The Leading Lady (Half Moon House Series)

by Deb Marlowe

  Callie wouldn’t have any sort of trouble from him now.

  She stood, nodding and smiling slightly, as the rest of the sailors commented or congratulated her before trailing back to work or their bunks. Silent, Tru held out his arm. Biting her lip, she took it and allowed him to escort her back to the passenger quarters.

  The snap of canvas was muffled down here, but the creak of timbers sounded long and loud. Callie held her silence until they stood outside the closed door of her cabin.

  “How did you know?”

  Tru shrugged. “I see what’s in front of me. And he is a fool. He was becoming more obvious by the instant.”

  “But was it wise? He may feel the need to retaliate.”

  He snorted. “Let him try.” Earnest, he touched a finger to her chin. He ignored the hot zing of sensation that shot up his arm at the contact, a shock that must be either thrilling or appalling, except that he had a point to make and no time to lend to the debate. “You knew you could stand against him. I knew it. Now he knows it. And all of his crewmates stood witness to his inappropriate behavior as well. He won’t bother you again.”

  “And perhaps he’ll think again before bothering another woman,” she said, understanding dawning.

  “Exactly.”

  They stared again at each other, the silence filled with that strange rapport and with honesty—and beginning to feel entirely too . . . comfortable.

  “That was useful,” she said suddenly. “But do you know, my lord? It was also fun.”

  Tru was saved from a reply by the captain’s steward, emerging from Lord Stoneacre’s cabin.

  “Excuse me? Miss?” Sir?” He bobbed his head. “Beggin’ your pardons, but I’m to tell you that the captain’s busy this evening with new calculations and schedules, and won’t be hosting dinner in his cabin.” He nodded toward the earl’s closed door. “His lordship isn’t interested in more than tea, but if you’d like, I could bring a tray to your cabins.” He looked from one to the other. “Or perhaps set up a table for the both of you?”

  Tru shook his head. Too much fun was likely not a good thing. It was perhaps not wise of him to spend so much time alone with Callie Grant. Soon enough he was going to have to come to grips with the idea of her as his temporary wife.

  “That would be lovely, thank you,” Callie said. Firmly.

  The steward bowed and went to make his preparations.

  Tru frowned. “Is it wise?”

  She bit back a grin as he used her own words against her. “Well, the last I heard, it was considered quite common for a husband to dine with his wife.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “We can leave the door open if you are concerned for your reputation.”

  Helpless, he laughed. “You never do or say anything expected.”

  She spun on her heel and entered the cabin. Holding the door for him, she answered, “I daresay that’s why you might like me.”

  You have no idea how right you are.

  Wisely, he kept the thought to himself and followed her in.

  Callie wasn’t doing anything she’d expected, either. In point of fact, she barely had a notion what it was she was doing. Or thinking. Or feeling.

  She felt disconnected, as if the ocean’s waters had cut her off from her old self as surely as it had removed her from the reach of England. The old Callie—the real Callie—would only wish to be left to her work and her isolation. This person—Callie, Chloe, whoever she was now—wanted nothing of the sort. She most vehemently did not want Lord Truitt to leave.

  She moved past him, but he stood, hovering in the doorway, taking up half the space in the tiny cabin and a great deal of the air too. She breathed deep, fighting for her share and fighting the urge to reach out and grab that muscular arm and refuse to let go—to keep him here until she puzzled out just who they both were.

  For she greatly feared she’d misjudged the man.

  Somehow he’d discovered the trouble she’d had with that crewman. Minor trouble only, to be sure, nothing she could not have handled, but when it became clear he knew, she’d expected him to take it over—to treat them all to a display of male posturing, perhaps to throw the weight of his title and social standing at the swarthy upstart. Instead he’d manipulated the situation so that she would be the one to take the insolent sailor down. Yes, there had been a bit of masculine preening at the end, but she could forgive him that, because all in all, he’d shown admirable restraint. And a measure of respect for her and her abilities.

