Never Trust a Pirate (17 page)

“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

R
UFUS
G
RIFFITHS 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?”