by Lily Silver
“Aye, they mean well,” he conceded with a nod as he followed her retreat, his blond locks shifting like a golden waterfall about his shoulders with the movement. “Yet, their generosity makes the recipient of said gift deeply beholden to them. I admire the effort, but often rub at the chaffing bonds of obligation incurred by their benevolence toward me and others.”
She opened her mouth to protest but decided against it. Being a recipient of such good intentions did put one at a disadvantage. Even Gareth dared to whisper as much during their private conversations in their room. Still, it seemed irreverent to speak about the Beaumonts so. The count’s bold act many years ago had changed her life for the better. It would forever endear him to her. The count alone knew her secret, that she had been a slave, and Gareth, of course.
“Send Marta back. You’ll be happier and I think she may be better off. If you wish, when we make port in London I’ll find a mature woman to take her place.”
“You’re so thoughtful,” Chloe observed, almost without being aware of her confession. “Why are you not married, Captain Rawlings?”
He stepped forward and caressed the long blade on the table lightly. His long, lean forefinger traced the edge of the blade, from the guard to the tip of the sword. “I suppose I’m waiting for a charming princess to sweep me off my feet and carry me away on a white charger, That is, after she slays the dragon and rescues me from the tower.”
“I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
The captain’s eyes rose from admiration of his blade to engage her. “Are you suggesting I won’t be rescued by a lovely princess on a white stead?”
“Not a princess,” she countered, stepping closer to him as the brandy in her heart gave her courage. “Princesses usually send someone else to do their dirty work. But–” she held up her finger to convey a new idea. “if you’re in a desperate situation I’ll rescue you, my fair captain. I’ll rescue you from your solitary tower, and take you far away from all the cares in the world, just like in the stories I read to Little Cherie.”
“How brave you are. Tell me, when the dragon comes, how will you slay him?”
“I will cast a spell of enchantment over it.” She gave him a sly look. “Why must it always be a male dragon in the stories capturing a princess? Why not a female dragon capturing a handsome prince and holding him captive against his will in a tower?”
“You are an original. You and Lady Elizabeth would tame the world with your theories.” His tone was sharp, reproving, but the smile on his lips revealed his admiration. “Take care, my dear Chloe. Your Spanish relatives may not wish to hear your revolutionary ideas about women. They may pack you up and send you back to the islands.”
Chloe’s amusement deflated. She stepped forward and handed the captain her empty glass. “I am trying to curb my outspoken tendencies, but after a decade of indulgence by my husband’s family, it’s too late for me to change my ways.”
Rawlings took the glass from her fingers. He set it aside and then took her hand. “A great beauty is forgiven much. You’ll be admired in Cadiz, or Madrid, wherever it is you go. Admired as a beauty and as a woman of intelligence and learning.”
His tone was soft, sensual. It made Chloe’s heart rise and expand. She was aware of his strong hand covering hers and the hypnotic sway of the deck beneath her feet. She glanced up into his sun-bronzed features and was caught by that relentless blue stare.
He leaned forward. The sudden brush of his lips against hers was as light as a feather brushing her skin. The arms she admired so were now holding her close. Her arms slipped about his waist. She drank in his kiss like a parched flower long denied rain.
Gareth.
Chloe froze. Her lips stilled. She started to pull away. When he began to pull back as well, Chloe cupped his shoulders from behind to hold him fast so he could not retreat. Her body was betraying her, plain and simple. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to touch her and caress her. She wanted to feel alive and whole again.
The gentle persuasion of his lips brought her past her panic. Her fingertips curled about his long golden hair.
Alive, yes, I feel so alive.
The thought startled her. She felt dead inside for months, a hollow woman whose heart had been buried with her beloved. Gareth.
Chloe gasped and pulled her mouth from Jack’s with a pained sob.
She turned away and quickly covered her mouth with her fingers.
“Forgive my boldness.” Jack’s words floated on a breeze behind her.
