He caught her shoulder as she turned to go. “A welcome interruption,” he said. “I could not sleep, either. Are the nights on St. Claire always so sultry?”
“N-not always.”
“I like what it does to your hair,” he said, lifting a strand that had curled in the humid heat, then tucking the wild orchid behind her right ear.
She froze. Under any other circumstances, his familiarity would be insulting and presumptuous. But there was something otherworldly about this night, something almost destined, and he did not seem insulting. To the contrary, his expression held admiration and…desire? Her pulse quickened and she licked her lips, gone suddenly dry with anxiety.
He stepped closer still and she had to tilt her chin to look into his eyes. He slipped his hands around her waist and drew her against his chest with gentle pressure.
A reckless yearning seized her and she lifted on her toes to meet his descending mouth. The touch of his lips was gentle, tentative, neither beseeching nor demanding. He was teasing, heightening the sensation, making her want him. Waiting for her to ask for more.
A wave washed around their ankles, unbalancing her and making her cling to him for support. Lightning flashed across the sky and a warm tropical rain began to fall. The drops trickled over her face, down her neck, between her breasts. His hand, exquisitely gentle, lifted her chin and he kissed her deeply again, coaxing her, nibbling at the corners of her mouth until she opened to him. The other hand drew her closer until her breasts flattened against his chest and a hard swelling pressed against her lower belly. Then she ached for that, too. How odd that in all her years with Barrett, she had never once felt this need.
“Oh!” she breathed, aghast at her own thoughts. Where had this wantonness come from? “I…should go. The rain…”
“Let me shelter you,” he said in a dark velvet voice.
She knew what would happen if she stayed. She’d sworn not to let any man possess her again. She’d clung to her independence. But independence did not banish her loneliness and longing. In the five years since… Barrett…she hadn’t been more than mildly tempted, but this man was different. There was a promise of pleasure in his eyes and a deep magic in his touch.
He stroked her spine from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, pressing her closer. “It’s a dream,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “Just a dream. When you wake, it will be your secret. No one else’s. No words will ever be spoken. Can you let yourself dream, Daphne?”
Dream? It had been so long. Did she even remember how?
“A dream,” he murmured again, his lips brushing hers. “In a dream, nothing is forbidden.”
She slipped her arms around his neck to drag his mouth down to hers. A moan started somewhere deep inside him and he tilted his head to nuzzle her neck as he lifted her off her feet. He carried her up the steps of a cottage and across the mahogany planks to what must be his bedroom.
He placed her on her feet, lifted the chemise over her head and dropped it on the floor in a sodden heap. Heedless of her damp skin and the sand clinging to them both, he lifted her again and laid her against the pillows. She held her breath as he unfastened his trousers and let them fall.
He was lean, well-sculpted and beautifully proportioned. And, heaven help her, he was twice the man her husband had been. In every way. Logic mingled with anxiety and she began to panic. What had she done? Three days ago she hadn’t even met this man, and tonight she was naked in his bed. It was wrong. It was madness.
And she wanted it more than she’d wanted anything in a very long time.
Can you let yourself dream, Daphne?
He lay down on the mattress beside her. A kiss—a single kiss—and she was caught in a vortex dragging her deeper and deeper. He pulled her to him, pressed himself against the length of her. She trailed her fingers down his side, enthralled by the solid strength of the man in contrast to his exquisitely gentle touch.
Lowering his head, he paused to kiss a tender spot where her neck met her shoulder, and a deep shudder went through her. Then his tongue trailed to the hollow of her throat, and she could feel the heat of his lips against her flesh.
“Sweet Daphne, your sighs are an aphrodisiac.”
She moaned at the deep warm rumble of his voice, and he moved lower still, capturing one tender nipple between his lips and drawing a tingle up from her belly. She felt herself dissolving, becoming fluid beneath his hands, and when those hands moved downward over her stomach to glide past her nether hair to find her entrance, she bit her lip to hold back an outcry.
