by Anne Stuart
For a moment he was silent as he considered her. “I don’t tend to sleep with my servants,” he said in a soft voice, out of the blue, and she could feel her face flame.
“Then why did you kiss me?”
“Some temptations are too difficult to resist, and I don’t tend to resist even the easy ones. Come to my bed and we can pretend you’re exactly what you say you are.”
For a moment she was struck dumb, a rare occurrence. He was appalling, bewitching. She should slap his face, but she didn’t dare touch him.
He was watching her, and she would have given almost anything to see what lay behind his enigmatic expression. Was he going to let her go or take her back to that soft, enticing bed, cover her with his strong body, push that hard part of him between her legs, kiss her into senselessness…? Her entire body tensed at the thought, flooding with heat rather than ice, which made no sense. She wanted it. She wanted him to kiss her again, to touch her, take her, to give her no choice.
Had he read her mind? Could he see in her eyes the need that plagued her? He reached out one hand to cradle her face, his thumb gently caressing her skin, and she wanted to turn her face into that hand, to bury herself in his body, lose herself, forget everything. She held very still, unwilling to pull away, unwilling to go forward.
Finally he spoke. “If you won’t come to my bed then go to your own,” he said, dropping his hand and moving out of the way.
That wasn’t disappointment flooding her, she thought. It was relief, though she didn’t make the mistake of thinking she was safe yet. She picked up the bucket, tossing his ruined shirt inside. She edged toward the door, carefully, and now there was real amusement on his face, his eyes glinting in the darkness.
“Are you afraid of me, little girl?” he murmured. “The big bad pirate, plundering and pillaging? I’ve given that all up for Lent.”
She didn’t smile. He hadn’t truly dismissed her, and she was uncertain what to do. There was a long silence, and then he stepped back. “I’m going to bed,” he said, reaching for the fastening on his breeches. “You can stay there and watch me disrobe if you like. You’re no housemaid, and sooner or later you’re going to tell me who you are, and you’re going to be naked with me. Beneath me. Or above me, in front of me, any position I can think of. But for now you’d better run like hell.”
Finally, finally common sense hit her. And Maddy ran.
Shit. Shite. Shit. Shite. The words went round in her head, a litany of obscenity that would have pleased her no end if she weren’t so disgusted with herself. She’d never been sure which term she liked more, shit or shite. The stable hands had used shite with abandon, the sailors seemed to prefer shit, and Nanny Gruen had washed Maddy’s mouth out with soap the first time she’d dared utter it when she’d dropped a rock on her foot. In fact, she could still taste the nasty, almond-scented stuff, and she’d hated almonds ever since.
But it was a damned fine word, particularly when she’d made such a mess of things. And here she’d been so cocky, thinking she was doing such a brilliant job of her masquerade, when all she had to show for it was blistered feet and hands, a suspicious employer, and not a damned bit closer to the truth than she’d been when she’d left Somerset.
Not to mention the fact that she’d been ready to forget everything for the touch of those sure hands. Shit!
Nanny had warned her when she’d used the word damn or blast. She knew other words as well—her education had been very thorough—and there were worse ones she kept for special occasions, like the one the captain had used. But that word was dangerous, it conjured up physical intimacies, not anger, and she couldn’t use it. She really shouldn’t use any of those words. In fact Bryony, whose own language could get a bit salty, would often berate Maddy for her ability to curse, and she’d tried to behave herself, particularly when she was traipsing through society in search of a proper husband. Things had changed with her father’s death, and she’d been confused, hurt, and above all, angry. She was beginning to cherish those words she’d heard and hardly begun to use.
“Shit,” she said again, remembering the captain’s hands on her. How could she have been so stupid as to fall asleep on the captain’s bed, of all places? She had been so weary, and yet right now she was wide awake, tense and shivering with all sorts of conflicting emotions. Why couldn’t she remember what she was supposed to be? A maid never criticized the housekeeper or her employer’s friends and acquaintances. And lovers. The beautiful Gwendolyn Haviland must be his lover—after all, they were engaged, and how in the name of God could she resist such a devastating man?