Chloe turned about and was presented with his broad back. The thought of Gareth cooled her blood, but the loss of Jack’s embrace bothered her. “There is nothing that needs to be forgiven.”
He didn’t respond. His hand moved through his long hair, combing it with his fingers.
“Jack,” Chloe whispered, hoping he’d turn so she could see his expression and judge his mood. “Jack, please, look at me.”
He exhaled sharply. She was unprepared for the hard expression in his sea blue eyes when he did turn about to meet her. “Forgive my brutish behavior, Mrs. O’Donovan.”
“Don’t call me that!” She didn’t want to be called by her husband’s surname, not when in another’s arms. Was it so terrible to wish to soothe the ache in her soul?
“Why not? It is your legal name. And I should remember it.”
“No.” Chloe moved toward him, her fury rising. “I’m not Mrs. Anybody! Not anymore. He’s gone. I’m alone. Moments ago I was ‘dear Chloe’ to you. Now you seek to keep me away by tossing my husband’s name up as a shield?”
She cringed at the tone of her voice as it returned to her from the echo in the room. She sounded like a harpy. No, she sounded like little Cherie Beaumont having one of her moods.
“I didn’t mean to be so forward and offend you, Chloe O’Donovan. Or do you intend to become Chloe Ramirez again?” He bent and picked up her silk shawl that had fallen from her shoulders during their embrace. He straightened and offered it to her. He was gazing at her with a mixture of pity and of concern now instead of desire. She didn’t like it.
“I might.” She jerked the garment from his hand and wrapped it about her shoulders as a tight, protective shield against her traitorous heart. “I am going to Spain. Perhaps a Spanish name would be more appropriate.”
He muttered beneath his breath. She noted his change of stance as he put his hands on his hips. She had the feeling that if she were any other woman, a severe scolding would be in order.
“I am the one who is sorry.” She hissed the words through her tight lips, feeling loathe to utter them, but utter them she must. “I had a brief moment of regret. I thought of … him.” She would not say the name aloud. It was not fair to mention her husband to him after their shared kiss. “I was startled by it. Now, if you’ll give me another glass of brandy and act as if nothing is amiss, we can put the unfortunate mess behind us and begin anew.”
A golden brow arched upward. “You are an unusual woman.”
Jack moved to his liquor cabinet, bolted there, if truth be told, and poured them both another measure of brandy. Great Neptune, he’d never known a woman who took to brandy so. She and Lady Elizabeth must imbibe more than she was telling, for she was holding it well and asking for more. Most ladies would be staggering about by now or be flat out on the floor.
His own blood was surging through his body at an alarming pace. He was not accustomed to stopping the game of seduction once it began. Granted, most of his couplings were with whores in brothels, not gentle women such as Mrs. O’Donovan. He had to be careful and not plunge on like a stud horse in the stable yard.
He carried the glasses to her and handed her a new one without speaking. The silence between them was awkward. What could he say? I’m sorry didn’t seem appropriate. He wasn’t sorry he’d kissed her and saying so might be taken in the wrong light.
“To Spain, then. Drink up,” he muttered as they stood holding their glasses without speaking. Chloe O’Dono
van did as he said. She drank the brandy–all of it in one long pull.
Her action surprised him. He wondered if she partook of the strong libation frequently this past year. He wouldn’t blame her if she did. Everyone needed a good stiff drink now and again to get them through a black moment. A black year in her case.
Jack downed his drink whole in a spirit of camaraderie and stepped forward to set the empty glass on the table. Now there were three empty glasses lined up in row beside the sword.
Chloe stepped forward and set her glass down with conviction beside his.
Four empty glasses in row and a gleaming sword.
And two lonely people standing side by side, feeling awkward and uncomfortable after sharing a passionate kiss in an unguarded moment in the middle of the night. Damn it, this would never do. He couldn’t let her go back to bed feeling guilt. Time to change direction, quickly.
Jack picked up the sword. He held it aloft and examined the steel blade with his thumb. “Have you had dancing lessons?”