Passion? Need? Possession? What were the feelings overwhelming her? She couldn’t name them. She only knew she didn’t want them to stop. And when he began stroking her, she gasped, wondering why she’d never felt such intimacy and surrender with Barrett.
And then, in the back of her mind, she heard a nagging voice—her conscience?—warning her. If you surrender to this man, you’ll never be whole again. If you let him make love to you, you are lost. He will learn your secrets and betray you, and when he does, you will truly die inside.
“No,” she sighed with the last of her will. “I cannot do this.” She struggled to sit up, her limbs as heavy as if she’d been drugged.
Hunt looked confused and reached out to her. “Daphne, I will not hurt you. If you do not want this…”
Want it? Oh, yes, she wanted it with every tingling nerve, every throbbing pulse, but she could not. The memory of Barrett made it impossible. Would always make it impossible. Because his ghost always reminded her that she was a fraud. That she was a murderess and, given half a chance, that she’d do the same again. That she was hollow and had nothing inside to give.
She scooped her chemise off the floor and ran from the room.
Chapter Six
Chirping insects. The deep croak of frogs. The eternal sound of the waves. Yes, the storm had passed, leaving peace in its wake.
Hunt rolled over, the sheet twisting around him. His first thought was of the gift the storm had brought and then taken away. He sat up and stared at the pillow that still held the impression of her head. A wild white orchid was all that remained. If not for that, he could have dreamed her. Ah, but he could still smell her. Warm ambergris, orchid and sea spray. And woman. And, God, what a woman.
He stood and pulled his trousers on. Not bothering with shoes, he went down the verandah steps to the sand. An edge of watercolor blue stained the eastern horizon. Dawn was not far.
He found the place where they’d met, marked by the conch shell she had dropped, abandoned in the sea foam now. He picked it up and stroked the smooth pink inner curves. As smooth and delicate as Daphne had been.
He returned to the house and stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at the damp impression of her chemise on the floor, remembering her as she’d looked when he removed it. A flash of lightning had revealed her, flushed, trembling, her skin glistening from the rain, her sun-streaked hair curling down her back in a riotous wet windblown tangle and a wild orchid tucked behind her ear. She had looked like Venus rising from the sea.
There’d been something electric in the air. A tingling certainty. Something fated. They’d both felt it beneath their skin. They’d known from the moment they saw each other on the beach how it should end. It had been absurd to resist. Pray Daphne would realize that soon. Pray a fortnight would be sufficient to take his fill.
He placed the conch shell on his bureau and went to find the brandy bottle. Blast! Now he was drinking his breakfast!
Hunt pulled himself back into the moment and resettled in his chair on the governor’s terrace overlooking the bay. Every time he let his guard down, his thoughts drifted back to orchids, soft flesh and hard passion. Damn! Was there no escape from the spell Daphne had woven around him? “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You were saying?”
Gavin Doyle cocked an eyebrow and gave him a slanted grin. “I was saying that there’s nothing to see in Blackpool. The governor would prefer you stay on
this side of Mount Colombo.”
Would he? “Have you been there, Doyle?”
“Once,” the chargé admitted. He poured another cup of dark, bitter coffee for Hunt. “Not worth the trouble. The people are unfriendly, the women are not attractive and the terrain is challenging. I’d rather climb an uncomplicated mountain than traverse those cliff paths. The houses literally hang off the rocks. One good shake, and the whole town would tumble into the sea. But it is the potential danger that is the governor’s concern.”
“Danger? Are the inhabitants that unfriendly?”
Doyle gave a short laugh. “That is the gossip. Every time someone disappears, it’s said they’ve gone to Blackpool. Whether that is true remains to be seen. I’m of a mind to think the disappearances are due to common kidnapping or conscription. Ships have need of crew. When one sailor runs off—” He shrugged. “Replacements must be found, one way or another.”
That was a logical explanation, but Hunt wondered if it was true. “What is Blackpool’s raison d’être?”
