Historical Romance Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  She gave Lieutenant Favre a shaky smile before he could remove his breeches. “Are you not going to help me first?”

  The lieutenant’s eyes gleamed with lust and anticipation. “You are far more eager than I had hoped, ma petite. I am glad to see you are a woman of your word.” He closed the gap between them in a single stride and pulled her into his arms for another revolting kiss, gagging her with his tongue. Then he fumbled with her buttons.

  Jeannette steeled herself beneath his groping fingers. She had to wait until they were both on the bed and she could use her weight to bear down on him with the knife. But when his hand delved beneath her clothing, she pulled away.

  “What?” His eyes narrowed at the loathing and disgust that she struggled to hide. “Is something wrong?”

  The lies Jeannette planned to utter froze in her throat. She couldn’t pretend; it was beyond her. “You are worse than a pig,” she spat. “My skin crawls beneath your touch.”

  Jeannette hadn’t expected her words to be well-received, but the immediate violence of the blow he struck caught her by surprise. She blinked as bells and whistles seemed to explode in her head, then stared at him, dazed, as he advanced upon her.

  “I am not doing this for you.” Gripping her by the hand, he yanked her forward and tossed her onto the bed, where he grabbed a handful of her shirt and tried to rip it away. But by then Jeannette had regained enough of her senses to fight.

  “No!” She struggled to free herself, but he claimed her wrists and pinned them above her head. His overlong nails grazed her skin from collarbone to breast as he tore open her shirt. Jeannette could see the crest of her own nipple, bouncing as her chest heaved beneath his weight.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, letting go of her hands in his eagerness to feel her flesh.

  Jeannette groaned, not caring whether he’d interpret the sound as pleasure or pain and reached for the knife. It was time. Time to claim her weapon. If only she could reach it …

  The tips of Jeannette’s fingers brushed the hilt several times before she managed to pull it from her shoe. By then the lieutenant had shifted to fumble with his belt and unknowingly knocked the knife from her shaking hand onto the bed along with them.

  Oh God, help me. Frantically patting the bedclothes, Jeannette searched for the cool steel of the blade.

  Finished undoing his pants, the lieutenant turned his attention to stripping off the rest of her clothes.

  “Treynor,” she whimpered. “Treynor…” And then her fingers found the knife.

  * * *

  “Breakers dead ahead! The rocks!” The lookout’s cry caused the entire ship to take notice. “Heave to! Heave to!”

  Some of the French sailors scrambled up the wet rigging. Others raised the ship’s blue lights and fired the warning rockets. The three men guarding Treynor and the other English prisoners peered questioningly at each other. They’d been given strict orders not to leave their posts, but the emergency of the situation clearly confused them.

  “All hands to stations!” someone else shouted. “Vite! Vite!”

  Treynor felt Smedley slump against him and glanced down. The man had drawn his last breath without Treynor knowing it. Another loss—but there was nothing Treynor could do. And, with any luck, Smedley could still be of help.

  “This man is about to die! We need a surgeon! Have pity!” he cried above the roar of the wind and waves.

  His yells destroyed the last vestiges of the guards’ resolve to remain. Injured and dying English prisoners were of no importance when the ship would wreck if they did not act in time.

  The rocks along the coast seemed to rise from the foaming breakers a quarter-mile away, growing larger by the second.

  Lowering their pistols, the guards ran off, some slipping across the deck in their efforts to help with the sails and keep the Superbe from certain doom.

  Treynor blinked against the rain. “Let’s go!” he called and sprang into action. “Now is our chance!”

  Had another man led the charge, perhaps the Tempest’s battered crew would not have followed, but they were used to his voice. Some grabbed slabs of wood as a weapon. Many went at the French with nothing more than their fists and sheer fury.

  Favre had to have heard the alarm. But he was nowhere in sight. And Treynor couldn’t look for him. Despite the wind buffeting every move they made and the rain slashing into their faces, they had to subdue the French and gain control of the ship or they would all die.

  The rocks rose higher on their leeward side, backed by the humped shadow of land. From the ship, the jagged coast looked like the teeth of some great serpent slithering through the water to devour them.

  After knocking away the Frenchman who tried to stop him, he rushed the steersman with single-minded determination and slugged him until he let go of the wheel.

  Without someone at the helm, the Superbe swayed even more dramatically. Treynor planned to take control, but the steersman wasn’t about to let him. They grappled for several seconds, fighting on the slippery deck, before Treynor managed to get enough space to knock him out.

  Pushing the limp man aside, he rose unsteadily to his feet, wincing. Many of the wounds on his arm had reopened in the struggle. Fresh blood soaked through the makeshift bandages, but he ignored it along with the damp, windy weather and the pain.

  Jeannette …

  He had to reach her. But at that moment he could do nothing other than steer the ship out of danger. Wiping the water from his eyes, he grasped the wheel and turned it with unthinking skill, hoping to save them all.

  The others, still locked in battle, were fighting with equal parts rage and desperation. But it wasn’t long before they sent up the cry of “Long live the King!” The French had been taken by surprise by both the rocks and their English prisoners. Without someone to lead them, they soon gave up, begging to surrender.