“After a fashion. Elizabeth taught me.” She was angry, with herself and with him for kissing her. Mostly herself, he surmised.
“Fencing is like a dance. The art requires grace and an ability to move freely. Your gown may hinder you. If you wish, you can remove it and wear one of my shirts, it will give your legs more freedom in the dance.”
Her response was a sharp gasp. Outrage or shock, he wasn’t certain. Jack pulled his gaze from his blade to regard her with a smile. “I’m only being practical, Ramirez.”
Those exotic chocolate pools held his with something akin to gratitude. “Thank you.”
For what, he couldn’t say. Thank you for moving on and forgetting their kiss? Thank you for calling me by my maiden name and not my husband’s name? He rolled his shoulders in response and nodded brusquely.
“You may call me Chloe in private,” she said. “I was only joking about reverting to my maiden name. It’s pettish to be so sensitive. It’s just … every time I hear Mrs. O’Donovan, I’m reminded that Mr. O’Donovan is no longer with me.” Her voice hitched with emotion.
Oh bloody hell! The brandy was going to her head, and next he supposed would come an onslaught of tears. He didn’t like tears. A good punch in the nose—that he understood. A woman’s tears were like a storm at sea, unpredictable, sending your feet out from under you as the deck rolled and swayed, making you fearful of slipping beneath the roiling waves and dropping silently into the dark, cold abyss.
He made a bold feint, pushing his right leg forward and extending his sword arm as he challenged an invisible opponent. “Another time, perhaps?” He did not wish to tangle with her feelings of bereavement surfacing amid brandy fumes.
Chloe came round to meet him, her expression calm again. “Tonight would be best. I’ll take that shirt you offered me.”
Jack felt his jaw sag as he stared at her. She was resolute, determined, and very much in control of her emotions. She was no weeping willow, this one. After her brief lapse, she seemed to have found the strength to tuck her ragged emotions away. Her features were animated, expectant, as she waited for him to direct her to the required clothing.
He lowered his sword arm and moved across the room to his clothes cupboard. He returned with a shirt in hand. He tossed it to her. Chloe caught it in mid air and then sauntered to his sleeping closet to change.
Jack feinted and twisted, parried and sliced the air in preparation of his lesson. He tried not to think of Chloe being naked in his bed chamber. Tried, and failed miserably. He was hard again. Rock hard. His breeches were too tight for the lesson at hand. He wondered absently if she would mind if he removed them.
Probably. Why was everything always so damned complicated between them?
Chloe emerged from his cubicle wearing only his linen shirt. Jack felt his groin tighten even more sharply. Those legs, those incredibly long, shapely legs …
He’d never make it through this, not with both of them still standing upright
Chapter Twelve
It was hard. Much harder than it seemed.
Fencing was complicated and precise. It was a dance of swords, carefully executed and difficult to master. It didn’t help that she’d indulged in brandy first. Alicia St. Vincent, the count’s mother, would be proud of her. All Chloe lacked was a cheroot between her lips and she’d be worthy of that woman’s praise.
The technique of swordplay was not all that was hard.
Jack Rawlings was as hard as stone. His body was rigid as it bracketed her from behind. She enjoyed the strength of his arms and chest as he moved in to correct her grip or adjust her arm’s position. When her backside brushed against him as she backed into him, she felt the solid evidence of his desire. The sensation of his manhood rubbing against her bottom, brief as it might be was enough to set her blood careening in her veins.
She felt clumsy. Each time she fumbled the move he directed, he came rushing forward to correct her stance from behind, and she felt the wicked urge to wiggle her bottom and see what might happen. It was a terrible way to behave. She giggled at the thought. Giggled, and tried a little harder to get the man to come near her again and place his body against hers in that sensual way to instruct her in the art of swordplay.
“You find this amusing, Ramirez?” he quipped. He’d taken to calling her by her father’s name within a few moments of the lesson, perhaps in an attempt to make her a man in his mind, as he taught her the rudiments of swordplay.
