Captive (57 page)

But he was marrying Alexandra within the span of several months. Reverend Ascot had said that permission to annul their marriage was a matter of course.

“You cannot refuse the president,” Markham said.

Xavier recalled being embraced by Jefferson two years ago when he had gone to Washington to receive both a Medal of Honor and a special commendation for his efforts on behalf of his country. Jefferson had been charming and gracious and profusely grateful, as well. Xavier found himself reaching for the letter, his pulse racing. He promised himself that he would not do anything to jeopardize his upcoming marriage even while knowing that he was forever a patriot.

“What does he wish for me to do this time?” Xavier asked.

“He wants you to masquerade as a blockade runner.” Markham smiled benignly. “Run Napoleon’s blockade of Britain, to begin with.”

And Xavier began to understand. “And once I—or someone—reaches Britain?”

“You shall have contacts. Entrées. And the freedom to do what must be done.”

Xavier stared into Markham’s smoldering eyes. He could not help feeling excitement—amd dismay.

“There is little danger,” Markham said. “The assignment will be brief. Perhaps a year at most. England is a civilized place, not like Barbary. Your wife will be safe here with your father.”

“No,” Xavier said, not forcefully, his heart pounding against his ribs. God, how he would like to help put the damned British in their places, the British who were doing so much to damage American shipping—and how he would love to help destroy Napoleon.

“You would deny the president? We are virtually at war with Britain already, my boy. And real war is coming—soon. Surely you can see that?”

William had remained silent, and now he protested, “Xavier! You have done your duty a dozen times over.”

“I cannot refuse,” Xavier finally said heavily. “But do not say anything to Alexandra. I will tell her myself, in my own way, in my own good time.”

Three days later, Alex was gently awoken by a hand upon her shoulder. She was curled up in the massive four-poster bed in her hotel suite. It was the middle of the day, but she had fallen asleep after eating a huge lunch. Pregnancy had suddenly made her ravenous—now that she was no longer suffering from her bouts with morning sickness.

She opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at Xavier. In another month or so, she would tell him about the baby.

He did not sit down beside her. His eyes were dark, shadowed, as if he had not slept well, and his expression was oddly grim.

Alex sat up abruptly, her heart lurching. “Something is wrong.”

“Yes.”

“What is it?” she cried, trying to remain calm. Hadn’t she
already been through the worst? Surely no other trial, no other tribulation, could come her way? Were they not now destined for success, good fortune, and happiness?

And Alex did not like his tone or his look—which had grown both combative and defensive, at once. She slipped to her feet, holding her blue silk wrapper together. “What is it?”

“I have accepted another secret commission from the president.”

It took Alex a moment to comprehend his words. “To do what?” she cried.

“To masquerade as a blockade runner. I must get to England—where I shall remain for a short time—where I shall do what must be done to further the interest of the United States in these dangerous times.” He regarded her unflinchingly.

“You mean,” she said, her pulse rioting, “you are going there to spy!”

“Yes.”

“And I am coming with you?” she asked, already certain what his answer would be.

“No.” He was firm. “You shall remain here, with my father, until my assignment is done. By the time I return, I shall undoubtedly be free to remarry, and we shall be wed.”

“No way! You sexist bastard!” Alex shouted, throwing a velvet pillow at him. It hit him in the face. She turned and hurled a half dozen other pillows at him, of different sizes and shapes, trying not to cry. “How can you leave me after all we have been through?” It crossed her mind that she should tell him about the baby now, but as he was not convinced she was a “time-traveler,” she thought it would do more damage than good.

“I don’t know,” he cried, agonized. “In truth, I do not want to. I love you. But how can I refuse the president? Alexandra, there is going to be a war between our country and Britain—unless the current climate changes or is changed.”

The War of 1812, Alex thought silently. She wiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks. “You are too damned heroic. Don’t go.”

He moved to her and embraced her tightly. “I love you more than I love anything or anyone,” he whispered. “But I would not be a man if I did not go.”

Alex clung. “God, this is one of the reasons I love you so.”

*  *  *

The moment the
Alexandra
slipped out of Boston Harbor, Xavier knew he had done the wrong thing.

