by Cheryl Holt
The bunk was meant to hold one person, and she considered sitting on it, but as he’d proven with the divan, a carnal escapade could be carried out in very limited conditions.
She didn’t care to invite trouble, so she went to the table and plopped down in the only chair. He leaned against the door, watching her, not speaking.
It was a comfortable silence, but she was jumpy, because she couldn’t figure out why he’d brought her to his cabin.
“Why call your ship the Lord Hastings?” she asked.
“It was a slap at my father,” she was surprised to hear him admit.
“You didn’t like him?”
“I hardly knew him, but in a fairer world, I would be Lord Hastings now.”
“Are you bitter that you’re not?”
He stood, hands on hips, scowling. “I don’t think so.”
She chuckled. “You must have some enmity. Anybody would.”
“I suppose I do. I never felt he behaved particularly well toward my mother.”
“He refused to marry her?”
“He was already married.”
“Ah ...” She studied him, curious about his life, about his upbringing. “Is your mother still alive?”
“No. She died when I was two.”
“Have you any other family?”
“Some uncles in Scotland.”
“Do they claim you?”
“Barely.”
He shoved away from the door, and he proceeded to a bookshelf and riffled through the books. It dawned on her that he was nervous, and the prospect had her smiling.
“You say you hardly knew your father ...”
“I only spoke to him a handful of times.”
“Why would he name you as guardian to Rose and Michael?”
“I have no idea.”
“How strange.”
“Isn’t it, though?” He straightened and peered over at her. “I’m told he was proud of me. He felt I’d substantially advanced myself with very little help.”
“So that made you a competent guardian to two children?”
“It’s bizarre, I know.”
“It certainly is.”
“Before I traveled to London last spring, I’d never even met them.”
“Your father must have been a very peculiar fellow.”
“Now you know where I come by it.”
He walked over to her, his hips balanced on the edge of the table. He was hiding something, and when he held it out, she saw it was a hand-painted lady’s fan.
She opened it, discovering scenes and shapes that had to be Chinese lettering.
“For you,” he said, seeming embarrassed.
“You can’t keep giving me gifts.”
“Why can’t I? It’s been collecting dust on that shelf for three years. Would you rather I tossed it out?”
“No. I’ll keep it, thank you very much.” She traced a finger across the delicate pictures, amazed by the artistic detail. “Have you been to China?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve sailed the globe?”
“Several times.”
“I’ve never been anywhere.”
“No you haven’t, but that’s not necessarily bad.”
“My existence has been positively boring compared to yours. I’m jealous.”
What would it be like to be him? To have journeyed everywhere and seen everything?
When she was a child, she’d loved to read books about adventurers, and she’d expected that—as an adult—she, herself, would trek off to foreign lands. She had a fond memory of her father asking her who she planned to wed when she was grown. She’d informed him she had no intention of marrying, because she was headed for Egypt to explore the pyramids, and a husband wouldn’t permit her to go off on her own.
She could still hear her father’s booming laugh.
Of course, she’d never had her adventure. Life had a way of grinding one down. There’d been bills to pay, and a household to run, and sisters to raise, and suddenly, she was twenty-four, having garnered very little reward for her efforts.
He had a wanderlust he’d been able to satisfy, while hers had been driven into the ground by duty and penury.
She’d never done a thing she’d truly wanted to do, and to her astonishment, she yearned to beg him to untie his ship, to take her far away—just the two of them—to some of the exotic places he’d been.
She could practically smell the tropical jungle, the hot ocean breezes, and her old restlessness returned with a vengeance.
“Is it difficult for you,” she inquired, “being trapped in London by your family obligations?”
“Yes, it’s very difficult.”
“Do you like Michael and Rose?”
“They’re wonderful.”
“How long will you care for them?”
“I’m charged with managing their money until they come of age, then arranging their marriages.”
“The end could be years away—especially for Rose.”
“I know, and I can’t imagine shirking the task. My father left me a letter, with clear instructions for both of them, and it’s been the very devil, being burdened with the wishes of a dead man. How could one fail to follow through?”
She gazed at him, realizing why he’d invited her to the ship, to his cabin. It was his quiet way of showing her what mattered to him, of letting her see who he truly was.
“You’re a good man, Tristan Odell.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you are.”
He snorted, obviously discomfited by her praise. “I’m just doing what was asked of me.”
“What was asked and a tad more besides.”
“I suppose,” he allowed.
He bent down and kissed her, precisely what she’d hoped to avoid, but what she’d secretly craved.
In a thrilling motion, he pulled her out of the chair and laid her down on the table, his maps tumbling to the floor as he came over her. His hands were on her breasts, fussing with the front of her gown, baring her to his eager fingers. It was the first time he’d touched them without fabric to block sensation, and she felt as if she’d been burned.
He was squeezing her nipples, drawing her skirt up her legs, and her harlot’s body rippled with anticipation.
