INESCAPABLE LONGING
"Perhaps," Jason rasped, "we should hold a contest. Who can satisfy you best? Who can make you moan the loudest?"
Lauren heard the rough catch in his voice, saw the hooded anguish in his eyes, but still she didn't understand. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered, unable to bear his angry contempt.
"I told you why." Very deliberately he ran a forefinger down the slender column of her throat to the bare white flesh above her gown's low neckline. Lauren quivered, feeling his touch like a brand of fire against her skin.
"Because I want you," Jason continued, his low, sensuous voice stroking her. "And I intend to have you. I'll have you again and again, 'til you can't even remember Duval's name."
"Please . . ."
"Please what?" his husky voice prodded her. "Please you? What do you like best, sweetheart? I expect I can be as inventive as Duval."
Lauren knew then. With instinctive confidence, she knew he was jealous. Fiercely jealous. The knowledge gave her a heady feeling of power. Jason desired her, Lauren thought dazedly, looking up at him. He desired her.
Something of her wonder must have shown in her expression, for he shut his eyes momentarily, as if he were bracing himself against pain. And when he opened them again, she could see in the brilliant blue depths of his gaze that his anger had turned to smoldering passion . . .
Other Zebra books by Nicole Jordan:
Velvet Embrace
ZEBRA BOOKS
are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
475 Park Avenue South
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 1988 by Anne Bushyhead
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
First printing: August, 1988
Printed in the United States of America
CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Ellen and Ed for always saying "you can";
To Marcy, Kate, and Bea for keeping the faith;
To my wonderful friends at OV/RWA
for their marvelous motivations;
To Betty, Renee, and John for lending an ear (and more);
And, as always, to Jay for sharing the dream.
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part II
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Part III
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Part I
Promise the Night
Chapter One
London, 1812
Furtive voices. Stealthy footsteps. A sharp command.
Lauren DeVries cast a fearful glance over her shoulder, glimpsing the shadowed outline of three men in the distance. The sight made her tremble. Even in the darkness, she recognized those burly forms moving slowly along Wapping High Street, carefully searching the doorways and alleys of the waterfront, like vultures hunting prey. She had seen them often enough at Carlin House. They were George Burroughs's men.
Her guardian's men.
And they were hunting her.
Desperate to avoid detection, Lauren slipped into the concealing shadows of a narrow alleyway. Her breath was ragged from running, her body weary from hiding out for so many days. She drew the hood of her cloak around her face and huddled against the grimy brick wall, praying they would pass her by in the darkness.
The thud of bootheels on cobblestone grew closer, and Lauren nearly jumped when a voice spoke from just around the corner.
"The girl 'as to be near. The ole tar claimed she was askin' about passage."
"Well, she gave us the slip. Let's search further upriver. Mayhap she went as far as the Tower."
Lauren held her breath, the stench from the River Thames making her stomach churn. She knew how Burroughs's men had managed to follow her. Despite her precautions of covering her bright-gold hair beneath a hood, she couldn't disguise her exceptional height, any more than she could change her husky voice. Indeed, that was probably how they had trailed her from Cornwall to Reading, where they'd overtaken her the first time. And Matthew . . . God protect him . . . had lured them away so she could escape.
Matthew. A tight ache burned in Lauren's throat as she thought of the stalwart Scot. Although he was nearly old enough to be her grandfather, Matthew MacGregor was her dearest friend—indeed, her only friend. He not only had helped her run away from Carlin House, but had given little thought to his own safety in the process. Even as Burroughs's men had battered away at the bolted door of the lodging where she and Matthew had taken shelter for the night, his first thought had been for her.
"Ye must get away," he'd said in a harsh whisper, pressing a few banknotes into her hand as he pushed her toward the casement window. "Here . . . make for the posting house on the London Road. Hire a coach to Wapping and find the inn I told ye about. I'll meet ye there if I can. And if I canna, then ye take the first ship to America, as we planned." She had protested, but his face, craggy as the Cornish cliffs, had set stubbornly. "Dinna wait for me, lass," he commanded in his soft burr. He lifted her to the windowsill then, just as the sound of a splintering door and the shouts of Burroughs's men filled the room.
Whirling, Matthew drew his pistol and fired. He hit one of the men, but a second advanced with a deadly short sword poised for a thrust, barking, "Get the girl!"
Matthew had frantically waved Lauren away. Yet she couldn't leave him there to die. With a jerk, she pushed herself from the window and fell to the floor, crying out at the sharp pain in her right knee. Her sudden movement served to distract the swordsman, though, and while Matthew rushed him, she shoved a chair at the two others, then seized her bundle of clothes from the bed and threw it at them with all her might.
The next instant she found her hand grasped by Matthew as he dragged her out the door and out of the inn.
