Falling for the Pirate (4 page)

“Did you?” Adrian asked mildly, stirring his tea. Damn his patience.

“The thief isn’t talking.”

“The female thief.”

Apparently, Mrs. Wheaton had told him everything.

“What does it matter what gender she is? She broke into the Hargate offices. She was looking for something.” He had sent Adrian the note yesterday, which meant it had only been a matter of time until he appeared. Sinclair never called at the door like a regular person. But then, he wasn’t a regular person.

Adrian studied him with unnerving acuity. “Would you like me to?”

“To what?”

“To have a go at the female thief? Torture, persuasion. That sort of thing.”

“Of course not,” Nate snapped. Then paused. Wasn’t that what he had wanted? To get information from the thief, then to be rid of her? Still, not through Adrian. Nate wasn’t sure why that mattered, but it did. “I can handle a girl.”

“I’m sure you can,” Adrian said.

Nate sent him a cross look. “Did you come because you were worried, or do you just enjoy insulting me?”

“A little of both, to be certain.”

“You think Hargate sent her.”

“I haven’t spoken to her. But
you
think Hargate sent her, which means the stakes are raised. I agreed to let you take over his company. I agreed that you could ruin him. But I won’t let that quest ruin you, as well.”

Nate barked a laugh. “Do I look close to ruin?”

Adrian said nothing.
Irritating.

“I’ll have her figured out in a day, at most. Then we’ll know who sent her, we’ll find out what they’re after. And we’ll destroy him, whether it’s Hargate or anyone else.”

“And what about the girl?”

“What about her?”

“Will you let her go?”

Would he? He wasn’t sure. The answer seemed obvious. He would release her, because he couldn’t keep her prisoner forever. Could he? No, probably not. And yet the thought of releasing her, of letting her walk away, of never seeing her again felt…wrong. As though he was missing something. There was another piece to the puzzle, that was all. A clue left unturned.

She had reached for the locket.

When she was scared, she had put her fingers to her chest, exactly where the locket would go. Which meant it probably was hers, and not some stolen trinket. An automatic gesture like that would come from years of wearing the same necklace every day. It had to be meaningful. But what did it mean?

Guilt assailed him for keeping it from her.
Who’s the thief now?

Adrian was still watching him with those too-knowing eyes.

“Stop that,” Nate ordered.

“Stop what?”

“Examining me. I feel like a frog under one of your damned microscopes. Should I hand you a scalpel next, so you can cut me open?”

“No, I think you’re doing a fine job of that yourself.”

“Save your theorizing for your laboratory.”

Adrian looked amused. “You’ll let me know what you find out?”

“As always.”

He had lied to the girl. Adrian wasn’t his boss, strictly speaking. But Nate still treated him as such.

The Duke of Sinclair had organized Fortune Investments using his own small bit of capital, and had brought Nate in, along with two other men. All of them had been young, poor, and damned ambitious.

They were no longer young, and no longer poor, but they were still ambitious. However much money the company had made, it would make more. With the takeover of Hargate Shipping, partially.

Nate braced himself. “Have you gotten a chance to look at the books?”

“A mess, as we expected. But the holdings are substantial, and with our influx of cash, we should be able to keep the schedule of shipments for the year. It should begin turning a profit for us next fiscal year.”

“Excellent,” Nate said, though he didn’t feel pleased.

He felt grim.

“Something the matter?” Adrian drawled, casual as you please.

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Everything about this deal concerns me. For that matter, everything about
you
concerns me.”

“You may have forgotten this, what with being a duke, but you can’t actually own people. We have a business partnership, nothing more.”

“Friends, too,” Adrian murmured.

Nate disguised his reaction to the word—the hitch in his breath, the thump of his heart.
Friends
. And here, he’d always thought joining Fortune Investments had been an alternative to friendship. To companionship. He preferred to be alone, with no one to disappoint and no one to disappoint him.

“The important thing,” Nate said carefully, “is I would never endanger the company with my personal business. I’d never endanger you personally, either. If that makes us friends, so be it.”

“That’s the problem. As your friend, I
want
to be involved.”

Then you’ll be waiting a long time.
“I can handle her.”

