Seduced By The Scoundrel

‘Come and eat.’ Luke pushed the key into his pocket and moved away from the door when they had gone. ‘I have found clothes for you. They will be too large, but they are clean.’ He watched her as she trailed her sheet skirts to the chair. ‘I’ll light the fire, you are shivering.’

‘I am not cold.’ She was, but she did not want to turn this into a travesty of cosy domesticity, with a fire crackling in the grate, candles set around and food and wine.

‘Of course you are. Don’t try to lie to me. You are cold and frightened.’ He stated it as a fact, not with any sympathy or compassion in his voice that she could detect. Perhaps he knew that kind words might make her cry and that this brisk practicality would brace her. He lit a candle, then knelt and built the fire with a practised economy of movement.

Who is he? His accent was impeccable, his hands, although scarred and calloused, were clean with carefully trimmed nails. Half an hour with a barber, then put him in evening clothes and he could stroll into any society gathering without attracting a glance.

No, that was not true. He would attract the glances of any woman there. It made her angrier with him, the fact that she found him physically attractive even as he repelled her for what he was, what he intended to do. How could she? It was humiliating and baffling. She had not even the excuse of being dazzled by a classically handsome face or charm or skilful flirtation. What she felt was a very basic feminine desire. Lust, she told herself, was a sin.

‘Eat.’ The fire blazed up, shadows flickered in the corners and the room became instantly warmer, more intimate, just as she had feared. Luke poured wine and pushed the beaker towards her. ‘And drink. It will make things easier.’

‘For whom?’ Averil enquired and the corner of his mouth moved in what might have been a half smile. But she drank and felt the insidious warmth relax her. Weaken her, just as he intended, she was sure. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

‘Writing bad poetry, beachcombing.’ He shrugged and cut a hunk of cheese.

‘Don’t play with me,’ she snapped. ‘Are you wreckers? Smugglers?’

‘Neither.’ He spared the cheese a disapproving frown, but ate it anyway.

‘You were Navy once, weren’t you?’ she asked, on sudden impulse. ‘Are you deserters?’

‘We were Navy,’ he agreed and cut her a slice of bread as though they were discussing the weather. ‘And if we were to return now I dare say most of us would hang.’

Averil made herself eat while she digested that. They must be deserters, then. It took a lot of thinking about and she drank a full beaker of wine before she realised it had gone. Perhaps it would help with what was to come … She pushed the thought into a dark cupboard in the back of her mind and tried to eat. She needed her strength to endure, if not to fight.

Luke meanwhile ate solidly, like a man without a care in the world. ‘Are you running to the French?’ she asked when the cheese and the cold boiled bacon were all gone.

‘The French would kill us as readily as the British,’ he said, with a thin smile for a joke she did not understand.

The meal was finished at last. Luke pushed back his chair and sat, long legs out in front of him, as relaxed as a big cat. Averil contemplated the table with its empty platters, bread crumbs and the heel of the loaf. ‘Do you expect me to act as your housemaid as well as your whore?’ she asked.

The response was immediate, lightning-swift. The man who had seemed so relaxed was on his feet and brought her with him with one hand tight around her wrist. Luke held her there so they stood toe to toe, breast to breast. His eyes were iron-dark and intense on her face; there was no ice there now and she shivered at the anger in them.

‘Listen to me and think,’ he said, his voice soft in chilling contrast to the violence of his reaction. ‘Those men out there are a wolf pack, with as much conscience and mercy as wolves. I lead them, not because they are sworn to me or like me, not because we share a cause we believe in, but because, just now, they fear me more than they fear the alternatives.

‘If I show them any weakness—anything at all—they will turn on me. And while I can fight, I cannot defeat twelve men. You are like a lighted match in a powder store. They want you—all of them do—and they have no scruples about sharing, so they’ll operate as a gang. If they believe you are my woman and that I will kill for you, then that gives them pause—do they want you so much they will risk death? They know I would kill at least half of them before they got to you.’

He released her and Averil stumbled back against the table. Her nostrils were full of the scent of angry male and her heart was pattering out of rhythm with fear and a primitive reaction to his strength. ‘They won’t know if I am your woman or not,’ she stammered.

‘You really are a little innocent.’ His smile was grim and she thought distractedly that although he seemed to smile readily enough she had never seen any true amusement on his face. ‘What do they think we’ve been doing every time I come down here? And they will know when they see you, just as wolves would know. You will share my bed again tonight and you will come out of this place in the morning with my scent on your body, as yours has been on mine these past days. Or would you like to shorten things by walking out there now and getting us both killed?’