  But Treynor intended to take no prisoners. He couldn’t risk an uprising later, would need all hands from the Tempest just to sail the ship. He shouted an order for any Frenchman yet alive to be thrown overboard, and soon the Superbe’s crew jumped ship and swam for the very rocks Treynor worked so hard to avoid. Then his men, shouting to each other and to him, swarmed the rigging and regained control despite the rain.

  But the switch had cost them time, too much time. The ship began to swing the wrong way again….

  Treynor cast a glance over his shoulder toward the captain’s cabin where he’d seen Favre take Jeannette. Its portal was still closed. To rescue her he would have to let go of the wheel. But they were not out of danger. He couldn’t risk drifting any closer to the rocks. Already, it appeared too late to avoid such a calamity.

  Despite the fact that he was using all his skill, the frigate yawed one way and then the other. The wind seemed determined to dash them against the French coast, but then …it shifted. With a shudder, the Superbe settled, rocking in swells that would take them away from the rocky coast.

  Marveling at the miracle that had just saved them, Treynor called Bosun Hawker to the wheel the second they were clear.

  “Take this,” he shouted above the storm. “And hold her steady.”

  Hawker used his wet sleeve to wipe the water from his face. “I don’t think anyone can. Not in ‘er condition,” he cried. But he complied.

  As soon as the older man’s hands closed about the wheel, Treynor made a dash for the captain’s cabin. Slowing as he reached the door, he pressed his ear to the wooden panel, hoping to get some indication of what went on inside. His strength was fading—he needed the advantage of surprise.

  The sound of the rain hitting the deck, the shouting of his men, the rigging whistling above, and the water churning about them echoed in Treynor’s ears, but he could hear nothing from inside.

  He tried the knob.

  Locked.

  Damnation. He stepped back and used his shoulder as a battering ram. But the door held fast. He was just getting ready to slam into it again when it opened and Jea
nnette’s pale face appeared.

  “Treynor?” Tears swelled in her eyes and splashed over her thick lashes to run down her cheeks as she blinked up at him.

  “Are you all right?” She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on when she’d gone away with Favre. Her shirt was torn, revealing several scratches on one lovely breast, but it was the abundance of blood farther down that made Treynor’s fists clench.

  “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  Shaking visibly now, Jeannette stood back and swung the door wide.

  Water dripped off him as Treynor entered and searched the room with his eyes until he found Lieutenant Favre lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, a knife plunged deep in his bare chest.

  Blinking in surprise, Treynor moved closer. Favre still wore his pants. But his belt was unbuckled, his shirt and shoes tossed to the side as though removed in haste.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked again, turning to take Jeannette into his arms.

  She shook her head and collapsed against him, sobbing quietly into his shoulder.

  The smell of bile permeated the room, indicating she’d been sick, but he couldn’t help marveling at her courage. Pulling back, he tilted her chin up long enough to catch and hold her gaze. He had never known a woman of such spirit.

  “You did only what you had to do. It was you or him,” he told her sternly. “Had you not killed him, he might have rallied his crew and finished us.”

  “It was terrible,” she whispered. “I was so afraid. And then, after I was sure he was—” she swallowed “—dead …that I had actually …k-killed him, I dared not come out for fear of what his men might do.”

  He took her by the shoulders as gently as he could. “You are safe, little Jeannette. The French are even now swimming toward their own coast. Our worst enemy has become the sea.”

  “I felt the ship heave to. I wondered why.” Her voice trembled.

  “We nearly wrecked upon the rocks. But they are no danger to us now. As soon as we ride out this storm, we will sail to England. As damaged as the ship is, it may take us several days, but we will make it. Both of us.”

  Jeannette nodded and turned her face back into his shoulder. “How is your arm?” she asked as he stroked her hair.

  “It has felt better.” He grinned down at her. “But I can tell you this: I am glad I never tried to force myself on you.”

  Jeannette looked to the bed, and though Treynor felt her flinch at the sight of the dead man, a small, victorious smile curled the corners of her lips.

  “He deserved what he got,” she stated with conviction. “But it was certainly more than he expected.” And then, because there was nothing else they could do, they laughed.

  * * *

  The storm lessened an hour later, enabling the Tempest’s crew to pump the hold and mend some of the rigging and sails. By nightfall, the rain had stopped and the heavy cloud cover had thinned into wisps that allowed the moon’s light to shine through.

  Still concerned about the damage the ship had sustained, Jeannette watched as they sewed the French lieutenant’s body into a tattered sail. With a cannonball at his head and at his feet, they threw him into the sea. Treynor stayed on deck, overseeing everything to that point. But then he collapsed. Bosun Hawker took command of the Superbe while Jeannette, feeling a strong aversion to the cabin where so much had happened that she would rather forget, cared for the fallen lieutenant in some lesser officer’s quarters.

  Bone-weary, she slumped against him as her vigil lengthened into the wee hours of the morning. She longed to succumb to sleep, but worry and the many sailors who poked their heads in to see how their leader fared, kept her from nodding off.