“Fishing,” Doyle said with a little snort of disdain. “And logging. Mahogany grows in the mountains and along the cliffs. I gather they fell them, strip the limbs and roll the logs into the inlet, where they lash them together until a shipper comes by for them. Cabinet makers in London and New York are crying out for mahogany, but there’s sure as hell no sign of anyone getting rich in Blackpool. I believe they barely eke out a living.”
“Why does everyone seem so indifferent to them? You’d think Blackpool was a different country.”
Doyle raised an eyebrow. “It damn near is. The people there even contract their own supply ships. Believe me, they want nothing to do with us, nor do we wish to have dealings with them. It’s not exactly a secret, just an unspoken understanding.”
“Is it possible that the settlers are engaging in illegal activities?”
“Like wrecking?” He shook his head. “Not likely. There aren’t enough ships coming by to make that lucrative.”
Hunt narrowed his eyes and glanced out over the bay. Only three ships bobbed in the harbor. This was testament, he supposed, to the fact that St. Claire was a small, sleepy island. But that fact did not mean it had no secrets. On the contrary, he suspected that most of the islanders were escaping some unpleasantness in their past. Even Governor Bascombe’s assignment to St. Claire was his atonement for a diplomatic blunder in a far eastern country. Where better than a distant and ignored island of exiles to find a fresh start? What better place for chicanery?
What better place for treachery?
He sipped the strong coffee and mulled over the governor’s request. Only Oliver Layton knew his true purpose on St. Claire. If he continued to make an issue of Blackpool, the governor was sure to suspect an ulterior motive.
“Not Blackpool, then, but I’d still like to see more of the island before I leave,” he told Doyle.
“How long do you plan to stay?”
Originally, he’d meant to stay two weeks, but he was four days into his investigation and had made no progress toward his two goals—to discover whether the pirates had a nest on the island and to find out who might be feeding them shipping information. And, as luck would have it, he’d found another strong inducement to stay longer. “Not sure,” he admitted. “Perhaps a fortnight, perhaps two.”
“I see,” the chargé mused. He tented his fingers together and narrowed his eyes. “I believe that is longer than you planned, is it not?”
Hunt laughed. “Has the governor asked you to ferret out that information?” He did not like the idea of being pinned down, least of all by political officials.
Doyle gave him a self-deprecating smile and spread his hands wide in a gesture of surrender. “You’ve found me out. Alas, I was to be more subtle and not make you feel unwelcome. I am also to offer my services in any way to make your stay enjoyable. At least, until I leave.”
Any way but a trip to Blackpool, Hunt thought. The man needed diverting. “Are you being reassigned?” he asked.
“I’m being called back to London. I was only assigned to St. Claire to cover Bascombe’s frequent trips home when his mother was ailing. She’s passed now, so I shan’t be needed here anymore.”
Frequent absences? Warning Hunt away from Blackpool? Was this more than simple coincidence? He’d have to proceed cautiously or he’d tip his hand. “Too bad. I shall have to remember to offer my condolences when next I see him. Meantime, tell me about Mrs. Hobbs.”
“The little baker?”
“One and the same.”
“As I told you at the reception, I really do not know much about her. She was established here before my assignment several years ago. She’s quiet. Hasn’t mixed in society until the reception night before last. I was astonished to see her there. She has been somewhat insignificant in society, and only her consequence as a merchant lifts her above the ordinary. Her manners are impeccable but I am told that she is painfully shy. On the rare occasions I have spoken to her, she has been quite standoffish. I must say, however, that she looked very different at the reception—a damn sight better than her common garb. I wonder if it could have been the candlelight.”
Candlelight? Was Doyle blind? “Then you cannot tell me anything about her background?”
“Sorry. A small task to find out, if you’d like.”
Suddenly, Hunt didn’t like. In fact, he didn’t want the polished chargé d’affaires anywhere near Daphne Hobbs. “Never mind. It was just a passing curiosity.”
Doyle gave him a canny grin. “Passing? I think there’s more to keep you on St. Claire than your plantation, eh, Lockwood?”