He missed Alexandra so intensely that it hurt, and even as his newly christened ship glided out of the night-darkened harbor, to avoid the British ships patrolling the coast, he continued to think about her. God, he was thirty-one and far too old for games of war and espionage. He should be at Blackwell House this very moment, with her, sharing port in front of the hearth, snuggled up together. Why had he accepted this damnable assignment?

“I am a fool,” he told the sliver of visible moon. But it was too late for regrets.

Xavier remained at the helm until the
Alexandra
was safely out of the harbor and the night watch had assured him that no other ships were in sight. Then he gladly relinquished command to his first mate and clambered belowdecks. His cabin was small and dark from the night, as it was overcast, making it the perfect evening to weigh anchor. Yet he had left the four portholes open and a sweet, cool breeze filled the room. Xavier crossed the small cabin and lit a candle.

He suddenly sensed that he was not alone.

Xavier stiffened for a heartbeat. Then he whirled, holding the taper aloft. Like Venus rising, Alexandra sat up in his narrow bunk, gloriously nude, her red hair flowing over her shoulders and entwining about her breasts. His eyes widened. His heart stopped.

She smiled serenely at him. “Hello, Blackwell.”

And joy filled him. It overwhelmed him. So much so that he had to fight not to cry out, rush to her, and embrace her. “What do you think you’re doing, madam?” he asked calmly.

She continued to smile. “I’m stowing away.”

“That is quite obvious.” But he could not help but smile very slightly.

She slid to her feet. Her legs were endless, lush, curved. “I’m coming with you, Blackwell. I shall be your guardian angel. You need me to keep you safe and sound.”

“Oh, really?” He tried not to laugh. He wanted to grab her, hold her, hug her … kiss her until she was mindless.

“Yes, really. We’re off to England for a grand old merry time.” She eyed him very archly.

“Do not even think it,” he warned, eyeing her breasts.
“The moment we get to England, I’m sending you home!’ Then he added. “Afte r I marry you, of course.”

“Of course.” She laughed. lowering her eyes. “We’ ll see.’ She started toward him. swinging her hips.” Perhaps, after thivoyage, you won’t have the heart or Ute will to send fit away.”

He smiled and breathed heavily. “How I fear you an right.” Then be came to his senses. “I warn you again. madam. I am putting you on the first ship bound for America al soon as we make our vows.”

Her tone was suspiciously contrite. “All right. Let’ s DO” even think about that now. We have better things to do, love.’

He inhaled. She was sashaying toward him—he had 10 ad. mire her legs. her hips. her breasts—the entire woman. How fortunate he was. How blessed. “You are very bold, madam.”

“I know.” She smiled. “We have an entire voyage to enjoy.” She looped her hands around his neck and pressed her voluptuous body against him. “You and I. Alone, together at last.”

“We are not exactly alone,” he managed thickly. She nuzzled his jaw. His hands found her hips, then slid lower.

“A minor, logistical problem. This can be our trial-run honeymoon.” Her eyes, at once sultry and filled with laughter, met his.

“Is it your intention to seduce me?”

“What do you think, Blackwell?” she said, sliding her thigh between his.

He had to claim her mouth. His hands roved her body liberally. It was a long moment before he could tear his mouth free and speak, and then only gaspingly. “You are very persuasive, Alexandra.”

Their mouths fused again. After a very long, deep kiss, during which time his hand found its way down her spine and to the bottom of her buttocks, he lifted his head and breathed, “I concede defeat.”

“I thought you would,” Alex gasped.

“But is it defeat, darling, or is it victory?”

A moment later they were kissing again. Voraciously.

And then the joy bubbled up inside of her, and she began to laugh.

“I am trying to make love to you,” he growled. “What is so amusing, pray tell?”

“Just kiss me,” Alex commanded, but she continued to laugh. Had he really thought to go to England on a secret mission without her? No way! Being a history buff, she had always wanted to visit Great Britain. Of course, she had never dreamed she would be journeying there on a blockade runner during the latter part of the Napoleonic Wars.

Again Blackwell lifted his head. “You seem to be slightly distracted, darling,” he said. His large palms covered her breast.