‘I would prefer to live,’ Averil said and closed her fingers tight on the edge of the table to hold herself up. ‘And I have no doubt that you are the lesser of the two evils.’ She was proud of the way she kept her chin up and that there was hardly a quiver in her voice. ‘Doubtless a fate worse than death is an exaggeration. You intend to let me out of here tomorrow, then?’

‘They need to get used to you being around. Locked up in here you are an interesting mystery, out there, dressed like a boy, working, you will be less of a provocation.’

‘Why not simply let me go? Why not signal a boat and say you have found me on the beach?’

‘Because you have seen the men. You know too much,’ he said and reached for the open clasp knife that lay on the table. Averil watched as the heavy blade clicked back into place.

‘I could promise not to tell anyone,’ she ventured. ‘Yes?’ Again that cold smile. ‘You would connive at whatever you suspect we are about for the sake of your own safety?’

‘I …’ No, she could not and she knew it showed on her face.

‘No, I thought not.’ Luke pocketed the knife and turned from the table. ‘I will be back in half an hour—be in bed.’

Averil stacked the plates, swept the crumbs up, wrapped the heel of the loaf in a cloth and stoppered the wine flask. She supposed it would be a gesture if she refused to clean and tidy, but it gave her something to do; if she was going to be a prisoner here, she would not live in a slum.

It was cool now. That was why she was shivering, of course, she told herself as she swept the hearth with the crude brush made of twigs and added driftwood to the embers. The salty wood flared up, blue and gold, as she fiddled with the sacking over the window. What was going to happen was going to be private, at least. She wiped away one tear with the back of her hand.

I am a Heydon. I will not show fear, I will not beg and plead and weep, she vowed as she turned to face the crude bed. Nor would she be tumbled in a rats’ nest. Averil shook out the blankets, batted at the lumpy mattress until it lay smooth, spread the sheet that had been tied around her waist and plumped up the pillow as best she could.

She stood there in Luke’s shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders, and looked at the bed for a long moment. Then she threw back the blanket and climbed in, lay down, pulled it back over her and waited.

Luke spent some time by the shielded camp fire listening to the game of dice in one tent, the snores from another, and adding the odd comment to the discussion Harris and Ferret were having about the best wine shops in Lisbon. Some of the tension had ebbed out of the men with their efforts all day hunting along the shoreline for wreckage from the ship. Nothing of any great value had been found, but a small cask of spirits had contained just enough to mellow their mood.

He was putting off going back down to the little hospital, he was aware of that, just as he was aware of trying not to think too closely about Averil. He wanted her to stay an abstraction, a problem to be dealt with, not become a person. None of them wanted to be there, most of them were probably going to die; he had no emotion to spare to feel pity for some chit of a girl who, with any luck, was going to come out of this alive, although rather less innocent than she had begun.

‘Good night,’ he said without preamble and strode off down towards the hut. Ferret and Harris were on guard for the first two hours; they were reliable enough and had no need of him reminding them what they were looking out for or what to do under every possible circumstance. There was a lewd chuckle behind him, but he chose to ignore it; he could hardly control their thoughts.

The hut was tidy when he unlocked the door and stepped inside. There was a lamp still alight and the fire had been made up; Luc inhaled the tang of wood smoke and thought the place was as nearly cosy as it would ever be. But one look at the bed dispelled any thought that Averil had decided to welcome him and had set out to create an appropriate ambiance. She was lying under the blanket as stiff and straight as a corpse, her toes making a hillock at one end, her nose just visible above the edge of the covering at the other. He did not look at the swells and dips in between.

‘Averil?’ He moved soft-footed to the middle of the room and sat down to pull off his shoes.

‘I am awake.’ Her voice was as rigid as her body and he saw the reflected light glint on her eyes as she turned her head to watch him.

Luc dropped his coat and shirt over the back of the chair. As his hands went to the buckle of his belt he heard her draw a deep, shuddering breath. Well, he wasn’t going to undress in the dark; she was going to have to get used to him—or close her eyes.

‘Have you never seen a naked man before?’ he asked, slipping the leather from the clasp.

‘No. I mean, yes.’ Averil found it was difficult to articulate. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I was brought up in India—saddhus and other holy men often go naked.’ And there were carvings in the temples, although she had always assumed they were wildly exaggerated. ‘They smear themselves with ash,’ she added. Now she had started talking it was hard to stop.

Luke said nothing, simply turned towards the chair, stepped out of his trousers and draped them over the back with his other clothes. Averil shut her mouth with a snap, but her eyes would not close. This was not an ash-smeared emaciated holy man sitting under a peepul tree with his begging bowl, watching the world with wild, dark eyes. Luke was … She searched for a word and came up with impressive, which seemed inadequate for golden skin and long muscles and broad shoulders tapering into a strong back, down to narrow hips and—

He turned round and her mouth dropped open again, although all that came out was a strangled gasp. ‘You see what effect you have on me,’ he said, coming towards the bed with, apparently, no shame whatsoever.

