Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (15 page)

His words touched a chord in Francesca, but she wasn’t about to
admit any such thing. She stared at him defiantly. ‘I would have stopped him
had it not been for you.’

‘So your predicament is my fault, is it?’ His voice was hard and
his eyes blazed into hers.

Francesca looked away. ‘No. But had you not tried to abduct me in
the harbour…’

‘
Abduct
you?’ He raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Was that what
I was doing?’

She ignored his question and regarded him suspiciously. ‘Why
would you help us, sir, if Mr White is your friend and you are involved in
this…this…’

‘Gentlemen’s revenue trip,’ he supplied.

She said nothing.

‘Let’s just say, whatever my interests are, they do not stretch
to slitting young women’s throats and throwing them overboard.’

Francesca felt a spasm of fear at his words but she kept her face
impassive. ‘What do you propose to do, sir?’

‘Have my wicked way with you, Miss Linden,’ he said smoothly.

She could not prevent the gasp that escaped her. ‘This is no time
for jests.’

‘I’m not jesting.’ He looked at her straight-faced.

‘Do not be ridiculous, sir!’ She felt the shock rolling over her
in waves.

‘You will not play the harlot even to save your life and that of
your brother?’

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘You will trade our lives to bed
me?’ she said slowly, and it seemed that her throat was constricting.

‘No.’

‘No? Then what…’ Her voice raised in anguish.

‘Shh!’ he said. ‘It will be a pretence only—a play-act.’

‘But…’

He laid one finger gently against her lips. ‘It’s the only
chance, Miss Linden…for you and for Tom.’

Her eyes held his.

‘All we need do is convince White that matters between us are
intimate, and then we will be left quite alone.’

‘Why—?’

‘No time for questions, Miss Linden,’ he said. ‘Do I save you or
not?’

What choice did she have? Play Mr Black’s game, or risk Tom’s
life and her own? Her only alternative was to throw herself on Mr White’s
mercy—but she had heard what had been said of that, and Tom had seemed to trust
this man. She thought of Mr White’s cruel pale gaze and looked up into the dark
eyes of the man before her. In them she thought she could see compassion and
urgency and truth. Something tightened in her stomach, and in that instant she
made her decision. She nodded.

He untied her hands and ankles, stuffing the rope in his pocket,
then reclaimed the handkerchief that was hanging loosely around her throat.

A noise sounded: the tread of feet coming down the ladder. Mr
Black took her hand and helped her to her feet.

‘Truly a knight in shining armour,’ she said, the irony heavy in
her tone.

The footsteps walked across the floor, coming ever closer.

‘Hardly,’ he murmured and, reaching across, pulled her against
him.

One hand slid against her waist, the other secured the nape of
her neck. His mouth swooped over hers, and he kissed her as she had never been
kissed before. This was no peck on the cheek. Indeed, it was barely a kiss at
all, but a ravishment—a possession, almost. His lips were enticing and
insistent and demanding all at once. Francesca was completely and utterly
shocked.

She thrust her hands against his chest, intent on freeing
herself, but the embrace in which she found herself was unyielding. The blood
surged through her with a frenzy, her heart beating so hard and fast that she
was sure it would leap from her chest. His mouth continued its sensuous massage
against hers, luring her against her will, beguiling her, stripping the very
soul from her body. She tried to turn her face away, but the hand cradling the
back of her head prevented that escape.

His hand slid down, caressing the swell of her hip. Francesca
gasped at his audacity. His fingers stroked and teased…and all the while the
kiss continued. His breath was her breath, his scent hers. The stubble on his
chin rasped rough against her face. It was as if he was awakening something
deep within her—something that she did not understand.

Just as the footsteps paused outside the door she felt the
flicker of his tongue within her mouth, and his hand close over her breast. Her
nipples hardened. Francesca panicked.

The door was thrown open just as she raised her knee and thrust
it into Mr Black’s groin.

She saw the flare of shock in his eyes, heard the gasp he could
not smother, and his hands released her. He staggered back.

‘This must be a first—a woman who is positively averse to your
amorous advances. Must be losing your touch, Mr Black.’