Adrian smiled sadly. “I’m sure you can. But have a care.”

“And what’s that?”

“Before you break her, make sure that’s what you want to do.”

Nate stared at the door after Sinclair left. Break her,
break her
. Yes, that was the plan. It sounded barbaric when spelled out that way, but then, Nate
was
a barbarian of sorts.

Crude and uncouth. And wholly out of place in Fortune Investments.

Sinclair, the refined son of a duke. And Hale Martin, who was a bastard—but the bastard of a viscount still ranked head-and-shoulders above Nate.

He had the most in common with Jordan Bradshaw, who had been raised in Barbados. But even Jordan attempted to emulate the manners of his betters. Unlike Nate.

After Sinclair left, Nate found Mrs. Wheaton in the kitchen.

“Did you send up the tray?” He knew his voice came out surly and unkind. He just didn’t know how to change it.

“Not yet, sir. Cook’s finishing the porridge shortly.”

It made something lurch inside, imagining the girl hungry upstairs. Imagining her eating plain porridge. Imagining the look on her face when she’d said, “Thank you.” Christ. He had literally chased her off a twenty-foot ledge. He was now holding her prisoner. And she had
thanked
him.

“Forget the porridge. Make hot cocoa instead.” Warm. Sweet. That was what she needed to rest, to heal. “And make a broth,” he added. “Quickly.”

“It’s already made, sir.”

Indeed, almost as if she knew what he’d ask before he did. He made a mental note to raise her salary. Either that, or dismiss her. It was never a good thing to be known well. It led to questions. It led to expectations.

It led to
friends
.

He snorted. Shaking his head at Adrian’s show of sentimentality, he carried the supper tray upstairs. Mrs. Wheaton watched him go, her expression faintly astonished. But he wasn’t being kind, after all. He was doing reconnaissance.

The boy he had stationed at the door still stood there, looking bored and half asleep. He straightened as soon as Nate rounded the corner.

“Any trouble?” Nate asked.

“Not a peep, Cap’n.”

“Go and grab some rest. I’ll take this shift.”

The boy hesitated, and Nate wondered for a moment if he was worried about the girl. Or maybe he was just curious. He’d know that Nate had carried her home two nights ago, both of them drenched. It would be all the talk below stairs and belowdecks.

He raised an eyebrow, and the boy scurried along. It was an unusual situation, certainly. On his ship, in the middle of the ocean, the captain’s word was law. Though he ran a tight ship, a quiet ship, there had occasionally been run-ins with other vessels. There had been disorderly crewmen.

His firm hand had earned him a reputation. It had earned him respect.

After a light knock, he opened the door and stepped inside.

She was sleeping. He saw that immediately. Heard it, too, in the hum of her breath as he shut the door behind him. No, he didn’t imagine she’d caused any trouble here. She looked weak as a kitten, her hands curled up under her chin. He set the tray down on the table and walked closer. Closer. Right up to the edge of the bed. And sat down.

He’d had plenty of time to study her in the thirty-six hours she was unconscious. But he hadn’t been able to enjoy it. He’d been too worried that she might not wake up.

Now he took his time with his perusal, starting with the silky dark hair that cascaded around her on the pillow, a rich mahogany that went from curly to straight as it dried. She looked incredibly vulnerable, more revealing in sleep than waking. Her eyelids seemed almost translucent, so pale he could see the veins beneath. Her skin was milky white, her features delicate.

Resentment rose up in his throat. Why did she fascinate him? It was the clothes, he decided. Something primitive and perverse in him had liked seeing her in shirtsleeves and pants, her lovely hair tucked beneath a grimy cap. If it weren’t for the clothes, she wouldn’t have captured his interest this way, even if she was pretty.

More than pretty.

Her lashes were fine and lush. He imagined how they’d feel beating against his chest, opening and closing in close proximity, her cheek pressed to his skin.

His body responded with a rush of heat that embarrassed him. He wasn’t some young sailor. He didn’t get a cockstand at the thought of a pretty young woman. Quite young. The difference between them was marked.

But not
too
young.