‘Well, stop it,’ she snapped, then realised immediately how ridiculous it was. Obviously that was necessary for the humiliating and painful business that was about to occur. ‘Stop flaunting it,’ she amended in the tone of voice her aunt used for rebuking the servants.

Luke gave a snort of laughter, the first genuine amusement she had heard from him. ‘That part of the male body does what it wants. You could close your eyes,’ he suggested.

‘Is that supposed to make me feel any better? It will still be there.’

He shrugged, which produced interesting undulations in those beautiful muscles and made that bob in a most disconcerting way. She could well believe that it had a life of its own. She wanted to look away, but her neck seemed paralysed, as rigid as the rest of her.

Luke reached out and turned back the blanket. Averil forced herself not to grab it back. Don’t struggle, don’t react. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

‘Could you move over?’

‘Wh … what?’ She had been expecting something quite different, not this polite enquiry. He just had to get on top of her, didn’t he?

‘Shift across.’ Luke stopped, one knee on the bed. Averil found she could move her eyes after all; she fixed them on the cobwebbed rafters. ‘You aren’t expecting me to leap on you, are you?’ He sounded impatient and irritated, not crazed with lust. Perhaps he did this sort of thing all the time.

‘I have no idea what to expect,’ she flashed back. The anger and humiliation freed her locked muscles and she twisted round to sit up and confront him. ‘I am a virgin. How would I know how to go about being ravished?’

Chapter Four

He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I am going to sleep in this bed with you, that is all. Did you not realise? Did you still think I was going to force you, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Of course I did! I am not a mind reader!’ Fury flashed through her, obliterating the relief. She had been so frightened all day, she had tried so hard to be brave and now … now he was implying that she ought to have realised? That it was her fault she had been so scared?

‘Oh, you—you infuriating man!’ She lashed out, her hand hitting him across the chest with a dull thud. His skin was warm, the dark curls of hair surprisingly springy.

‘You want me to make love to you?’ He caught her wrists as she tried to hit him again. His hands were hard and calloused against her pampered skin and this close she could smell him—fresh sweat over traces of some plain soap and what must be the natural scent of his skin.

‘Make love? Is that what you call it? No, I don’t want you to make love or ravish me or anything else. I’ve been terrified all day and now you tell me you never had any intention—’ She ran out of words and sat there in the tangle of blankets glaring at him, holding on to her temper because if she did not the alternative was to give way to tears.

‘I do not ravish women,’ Luke said flatly and released her hands. ‘Unconscious or awake.’ She had insulted him, it appeared. Good. She had not thought it possible.

‘Then what are you doing with that?’ Averil made a wild gesture at his groin and he recoiled before her flailing hand made contact.

‘I told you, it has a life of its own. I don’t have to take any notice of it.’ Luc sounded torn between exasperation and anger. ‘I am sorry you were frightened unnecessarily,’ he added, with as much contrition as if he was apologising for jostling her elbow at a party. ‘I thought you realised I had no intention of hurting you in any way. If you can just move over so I can get in, we can go to sleep.’

‘Just like that? You expect me to be able to close my eyes and sleep with you in the bed?’ She heard the rising note of hysteria and bit her lower lip until the pain steadied her. The relief of realising he was not going to take her had cracked her self-control; now it was hard to hang on to some semblance of calm. ‘Why can’t you put some clothes on?’

‘I have no spare clean shirts to wear—you are wearing the last one. And one more layer of linen between us will make no difference to anything.’

She wondered what the grinding noise was and then realised it was her own teeth. At least if Luke was in the bed with the covers over him she couldn’t see his naked body. It was an effort not to flounce, but she turned on her side with her back to him and lay against the far edge of the bed, her face to the wall.

The ropes supporting the mattress creaked, the blankets flapped. ‘There is no need to rub your nose against the stones like that,’ Luke said. ‘Come here.’ He put an arm around her waist and pulled her backwards until she fitted tight against the curve of his body. ‘Stop wriggling, for heaven’s sake!’

‘We are touching,’ Averil said with what calm she could muster, which was not much. He was warm and hard and her buttocks were pressed against the part of his anatomy that he said had a mind of its own—and was still very interested by the situation by the feel of it—and one linen shirt was absolutely no barrier whatsoever. Below the edge of the shirt her thighs were bare and she could feel the hairs on his legs.