  When those not on duty finally searched out a hammock for a few hours’ rest, and the ship began to quiet down, she studied Treynor with a freedom she had never allowed herself.

  The sight of his half-naked body mesmerized and thrilled her, quickly chasing away any thoughts of sleep. Leaning over, she touched his forehead and then his cheek, checking for fever, but felt none.

  Never had she known a more virile man. Even in repose, Treynor’s powerful arms, square at the shoulder, dipped and then bulged again with the line of his muscle. His bronze-colored skin was so smooth—at least where he had not been wounded.

  Laying her head over his heart, Jeannette said a prayer for him as she listened to its steady beat. Then she let her hands trail over his chest.

  How would she go on without him? He stirred such fierce passion in her with the merest glance, was everything she admired, everything she held dear …almost.

  Jeannette sighed. There was still her family. She couldn’t shirk her duty to them. Her sense of responsibility was too strong, too much a part of her.

  But for now, she forced them from her mind. She’d been given this time alone with Treynor, and the memory of it would have to last her a lifetime.

  Tentatively, she kneaded the corded muscles beneath her hands. When he didn’t stir, she grew bolder, letting herself luxuriate in touching him with as much abandon as she had dreamed of doing.

  Delving her fingers into his thick hair, she kissed his still lips, then each eyelid before moving lower to taste the salt on his breast. Her fingers trailed over the lean flesh that rippled over his ribs. Laying her palms on the flat plane of his stomach, she played with the line of hair that extended down, below his breeches.

  “Just the thought of your touch kindles my desire,” she breathed, committing to memory every contour of his body. “The sight of you makes me long to forget everything else—”

  A subtle change in his breathing caused Jeannette to glance up. A pair of deep blue eyes, now open, watched her quizzically.

  “Don’t tell me a count’s daughter wants to bed a mere bastard?” His words were slurred, but the jaunty arch of one eyebrow made his meaning clear.

  Jeannette felt her face grow hot under his regard. “How long have you been awake?”

  He frowned and pretended to search his memory. “The first thing I heard was something about the sight of me making you want to surrender everything.”

  Averting her face in an effort to shield her embarrassment, Jeannette tried to move away, but he reached out to stop her.

  “Still, I am not sure exactly. Why not tell me again, my little coward, now that I am capable of a response?”

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “I wasn’t the one kissing your breast, although I would certainly like the opportunity.”

  A roguish smile revealed his teeth as he tried to shift himself in the bed, but ended up sinking back with a groan. “If you plan to make love to me when I am insensible, Jeannette, at least make sure I truly am. Otherwise, allow me to participate. I assure you, it is much more fun that way.”

  “You are in no condition to—”

  “I think I could manage.” He laughed. “It is, after all, a factor of motivation.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You are delirious.”

  “I must be. How I could be so…”—He paused. “ …attracted to an aristocrat’s brat, I cannot fathom. It is the ultimate irony. Perhaps God is playing a joke on us both.”

  “Attracted?” Jeannette studied him for a moment. “I would say you feel more for me than that, no?”

  She saw something flicker in his eyes, something warm and soft and compelling, but then his smile turned into a scowl. “Do not put words in my mouth, Jeannette. I have no room in my life for a woman. An aristocrat least of all.”

  A sharp pain lanced through her. He didn’t want her? Could she have misread the look in his eyes, his concern for her safety? It was difficult to tell. He wouldn’t meet her gaze now. “But you have plenty of room in your bed,” she said softly, testing him.

  “If you want.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and Jeannette could have sworn he winced when he added, “I have never promised you anything more.”

  Struggling to keep her composure, she took a deep breath. After everything they
had been through together, he still wasn’t willing to open himself to the possibility of love.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself. They each had to keep an eye on their duty. But deep down, his denial did matter, far more than she would ever let him know.

  “Perhaps you should approach a woman who is willing to settle for a few hours of pleasure at your hands.” She stood and avoided him when he tried to reach out to stop her from going.

  “Don’t turn your nose up at something you know nothing about,” he called after her.

  “I think I know more than you give me credit for,” she said.

  Before he could see how deeply he’d hurt her, she marched out and slammed the door behind her.

  * * *

  Bosun Hawker cleared his throat, drawing Treynor’s attention away from the porthole where the morning’s sun filtered into the room.

  “Sir, most of the leaks ‘ave been fixed, at least temporarily,” he repeated. “An’ the men at the pumps are takin’ care of the rest.”

  Treynor nodded, trying to forget Jeannette long enough to concentrate on the business at hand. She’d stormed out of his room the night before and hadn’t returned. He’d done only what he had to do, but his rebuff had pained him far worse than it could have hurt her. It angered him that his heart would betray him so completely.

  “Sir?”

  Treynor looked at him. “Very good, Hawker. How are we for supplies?”

  “Most of the food’s ruined.”

  “How many days do you think it will last?”

  “Long enough ter reach ‘ome, I ‘ope. The wind’s been comin’ from too far north to steer for England until today, an’ we’ve got three ‘undred miles to sail. Given a fair wind it could take three days. If the weather turns, who knows?”