How could anyone? Except that Maddy had resisted him, a small triumph in a debacle of a night. Obviously he was the center of her thoughts at all times—that was what she was here for. She needed to know what he did, what he thought, what he hid. He’d been a privateer, which was simply a socially acceptable term for a pirate. He would have killed when necessary, just as a soldier would. He would have faced death, and he would have laughed at it.
He didn’t believe she was a maid, despite her working so hard she’d fallen sound asleep in the midst of her duties. She’d let something slip, at some point, probably more than once. The problem was, she’d always been inherently honest, even to the point of tactlessness. She’d never been one to keep her opinion to herself, not unless it caused pain to others, in which case she could lie with the best of them. If there was something wrong, she dealt with it. She didn’t sweep it under the rug.
There was nothing she wanted more than to slam the seductive, sarcastic captain up against a wall and demand answers. She might not lie well herself, but she was very good at reading other people, and she would know if he told the truth.
She laughed, only slightly amused at the thought of her taking the tall, muscled captain in her smaller hands and forcing him anywhere, much less up against a wall. And if she had her hands on him, what would she do? She knew what would happen. He would turn her, push her up against the wall, and take her that way. It would give him the excuse, and she suspected that was all he needed.
He could be everything she hated in this world. A man so devoid of conscience he’d betray and murder a man who’d befriended him, and the devil take the hindmost. He was a reprobate through and through, the complete opposite of what she wanted in this life.
And the wretched truth was, she was drawn to him. Her honesty extended to herself. In the quiet of her room, away from his unsettling presence, she could admit it. His dark, intense eyes, his laughing mouth, the indecent gold of his skin, and yes, the strange, tattooed creature embedded in his flesh. She could still feel the weight of him atop her, the overpowering strength of him that was both comforting and terrifying. She also knew why her father had never described his favorite among the captains of his ships, never allowed her to meet him as she’d met so many of the others. Her father had known her better than anyone, known the wild streak that she tried to keep hidden. He knew she’d be fascinated.
This was a devastating weakness, and she could fight it, as she fought everything, but the sooner she found answers and left this house the better. She needed to get this over and done with. Yanking off her clothes, pulling at her corset, she fell onto the bed in her shift, too tired to search for her nightdress. She was going to find her way into the captain’s study tomorrow, by hook or by crook. At this rate she wasn’t going to last here much longer, and once she was sent packing there’d be nothing she could do, and a murderer might go free. No, she couldn’t afford to let things go any longer. Tomorrow she was going hunting.
Luca found he was smiling when his door slammed shut behind his supposed maid-of-all-work. He could have finished what he’d started on the bed—he knew women well enough to know he could have her, soft and willing beneath him, with just a trace more perseverance. She liked his kisses as much as he liked kissing her, which was a great deal, and he wanted her so badly his very bones ached with it. He unsettled her, disturbed and aroused her, just as she
did to him, and the resultant bed play might be quite remarkable. She was a spy, and a proper lady, for God’s sake, and he really shouldn’t keep her in his house.
But he was going to, at least for now. A game of cat and mouse could prove quite entertaining, and he’d been so bloody bored recently. His unwanted interloper was the best thing that had happened to him in months. In fact, since Russell had taken his command away and then shown up accusing him of thievery.
Now Russell's daughter was here, at Luca's mercy, and he couldn’t resist her. It was the fire in her dark blue eyes, the secrets she hid, the fierceness that drew him. She could have faced down the dreaded pirates of Madagascar without blinking—she was more than up to handling him even in his worst temper. According to rumor, she wasn’t even a virgin—why did he hesitate?
He wanted to teach her how to kiss him back properly, how to do other things with that lush, remarkable mouth. He wanted her secrets, her body, her heart and soul.
What the hell was wrong with him? How had one smallish female upset his carefully arranged plans?
He’d have Crozier get rid of her tomorrow. That was the smart thing to do.
