Six Degrees of Scandal (16 page)

“I want this,” she said, laying her hand on his chest. “I never wanted any man but you.”

His muscles twitched. Slowly he ran one finger down her throat, over the throbbing pulse at the base of her neck, and nudged open the loose nightgown until he could see the tip of one plump breast. Olivia's breath caught, and she made a tiny sound of pleasure. His hand began to shake as he eased the linen out of the way.

In the back of his mind Jamie thought of their first time. Even then, raw as he'd been, he knew it had not been a stellar performance. Neither of them really knew what they were doing, and he was quite sure that first time was far more enjoy
able for him than for her. All of the other women he'd been with since had been more experienced and talented, carnally, but nothing compared to the breathtaking joy of holding the girl he loved, or the fierce thrill of bringing her to climax. Making love to Olivia, even as a cocksure twenty-year-old boy who thought he had all the time in the world to learn her, had been the happiest moment of his life. And now he had a chance to get it right, and not squander the opportunity.

Olivia saw the turbulence in Jamie's eyes as he stared down at her. What was he thinking, she wondered. She hoped it was not about the past—she was done with the past—but he'd looked so anguished during her speech. Impulsively she cupped one hand around his cheek. “Make love to me,” she whispered. Let there be no doubt that she was seducing him; let him never wonder if she truly wanted him.

His taut expression softened just a bit. “I've been waiting years to hear you say that again . . .”

She smiled. He lowered his head and kissed her while his hand stole inside her gaping nightgown and found her breast. His touch, like his kiss, was gentle, delicate, a tormenting tease of sensation. Restlessly Olivia tugged at his waistcoat buttons, then his shirt; she wanted her hands on his skin. Jamie broke the kiss at that; he sat back on his heels and stripped the garments off.

Heart thumping, Olivia scrambled backward and tugged her own nightgown off. The cool air made her skin tingle, but she didn't feel cold at all as Jamie's gaze fixed on her breasts.

“You're even more beautiful now,” he said quietly.

No one else had ever made her feel beautiful the way he did. Jamie's words sent a thrill of raw desire through her. Openly she gazed at his bare chest, now more muscled than she remembered, with a sprinkling of hair. Wordlessly she shook her head; he was magnificent.

“Come here.” He reached for her, and she went willingly into his arms again, settling astride his legs. His hands cupped her bottom and pulled her hips tight to his. Olivia felt the swell of his erection and let out a soft moan as he moved, grinding against her. She gripped his shoulders for balance and repeated the motion, flexing her spine so that he fit snugly in the V of her wide-spread legs.

Jamie's eyes rolled back in his head. “Temptress,” he whispered, wrapping one hand around her nape to pull her close. “Siren.”

Olivia laughed softly against his mouth. She wound her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. “Lover.”

“Love.” His lips claimed hers, demanding and hungry. His hands ran over her bare skin, exploring and teasing, pressing her ever tighter against him. When his palms slid up her thighs, and his fingers swirled into the damp curls that covered her sex, something hot and bubbling seemed to explode inside her.

She pushed herself up on her knees. “I want you,” she panted, tugging ineffectually at his trouser falls. “Inside me.”

“I'll never last,” he said through gritted teeth. He seized her wrist.

“Jamie.” Olivia shook back her hair to see him
better. A bright flush covered his face, all the way down his neck, and his eyes glittered in the firelight. If she hadn't been naked in his arms, exquisitely aware of how aroused he was, she would have thought him in the grip of a fever. “We have all night.”

It took a moment, but his lips curved into a wolfish grin. “We do.” He undid the buttons in a flash, shoved the fabric aside, and Olivia took his straining erection in both hands, guiding it between her legs until he inhaled sharply. “Olivia . . .”

She trembled as she sank down on him. Jamie braced one arm behind himself, the muscle flexed taut and hard. His other hand slid lower between her legs, right to where their bodies joined. His head hung forward, his burning gaze fixed on the same spot.