“Something has to be done, Helen,” he murmured against her mouth.
“About what?”
“About the passion that keeps flaring between us. I assume you’re a virgin?”
The question, so bluntly voiced, took her by surprise, dousing her like a bucket of cold water.
“Yes, I am, you rude oaf.”
She was too embarrassed to mention that she hadn’t a clue as to how a person’s virginity ended up lost. She knew it involved a wedding night, a man and a woman, and a physical deed, but whatever it was, it had never happened to her. She was exactly the same as she’d always been.
“If we continue on like this,” he said, “you won’t be chaste much longer.”
“Why is that?”
“Because if you’re content to dally, I don’t see why I should control myself.”
“You’re blaming this on me?”
“No. I’m just stating the facts.”
She pushed at him, aware that she wasn’t strong enough to shove him off, that he’d only move if he wanted to. For a moment he hovered, then he stepped away and she sat up.
Her breasts were hanging out, her hair falling down, and with their ardor waning, her partial nudity was like a slap in the face. What was she thinking?
She straightened her bodice, and as he glared, she glared right back. She didn’t understand how, in a smattering of seconds, they’d gone from an episode of wild lust to a vicious quarrel.
“What should we do?” he asked.
“I’m leaving.”
“We won’t settle anything by you running off.”
“I’m not running. I’m furious with you, and I don’t want to stay in here.”
> “Well, don’t have a hysterical fit. I won’t like it.”
“Hyster—” She bit off the remainder of the word, feeling as if she was choking on it.
“Hear me out,” he said.
“No.”
“You need a man in your bed like nobody’s business.”
“You nominate yourself?”
“Absolutely,” he pompously retorted. “It’s clear we’re headed to fornication, and we have to recognize the direction we’re traveling. Once we start in, there’s no going back. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Message received. Thank you for sharing your concerns.”
They might have persisted with their argument, or she might have stormed out, but suddenly the girls were coming down the hall. They were laughing and talking, and someone knocked on the door.
Odell jumped away from her as if she had the plague, and Helen slid from the table and walked to the corner. She turned away, frantically checking to make sure she was presentable.
Without waiting for a summons, the boisterous group burst in, underscoring how reckless Helen had been. What if she and Odell hadn’t squabbled? For pity’s sake, she was a governess. What if they’d kept on and her charges had seen all? It didn’t bear considering.
Helen spun around, somber and sobered and mortified.
“Tristan, Tristan,” Rose gushed as she hurried in. “Guess what?”
“What?” he inquired, as usual looking perfectly calm and collected.
“We saw the whole ship. The galley and everything.”
“Marvelous.”
“Guess what else!”
“I can’t imagine.”
“On the way here, we stopped by a peddler’s wagon, and Helen and Jane both bought love potions.”
Tristan raised a brow, his stern scowl shifting from Helen, to Jane, to Helen again.
“I did not!” Jane and Helen hotly said at the same time.
Chapter 9
MICHAEL peered down the darkened hall, ensuring he was unobserved, then spun the knob and slipped into Jane’s bedchamber.
He’d never done anything so reckless, had never behaved so badly, but where Jane Hamilton was concerned, he couldn’t resist.
He wasn’t cruel or stupid. Carnal play was risky, and Jane could wind up pregnant, but as a remedy, he would never marry her. Though she was very sweet, she was beneath him in every way. He couldn’t alter that fact, which meant he shouldn’t forge ahead, but he was going to anyway.
They were spectacularly attuned, and he was tired of ignoring their attraction. When she was so accessible, and so eager to dally, why shouldn’t they?
It was after midnight, but she was up, awaiting him in her sitting room. She was seated in a chair by the hearth. The air was cool, and a fire burned in the grate.
Apparently, there’d been no miscommunication about why he’d come.
She was dressed for an assignation, wearing only a nightgown and robe, her slender feet bare on the rug. Her striking auburn hair was down and brushed out, hanging to her waist, the long tresses loose with curls. She was lovely and desirable, and his cock leapt to attention. She stood, appearing young and nervous.
“Hello.” An anxious hand gripped the lapels of her robe.
“Hello.”
“I’d about given up on you. I was afraid you might have changed your mind.”
“Never.”
He walked over to her and drew her close, her body pressed to his all the way down, and he kissed her, very sweetly, very tenderly.
“You’re so pretty,” he murmured.
“Thank you.”
“I was hoping you’d let your hair down.”
“The naughty side of my personality is guiding my actions.”
“I’m glad. I’ve always found naughty to be so much more fun than nice.”
He kissed her again, more ardently, delighted at how perfectly she fit in his arms. She was just the right height, not too short or too tall. Her delectable breasts were crushed to his chest, her thighs molded to his own. For a brief moment, he caught himself speculating over what it would be like to have her as his wife.