For an endless age they raced through the dark streets, trying to shake the pounding footsteps behind them—until, finally, Matthew pushed her into a dark alley and set off again to lead their pursuers away, leaving her trembling and alone.
That had happened two days ago. Her instinct for survival had taken hold then, giving her the courage to make her way on her own. But Matthew hadn't come to the Red Lion Inn that night as Lauren desperately hoped he would. Sick with worry, she had waited another day before following his last injunction to find a ship.
Her hopes of sailing with the midnight tide were already dashed, however, for even though she had found the waterfront, she had very little money and the few sailors she had dared question had only given her leers and lewd suggestions. And in the end, it appeared that her efforts had drawn the attention of Burroughs's men once again.
Scarcely daring to breathe, Lauren waited now in an agony of apprehension for them to discover her hiding place. Finally, though, she heard the footsteps moving away.
She drew a shaky breath, then counted to twenty before cautiously peering around her hood. At th
e mouth of the alley, she could see stark masts silhouetted against the night sky— hundreds of them, belonging to the myriad of ships which dotted the Thames and lay anchored along the miles of wharves.
She could detect little movement. The traffic on the river had thinned to an occasional barge, while the activity on the waterfront had ceased for the night. Behind her, the shops of London's East End were closed and shuttered, although the taprooms of the numerous public houses still teemed with seamen and the bawds and cutpurses who worked the district.
Lauren caught the faint din of their drunken revelry as she stood listening to the thud of water slopping heavily against wharf timbers. She heard some soft scurryings also, which she thought might be rats, yet the idea of confronting an army of foraging rodents didn't frighten her as much as did getting caught and having to face Burroughs himself. George Burroughs . . . the surviving partner and sole controller of the vast Carlin shipping empire. He was her guardian as well, and had the power to force her compliance with his slightest wish, even his personal vendettas.
Deciding that his men had truly gone, Lauren turned away from the river and sped down the filth-strewn alley. She was limping slightly, the knee that she'd twisted in her drop from the window at Reading still paining her, but she ignored the discomfort. With those bloodhounds so close on her trail, she had no choice but to continue her search for a ship. She had to leave England. George Burroughs had arranged her marriage to a man she had never met, and since she wasn't yet seventeen, she had no legal right to challenge his authority. Yet she was running from more than an enforced marriage. Her situation was far more complicated. And far more dangerous.
Her soft kid slippers made no sound on the uneven cobblestones as she made her way through the narrow, twisting streets that were crammed with lodging houses and tenement slums. Moving parallel to the river, she headed toward the enclosed London Dock, hugging the shadows as she passed busy taverns and silent counting houses alike, pausing only once to avoid the parish night watch who was making his rounds with his latern and rattle. At length Lauren reached the great dock wall on Pennington Street that was lined with warehouses, and after some searching, found the entrance gate unguarded. She breathed more easily then, even though the odor of rotting fish and tar was nearly overpowering.
A forest of ships greeted her as she slipped inside. Slowing, she picked her way among crates and barrels which had been waterproofed with pitch and lay piled on the wharf, awaiting distribution.
A gleam of light shortly attracted her notice. It was coming from a three-masted brigantine that lay close alongside the quay, and seemed to be offering refuge. Perhaps, she thought with renewed hope, she might also find someone on board who would be sympathetic to her plight.
She descended the steps to the stone quay, and after glancing behind her to make sure she hadn't been followed, crept up the brig's gangway, the sounds of lapping water and creaking timber masking her approach. The main deck seemed to be deserted, Lauren saw as she stepped on board. The beckoning light was issuing from a lantern which hung on a peg to her left; the lantern cast a dim glow over the starboard bow, while it wreathed the stern in shadows.
Feeling like an intruder, Lauren called out hesitantly. When she received no answer, she made her way aft toward the quarterdeck, hoping to find someone with whom she could negotiate for passage.
"Stop! Who goes there?"
Lauren jumped at the unexpected challenge, then whirled in alarm. Facing her, his sturdy legs planted in a belligerent stance, was a young man dressed in the blue serge jacket and canvas trousers of a seaman, holding a lethal-looking musket at the ready. The light threw a shadow over his face, but as Lauren stood there frozen, he moved closer, giving her a better view of red-blond hair, a snub nose, and freckles.
He wasn't any older than she, Lauren realized with surprise. Indeed, he appeared a few years younger, perhaps thirteen or fourteen. She let out a sigh of relief. Even training a gun on her, he didn't seem as dangerous as the men she was running from. And oddly, she felt safer than any time since she had become separated from Matthew.
"I beg your pardon," Lauren began in her husky voice, "but could you tell me what ship this is?"
The lad eyed her warily, trying to get a better look at her face beneath the hood. He must have decided she didn't present any immediate threat, for he seemed to relax. "The Leucothea," he answered finally. "You lost, ma'am?"