The first stroke made her flinch. She still felt stretched and full, unaccustomed to having a man inside her, and all her nerves jumped at the deft touch of his thumb as it circled and rolled. Apprehension had left her tense and anxious earlier, and now it transmuted into a roaring desire. Jamie touched her and she writhed, riding him with short, sharp jerks of her hips.

Abruptly, just as she felt herself beginning to draw up in anticipation, Jamie flipped her off him, onto her back. He moved over her and thrust back inside her before she could form a coherent question. He curled one arm behind her shoulders, took hold of her hip with his other hand, and drove into her so hard she squeaked.

Olivia hooked one leg over his back and dug her other foot into the mattress, straining up to meet
every thrust. The bed ropes creaked with every hard, heavy surge. Perspiration beaded Jamie's face as he moved. Olivia's own eyes were streaming as climax built within her, and her heart felt ready to burst with love.

And when she came, she soared, clinging to his arms and unable to make a single sound. Jamie froze, thick and hard inside her, and his expression crumbled, from anguished to rapturous as he found his own release.

“Livie.” He rested his forehead against hers, his breath ragged. “My darling.”

Wordlessly she put her arms around him. Darling. Love. He was all that and more—he was everything to her.

After a minute he rolled over, taking her with him. Olivia rested her cheek on his chest, smiling as the hair tickled her. “Do you forgive me?” she whispered drowsily.

Jamie was quiet. “Yes,” he said at last. “I can't refuse you anything.” His lips moved against her temple, and she closed her eyes, having never known such complete peace and joy.

Olivia fell asleep still draped over him. Jamie watched her sleep, absorbed in every flutter of her eyelashes, every rise and fall of her bosom. Her lips were parted slightly, and there was a sensual, sated flush on her cheeks. Gently he teased free a strand of silky hair that lay across her forehead, and she didn't stir.

He had wanted to protect her before; now he would slay dragons for her. She forgave him—and asked his forgiveness. As much as he felt himself by far the greater transgressor, Jamie realized he
had no right to downplay her feelings. Perhaps there was even some truth to her words; she had kept him away to punish him. Just because he deserved it didn't mean she didn't regret it.

He heaved a silent sigh. Nothing sounded better than carrying her off to the nearest vicar and doing what he should have done the first time she said she loved him. But this time, there was more than heedless youth in his way.

When Olivia married Henry, Jamie became convinced that his chance for a conventional, happy life had slipped through his fingers. Driven by anger and a genuinely broken heart, he'd felt utterly unfettered by the typical obligations of a gentleman of good fortune. His father was still in the prime of life, fit and able to manage his own fortune and property, so Jamie had no responsibility to care for his family. There was no title or ancient estate at stake, so he had no obligation to marry and provide an heir. He took this as a sign that he was free to do as he pleased, follow any lark that took his fancy, and run any risk that appealed to him. And he had done just that, right up until his sister Penelope wrote to him that Olivia was in trouble.

Olivia knew him too well: he
hadn't
told his family half of what he'd been up to recently. Not merely the usual things that young men with money did—gambling, drinking, the company of loose women—but things that would shock everyone who knew him. This time he'd got entangled in things that could truly ruin him—and his wife . . . if he had one. Olivia had already endured one husband who wasn't what she thought,
who exposed her to danger and scandal by keeping secrets. Jamie refused to do the same. Before he could ask her to pledge her heart, he had to put his life in order.

“Darling Olivia,” he breathed, even though she was deeply asleep. “Tell me you still love me. Tell me you'll still have me. I won't let you go again.” He wrapped the loose curl around his finger, pulling it tight for a moment before he let it slide away. “And this time I will be worthy of your trust.”

T
he next morning dawned bright and clear, the sky a cerulean blue that gave the impression heaven was smiling on them. Or at least Olivia took it as such, nursing the residual glow of happiness inside her. Jamie woke her with a kiss, and that seemed an omen of good fortune to come.

They located the local vicarage without any trouble. Unfortunately, the vicar turned out to be an elderly bachelor who had never heard of Miss Charters, although he did allow that if she had married years ago, he might have forgotten. He helpfully supplied them with a list of nearby parishes, noting which ones were held by married men.