Although Francesca’s heart was thumping loud enough to echo in
her ears she could hear the amusement in Mr White’s taunt.

Mr Black recovered himself quickly. He shot her an unfathomable
look before turning and presenting a very different face to White. A cold smile
curved his mouth, and even Francesca, innocent as she was, could see the lust
in his eyes. Everything about him bespoke a man who was used to taking what he
wanted exactly when he wanted it. This was not the Mr Black who had spoken so
rationally with Francesca and her brother only minutes earlier. This was a
predator, a rake. A shiver rippled down her spine and she backed away,
increasing the distance between them.

‘We’ll see, Mr White,’ he said in the same drawl she had heard
him use before. ‘As I said, I like a challenge.’ His gaze flickered towards
Francesca. ‘And Francesca here is proving to be just that.’

Mr White smiled.

‘Quite a challenge indeed,’ said Black, and that frightening
half-smile was there again. ‘How long do we have before the rendezvous?’

‘An hour.’

Black’s smile deepened. He slid his eyes to Francesca. They
roamed over her, head to toe, evaluating her in the most base of manners.

Her anger flared at his bold appraisal. She faced him squarely,
her eyes seeking his, but Black’s gaze was not on her eyes: it was positioned
lower, lingering over her breasts. ‘How dare you?’

White chuckled. ‘There’s a blanket next door. I’ll fetch it for
you.’ He disappeared for all of two minutes, returning with a folded grey
woollen blanket, which he threw at Black. ‘Catch.’ He smirked. ‘I take it
you’ll have need of it.’

‘Thank you kindly, Mr White,’ said Black, and Francesca again had
the notion that they were playing a game.

She watched White walk away. He was over the threshold, the door
closing in his hand. Almost gone. Almost.

‘Oh, and Mr Black,’ White stuck his head back through, ‘I’ll take
my turn of her next…once you’ve blunted her claws.’ The door closed with a
click.

T
HE
semi-smile that curved Jack’s mouth was
gone as soon as the door shut. His expression altered in an instant. The
lascivious rake was gone, in his place a man whose look was closed and hard and
determined.

The girl’s eyes were filled with anger and disgust. She faced
him, saying nothing, waiting. Her face was pale in the lantern light, her skin
smooth. She looked young, too young to be involved in this mess, and he already
knew that she was an innocent. He thought again of that kiss. His blood was
still hot from it. She was such an unexpected delight, even for a man as jaded
as him. He pushed the thoughts away. He wasn’t here to play games. Those days
were done.

Tonight had been a long time in coming. So carefully planned. So
much riding on it. The girl’s very presence risked it all. And yet he knew he
couldn’t let White have her—even had she not been Tom Linden’s sister. Jack had
not lied. If White and the Buckleys had their way she’d finish this night in
Davy Jones’s locker, after an orgy of rape. He began to unfasten his coat.

Her eyes were fixed to where his fingers loosed the buttons. Her
eyes still blazed with indignation, but he could see the wariness that lay
beneath. She opened her mouth to speak.

He touched a finger to his lips and gave a slight shake of his
head, gesturing with his eyes towards the room next door. He let the blanket
drop from his hands. Then he shrugged off his coat and laid it on the floor.

Her eyes followed his every move, and although she seemed
composed he could sense the chaos of her emotions. Yet Francesca Linden did not
shout or scream or weep, she just stood there, dignified and silent, and
watched him. When she finally spoke, the anger in her voice almost masked the
fear.

‘What on earth did you—?’

He stepped closer.

She tried to back away, but realised there was nowhere left to
go. The wooden wall was already pressed against her spine.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, and with a lightning reflex
intercepted her palm just before it landed on his cheek.

‘You are despicable, sir!’

He shrugged and released her hand. ‘White has gone. I only wish
to speak with you.’

Her eyes were filled with suspicion. ‘What—?’

His mouth touched almost to her ear. ‘Have a care over the volume
of your voice, Miss Linden. We may be heard through the door.’

She stared at him unconvinced, but finally gave a tiny movement
of her head, which he took to be assent.