Alex met his gaze. “We can’t rewrite history,” she said.

His brows furrowed. “Enough of your rambling,” he murmured, and she was in his arms, being carried to the bunk, and deposited somewhat abruptly there. He came down on top of her.

Alex made the promise for both of them. They would not alter the course of events, oh no. And then, as Blackwell began to nibble her navel, Alex began to laugh, causing Blackwell to stop what he was doing and regard her with utter consternation.

Tomorrow. It’s promise had never been brighter. Alex could hardly wait: for another day—and another grand adventure.

K
ARA WAS INSIDE
the moat house, close enough to hear his step on the balcony. She turned slowly, her face pale in the light of the single candle beside the bed. Duncan’s body hardened instantly at the sight of her. She wore a long silk sheath that shone the color of the heather that bloomed by Dunraven’s south wall. Her shoulders were bare, devastatingly bare. Every movement sent silk rippling, clinging to the fullness of breast and thigh.

He wanted to tear the mauve silk into tiny pieces.

He wanted her panting and desperate beneath him.

Duncan’s hand tightened on the brass door handle. He shouldn’t be there, he thought, not with the fury that burned in his blood. He would hurt Kara if he stayed—if not physically, then in the angry chaos of his uncontrolled thoughts.

Tonight there was no way for him to be a gentleman, not when he needed to be clenched in her heat.

Candlelight shimmered. Shadows clung lovingly to her satin skin.

Duncan cursed. “I’m going back inside. This—” He raised a hand. It swept over her, the room, then became a fist. “
This
is a mistake,” he finished harshly.

She moved closer, all moonlight and dreams, wrapped in a
fragrance of orang e petals, sandalwood. and summer woods “Why?”

Duncan’s jaw was granite in the candlelight. “Because feeling what I do, needing what I need, I’ll hurt you,” he said bluntly.

Kara studied him gravely, and again the light became his enemy, challenging his restraint by painting her throat and cheek and lip an earthy gold. His body strained, hard beyond enduring, and the helplessness that had goaded him all evening sent his temper ten degrees higher.

Kara looked at the cool white linen of his shirt, but he did not move. Memories of the afternoon tormented him. The love hiss of silk as she approached him made his fingers ache.

And still he did not move.

Her hand rose, and hovered just in front of his chest. Focused inward, her eyes began to darken.

She was reading him.

“Don’t, Kara.”

Her hand moved, searching the heat and energy that swirled around him. “You’re angry.”

“I’m angry.”

“You’re tense, worried.”

“Bloody tense.” Duncan took a step back. A tufted leather ottoman blocked his retreat.

Kara moved closer. “You’re taking on other people’s problems again. I’m going to have to do something about that, MacKinnon.”

Her hand sank against the crisp white linen. Her breath caught sharply.

“Feel it, Kara? You can see how I want you, all the things I’ll do. Not gentle,” he said hoarsely. “Not slow or careful.” He muttered in Gaelic.

Kara moved another inch. He was trapped between the heavy ottoman and a hot vision of silk and naked skin. She found a button, her eyes never leaving his.

The button was pushed free. Duncan felt her hands tremble.

“It will solve nothing.” His voice was a stranger’s.

“It will solve everything that can be solved. Maybe that’s all there is.”

Another pearl fastening slid free.

Kara’s hand slid onto his naked chest. Cursing, Duncan captured
her palm, wanting to pull it to his mouth, wanting to bite the soft flesh beneath her thumb and hear her moan.

Her eyes were smoke and amber, the color of the polished bow he had loved ever since he was big enough to walk to the glass case where it was stored at Dunraven.

“Touch me, Duncan. Now.”

Touch me
.

She knew what it meant. Damn it, she knew what just one minute of intimate contact would do to them both.

Touch me.
His hands clenched at the thought, his breath turning harsh. She would be a stormy sea at dawn, all light and rippling color. She would slide around him, rock against him, feed fantasies too dark to have a name.

Touch me
.

“No.” He gripped her wrist. Anger sheened his eyes. “Before, it was different. Before, I wasn’t afraid I could keep you safe. Before, I was in control.”