That was an impossible question to answer. Say aye, and Doyle would have a reason to give Daphne a closer look. Say nay, and he’d subject himself and his own activities to closer scrutiny. “Idle curiosity, Doyle. Don’t give it another thought.”
“How can I help it? I hear that she’s been invited to the Grahams’ picnic this evening. I’ll be attending, as the governor is under the weather. Perhaps I’ll have occasion to talk to her. Or to sample her wares.” Doyle tapped one finger against his cheek thoughtfully.
Hunt tightened his jaw to keep from making an imprudent reply. If Doyle sampled anything, he’d regret it. Hunt had decided to send his regrets to Mr. Graham, but if Daphne would be there, he’d reconsider.
He stood, and his chair scraped back along the terrace flagstones. “Thanks for the coffee, Doyle. Give my regards to the governor and tell him that I’ve made note of his warning.”
“My, you are becoming quite the social butterfly,” Hannah teased as she looked over Daphne’s shoulder.
Daphne studied the handwritten invitation to an evening musicale and picnic hosted by the Grahams, a prominent family on St. Claire. Had Lockwood engineered this invitation, too? Of course, she would send her regrets.
“Oh, no,” Hannah said, with a single look at her mulish expression. “You will accept that invitation, Daphne Hobbs, and you will have fun. You have a nice gown upstairs, and—”
“But I really do not want to—”
“So you say, but I think otherwise. Your step was lighter and your smile readier after the governor’s reception, and I think you found something to interest you there. You’re too young to give up on life.”
“There is no future in—”
“Oh, bother! Who says you need a future? Just enjoy what you have at the moment.”
Just a dream… Can you let yourself dream, Daphne? Lockwood’s words kindled a languid heat in her center as the memory washed through her. Oh, how disconcerting the whole incident had been!
She had let herself dream. For the first time in her life, she’d followed her heart and dared to dream that there might be something more than self-loathing and pain in a man’s arms. She’d have been better off not knowing what could have been.
Hannah took her hands and squeezed them. “Damn the future, Daphne. Whatever joy you’ve found, take it and do not ask for more. Tomorrows
are for virgins and kings. You have a right to find some happiness, however brief.”
Oh, how seductive Hannah’s words were. Could she risk so much for a few brief nights in Lockwood’s embrace? Could she live with the regret all the long empty nights ahead if she didn’t?
Hannah hung her apron on a peg and headed for the door. “I’ll be upstairs applying an iron to your dress, Daphne. Hurry up and close.”
Damn the future…. Yes, she would find some way to forget Lord Lockwood later.
She put her broom outside the kitchen door and untied her apron. She’d have to clear the shelves and hurry upstairs and change before she could leave for the Grahams’. The shop bell rang with insistence and she frowned. This would have to be Pâtisserie’s last customer of the day.
She was not surprised to see Mr. Lowe. He was her only customer from Blackpool and always arrived a few days after a supply ship put into port. He had told her once that Blackpool did not have a bakery, so her sweets were always a treat when he brought them back. He was a good customer and always paid in cash, but the way he watched her made her uneasy.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lowe. What can I get for you?”
“That’s dependin’ on what you gots, Mrs. Hobbs.” The man smiled. Daphne tried not to blink, as she often did when she noted his absent and broken teeth.
“Just what you see on the shelves, sir. You may have whatever you want for half price, as I am about to close for the day.”
“Aye? Well, then, I’ll take it all.”
“All?” She looked at the row of crusty breads and the glass case still bearing tarts and biscuits. “Are you certain?”
“It’ll keep a couple of days, will it not, Mrs. Hobbs?”
“The biscuits, yes. And the breads, so long as you do not dislike them a little dry. But you will have to cover the tarts if you hope to keep the insects out.”
“Aye, Mrs. Hobbs, just likes I always does.”
Daphne was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She turned away and ripped a length of brown paper from the roll to begin wrapping the purchases. “And who eats all this, Mr. Lowe? Surely not you?”
Indiscretions Page 6
