Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (14 page)

“I find myself drawn to the sea,” he confided, his voice huskier than he intended.

Constance glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I'm not,” she admitted.

“Then why sail for Spain?”

“That is the question I find myself repeating.”

She seemed fragile, untouchable. “To what result?” he asked, hoping to draw her out of her melancholy.

There were only a few legitimate reasons a young woman related to Simon Danbury would travel to Spain.

Stay the course.
“Was the risk worth it?” he asked.

“That is none of your affair,” she snapped.

He stepped further into the room, carefully working his way toward her. “That might be true. But you are on
my
ship. I committed mutiny for you. Everything about you, everything you do from this moment on carries pertinent weight upon me and
my
men. That makes everything about you my affair.”

“You can hardly blame me for — ”

“No blame imposed. But I expect gratitude.” Her lips turned downward, but he would not back down. “I'm entitled to an explanation.”

Her haughty gaze scanned him, head to foot. More than ever before, he wanted to kiss her downturned pert little mouth.

“You may have saved my life but that doesn't entitle you to anything more.”

He took a step forward, determined to prove he was entitled to everything and more for the sacrifices he'd made, but a knock on the door shackled him, putting his urges to rest.

“Aye,” he said. “Enter.”

A bald-headed man quickly appeared. “Dinner is ready, sir.”

“Bring it in, Martin. Place it on the desk there,” he pointed.

His gaze flicked to Constance. Her wide-eyed expression brought a smile to his lips. But Percy rarely smiled. Indeed, it was ridiculous that he found her surprise amusing. She had every reason to doubt his sincerity. That is, unless her fears were a ruse and she meant to manipulate him.

No. She was afraid, he thought, as he watched her follow the men in the room. He tapped his mustache thoughtfully, questions riddling his mind. What role did Constance play aboard the
Octavia
? Had she had any contact with Whistler? Was she, in fact, in league with the fox and afraid of giving herself away?

Martin set the desk with table linens, silver, and fine china, until the center of the room gleamed.

Constance's eyes narrowed suspiciously when the last of his men left the room. “What is the occasion?”

“A truce,” he said, spreading his arms to encompass the feast.

Clicking his boots together, he bowed and offered her a chair. She approached cautiously, and then allowed him to help her sit down. Percy leaned forward, slightly brushing her shoulder and poured red wine into a silver goblet, hardly missing her swift intake of breath.

“Honestly — ”

“Easy now,” he said, the memory of her naked body coiling around him. “Let us be civil.”

“You expect me to be civil?”

“After I saved your life, twice, I suspect you'd be particularly encouraged to oblige.”

She harrumphed. “I don't even know your name. That, sir, would be the start of a civil relationship.”

“All you have to do is ask,” he mocked.

Astonished, she gasped. “When have you given me the chance?”

Percy moved over to the opposite chair, sat down, and lounged before her with outstretched legs. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

“Well?” she harped.

“Well … what?”

“Do you honestly enjoy playing dim-witted games?”

“I'm a pirate, remember? We like to play games, especially those involving the opposite sex.” He winked.

Constance's chest rose and fell rapidly, drawing his attention to her breasts. “Very well, then,” she said. “I can see this is getting me nowhere.” She blinked her succulent green eyes and spoke, her voice caressing him like silk. “Would you be so kind as to tell me your name, sir?”

He clapped his hands together. “Bravo! Yes, I'd be happy to oblige.” He hesitated long enough to watch a blush creep up her neck. “My name is Thomas.”

“Thomas? Would that be your surname or first name?”

“Thomas,” he paused long enough to add, “Sexton.”

Her eyes crinkled. He watched her lips form his name as she said it again, letting it roll off of her tongue. “Thomas Sexton.” Her nose wrinkled. “The name does not suit.”

“Why not?” He shifted in his chair, playing the thoroughly insulted villain.

“I suspected something like One-Eyed Jack or — ” Her hand quickly covered her mouth. “I didn't mean … It's just … well … with your eye patch and so many of your men aptly named for their physical traits, I assumed — ”

“You assumed my name must mirror the image, eh?”