No, his desperate care of her that night had proven, without a doubt, that she was neither a boy nor a girl. She was a woman—one his body wanted to take as a man would do. Ever since, he had requested that Mrs. Wheaton handle her needs. That helped his sanity, but it did nothing to erase the images in his head. Soft skin, pale skin, wet skin. And pink in places, like the color of her lips.

He stood up abruptly, almost knocking over the chair in his haste. He righted the chair and eyed it with distrust. It creaked whenever he sat down. Or moved. Or breathed. And now it was tripping him.

Even so, he considered sitting in it.

He could watch over her.
For the good of the company
.

The excuse felt a little too thin, especially remembering Adrian’s amused expression. The girl could sleep without him hovering like a mother hen.
Julian
. He grinned, suddenly, without knowing why. He would definitely keep calling her that.

Chapter Four

The next time she woke, it was dark. A tray sat beside her table, proving someone had come and gone. Her stomach rumbled violently, and the next thing she knew, she had downed the entire bowl of lukewarm broth. The thin soup was seasoned well and tasty.

She drank the cocoa more slowly, savoring it. It tasted sweet enough to make her throat ache, an indulgence, even though it had cooled. Expensive. There was that sense again, of a luxurious life she had lived before this. Was there a gilded apartment with extravagant meals somewhere, which she kept with the proceeds from her thefts?

Or from other, darker proceeds? If she was walking around London in shirt and pants, if she was conversing with a pirate late at night, it wasn’t a stretch to think she could be a prostitute as well as a thief.

Unease trickled through her.

The fire had petered out. The entire room was cooler now, as if the pirate had taken all the heat in the room with him when he’d left. As if his presence alone could fan the flames in the hearth…or raise the temperature of her cheeks.

Some of the chocolate had settled at the bottom of the mug. She reached a finger in to scoop it out. A beat of longing had started up inside her, deeper than the hunger of her belly, and more painful. She wanted more broth and more cocoa. She wanted more fire.

She wanted to see the pirate again.

But that was folly. Her position was precarious. At any moment he could hand her over to the authorities. Or if he were a violent man, he could exact some sort of punishment upon her himself. She didn’t think he would do such a thing, but she had to admit she didn’t
know
him. At this point, she didn’t even know herself.

And that terrified her.

It was terrifying to move in her body and not recognize it. Terrifying to think with a mind that wouldn’t tell her its secrets.

She needed to get out of this house. Then maybe she would remember where she’d come from, who she was. Even if she didn’t, it would be better than waiting for the pirate to decide what to do with her.

She suspected she wouldn’t like his decision.

In the small pile of clothes still sitting on the table, she found a chemise. At least one of the garments was meant for her. It slipped on easily, like a second skin, the cotton butter-soft. The shirtsleeves and pants fit her well, also. They hung a little loose and stretched a little long at the hem—but then, she hadn’t eaten in days. She could have lost weight.

The bars of the window were firmly clamped shut. Most likely, a guard still stood at the door. She could try to overpower him. She had a fighting chance, especially if she took him by surprise. However, she might get hurt. More to the point,
he
might get hurt, and she wouldn’t be comfortable with that, no matter what amoral life she might have led before.

Instead, she felt along the bricks of the chimney. Cool to the touch.

Her bruised muscles and swollen ankle protested the idea of any physical activity. Even walking across the small room had taxed her energy reserves; climbing all the way up a chimney might prove too much.

But she had no choice. Staying here like a lamb to the slaughter was not an option. If there was one thing her questionable profession proved, it was that she was no innocent lamb.

Taking a deep breath, she painstakingly climbed up the chimney, slipping only twice.

On the roof, a heavy mist blacked out the stars. Moisture condensed on her skin and inside her lungs, surrounding her. The salt in the air told her they were near the docks. Of course her pirate lived near the water.

She should have been planning where she would go next, but all she could think about was him. What would his expression look like when he found her room empty?

The roof slanted sharply on the steeple where her chimney opened, the slope leveling off onto a wider shallow roof area. She stepped carefully, wincing as her foot landed on something sharp. Her ankle had been too swollen to consider wearing shoes, and since she couldn’t climb while holding them, she’d left them behind. Balancing herself on two steady tiles, she peered over the edge.

A long drop.

She would need a different way down, a wall with trellises or tree limbs to help her down.