Just dump her and find some strapping lass with no secrets to take her place.
Tomorrow. Miss Madeleine Rose Russell would be on her way. Absolutely. Tomorrow.
CHAPTER TEN
RUFUS GRIFFITHS SETTLED HIMSELF very carefully into the overstuffed chair in his rooms on George Street, his new manservant assisting him. He missed Collins—the Irishman had known his little ways, and been smart enough to be afraid of him. But he was a lost cause, along with the Earl of Kilmartyn, at least for now. Collins was back in London with his beloved cook and that filthy but very pretty little street urchin, and as far as he was concerned the man he’d known as Rufus Brown was dead.
Collins should have known better. Never trust that anyone was truly dead unless you see the body yourself, but Collins hadn’t had the chance. For a short while Rufus had considered sending for him—he’d proven useful, after all, reporting on the happenings in the Kilmartyn household. And while Rufus had temporarily given up on ensnaring Kilmartyn and the Russell chit he’d married, sooner or later they’d have to return home, and Rufus could take his time finishing what he started.
But in the meantime he had better things to do. Eustace Russell had had not one but three daughters, and the second one was pretending to be a maid, ferreting around in the house of Russell’s favorite captain. He couldn’t imagine there’d be anything to find—Morgan would have no idea what was behind Eustace Russell’s disgrace and death. No matter how hard the middle daughter searched, she wouldn’t find anything. Too bad he couldn’t arrange things so that she did, but it felt like too much effort. He despised the captain, with his arrogance and his gypsy blood, but he had to concentrate on the matter at hand. The daughters were the problem, and they needed to be dealt with.
For a while he’d considered not even bothering. After all, the middle one was safe on the coast, away from London and Somerset, busy chasing villains who didn’t exist. But he was annoyed that Bryony Russell and Kilmartyn had temporarily gotten the better of him, annoyed that he’d almost been crushed by the collapse of the burnt remains of the Russell house on Curzon Street and yet Kilmartyn and his doxy had emerged unscathed.
He’d been so certain success had been at his fingertips that he’d gotten cocky. Kilmartyn and the Russell bitch were supposed to die in the burnt-out hulk, but instead the back stairs had collapsed beneath him, and the two of them had escaped, out of his reach.
There was always the chance that even from France, or wherever they’d gone off to, they’d be able to get a letter to the sisters, warning them. Ah, but what could the new Lady Kilmartyn say? She didn’t know his name, she didn’t even know what he really looked like. If she saw him in the streets today she wouldn’t recognize him, with his jet-black hair and elegant beard and side-whiskers, not to mention his recent frailty. He’d embraced it, rather enjoying his languishing air, but he’d learned to take nothing for granted. As long as the middle one… Sophia? Madeleine? That was it! As long as Madeleine Russell was on her own she could run into something unexpected. And it would make everything so much neater if that unexpected something was his humble self.
It wasn’t that he particularly enjoyed killing, he mused, taking a sip of the cognac his man handed him before Parsons knelt to remove his shoes. But he was a tidy man, dedicatedly so, and he despised the idea of loose ends. Loose ends could unravel, destroying the carefully woven plans of even the smartest men, and Rufus counted himself in that group. In truth, it annoyed him to do things out of order, but in the end he’d been forced to let go of his overwhelming need for perfection. It mattered not who died first—Lady Kilmartyn, Madeleine, or pretty little Sophia. What mattered was getting rid of them, the only possible claimants to everything he’d ever wanted.
If he’d underestimated their importance initially, it hadn’t taken him long to adjust his plans accordingly.
“Parsons,” he said lazily, “is there a storm coming?”
“So I’ve been told, sir.”
“I gather Captain Morgan enjoys the challenge of riding out a storm.”
“So I’ve heard, sir.” Parsons was an excellent gatherer of information, and while news of the captain was sparse, there’d been enough to be useful.
“I think he should be encouraged to take his boat out into the bad weather.”
