with each of his men. It wasn’t the best of situations. Besides the obvious disadvantage of having a distraction on board, Steele’s crew had never before witnessed anyone take him by surprise. That it came at the hand of a mere woman…well. It wasn’t good for his image or for morale.

  More to the point, what was to be done with her now? He ran his fingers through his hair. Of all the luck. He had lied when he’d said she was no longer under anyone’s protection. She was under his.

  The men knew without asking that they were to treat her with respect and guard her life at all costs. Steele had reminded them anyway.

  They were heading into uncharted waters. The map might or might not lead to a cove. The cover might or might not be the Corsair’s secret lair. The lair might or might not contain heavily guarded treasure. Blackheart’s crew might or might not return to the ship with the treasure…or return alive, for that matter.

  That was always the game. That was why he played. He loved the rush. The uncertainty. The challenge.

  Much like how he felt around Clara.

  Warily, he sat down on one of the chairs to remove his boots.

  She was stretched beneath the covers of his bunk. Lips slightly parted. Fast asleep. He wasn’t certain if the skip in his pulse was a sign of relief or disappointment.

  He hadn’t lain with a woman since the last time Clara had been aboard his ship. There’d been opportunities—there were always opportunities—but they had filled him with ennui rather than excitement. He hadn’t been saving himself for her, of course. He had never saved himself for anyone, and besides, he’d had no real expectation of ever being more than a specter in her memory.

  She was no longer in his memory. Now she was in his bed.

  He shucked off his coat, his stockings, his waistcoat. There was no cravat to untie. He’d neglected to wear one.

  Just like his crew had neglected to properly secure the ship whilst docked at the Port of London. If anything like that ever happened again, he’d sack the whole lot of them.

  He crawled across Clara so his back was to the wall and then pulled her into his arms. Her body was soft against his. Warm. Inviting. He should not have touched her. He should have given her the entire bloody cabin and taken a hammock at the bow with the rest of the crew.

  Perhaps she was a siren. She certainly tempted him to the very limits of his control.

  He still could scarcely believe she’d stowed away on his ship. That she’d had the temerity. That it had even been possible. He fought the urge to stroke her hair.

  From a certain perspective, he ought to thank her. His men had become cocky. He had become cocky. It had been so long since last they were challenged that they’d simply stopped believing it would ever happen.

  They could not afford to make such foolish assumptions. What if the stowaway had not been Clara, but rather the Corsair and his entire crew?

  Most of Steele’s men were armed even in their sleep, but a single shot pistol would not have bested a sneak attack by pirates armed with knives and cutlasses. And if they’d been taken by surprise whilst the only thing in their hands was a hunk of bread or a mug of ale…

  Clara burrowed her head into Steele’s chest, mumbling in her sleep.

  He lay his unshaven cheek against the top of her head and wished he wasn’t tempted to wake her up and give her precisely what she’d been asking for.

  Did he want to? Of bloody course. He was testing the limits of his self-control. Despite having no contractual obligation to resist her, she was a respectable woman. Or at least, she had been before he’d brought her aboard his ship.

  Blackheart was many despicable things, but he was not a despoiler of innocents. Or a defiler of widows. Very attractive, clever, stowaway widows. Who might be foolishly trying to trap the uncatchable into settling down.

  He gritted his teeth and prayed for sleep. And strength.

  Resisting the urge to take what was offered would be the hardest mission of his life.

  Chapter 15

  Clara did not understand men…but she did understand rejection.

  Steele was not immune to her. His kisses, his smoldering looks, the hard feel of his body pressed against her in his bunk—everything pointed toward a shared attraction. Yet although he might want her, he would not consummate their mutual desire.

  Fine. He might be the most handsome, charismatic, exasperating pirate captain to cross her path, but he was meant for turning her eye, not capturing her heart. She should take care not to develop a silly tendre for the man.

  He was not the sort who settled down.

  She was the sort who needed to.

  Once this fairy-tale ended and she was back in England, she would focus on the things she could control. The things that mattered. Like finding a cottage of her own. Somewhere close enough to let her visit her daughter without being underfoot—or vice versa.

  Somerset might be a nice place to start a home. Perhaps some evening, a dashing gentleman with a romantic soul would sweep Clara into his arms for a waltz that would last the rest of their lives. A solid, stable future, where she never again had to be far from Grace or fear for the safety of a loved one. What she’d dreamed of.

  A month or two from now, Clara would have completely forgotten any interest she’d once had in Captain Blackheart.

  Possibly.

  And if not, well…she’d have her own space in a pretty cottage with a view of the sea. ’Twas what she had wanted. It would have to be enough.

  Her heart clenched. She wouldn’t think of tomorrow. Today was all that mattered.

  She was leaning against the mast at the front of the ship when the cry came from overhead.

  “Land, ho!”

  Nothing but blue waves and even bluer sky surrounded them.

  She dashed forward to press herself against the rail, heedless of the spray of saltwater on her face or the way the wind whipped her hair free from its pins to wave behind her like an extra sail.

  There. The barest smudge rising from the water blended with the promise of a storm upon the horizon.

  An island.

  A warm hand touched her back, then just as quickly fell away. Steele stood next to her, gazing out into the ocean.

  “Clara.” He turned to face her. “I need you to—”

  “‘Stay put,’ as the Americans say.” She kept her eyes on his. “Yes. I know.”

  His jaw hardened. “More than stay behind. You may need to hide.”

  “I’ll lock myself in your cabin if necessary.”

  “No. Somewhere else.” His expression was hard. “The cabin is the first place they’ll look.”

  She frowned. “The first p
lace who will look?”

  “Whoever is on that island.” He turned his gaze back to the horizon.

  The jut of land and trees grew more distinct with each passing moment. Clara presumed she should be scared, but instead she felt invigorated. She’d thought cleaving to humble anonymity was what had made twenty lonely years bearable, but she’d been wrong.

  This was living. Her hair in snarls, her dress whipping behind her, her heartbeat racing as the schooner sped toward shore. She’d lived more in the past few months than she had in the past two decades.

  It wouldn’t last. Nothing this exhilarating possibly could. But oh how she enjoyed being along for the adventure!

  She turned toward Steele.

  He captured her face in his hands and crushed his lips to hers.

  Pleasure rushed through her as she surrendered her mouth. Her heart. The man drove her half mad with frustration and want, but his kisses were positively divine. She rose on her toes to press against him more fully.

  If the wind was still ice cold, she could no longer feel it. No longer taste the salt or smell the sea. Every inch of her body was warm. Heated. All she could smell was his masculine scent. All she could taste was his tongue on hers, teasing her so thoroughly that she felt every stroke as if his mouth was between her legs.

  She slid her hands across the rough stubble on his jaw and sank her fingers into his hair. It was too long, she supposed, too wild and untamable, but so was the man—and she liked him that way. His wildness made her feel wild. Made her feel free and reckless and powerful. He felt it, too. That’s what made it too dangerous for them to give into temptation.

  “Stay here,” he whispered hoarsely between kisses. “Stay safe.”

  She gripped his hair in her fists and kissed him as though tomorrow would never dawn. “Come back to me, or I’ll kill you.”

  He grinned against her mouth, then suckled her lower lip between his teeth. “Can’t kill me if you can’t find me.”

  “I’m obviously quite good at finding you.” She nipped at his mouth. “Don’t test me.”

  The ship gave a slight jerk and stopped moving.