Since the day was crisp but not frigid, and the Isle of Thanet not very large, they decided to visit as many as possible. It was a little over four miles to Margate on another good road, so they headed north with the idea of working their way south. But every vicar and curate they visited could not, or would not, help them.

“I'm not sure I believe her,” Olivia said with a sigh as they went back to the carriage at the vic
arage of St. Peter's, where the flinty-eyed vicar's wife watched them from her door. The woman, Mrs. Palmer, had been polite enough until they mentioned Mr. Charters of Gravesend, when her manner abruptly grew cold and dismissive.

“Nor do I.” Jamie was facing the church, his gaze drifting up. Olivia followed it, but saw only the church tower, the pale gray stone stark against the deepening indigo of the winter sky. “Let's stop for a bite to eat,” he said, almost absently.

It didn't take long to find a respectable-looking tavern called “The Anchor,” and Jamie turned in. When they stepped inside, the smell of roasting meat and baking bread made Olivia's stomach rumble. A crowd of older gentlemen were seated by the fire, and to Olivia's surprise, Jamie chose a table quite near them. He ordered food and drink, then leaned back in his chair. “I wonder if we're looking in the proper places.”

“What do you mean?” Olivia asked quietly, with an apprehensive glance over her shoulder. Jamie hadn't lowered his voice, and anyone might have overheard him.

“We've got so little information,” he said, still at full volume. “But it occurred to me that we're looking for a person who must live within a very easy distance of the coast.”

“Oh. Because . . . ?” She raised her brows instead of saying the rest. It was probably her imagination, but it seemed the conversation behind them had grown quieter.

“For several reasons. First, to know the weather at the coast. We know the weather was crucial. Second, to be available on a moment's notice.”

She shifted uneasily. What was he doing? “Perhaps you're right,” she murmured.

“It may hasten our search,” he said. “Since we've got little time.”

Olivia nodded, vastly relieved when the serving woman returned with plates of food. Her relief evaporated, though, when Jamie asked the woman if she knew of any neighbors who hailed from Gravesend originally.

“Nay,” she said without hesitation.

“Truly?” Jamie feigned surprise. “Mrs. Palmer, of St. Peter's Church, assured me she thought there might be.”

“I wouldn't know,” she retorted, and walked away without a backward glance.

Her stomach knotted with worry; it felt like everyone in the room must be staring at them. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

He leaned toward her until their foreheads almost touched. “Taking a gamble. If it doesn't pay off . . .” He shrugged.

Mildly reassured, she nodded. They ate in relative silence. “Jamie,” Olivia asked softly. “At St. Peter's, you looked up at the sky. What were you thinking?”

He drained his mug of ale and set it down. This time his voice was as low as hers. “There's quite a tall tower on that church. I imagine it could be seen at sea. It just made me think anew on the nature of the person we're seeking: someone who must have known, or been, a smuggler.”

“You think the vicar's wife was a smuggler?”

One corner of his mouth quirked at her shocked whisper. “Not necessarily. But perhaps she was.
Whether it's Miss Charters or someone else, though, we're looking for a smuggler.”

“'Tain't often an airy day blows two Londoners all the way to Thanet,” boomed a hearty voice.

They both turned. A bluff gentleman, tall and white-haired, stood smiling down at them. “That's a pity,” said Jamie. “This is fair country.”

“Indeed it is. Although it's a trifle late for sea bathing, at this time of year.”

“We are undaunted,” Jamie assured him.

The stranger laughed, and nodded at Jamie's tankard. “Another ale, my friend? Patten brews a fine one.” Jamie gave a nod, and the man waved one hand at the serving woman. Without asking what he wanted, she jerked her head and disappeared. “And what could I possibly offer you, lovely lady?” Their new friend fixed a pleased smile on his face and bowed very gallantly to Olivia.

She wet her lips and tried to smile, but her heart was thumping with dread. She stole a glance at Jamie, who glanced fleetingly at the seat opposite her. “Conversation, sir. Won't you join us?”

“Thank 'ee, I will.” He took the seat as the woman returned with two tankards of ale. “Martha, my dear, you make my heart glad.”