“Which boat, sir? He has several, not to mention the steamships.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about his ability to control one of Russell’s steamships, as long he has a full complement of sailors. He has smaller boats of his own, does he not?”
“Yes, sir. A skiff and a smaller boat.”
“I think the skiff would be his most obvious choice. I trust you can arrange things? You’re a man of experience and discretion.”
“I can take care of the boat, sir. No one will notice.”
That was the lovely thing about hiring a certain class of criminals. Not the thugs—they were boring. But the smarter ones, who’d almost gotten away with it. They came from prison with rage and imagination at full boil, and he knew just how to use them.
“Very good,” he purred. “We’ll ensure he takes the boat out. It would be lovely if he’d take his new housemaid with him, but they’d most likely argue the entire time. I do not see a happy wedding in their future, Parsons.”
“Assuming I understand you correctly, sir, I don’t see any future at all for the captain.”
Rufus smiled benevolently. “We are in accord,” he murmured. “Now why don’t you fetch me another glass of brandy before you remove my trousers?”
Maddy woke early the next morning, even before Mrs. Crozier’s shrill bellow could tear her from her well-earned rest. Though come to think of it, Mrs. Crozier probably couldn’t shriek through the house if the owner was in residence. The housekeeping standards here might be appallingly lax but she doubted Captain Morgan would tolerate Mrs. Crozier’s screeching voice.
Which meant that the captain was still here. Of course he was—he’d only just returned from London. Sooner or later she was going to have to face him, unless she could somehow manage to keep one step ahead of him.
She wouldn’t have thought she’d sleep at all, given what had happened last night. The fiery, almost undeniable arousal of lying beneath him, the heartbreaking gentleness when he’d cupped her face with his rough, calloused hands. Why had he taunted her and then let her go? He didn’t believe she was a maid, he’d found her asleep in his bed, and yet he’d said nothing about dismissing her. But his eyes, as they’d looked into hers last night, were disturbing, drawing her to him. She had expected them to haunt her.
Instead she’d slept like the dead, thank God, and after six hours she was able to drag her aching body out of bed and head for the ewer of water she’d brought up yesterday. It was cool, and she splashed her face with it, then stripped off her shift and proceed
ed to wash herself so thoroughly her skin hurt. There was so much dirt in this life; she felt she’d never get clean enough. Odd, when spending your days cleaning things ended up with all the dirt on you. She looked over at the dull brown day dress that was her only uniform—the navy blue dress she’d arrived in was ripped from her encounter with the sailors, and stained, though she hadn’t yet figured out how to wash it properly and how to get Mrs. Crozier to give her the time to do so. The brown was at least wearable, though probably filled with dust, and she carried it over to the back window, pushing open the casement and leaning out, shaking it fiercely in early morning air. Dust flew, and she shook it again, over and over until nothing more came out of it. The air smelled fresh and clean, and she had the suddenly brilliant idea of hanging it outside during the night. The night air would freshen it, make it almost feel clean.
Or clammy with dew. Maybe not such a brilliant idea after all. She began to gather the bulky garment into her arms, pulling it back through the window when she stopped, feeling eyes on her. She looked down, into the weedy garden, and her momentary shock was just enough. She lost hold of her gown, and it went sailing downward, three stories down, to land in the garden at the very feet of the captain.
Oh, God, as if things weren’t bad enough! She was leaning out the window wearing nothing but her shift, which was damp from her morning ablutions, her hair loose around her shoulders, and he’d been watching her, not saying a word. He probably thought she’d tossed her dress at him on purpose. Why wouldn’t he, when he’d found her curled up on his bed the night before, like a midnight snack?
She knew her face was scarlet with mortification, and she drew back, slamming the casement window behind her. Why was it that she lost her composure around that man? She was no missish creature and never had been. She’d had men dancing attendance on her during her seasons in London, and she’d never been flustered around any of them. Not even Jasper Tarkington, the man she thought she’d loved, had been able to unsettle her like one glance from the captain’s dark eyes.