“Where could you be going?” came a voice from the darkness.

It sounded so low and sinister, so
familiar,
that she stumbled backward. The roof was just as slick as her skin, and she slipped, sliding forward and halfway off the roof. A hand grabbed the neck of her shirt and yanked her back. She skidded to a halt on the incline of the roof, breathing hard.

He looked furious. “For someone whose profession requires them to traipse up and down rooftops, you aren’t very good at it.”

Her eyes fell shut as she struggled to even her racing heart. “Well,” she said with feigned calm. “You’ve caught me.
Again
. I think it’s pretty well established I’m awful at robbery.”

His laugh was sharp as a whip. “Indeed.”

“It doesn’t help that my ankle’s the size of a bowling pin,” she added defensively.

“So are you admitting your role, then? Are you ready to tell me what I need to know?”

Tiredness cloaked her as thick as the fog swirling around them. There was no way out. He had obviously anticipated she would attempt to escape, and that she would go through the chimney. She couldn’t even hate him for it. He was skilled in this game; she was not. He had something to lose; she had nothing at all.

“I can’t remember anything,” she admitted.

Now his laugh was more deliberate. It mocked her. “That’s convenient.”

“Yes, of course. I am stuck on the roof of a man who wishes me ill because I seek out what’s convenient.”

“There’s any easy way to fix that. All you have to do is tell me who sent you and what you were after.”

“I don’t know any of that! I don’t even know my own name.”

Her words were having the opposite of her intended effect. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils widened. He looked ready to charge, and her body braced for impact.

But when he spoke, his voice was deceptively soft. “Don’t you, Julian?”

When he moved, his steps were slow and careful. She scooted backward until she hit the side of the chimney. Blocked in. Cornered.

“I swear to you—” Her voice trembled.

“What do you swear, Julian? That you’re telling me the truth?”

“Y-yes, I—”

His hand on her waist felt like a shock to her body, a jolt of pure surprise. The fear came in the seconds after, when she thought about what it meant. An escalation from words to the physical. A threat.
A caress.
How could she convince him she was telling the truth? She couldn’t. And that meant whatever he did to her, she couldn’t make it stop.

“A damned trick,” he muttered, more to himself, it seemed.

He stared at her clothes…
at her body
. She couldn’t read his expression, precisely. Disdain, frustration? He looked pained, as if maybe he didn’t like her wearing boys’ clothes—or the lie they represented.

“They were all I had,” she rushed to explain. “And I needed to get away. I don’t know you or what you have planned for me—”

“You must have thought it would be terrible, to go running off into the night. And according to your story, with no one to run to. What did you think I was planning to do to you?”

Her mouth opened. She closed it. Answering seemed too much like giving him ideas.

His voice grew impossibly lower, smoothing out like the surface of a puddle, deceptively flat. “Did you think I would touch you?”

He was touching her
now
. The warmth through the thin shirt was undeniable. And as she focused all her attention there, he touched her again. But not through her clothes this time. Just two fingers beneath her chin, raising her up.

His gaze locked on hers. “Did you think I would kiss you?”

“No,” she said desperately, because she hadn’t, really. Even if he’d have used her, she wouldn’t expect it to feel like this, like sudden heat, his desire simmering around them. She would have expected him to be cold—but she didn’t know why, when everything he did, and said, and made her feel, was fever-pitched.

And then he
did
kiss her, his mouth a warm breath across her lips. He was like the fog around them, wet and weighty and impossible to grasp. As soon as she jerked her head back, he followed, maintaining the same light pressure. When she opened her mouth to protest, he straightened away, his eyes churning with depths unknown.

“Did you think I would fuck you?”

His stark words broke the spell. Whatever strange alchemy his suggestions had made inside her, she returned to her old self—to metal, to coal.

She meant nothing to him. He only wanted to get information from her, to punish her. She didn’t wait for him to follow through on his threat this time. First the kiss, and then…

Fear bubbled up inside her, followed by desperate anger. She jerked away, thumping into the brick wall before scuttling around it. He could overpower her, she knew. If he wished to harm her that way, he would harm her. Her heartbeat quickened.