Her horrified expression was too precious for words. He burst out laughing.

“You're not angry?” she asked disbelieving.

“For assuming the obvious? No.” Lifting a cloth to his mouth, Percy shrugged his shoulders. “I've been called worse.”

“I'm sure all well-deserved,” she snapped, once again in control of her wits.

His gaze rose from the roasted game hen sitting upon a bed of boiled potatoes to her eyes shimmering like brilliant emeralds in the candlelight. He saw no hint of laughter within them. She despised everything he stood for. As well she should. First impressions were crucial in his line of business. Hating him was her only protection. But she didn't know
him
, the real man, the man who'd sailed the world and beyond on an impossible hunt for someone who pulled his puppet strings. If only he could show her Percival Avery, the refined gentleman, adored and sought after by the ton. He'd not met a member of the demi-monde who could resist him, especially not the daughter of a duke.

Changing tactics, he loaded his next question. “Does this meal not meet with your approval, your Ladyship?”

She scanned the table and licked her lips. Suddenly, he wondered what it would be like to have her gaze at him with hunger in her eyes, what it would feel like to have her tongue flick over his lips, slowly moving in to battle his own. He lowered his gaze.

“Cook said you haven't eaten since last night,” he nearly choked. “Why?”

In the process of reaching for bread, she put her hands into her lap. “After you didn't heed any of my requests for an audience, starving myself was the only way to gain your attention.”

“What a devious plan, starving yourself so you can look the hapless, abused prisoner when we pull into port. Are you so eager to see me in chains?”

Her look of surprise proved he'd hit the mark. She sat back in her chair. He stuck a knife into the meat and cut a few succulent slices, placing a large portion on her plate. Steam and enticing odor of a perfectly roasted beast rose from the table to her nostrils. She closed her eyes and inhaled.

“Perhaps,” she said, “you would enlighten me.” That got his attention. He would love to enlighten her in many things, all mostly physical. “Why is it so important that Mrs — ”

“If I'd wanted the old hag in here with you, I'd have locked her in here from the first,” he finished. Tired of her penchant for whipping a dead horse, he plunked a potato unceremoniously next to the game hen on her plate.

“You're a heartless brigand!”

He leaned back in his chair. “Understand this, Lady Constance. You've come between me and something I wanted more than once. I will not allow you to do so again.”

• • •

Light flickered in the room as dangling lanterns wafted with the pitch and sway of the ship. Draperies attached to the ceiling over the captain's bunk cast obsidian shadows on the mahogany walls. The wind whimpered through the open window and an occasional flash of lightning illumined the darkness in the distance.

Sitting opposite Thomas Sexton, Constance dared not utter a sound. She scanned the room, settling her gaze upon the bunk where she'd lost the only thing she had left to give — her virginity, if Thomas was to be believed.

Heat flooded her cheeks. Careful not to hint at her thoughts, she lifted her gaze from her plate. Food was the farthest thing from her mind right now, even though her stomach rebelled, growling loudly. She was acutely aware of the captain, and to her relief, he appeared to ignore her. Occasionally, he glanced up, pointed at her plate and then focused on thrusting as much food as he possibly could into his mouth.

Constance toyed with her fork, turning it over and over between her fingers. The cold, unforgiving metal reminded her of the unbending will of the man sitting before her.

Remember the heat between us when you're cold and aching with want.

The fork clanged to the tabletop with a resonant bang. Instantly alert, the captain peered over the rim of his wine glass. “Too weak to feed yourself?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I'm not hungry, after all,” she said.

“You cannot find anything here to your liking?”

She swallowed hard. “No,” she whispered, heat suffusing her cheeks.

“What is it you desire then?”

He rose from his chair. His eyes gleamed wickedly. He did not hide behind pretenses like Burton. He didn't serve his country like Guffald. His formfitting breeches and open shirt left little to the imagination. Her heart thrummed in her chest, nearly taking away her breath. God in heaven, this pirate was going to be the death of her yet.

