Irresistible

by ROBARDS, KAREN

The little niggle of hope just born in her mind wilted like a water-starved plant. Still, she didn’t try to resist as, with one pair of hands still lodged far too familiarly under her armpits and another now gripping her bare ankles just above the rope that bound them, she was borne off toward the companionway amid much grumbling and many dark looks cast after Hugh.

  As the stiff night wind hit her, Claire shivered uncontrollably. Only then did she realize that she had been shivering all along. From fear, she realized, almost as much as from the cold.

  What would come to her now?

  “You got your business tidied away all right and tight then, I’m thinking?”

  Hugh had stopped walking and now stood with a slightly built, bewigged man of average height and sumptuous dress just a short distance away, Claire saw. She supposed it was he who had spoken.

  Behind them rose the captain’s cabin, which was dark, and the quarterdeck, which was a hive of activity. Ropes snapped in the wind, and the white sails, ghostly pale in the darkness and billowing wildly as the wind caught them, were being run up the poles. In the distance, loud enough to be audible over the rushing sea, came a cranking, grinding, metallic sound that Claire decided was the anchor being raised.

  “I did, Captain, and I thank you for your assistance and the loan of your ship,” Hugh said, his tone courteous.

  “Oh, ’twas our pleasure, you may be sure. We’re all loyal subjects of His Majesty, after all.”

  Being carried clumsily below, down a steep companionway and along a narrow creaking hallway past innumerable bolts of cloth and stacks of lashed barrels, Claire missed the rest of the exchange. But she did hear the captain, minutes later, bellow, “Release those lines! Look lively, mates, we’re away!”

  Hard on the heels of that, the ship gave a great surge forward and the motion increased markedly. She was ever a poor traveler and greeted the rocking with alarm. Fortunately, her stomach was nearly empty; she had last eaten when the coach had stopped at an inn along the way to rest the horses, and she had partaken of a cup of tea and some buttered bread. With Alice—but it would not do to think of her poor maid or her possible fate. There was nothing she could do for her, or for John Coachman, or anyone else. She must just try, if she could, to save herself, and put the others from her mind.

  That small meal had been more than twelve hours before, as the time, unless her calculations were far off, was well past midnight. Still, Claire was all too aware of the increased rolling as she was borne into a low-pitched stateroom so small that a grown man might stretch out his arms and almost touch both walls for the width of it, and as for the length—well, the men carrying her seemed to be practically stepping on each other’s toes once they crossed the threshold. Warmth seemed to embrace her, and she realized that, down here out of the wind, the temperature was actually quite bearable. Their entry was met by a sharp heeling of the ship and the crash of a wave breaking against the hull. The boom was as loud as a cannon, and Claire was forcefully reminded of the sea’s continued unease.

  “Not on the bunk, ye bloody imbeciles! Can ye not see she’s soaked to the skin?”

  The speaker was the pudgy man, who was engaged in lighting a lantern that hung by a chain from a thick beam overhead. As the wick caught, and he closed the glass door and turned to look at them, he released the lantern and it began to swing, pendulumlike, back and forth on its chain.

  Hastily Claire turned her attention to the man. He had, she observed, in addition to his beard, short grizzled hair and a long beaked nose as the most prominent among unremarkable features. He was dressed in a plain black coat and breeches suitable for a servant, with white shirt and stockings and sturdy black shoes.

  “What are we to do with ’er then?”

  The two men carrying her, who had indeed been making for the narrow bunk that took up almost the whole of one wall, stopped walking. For a moment Claire hung between them, sagging in the middle like a rolled-up carpet.

  “Put her on the floor.”

  No sooner were the words out of the pudgy man’s mouth than the sailors let go, dumping her without ceremony on the hard boards. Claire couldn’t control the small pained cry that escaped her as she landed abruptly on her bottom, then fell back on her bound hands. Even as cold as those extremities were, that hurt, so Claire rolled onto her side. Her cry had drawn the attention of all three men, who stared down at her. Alarmed, Claire curled up once again in a tight ball, drawing her knees up to her chest, tucking her chin on top of them, and tossing her head so that much of her hair lay across her face, serving as a wet, tangled veil over her features. Instinctively she sought to allow them to see as little of her person as possible. She was still shivering, increasingly nauseated and suffering from a headache, but those were the least of her problems, she realized, as she peered through the sheltering strands. The sailors were eyeing her avidly, and glancing down at herself she saw why. Her wet skirts were rucked up around her knees, leaving her lower limbs totally exposed to their view.