“Please, sir. You have every right to be angry with me, but I swear, I am being honest now. I know not who sent me nor what I was there for. The first thing I remember is you. If you keep me here, you will find out nothing. But if you let me go, I will find some way to earn the money and pay you back.” She steeled herself, even as tears sprang to her cheeks. “I swear it.”

He looked at her with a hint of bemusement. “What do you intend to pay me back
for
?”

“For the cocoa,” she said. And then quickly amended, “And the broth. And your care of me. I promise that if—
when
I remember who sent me, I’ll tell you his name.”

A long, deliberating silence passed.

“It happened once to a shipmate of mine,” he said with an air of reluctance. “He took a fall overboard and we pulled him back up. When he woke up, he couldn’t remember his own name.”

She couldn’t keep the anxiety out of her voice. “Did he ever remember?”

The seconds ticked by. “No.”

“Oh, no. Oh, God.” She had assumed her memory would return. She’d needed that assumption to move forward. But now— “What will I do?” she whispered. “I don’t want to be a thief.”

“Christ,” he muttered.

She let herself slide to sit on the roof and wrapped her arms around her legs. She made herself small, by instinct, curled up to shut the world out. He wouldn’t let her hide, though. He knelt in front of her, invading her desperation, filling her sight.

He waited until she looked up at him. “Come back inside,” he said, too gently.

Bitterness swelled inside her. “I told you. I don’t have the information you want.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not going to do…
that
either.”

His eyes darkened. “I know.”

She felt on the verge of tears. “Then what do you want from me?”

He looked away and then back. “I want to help.”

She had no reason to trust him. For all his kind treatment, he had still locked her up. He had threatened her and bullied her. He made no argument to persuade her now, either. He simply held out his hand and said, “Come with me.”

The mist cleared for a moment, revealing the expanse of sea, the spires of ships at port. To her back, all of London waited, crouched in shadows. Neither forward nor backward offered her shelter or food or
help
. The only man on her side was the enemy she had made.

Because he was noble? Or because he was using her? She didn’t know. It might not matter.

She placed her hand in his. He helped her negotiate the pitched roof until they reached a flat overhang above a balcony. From here the drop would be manageable, though he didn’t climb down. Instead he released her and sat with his legs dangling over the side, looking out toward the water, tacitly inviting her to do the same.

Gingerly, she settled beside him, careful to keep from touching him in any place. Careful because her body inclined toward him, without her consent. The early hour chill, the darkness, the height of the building—which seemed to emphasize her isolation, apart from the world—it all conspired to draw her closer to him, away from the yawning blackness and toward the flame.

But not too close, or she would get burned.

The mist obscured the glittering water again, but she could still see the moisture, droplets glittering in the moonlight. She breathed in the sea and bathed in it, sitting still.

He looked into the mist as he spoke. “There are boys who work on my ship. They come from all over London, but many of them were thieves. Pickpockets or apprenticed thieves. Sometimes they were trained to do so. Other times it was an act of necessity. Once they’ve served their time, they will only go out and steal again. An act of survival.”

An act of survival.
A kind way to put her criminal misdeeds. And not entirely inaccurate. How would she eat, even if he deemed fit to let her leave? She didn’t want to steal. But she didn’t want to starve.

She remained silent.

“The officials know this, so they send them to me, if the boys are willing. There is always room on my ships for sturdy hands and an agile mind. They pick it up quickly. Climbing and ropework. Most of them don’t have formal schooling, but some of them have an aptitude for letters or the geometry required for navigation.”

“You help them,” she said. “Charity.”

“They help themselves,” he said sharply. His voice evened out as he continued. “These boys never had a chance. The circumstances of their birth and childhood…it was that or the workhouse.”

“And you think I was from such circumstances?”

“No,” he admitted. “Your speech is refined. Your hands are soft. You weren’t born to this life. But fortunes rise and fall every day.”

“And does being poor pardon stealing?”

“Poor.” He laughed softly. “Poor doesn’t describe the pain of starvation, the way your body feels like it’s being ripped apart. It doesn’t explain the fear of being attacked for whatever pence you found that day. Or just for sport. It doesn’t show the fight that accompanies every day. There’s a war being fought in the slums of London. I couldn’t fault anyone for trying not to die.”