“It's the ale that does that,” she shot back, plunking them on the table and whisking away again.

He only laughed. “That it does! As does the company of a lovely lady.” He smiled at Olivia again.

“James Collins,” said Jamie, inclining his head. “And my wife. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.” He paused expectantly, but their new
companion ignored this hint to introduce himself.

“What's your purpose in Thanet at this time of year? It's a limb-of-a-way from London, which must be crying at the loss of your lady's fair presence.”

“A family matter,” said Jamie easily. “My wife's brother died and left some curious documents, which have wreaked havoc among the family. Naturally we are desperate to learn more, and managed to locate a solicitor in Gravesend who handled his affairs. Unfortunately, that fellow also died recently. He left behind a daughter, and we hope she may have inherited something from her father that might answer our questions about Henry's intentions.”

While visiting vicars, they had decided it was better to continue the pretense that they were married, and that meant it was easier to refer to Henry as her brother. Olivia wished he'd been so easily dealt with in real life.

“Such a shame, when a fellow leaves behind trouble,” said the newcomer sympathetically. “My sympathies, ma'am.”

Olivia bowed her head. “That's very kind of you,” said Jamie. “The only thing we know about this lady, unfortunately, is that she married a vicar near Ramsgate. Her father was named Charters but we've no idea what her husband's name is.”

The other man sipped his ale. “'Tain't much to go on.”

“No,” Jamie agreed, “but my wife's mother is so distraught over her son's death, we had to make the inquiry.”

“O' course.” He shrugged. “But there be no lady called Charters here.”

“It may have been years ago that she came here.”

“Born and bred in Thanet, I am,” was the prompt reply. “Right here in Broadstairs, as it happens. I've never known a woman called Charters.” He leaned forward. “Why did you want to find her?”

Olivia tensed. Under the table she groped for Jamie's hand, which he squeezed reassuringly—or in warning, she wasn't sure which. Once again it seemed every ear in the tavern room was attuned to their conversation.

“We hope she can help us,” Jamie answered.

The fellow made a low
hmph
, his gaze swinging to Olivia. “Aye, with your brother, ma'am. What were his name?”

She wet her lips. “Henry.”

The older man grinned. “Plenty of Henrys hereabouts. Which one in particular?”

Before she could stop herself she looked at Jamie. Should she trust this fellow? Jamie gave a tiny nod, which somehow didn't calm her anxiety. But she did trust Jamie, so she replied, in a whisper, “Townsend. Henry Townsend.”

His assessing gaze didn't waver. “He must have been up to some dangerous things, from the look on your face. You look skeer'd even to say his name.”

She was. They had come all the way to Thanet without any real clues to what they were seeking, and Jamie had just reminded her they were really looking for a smuggler, not a kindly vicar's wife. A smuggler might not react well to being tracked down and questioned, to say nothing of
actually helping them. It wouldn't surprise Olivia one bit to learn this room was filled with smugglers right this moment. Night had fallen, they were strangers in this town, no one knew where to find them, and there was a deep, dark ocean right down the road, waiting to swallow up any hapless person who stirred up a mystery better left long-forgotten . . .

Something of all that must have showed on her face. Before she could reply, the old gentleman gave her an abashed smile. “I can see I've brought up a sensitive matter,” he said in a kindly tone. “Perhaps I should leave you in peace and not blether on like a gossipy old besom . . .” He started to push back his chair.

“No.” Olivia put her hand on the table. “Please.” No one else wanted to talk to them. She wasn't going to be any more at ease with one of the other local citizens, and while this fellow may have approached them to discourage them, at least he seemed friendly. “If there is anything you know that can help us, I wish you would stay.”

For a long moment he just watched her, looking for all the world like a kindly grandfather as he rested his folded arms on the table. His white hair fell over his forehead, and his green eyes twinkled as he smiled at her. His clothes, she finally noticed, were sturdy and well made, and his hands were closer to a gentleman's hands than a laborer's. “I do find it terrible hard to resist the pleas of a beautiful woman, Mrs. . . . ?” He dropped his chin suggestively.