  With her hands bound, there was nothing to be done about it. Exhausted and frightened, gritting her teeth in an effort to silence their chattering, she lay still and closed her eyes. Weakness washed over her in waves; her head swam. She was too tired to worry anymore about what might happen to her. Whether she lived or died was in God’s hands.

  “A change of clothes, James, and a towel.”

  With that, Hugh arrived, and despite her attempt to resign herself to whatever came, Claire discovered that she was not quite as indifferent to her fate as she had supposed. Her eyes popped open to fix on him. The small chamber suddenly felt grossly overcrowded as he stepped inside it. His large frame seemed to take up every remaining inch of space.

  “Aye, you need them.” The pudgy man—James—nodded, and turned to a cupboard built into the bulkhead, which he opened, reaching inside to search through what looked like a pair of saddlebags. Hugh, meanwhile, stood in a rapidly growing puddle of his own making, Claire saw, as her gaze, which she tried to veil behind lowered lashes and her curtain of wet hair, ran over him. Water ran down his bare, muscular calves in rivulets and dripped from his shirt and his black hair. He was somewhat blue about the gills, as, indeed, she suspected she was herself. A fresh-looking abrasion just above his left temple marked the spot where she had hit him with the jug. His head seemed near to brushing the beams overhead, and she judged him to be several inches above six feet. His soaked shirt was almost translucent in places where it clung to his broad shoulders and wide chest, and revealed a dark shadow that she suspected was abundant chest hair beneath. His breeches, while made of a sturdier material, were only slightly less revealing of an athlete’s lithe hips and the hard muscles of his thighs. He appeared to be somewhere in his early to midthirties, with creases around his mouth and eyes. His face, though not what she would have termed handsome, was instead striking, with boldly carved lines that added up to a whole that was somewhat harsh: His nose was masterful, his mouth long and thin-lipped, his eyes heavy-lidded. In the flickering lantern light their color was uncertain, although they appeared dark. They were set beneath straight, bold slashes of crow-black brows. His cheeks were lean and darkened by what appeared to be at least a day’s growth of beard, his brow was high and slightly furrowed, and his jaw gave evidence of an obstinate disposition. He was as dark of complexion and hair as a Gypsy, and as forbidding in aspect as the most murderous of brigands.

  Which he almost certainly was, she thought with a lurch of her heart. He had saved her from the sea, true, and from the sailors above, but that was no reason not to fear him. It was likely that his motive, if she knew it, would be enough to strike terror into her heart.

  To her dismay, as her gaze returned to his face she realized that he was eyeing her with a grim expression that boded nothing very good for her future.

  The unmistakable sound of smacking lips redirected her attention in a hurry. Still huddled tightly in her protective ball and trying not to move any part of her person except her eyes
, she peeped out through her carefully preserved screen of hair and lashes to discover that the sailors who had carried her into the cabin now stood shoulder to shoulder above her, their gazes fastened on her bare legs. There was something in their expressions that made her think sickeningly of hungry dogs and meat pasties. Their fervidness made her flesh creep.

  The use to which they would put her was clear. Carnal intent was writ plain on their faces. Again she thought, I can’t bear it.

  A fresh surge of adrenaline caused her heart to pump faster, warmed her cold extremities, and stiffened her will. She would fight to the last drop of her strength and beyond, before she would submit to rape.

  “You may leave us.”

  Hugh’s voice was as hard as his eyes, which, she saw as she glanced at him again, were no longer fixed on her but on the two men. He was dismissing them—thank God, thank God. At his words, the sailors looked up, and for a second the atmosphere was charged. Hugh stared them down, his stance relaxed but ready, his gaze stony. That he was holding a businesslike-looking pistol seemed to clinch matters. There was a slight but discernible change in their demeanor: They no longer seemed quite so threatening. Claire breathed a little—just a little—easier.