"No, I saw your lantern light. I was hoping to speak to whoever is in charge."
"I'm in charge, ma'am. This here's my first night on watch."
Lauren thought she detected a note of pride in the youth's tone and hesitated, not wanting to hurt his feelings. "You command the ship then?"
A sheepish grin lit the lad's round face. "Truth tell, I'm the cabin boy . . . Tim Sutter. The cap'm let me take the watch since he's still on board."
"The captain is here? Do you suppose I could speak to him? I would like to ask him if he'll take me on as a passenger."
"A passenger?" Sutter seemed surprised by her suggestion. "That ain't likely, ma'am."
"I'm afraid I haven't much money," Lauren said quickly, "but I would repay him, I promise."
"It wouldn't matter how much blunt you had. The cap'm don't allow females on board ship. Besides, the Leucothea ain't a passenger vessel. She's a warship."
"Oh."
He must have sensed Lauren's fierce disappointment, for his expression became apologetic. "Truth tell," he amended, "the Leucothea mostly transports cargo, but sometimes she comes to blows at sea. We fought two battles with the Frogs just last month, but we gave 'em somethin' for their pains and made it through with hardly a scratch."
"Frogs? You fight frogs?"
"You know, Frogs. The Frenchies. We're at war with 'em. But we'll show ole Boney he can't defeat us."
"Oh . . . of course." Lauren pressed a hand to her temple, fighting a wave of exhaustion. The fear and worry of recent weeks must have taken a greater toll than she had realized, leaving her disoriented and confused; she had heard the cant term before, despite having lived in isolation for the past four years.
"Ma'am," Sutter said hesitantly. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but the cap'm won't like you being here. You'll have to leave. I'm right sorry."
Remembering her original purpose, Lauren glanced over her shoulder to scan the dark wharf. Burroughs's men were out there somewhere, beyond the great wall. "Please . . . don't make me leave just yet."
Sutter's freckled face puckered into a frown. "You don't have a place to go, ma'am?"
"Not a safe place. There were some men following me. Please, may I stay here for a short while? They may try to return."
He studied her for a moment before finally nodding. "I'll go fetch the cap'm." He moved past Lauren, toward the stern, but he had only gone a few feet when a voice spoke from the darkness.
"You seem to be doing quite well on your own, Sutter."
The boy gave a start, leveling his long carbine at the shadows. "Sir!" he exclaimed when he recognized the menace: his six-foot-four captain was standing near the door below the quarterdeck, silently observing them.
"As I'm not the enemy, lad," he said gently, "you might consider aiming that elsewhere."
Lauren, who had whirled at the sound of that velvet- textured voice, knew she must be confronting the master of the vessel, for he strode forward with the easy grace of a man used to respect and instant obedience. She wondered how long he had been eavesdropping on their conversation, but as he stepped into the lantern light, pinning her with his gaze, all thought of taking him to task fled.
Her first impression was one of overwhelming physical presence. He was a head taller than other men of her acquaintance, and his broad-shouldered frame made him appear powerful and commanding—and somewhat intimidating. He was dressed as a gentleman, though. He wore an elegant green coat, crisp white cravat, tight-fitting stockinette breeches, and gleaming topboots—all which complemented his noble features and contradicte
d every notion Lauren had ever held about sea captains.
In spite of herself, she couldn't help staring at his leonine magnificence. His tawny chestnut hair was thick and curling, glinting with a silver sheen in the glow of lantern light. Yet it was his brilliant blue gaze which held her attention. She had never seen eyes of such a deep, vivid blue.
He suffered her scrutiny in silence, a hint of amusement curving his lips, as if he were accustomed to such reactions from females. Finally, however, one of his heavy, slightly arching eyebrows lifted. "Do you intend to introduce me to the lady?"
He was speaking to the forgotten cabin boy, Lauren realized, at the same time perceiving how intently she had been staring. She felt a flush rise to her cheeks and was grateful for her concealing hood.
Tim Sutter stepped forward with alacrity. "Sorry, Cap'm, but she dinnet tell me her name."
The captain appraised Lauren, his calm, intelligent regard trying to pierce the shadows that concealed her face. "I'm Jason Stuart," he said mildly. "Perhaps you'd like to explain how I may be of service."
The revelation hit her with the force of a cannon shot. Lauren drew a sharp breath, her thoughts reeling. "Did . . . you say . . . Stuart," she rasped. "Jason Stuart?" But she knew the answer, even before his confirming nod. Fixing her stunned gaze on Captain Stuart, she took an involuntary step backward. "I . . . I must have made a mistake," she got out as she continued to retreat.
When the captain took a step toward her, she put out a hand as if to fend him off. That checked him for a moment. "Sutter, find her something to sit on before she faints."
Desire and Deception Page 1