• • •

Percy tired of Constance's games. For many nights since the
Octavia
sank, he'd stayed away from her for one reason and one reason only, her protection. After the debacle with Frink and now with a traitor aboard, he couldn't afford to leave her alone. But being this close to her tempted him beyond reason. Devil take him, when he was with her, he forgot about Frink, Whistler, the fox, Celeste, and Josiah Cane. What he felt now, with her, was something he dared not explore, but desired to more than anything else. He'd never before experienced need this strong. God in heaven, he wanted her. He wanted what she represented — purity, strength, goodness.
Damn him!

Crossing the distance between them, he knelt on one knee and gently caressed the side of her face. “Does this appeal to you?”

“No,” she answered, turning away from him, denying him an honest reaction.

“Does this appeal to you?” he asked, lifting her to her feet. He leaned her head back in his hands and bent down to brush his lips against hers. She did not fight him.

“No,” she whimpered, her half-lidded green eyes igniting.

“How about this?” he asked, leaning down, kissing her with wine-laced lips, deepening the kiss until she responded by putting her hands around his shoulders.

That was all the encouragement he needed.

• • •

Constance was drowning. Was it possible to drown in a kiss? Her knees responded, weakening beneath her as she reveled in the feel of Thomas's lips against her own. Effortlessly, his tongue slipped into her mouth and curiosity exploded within her as her tongue parried his. His wine-laced kiss, his gentle touch, was hypnotic, unforgettable. Why didn't she fight him?

Try as she might to remember, she couldn't recall his hands ever roaming down her back, to her hips, pulling her closer than ever to the bold reminder that he was a man in his prime. They had already slept together. If that was the case, why didn't her body recall him? Cautious and feeling completely scandalous, Constance yielded to his exploring hands. She wanted to be comforted. She wanted to feel loved. She ached to understand what her body wanted, needed, and she gave herself freely, embracing him with a restless fire, moaning, leaning into him, wanting to savor everything about him, wanting to remember what it felt like to be in a real man's arms. Without this, she would never know. He was taking her back to London, to her father — to Burton, to a world in which she would never truly live.

She made no move to resist Thomas as he lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the bunk. In one fluid motion, he deposited her on the bed and lowered himself over her, covering her with his lengthy form. Again he kissed her, delving his tongue into her mouth, siphoning her strength. If she'd wanted to resist him, the time had long passed. Instinctively, she pulled him close, squeezing her eyes closed to blot out the knowledge that giving herself to him was wrong. She was playing with fire. But he'd saved her life and her determination to make love to a real man, rather than be pawed by an undesirable lout, closed off her doubts.

Images flashed before her eyes, her torn shift lying on the floor, waking up in a pirate's bed — naked. Thomas's own admission led her to believe that she was no longer virginal and therefore had nothing to lose. It served no purpose to act coy when every fiber of her being wanted to draw him in.

He teased her and did so well, weaving his fingers through her hair, palming her body with his hands, increasing her agony with every stroke. Then he drew back.

“No,” she cried.

“Are you certain?”

She nodded and he began to remove her clothes, one garment at a time. Instinctively, she wanted to hide from him, to retain the barriers that had kept them apart, but, amazingly, she felt no embarrassment. Every inch of her wanted to know him as if they were the only two people in the world.

“You're beautiful,” he said. His eyes devoured her hungrily. He moved off the bed and disrobed, his gaze never abandoning hers, and she took in the sight of him, every amazing inch of him.

“You're definitely a real man,” she teased, though she had no experience with the alternative.

He eased himself down upon her, wasting no time. He teased her lips with his mouth, his mustache and beard. He trailed kisses along her jaw until she shivered with delight. While he did so, his fingers moved to cup her breast, kneading, tweaking her nipple until she moaned and arched into him, wanting, needing more. Her body was a kindling flame. And just when she thought she might succumb to the heat, his probing fingers found the juncture between her thighs and slipped inside, stroking, creating a throbbing need that crescendoed until she quaked.