  “Aye, sir,” the taller of the two answered with resignation.

  “Ye need any ’elp with ’er, Yer ’Onor, ye jest be lettin’ us know.” His companion was more optimistic.

  “Aye, we’ll be right pleased to assist with anythin’ ye need,” the first sailor agreed with renewed cheerfulness, flashing a wolfish grin. “Especially where yon toothsome lass is concerned.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” Hugh’s voice was dry.

  “Get along, now. Get! Go on!” James, a motley collection of what appeared to be men’s clothing clutched in one fist, turned from the cupboard to drive the sailors from the cabin with a series of shooing motions, then shut the door behind them and threw the bolt. He then turned back to Hugh, who seemed to slump a little with the sailors’ exit. James watched eagle-eyed as Hugh grimaced and exhaled with a soft hiss.

  “Aye, ye’ve done yerself an injury with yer foolishness, just like I knew ye would.” James’s tone was grim as he crossed to the other man’s side. To Claire’s surprise, Hugh, who was doing something with the pistol, seemed to take no umbrage at being spoken to like an errant child.

  “Have done with your scolding, James.” Placing the pistol on a small, semicircular table built into the wall opposite the bunk, Hugh took a deep, slow breath. “I’m in no mood to listen to it, I warn you.”

  But he sank down onto a slat-backed chair James pulled out for him without protest. Wincing, he pressed one hand flat against the left side of his rib cage, rubbed in a rather gingerly fashion and leaned carefully back, stretching his legs out before him. His bare feet, Claire noted in passing, were long, narrow, and unmistakably masculine, like his hands. She was as tense as a coiled spring now, ready to seize any chance to save herself. But all she could do for the moment was lie still as a mouse, and watch, and listen.

  “I’ll reckon ye’re not. Going into the water for such a cause, and you in such a state. Master Hugh, I’ll tell ye to yer head that a lad of ten would have had more sense.”

  “Would you have had me let the wench drown?” The words were spoken through clenched teeth. No doubt about it, Claire thought: The man was in pain.

  “I would’ve had you let one of the sailors go in after her, as any man of sense would have done.”

  “Very likely, but I didn’t think of it at the time.”

  Claire was alarmed to find Hugh’s gaze shifting to her as James dropped the clothes on the table, which, given the close quarters of the cabin, was right at Hugh’s elbow. James then stepped in front of Hugh, reaching for the fastenings on his shirt and effectively distracting his attention.

  Hugh swatted his hands away. “I can undress myself, old man. Contrary to your apparent opinion, I’m neither helpless nor a child. Give me that towel and have done.”

  With a slightly aggrieved expression, James did as he was told. To Claire’s dismay, even as Hugh rubbed his head with the towel his gaze fastened once more on her.

  “As for you, vixen, I’ll not perjure myself by saying that it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I will point out that I am perfectly aware that you are present, so you may cease trying to make yourself inconspicuous by curling up into a ball.”

  6

  Without warning, Hugh found himself looking into a pair of eyes that gleamed unexpectedly gold as the lamplight caught them through the black tangle of her hair. Siren’s eyes . . . To his dismay, the thought registered in his brain before he could cut it off.

  His expression turned grim. Those eyes were not going to be allowed to sway him. They were, first and foremost, traitor’s eyes. His gaze flicked once more to James, who was crouched beside him now, attempting to dry his feet and legs. Impatiently he shifted out of reach. James gave an annoyed tsk and frowned up at him.

  “If I hadn’t witnessed it with me own eyes, I never would’ve believed you’d have jumped in the sea without first thinkin’ to remove your boots,” James said, his tone part scolding and part mournful. “And them brand-new, too, with them fine chamois tops and tassels like the tails of gold horses. Now what’s to do? They’re lost, and you’ve no more footwear with you. A pretty figure you’ll cut, riding about France in your stocking feet. Not but what you didn’t lose a fine pair of clocked stockings, too.”

  “I’ll just have to wear your shoes then, won’t I?” Though he’d be hanged if he’d admit as much to James, he did slightly regret the loss of his boots. He’d taken delivery of them just the week before. “And your stockings, too.”

  “And what about your coat, eh? The sea has that too, and the other one we brought is still damp, and all but ruined from the rain we rode through getting here.”