She was so beautiful, and they had so much in common. Every second they spent together was remarkable, but a match between them would never occur. He wasn’t ready for matrimony, and when he did finally break down and marry, it would be to an appropriate aristocrat’s daughter who brought a dowry that would fill the Hastings’s coffers to overflowing.
Jane would never be the one he selected, but it was intriguing to imagine her as his countess. Was she imagining the same? The prospect disturbed him. He didn’t want to hurt or deceive her, but surely she comprehended the risk she was taking.
A man such as himself would never wed a girl like her. It simply wasn’t done, and people on both sides of the social equation were aware of the distinctions. She was merely a pleasant diversion, and for her to anticipate any other conclusion was too bizarre to consider—so he wouldn’t.
“Would you like some wine?” she asked.
“I’d rather have a whiskey.”
“I don’t have whiskey, but I managed to sneak off with a wine decanter after supper.”
“You wicked minx!”
“You don’t care, do you? It is technically yours, so I suppose it’s stealing.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Jane, how many times must I tell you? You’re a guest in my home. If you want to gorge on a decanter of wine—or anything else—it’s fine with me.”
“Perhaps I’ll become a lush at your behest.”
“An adorable lush.”
She smiled, too, and she turned to a nearby table and grabbed a glass that had already been poured. She handed it to him, and he took a drink, then wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“You don’t like it?” Panic flashed in her eyes.
“It’s sour. Is that really from my cellar?”
“I pilfered it from a sideboard down in a rear parlor.”
“Maybe I should mention it to the butler. I’d hate to have him serve it to anyone.”
Seeming frazzled, she yanked the glass away and took a sip of her own.
“It’s not so bad,” she claimed. “Try it again; you’ll grow accustomed.”
He obliged her, still finding it bitter, but she’d gone to so much trouble, and she was so eager for him to like it, that he didn’t want to appear rude.
In a quick gulp, he downed the entire contents, deciding it was better to get rid of it all at once and not linger over the harsh flavor.
As the last drop slithered down his throat, he grinned. “I’m a horrible glutton. I didn’t leave you any.”
“I’m not much of a drinker. I brought it up here for you.”
“How thoughtful. What else have you to share that might interest me?”
His lazy gaze meandered down her torso, to her bosom, her waist, her rounded hips, and his intent was very clear. She withstood his avid scrutiny, not shying away, not covering herself, providing blatant confirmation that she knew what he planned.
Since their first meeting, she’d been very forward, had allowed him incalculable liberties. She was playing with fire, but so was he, and he was more than happy to take what she was offering.
Lust swept over him, and he drew her to him once again. He started kissing her, letting her understand that they would proceed in a fashion beyond what they’d dared prior. She reveled in the increasing passion, participating with a dexterity that thrilled and titillated.
Her clever fingers were everywhere, roaming through his hair, across his shoulders, back, and arms. She even dipped down to stroke his buttocks—a brazen deed that made his phallus jerk with anticipation.
Her hips flexed against his erection, obviously recognizing it for what it was, for what it indicated, and he wondered if she actually was a virgin. If she’d previously lain with a fellow or two, she was hardly an innocent, which would certainly solve many of his ethical problems.
He clasped her hand a
nd escorted her to her bedchamber. She didn’t hesitate, but confidently walked by his side, equal partners in what could never be an equal act. She had everything to lose, while he had nothing to lose at all.
They reached the bed, and he paused and gestured to her robe.
“May I remove it?”
“Yes.”
He tugged it off, elated to note that the nightgown she wore underneath was sewn from a thin, summery fabric. It was pristine white, with thin straps, tiny buttons down the front, and purple flowers stitched along the bodice and hem.
She was trembling, and he rubbed his palms up and down her arms, hoping to warm her, to comfort and fortify her.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“No.” She bit her bottom lip. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Never,” he lied. “Have you?”
“No.”
“So I’ll be your first.”
“And you’ll be mine.”
“Do you know what happens?” he inquired.
“A friend of mine wed last year. She told me.”
“It’s very physical.”
“I heard that it was.”
“Are you afraid?”
“I could never be afraid when I am with you.”
He eased her onto the mattress and followed her down. They were stretched out, with him on top. He stared at her, his pulse hammering with excitement.
“How are you feeling?” she oddly queried.
“Very grand.”
“You don’t feel any different?”
“Different than what?”
“The wine didn’t ... ah ... relax you?”
“No. Should it have?”
She chuckled. “Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m a tad overwrought.”
“There’s no need to be. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. We can just lie here like this, kissing and talking.”
“I don’t want to just lie here. I’m happy to do whatever you wish.”
It was the very worst remark she could have made, for he persuaded himself that she was cheerfully complicit in her ruination. It was a cad’s conduct, a cad’s method of avoiding blame and shirking responsibility.
Her green eyes were wide with expectation. She was so trusting, so willing to believe he was the man she assumed, and he wouldn’t dissuade her.