  Unheard of, that. And unexpected. But appreciated.

  A clatter rose in the passageway and she did reach a hand out to him at last. She was unsure of a great many things, but she knew she’d liked spending time with him today, that sharing knowledge and laughter had created an unexpected intimacy that tugged at her. Like the feel of crisp, fresh linen on a bed or the taste of crusty bread warm from the oven, it was a pleasure she could surely survive without, but had no wish to abandon.

  She was also suddenly afraid that she owed him both her thanks—and the truth.

  “Would you mind moving my trunk over to the far wall, Lord Truitt? Otherwise I’m afraid we’ll be reduced to a picnic upon the bunk.”

  Obliging, he stepped forward. He’d removed his coat and waistcoat earlier, looking for more freedom of movement as they threw their knives. She tried not to stare at several inches of exposed throat and chest as he leaned over. “Tousseau,” he reminded her. “We’d best start getting used to using the new names now.” He lifted the heavy trunk, and paused in surprise. “What have you got in here, Chloe? Rocks?”

  “Worse,” she said with a grin.

  “Worse than rocks?” He said, disbelieving.

  “Cast-iron pans. Lord Stoneacre is of the belief that no decent cook would travel to a new position without her own.”

  “The man thinks of everything.” Grunting, he settled it into its new position.

  “He does indeed.” Callie frowned. “It worries me, though. I’m not used to subterfuge. I’m afraid I will be the one to give us all away.”

  “We’ll practice. It will all start to feel normal soon enough.”

  She was afraid it would not. She’d been carrying thoughts of Lord Truitt—as Lord Truitt—about in her head for far longer and more often than she cared to admit, even to herself.

  “I’d rather adjust it a bit to make a slip-up less likely,” she mused. She pursed her lips and watched him turn away from the trunk. “That’s it!” she said triumphantly, suddenly inspired. “Chloe shall have a pet name for you.” She flicked a hand towards the trunk. “Chloe expected to gain an inn when she married you, but had it snatched away. Now you, yourself, are all that you bring to the marriage. You are your own Trousseau. It’s a good play on Tousseau. Then I can call you Tru and no one will know the difference.”

  “Very good.” He lifted a brow. “And what was that about you not being well-acquainted with subterfuge?”

  She laughed just as the steward knocked upon the door. “You may use an equally mocking name for me,” she said, moving to open it, “if you can come up with one.”

  He snorted and went to the steward’s assistance as he moved a small table into the room. The man set up quickly and left them to a dinner of stew and a rich plum duff to finish. Tru spoke of the hiring of servants, cleaning schedules, taprooms, stables, all of the tasks and issues they might expect to encounter in their venture and the problems that could hopefully avoid. Callie listened with half an ear and wondered how she was going to go about sharing a secret that she had worked so hard to protect.

  The conversation wound down. Tru stood. “I’ll take my leave of you, but I’ll send the steward down to clear, so that you may return to your work for the evening.”

  “Wait!” She held out a hand. “I wonder if perhaps we might talk?”

  He sank back into his chair. “Is that not what we have been doing?” he asked, sardonic.

  Her heart was in her throat. She could not re
spond with the same levity.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll just listen, then.”

  She saw the moment he decided to go along with the shift in mood. “What is it?”

  “There are some things you might . . . things you perhaps should know before we arrive in Brittany.”

  He waited.

  She swallowed. It took effort even to contemplate exposing so much of herself. Especially after she’d judged him so harshly. Her eyes drifted closed. It was only fair, perhaps, that now he would have the chance to find her wanting.

  He stood again, after a moment. “I will be at your service, when you are ready, Callie.”

  “No.” A whisper only, not very convincing. She stiffened her spine. “It’s about Letty. You should know about our connection before we arrive in St. Malo.”

  He came suddenly and completely alert.

  She breathed deep and looked him in the eye. “She’s my sister.”

  He sat again. His face remained blank.