  “You scold worse than a wife, you know that?” Hugh narrowed his eyes at his faithful retainer. “Take your sorry self off, and see what the captain has aboard in the way of spirits. I thirst.”

  “Aye, you’d like me to think that, wouldn’t you? You’re looking to the bottle to ease your hurts, I don’t doubt, which ye wouldn’t be needin’ to do had ye not been so bloody foolish.”

  The trouble with servants who had been with a man from birth was that over the years they could be counted on to stop showing proper deference to him, Hugh reflected sourly, shooting James a quelling look. Having been the recipient of such a look on countless occasions in the past, James had no trouble interpreting it—or disregarding it. Giving an ostentatious sniff that expressed his feelings as clearly as any diatribe might have done, he abandoned what he would doubtless describe as his unappreciated efforts to make his master more comfortable and stood up, towel in hand.

  “Very well, then, I’m going. Have a care what you’re about.”

  Hugh didn’t reply to this parting evidence that his henchman for life had little faith in his ability to function satisfactorily without him, and James, with a final expressive sniff that Hugh also chose to ignore, took himself off.

  As the door shut behind James, Hugh’s attention shifted back to the woman. She was huddled on her side, her face shrouded by long, tangled skeins of ink-black hair through which her eyes still gleamed at him like—not a siren’s, perish the thought—a wild thing’s. With her knees practically tucked beneath her chin, she was curled at the center of a spreading puddle. Her soaked skirts—they would, when dry, be a shade close to tobacco brown, he judged—lay about her like the limp petals of a wilted flower. Her gown appeared both stylish and surprisingly modest, given her profession. It was of fine wool, as he had noted before, with a high, close neckline and long mameluke-style sleeves trimmed with thin bands of what looked like dark velvet; he supposed the inclement weather must have played a factor in her choice of apparel because, under ordinary conditions, it would have been quite modest. These conditions, however, were far from ordinary, and her soaked bodice clung to fir
m round breasts sized to fill teacups very nicely, and revealed pert nipples, hardened by the cold, thrusting lewdly against the fabric; in addition, her skirts were in considerable disarray, rucked up and twisted so that they exposed slender, shapely calves as well as ankles so delicate and finely turned that they made the rope binding them look far thicker than he knew it was.

  Had he encountered those ankles on the street, displayed by, say, a mischievous gust of wind, his reaction would have been head-turningly swift. Indeed, even knowing what he knew of her, his body displayed a disturbing tendency to react as any normal man’s would to such enticements, and curbing that tendency required a considerable effort of will on his part.

  If nothing else, he reflected caustically, he had to commend old Archer on his taste in ladybirds. Unless her hair concealed a face like a gargoyle’s, this was a high-flyer indeed.

  Having gotten himself well under control again, he completed the rest of his inspection swiftly, and in a detached, almost clinical manner for which he silently congratulated himself. Her feet were as fine-boned as the rest of her, with small toes curved like shells. What he could see of her skin was so pale it was almost translucent, with a blue cast that could, he knew, be attributed to the fact that she was as wet as seaweed and doubtless freezing. Her figure, just as he had earlier guessed from the feel of it, was that of a girl, slim and supple, with hips that were more slender than womanly and a tiny waist beneath those succulent breasts.

  He found himself hoping that she was older than the girl she appeared, that the face that was still largely hidden from him was—oh, happy thought!—heavy-jowled and riddled with wrinkles or other marks of a lengthy life given over to dissipation.

  Not that her age, whatever it might be, mattered a whit under the circumstances.

  Standing abruptly—his ribs repaid him for the carelessness of his movement with a quick stab—he took the three strides necessary to reach the door. He had no real reason to distrust the Nadine’s crew, but it never hurt to be careful, so he bolted the door. Then he retraced his steps, unbuttoning his sodden shirt on the way. As he reached the table, he became aware that his prisoner was watching him as carefully as a cat at a mouse hole. The bright gleam widened as he abandoned the slippery buttons to pull the garment over his head, then was extinguished altogether seconds later as he dropped the sodden shirt onto the floor. Clearly she had closed her eyes. A modest doxy? The notion piqued his interest.