“I find you amusing, Captain.” She called him by his title, a little tit for tat, but it worked, and both of them seemed to enjoy it.
“You won’t, not when I’ve instructed you to practice in your cabin for hours. It is the only way to become proficient, continual practice until you have mastered the steps.”
“I am not planning to become a pirate,” she said, deliberately letting her arm dip too low so he might come close again to correct her grip. “Or join the army in Spain. I just wanted to be distracted. And this is an excellent distraction, Captain.”
“Don’t hold it like that.” Jack moved in, sidling up against her from behind as she hoped. He placed his hand on her wrist. “Your sword must be an extension of your arm. You don’t drop your arm, do you?”
It was too much to bear. Chloe wanted the game to be over. Enough of swords and proper stance; she wanted him to kiss her again. She had her opponent close. She must not lose him again. She leaned forward slightly so her backside was more pronounced. She lifted her sword arm, making him have to lean in to reach up and follow her arm’s unsteady movement. When he was in place, she did that terrible, wicked thing. She wiggled her backside against him.
It was a small movement. A subtle movement. One that would change the game between them significantly.
“Chloe,” he murmured, his voice gritty and coarse. His hands moved to her waist. He was holding her about the belly, his hands palmed against her flesh.
She straightened and leaned back against his frame. “Jack.”
“What are you doing?”
“Surely, a man of your years knows the answer to that?”
His breath caressed her neck when he answered her, raising gooseflesh and anticipation as she waited for him to kiss the back of her neck. “You know what I mean, woman. This isn’t a game.”
“I am a woman. You are a man, an attractive man.”
“You’ll regret it in the morning. This is not like you.’
“How do you know if this is or isn’t like me?” she asked, lowering the sword and putting her free arm across his as it bracketed her waistline. “I am not a maid unacquainted with the lover’s dance.”
Jack’s lips were close to her ear as he pressed against her in the way she intended. “It’s the brandy, darling. Lowers the drawbridge over the moat, drops the guard. You’ll be sorry in the morning, and I will not be responsible for causing you more grief.” His arms dropped from about her waist as he backed away.
Chloe turned. She almost conked h
im with the flat of the sword in her clumsy movement.
“Lesson’s over.” Jack pried her fingers from the sword grip. “You should turn in for the night, Mrs. O’Donovan.”
“Ramirez,” she countered. He was right. She was drunk and giddy. Still, would it be so horrible to make love with this magnificent golden man, this gilded god of the seas?
“Ramirez—O’Donovan, take yourself back to your cabin. You can keep the shirt.” He was leading her by the arm to the door.
Chloe hardly blinked through it all. He slammed the door in her face. Without warning she was standing outside his cabin, in his shirt, all alone in the dimly lit narrow corridor.
The door opened. He shoved her balled up bed gown into her hands and then piled her shawl on top of it. His arm went around her again, but not to embrace her. She was being herded across the hall, to her door. He stopped at the door, opened it, shoved her inside, and closed it.
Chapter Thirteen
The skies were overcast. It was cold and windy.
Chloe stood on the deck with her arms tight about her as the shawl she wore faced a continual assault from the wind. Such a change in the weather. She hadn’t anticipated it.
Was it a sign from the gods?
After last night’s clash, she dreaded meeting the captain face-to-face. He rejected her. He pushed her away when she was willing in his arms. The sobering reality of being walked out of his cabin and then pushed into her own was humiliating. She’d like to slap him, or worse, kick him in the shins like little Cherie would do to one of her brothers when they bullied her. The man was exasperating, warm and welcoming one moment and cool as ice the next.
“Afternoon, ma’am.” Mr. Jenkins, Jinx, strolled up to her as she stood near the main mast. Chloe was uncertain about standing at the rail in this strong wind. She feared she might tumble overboard. “A blustery day, this. A sign we are nearing England’s shores.” Jinx continued as his gaze swept over her with mixture of concern and amusement. “You might prefer a cloak or a thick jacket in the coming days, Mrs. O’Donovan.”