There was barely a foot between them, but he did not touch her.
He could see the high colour in her cheeks and her kiss-swollen lips. He ran
his eye briefly over the high-necked brown woollen dress and the matching cloak
that dangled precariously from her shoulders and neck. Although clean, both
garments were worn, and showed the evidence of numerous repairs. The styles
were those that had not been fashionable for a good number of years. He knew
from when he had tied her ankles together that she was wearing darned woollen
stockings, and sturdy brown leather boots whose soles were thin. The dark brown
bonnet she had worn was the only thing that did not look as if it had come from
the Parish. It sat proudly on the wooden decking at her side, where he had
placed it earlier that evening. Her reddish blonde hair was scraped primly back
in a chignon. In spite of all that was shabby, there was an air of gentility
about Tom Linden’s sister.

He sighed inwardly, knowing that what had just happened was
nothing to that which would have to be done for this illusion to work. If she
balked at his kiss she certainly would not like the rest of it. Would not like?
That was the understatement of the century. Most young ladies would have a fit
of the vapours at the mere suggestion, but, for all she was clearly a young
lady, Francesca Linden did not look to be in danger of succumbing to such
hysteria. There was something in her expression and the defiant stance of her
body that bespoke an underlying strength of character that he had not before
seen in a woman. Apprehension prickled at the prospect of what lay ahead. He
almost laughed at the irony of the situation. Jack Holberton’s reputation as a
dissolute was legendary, even if he was still only twenty-six years of age. But
all the women he had known had been experienced, and as keen to be bedded as he
had been to bed them. This was different. Francesca Linden was different. This
whole situation was damnably ridiculous.

He raked a hand through the ruffle of his hair.

‘You said it was to be a play-act,’ she said in whispered
accusation.

‘And so it was.’

‘That was an act?’

‘Believe me, Miss Linden, you would know the difference were I to
kiss you properly.’

Her whisper grew louder. ‘You had no right to kiss me at all, or
to touch me as you did!’

‘What would you have White interrupt us doing? Quietly
conversing? Playing cards? Do you think that either of those activities would
convince him that we must spend time in here alone?’ His expression was one of
amusement.

‘No, but you might have warned me what you were about to do.’

‘I wanted to provoke a convincing reaction from you—I had not
anticipated quite how vigorous that would be.’ He could still feel the
tenderness between his legs where she had struck with unswerving accuracy. ‘Who
taught you the manoeuvre with the knee?’

‘My brother.’

He was gaining the rapid impression that he had misjudged Tom
Linden’s sister. ‘Perhaps I should have told you of my intention, but I
couldn’t risk that you would give the game away.’ He raked his hair again.
‘I’ll warn you of the rest.’

‘The rest?’ Her eyes widened.

‘To put it bluntly, there is more to bedding a woman than mere
kissing. And we must convince White that a bedding is taking place in here.’

She swallowed.

‘It is merely a strategy to keep White and the Buckleys away from
you. Do you understand, Miss Linden?’

She held her head up and looked him directly in the eye. ‘Are you
asking me to play the whore?’

Their eyes held.

‘I’m not asking you to be one, and there is a very great
difference in that.’

‘I suppose that there is.’ But the tone of her voice suggested
otherwise.

‘I’m not going to bed you. It will be a pretence only.’

‘Like the kiss?’

There was a small silence between them.

‘Do you have any better suggestions, Miss Linden?’

‘No.’ She glanced away, and her hands gripped a little more
tightly together.

Jack ignored that small sign and pushed on with the matter in
hand. ‘White will not knock and wait by the door. He might enter at any time,
and if he does we must ensure he sees that which he is anticipating.’ He looked
at her expectantly.

‘Mr Black,’ she said, ‘I must inform you that I have no knowledge
of…’ she hesitated, her gaze flickering down ‘…of such affairs.’ Her eyes
raised to his once more, steady, with just a flare of defiance. ‘But I have
agreed to do what is necessary to save my brother’s life.’

‘And your own.’

‘My own as well.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You had better tell me
exactly what it is that I’m to do, sir.’