  “Half-sister,” she clarified.

  He frowned. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”

  She could echo that sentiment, only more irritably. “What did you expect?”

  “A debt owed, maybe? A commitment to a longtime friend or valued colleague at Half Moon House?” His frown deepened, his eyes darted. “When I think back on those endless arguments . . . I thought you a loyal friend, but I did my damned level best to change your thinking, anyway. And all along you were fighting to protect your sister!”

  She cocked her head at him. “You would have done the same, had you known.”

  She could see that he was casting back, going over all the endless strategic discussions they’d both taken part in, reliving all of their private battles. His jaw clenched. “I’m afraid you are right—and I’m not sure I like what that reveals about me.”

  Callie was far more worried about what the dawning truth about her would mean to him.

  “I don’t understand. Why would you be so reluctant to have me know the truth?” He stiffened. “You expected that I would turn up my nose? That my regard for you would lower if I knew that your mother was an actress?”

  Heat blanched her face. “You have it wrong. My mother was not an actress.”

  “Did I misunderstand? When you spoke of Letty’s theatrical ambitions you said that her talent had come from . . .” He stopped.

  She nodded. “That’s right. Letty and I don’t share a mother, but a father.”

  His jaw worked. “But that makes you—”

  “A bastard?” she said bitterly.

  “Royal,” he answered bluntly.

  “A royal by-blow,” she bit out, “which is the same as saying a diamond-encrusted pig. A creature fit for none of the worlds it might live in.”

  “And yet, still royal.” He had begun to look as angry as she felt. “The royal family is practically bursting with natural children. The Duke of Clarence had ten with Mrs. Jordan alone, for God’s sake. They all take their place in court or move, even marry in Society. They have standing, allowances.” He gestured around them, then toward her gown. She looked down at the unadorned wool. “None of the rest of them lives in a home for troubled women.”

  “I am perfectly happy where I am.”

  “But you should be offered the same courtesies, the same—”

  She cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “It’s of no concern. I’ve made my decisions.”

  “But your father . . .”

  “Is reliably less interested in me than I am in him.” She shifted, uncomfortable and excited, afraid to go on but even more fearful of going back. “Please. None of that is why I wished to tell you the truth.”

  He sensed the change in the air. His posture shifted ever so slightly. He’d gone alert, a predator tasting, testing his surroundings with all of the senses available to him. Pique still blazed in his expression. On her behalf. A hidden part of her marveled—no, reveled—in the newness of such a thing.

  She squashed it. She was not to play the part of nervous, excited prey. Not for anyone. She’d vowed long ago never to take up such a role. No, this would be something altogether different.

  But it was there, in his gaze. Interest. Speculation. Even a little wariness.

  Smart man.

  “Why then, Callie?” he rasped. “Why tell me now?”

  “For several reasons. First, because Letty is my sister. And like many siblings, our history is long, complicated and not always amiable.”

  He snorted. “You don’t have to lecture me on the complexities of sibling relationships.”

  “I thought you should know, I will likely have to labor hard to convince her to come along with our plans.”

  “Understood.” His gaze darkened. She could almost feel the heat coming off of him as he smoldered at her. “Was there another reason to tell me?”

  She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat and moved restlessly in her seat again. “Yes. I gave you a bit of information that might help you in our mission. I wanted to ask something of you in return.” She could not keep her toes from curling inside her slippers. “A bit of a trade.”

  He waited.

  “What is it that you want, Callie?”

  “A kiss.”

  It came out a whisper. No. That wouldn’t do. She lifted her head. “I want you to kiss me,” she said distinctly.

  He exhaled. Had he been holding his breath?

  “Why?” he asked.

  Because his cheekbones were chiseled perfection. Because she’d been dreaming for weeks about putting her hands on those broad shoulders—and longer than that about tracing that crescent shaped scar with her fingers and smoothing away that crease that his frown gave it. Because the fine linen of his shirt couldn’t completely hide the hard, masculine beauty of his chest.