Olivia realized he knew they'd lied. Her heart pounded as she drew in a shuddering breath.
We're
taking a gamble
, Jamie had said. “Mrs. Townsend,” she said in a barely audible whisper. “Henry's widow.”

His expression didn't change. “I thought it might be. No brother is worth that much.”

Nor was Henry. “And your name, sir?” she felt bold enough to ask. If she was going to spill her secrets, he ought to as well.

“Pike, ma'am. Charlie Pike at your service.”

Olivia glanced at Jamie the same moment he looked at her. He must be thinking what she was: could this be
Capn. P
himself? It would be the greatest stroke of luck she'd had in weeks.

“I—we—believe Henry left something, or lost something, that only his solicitor knew of. Finding the solicitor's daughter, Miss Charters, may be our only hope of untangling the mystery.”

“Lost something?” Mr. Pike chuckled. “The only thing I ever lost to a solicitor was money, and a great mot of it, too. But I doubt you'll get a farthing back from a lawyer, ma'am. Anointed scoundrels, all of 'em.”

“It's not money,” she murmured. Her hands were clenched in fists in her lap, and she imagined every person in the room was eavesdropping on her words. Jamie, though, looked calm, if highly alert, so she kept her focus on the man across from her.

“Not money! What else could a solicitor have that a woman might want?”

“Something valuable. Something rare or unique. Something . . .” She lifted one hand and spread her fingers in frustration. “Something secret.”

“Rare and secret, eh? Sounds dangerous. Why be you so set on locating it?” Mr. Pike leaned toward her, his bright green eyes fixed on her under his wild shock of white hair.

Olivia took a deep breath. “Someone thinks I have it,” she confessed in a low voice. “And he wants it badly enough to threaten my life for it.”

“The bloody blighter,” said Mr. Pike in an almost genial tone. “What makes him think you've got it? Your pardon, but you don't seem to know what it is you're after.”

“I don't know, precisely,” she answered slowly, never taking her eyes from his. Mr. Pike knew more than he was admitting, she was sure of it. She also had the feeling that she was undergoing some sort of test, a test it was vitally important she pass. Some instinct told her Jamie couldn't help; she wondered if he felt that as well, for he had been silent for several minutes even though she could feel him beside her, listening to every word.

“But I believe it's a very valuable piece of art,” she went on, picking her words with care. “Perhaps old, or the work of a great master. Nothing less than a true treasure would drive this man to pursue me as he's done, to frighten me and assault me—” Unexpectedly, her voice wobbled, and she paused to steady it. “He tried to harm a dear friend of mine because she would not tell him where I had gone when I fled town to escape him. And I fear he'll do even worse to me if he catches me before I find it.”

“The dirty scoundrel,” Mr. Pike said sympathetically. He still seemed remarkably unmoved by her tale. “So you plan to find this treasure and
give it to him to spare yourself and others his wrath.”

Her heart began to sink. Perhaps he was just an idle old chap who liked to talk, and he had no way—or intention—of helping her. Perhaps this was just an amusing story to him, and he would amble back to his mates by the fire and have a good laugh at her expense after turning her and Jamie away. Perhaps he'd be yet another man indifferent to her attempts to save herself from the trouble inflicted upon her by other men. A pox on the lot of them, each and every man in the world—except Jamie. Her temper sparked and she felt the warmth rising to her cheeks. “Mr. Pike—”

Beside her Jamie stirred, a subtle shifting of his weight. But his knee pressed lightly against hers, in warning or encouragement, she didn't know. Olivia took it as the latter. She hoped it was the latter. Still, she leaned forward and lowered her voice, even if she didn't try to hide the intensity of her feelings. “I have fled my home alone in the winter, with only what I could carry in a single valise, all the way to the very edge of England. Thanks to my late husband, who turned out to be a baser scoundrel than I ever imagined, I have no money and no place to safely rest my head. The man chasing me has cost me my friends, my home, nearly everything I hold dear. And you think I would suffer all that, only to hand a valuable object over to the man who has ruined my life? Never.”