  She said none of those things, of course.

  “Because I want to know, finally, what it is all about,” she said with a shrug.

  “What it is all about,” he repeated slowly. “What what is all about?”

  She merely waved her hand in the air, gesturing between them.

  He frowned.

  She blew out an frustrated breath. “Kissing! And . . . you know . . . all of it.”

  “Kissing is not all of it,” he stated flatly. “Are you telling me that you’ve been living in Half Moon House with a goodly number of current or former prostitutes—and you’ve never been kissed?”

  She bristled. “Yes! I live in a house full of women, many who’ve been beaten, abandoned or abused. One way or another, most of them have had their lives ruined by men. It doesn’t exactly inspire girlish dreams or the urge to go about chasing kisses.”

  He paused, clearly taken aback. “I hadn’t considered it from that point.” He frowned, suddenly uncomfortable. “But why me?”

  She glanced away from the appeal of those dark eyes and the temptation of his tall, broad frame.

  “Because you understand things—many things that are important to me. Because I wish, for once, to do something just for me.” She pinched her lips. “Something that might be fun.”

  He didn’t smile. She appreciated it. Perhaps he knew that she did not take this lightly. “Because I trust you,” she said at last, low.

  He reared back. “Why?”

  Did he know how much that simple question gave away? “Tru—you are stubborn and exasperating. But you are also utterly honorable. I know that if I ask you for this, then you will not press me for anything more.”

  “So that’s to be it, then? A taste? A kiss and no more?” He stared, unblinking.

  “Yes. No.” She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She leaned forward over the forgotten remains of their dinner. “Are you going to make me ask you again?”

  His mouth twisted as if he were considering it. He sat there silent long enough that she knew he was considering it. Her heart sank. He was likely considering how to get out of her cabin and locked safely behind the door to his.

  “Hell,
no,” he said at last. He stood and extended an imperious hand. “On your feet,” he said roughly. “Your first kiss should not be on a hard, narrow ship’s bunk.”

  She took his hand, let him pull her to her feet. Relief sent shivers down her spine, so strong it banished any mortification she might have felt that he had read between the lines and arrived at that particularly embarrassing truth. His fingertips left hers and dragged lightly up her arm, sending shivers through her.

  He stepped closer. “Just a taste?”

  Her eyes slid closed as she nodded. He continued, exploring her jaw, the corner of her mouth, her temple. The shivering stopped—likely because she was growing so warm. He cupped her jaw with one hand, slid the other over her hip and to the small of her back. Pulling her tight against him, he pressed his lips to hers.

  A kiss. A simple thing, the soft touch of one mouth to another—and yet. And yet she felt it, instantly everywhere, lighting her up from within, waking all the dormant parts of her, from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.

  Gently, he instructed her. Lightly, he brushed her with his mouth. No rushing or insistence. He was inviting her to come along with him. Willingly, she followed him to a place where lush, rich and more were the only words that mattered.

  He listened, this one, and somehow that was as erotic as the straining press of their bodies.

  Because the rest of her wished to go along with him, as well. Her hands crept upward, enjoying the contrast of soft linen and hard, curving chest as her arm slipped around until she was—incredibly—closer. She dug her fingers into those gloriously broad shoulders and finally reached up with one finger to softly touch that intriguing scar. Her nipples went hard as they rubbed where her hands had just wandered. When he reached down to her bottom and urged her tighter against him she gasped her surprise and approval.

  He took the advantage and pressed his tongue to hers. She’d known it was coming, and yet she tensed. He slowed immediately, but did not retreat. Instead he coaxed, played, tempted, until her objections were gone and nearly all of her breath with it.

  He grew hungrier, asked for more. The powerful beat of his heart twined with hers.

  This. She’d never understood, before now. She’d seen women in thrall before—women glassy-eyed for days on opium, others selling themselves for a pint of gin, countless others throwing themselves away on men who mistreated them. She’d never understood.