‘I am certainly aware of your cold feet,’ he said and she thought he was gritting his teeth. ‘Will you stop moaning, woman? You’re alive, aren’t you? And warm and dry and fed and still a virgin. Now lie still, count your blessings and let me sleep and you might stay one.’ She thought she heard a muttered If I can but she was not certain.

Woman? Moaning? You lout, she fulminated, as she tried to hold her body a rigid half-inch away from his. But that only pushed her buttocks closer into his groin. The heavy arm across her waist tightened and she gave up and let her muscles relax a little.

Count my blessings. It was a distraction from the heat and solidity behind her and the movement of his chest and the way his breath was warm on her neck. She was alive and so many people were not, she was certain. She had kept their faces and the sound of their voices out of her mind all day; now she could not manage it any longer. Her friends, so close after three months, and her numerous acquaintances, even the people she glimpsed every day but had never spoken to, were like the inhabitants of some small hamlet, swallowed up entire by the sea.

Averil composed herself and prayed for them, her lips moving with the unspoken words. She felt better for that, the grief and worry a little assuaged. The long body curled around hers had relaxed, too; he was sleeping, or at least, on the cusp of sleep. I am alive, and he is protecting me. For now I am safe. But the dark thoughts fluttered like bats against the defences she tried to erect in her mind. These men were deserters, traitors perhaps, and she knew too much about them already. What might she have to do to maintain even the precarious safety she had now?

Luc felt Averil’s body go limp as she slid into sleep. He let himself relax against her as her breathing changed and allowed himself to enjoy the sensation of having a woman so close in his arms. The softness and the curves were a delicious torment; the female scent of her, not obscured by any soap or perfume, was dangerously arousing. It was over two months since he had lain with a woman, he realised, thinking back over the turbulent past weeks. And then they had been making love, not lying together like this, almost innocently.

The tight knot in his gut reminded him that he was still angry that Averil had supposed he would take her by force. Luc thought back over the words they had exchanged—they hardly qualified as conversations—and tried to work out why she had thought him capable of rape. He had never once said he would make use of her body, he was certain of that, and he had explained why he needed to share her bed.

She had been tired and frightened by all she had gone through; obviously she had not been thinking clearly, he told himself. He supposed stripping off had not been tactful—but she could have shut her eyes, Luc thought with a stirring of resentment. If she wanted him to wear a nightshirt, then she could do some washing tomorrow; he had too much else to think about without worrying about Averil’s affronted sensibilities.

It did occur to him as he began to drift off to sleep that he was not used to being with well-bred young women on an intimate level. He had been at sea, more or less permanently, since he had been eighteen; he had no sisters at home, no young sisters-in-law. No one, thank heaven, to have to care about. Not any more.

But this wasn’t some society drawing room or Almack’s. To hell with it, she was in his territory now and she would just have to listen to what he said and follow orders. His aching groin reminded him that something else was refusing to follow orders. It would be interesting to seduce her, he thought, toying with the fantasy as he let sleep take him. Just how difficult would it be?

* * *

Averil woke with an absolute awareness of where she was and who she was with. In the night she had turned over and now she half lay on Luke’s chest with her naked legs entangled with his. One moment she had been relaxed in deep sleep, the next her eyes snapped open on a view of naked skin, a tangle of dark curls and an uncompromising chin furred with stubble. He smelled warmly of sweat and salt and sleep. She should have recoiled in disgust, but she had the urge to snuggle closer, let her hands explore.

Every one of her muscles tensed to fight the desire.

‘You’re awake,’ he said, his voice a deep rumble under her ear, and moved, rolling her on to her back so his weight was half over her. ‘Good morning.’

‘Get off me!’ Averil shoved, which had no effect whatsoever. ‘You said you don’t ravish women, you lying swine.’

‘I don’t. But I do kiss them.’ He was too close to focus on properly, too close to hit, but ears were easy to get hold of and sensitive to pain. She reached up a hand, got a firm grip and twisted. ‘Yow!’ Luke had her wrist in his grasp in seconds. ‘You little cat.’

‘At least I am not a liar.’ She lay flat on her back, her hands trapped above her head, her senses full of the smell and feel of him, her heart pounding. She had hurt him, but he had not retaliated and there was amusement, not lust or anger, in his eyes, as though he was inviting her to share in a game.

But she was not going to play—that was outrageous. Luke was too big even to buck against, although she tried. And then stopped as her pelvis met his and that rebellious part of his body twitched eagerly against her belly. Something within her stirred in response, a low, intimate tingling. She blushed. Her body wanted to join in with whatever wickedness his was proposing.

‘Since when has kissing amounted to ravishment? I need us to go out there looking as though we have just been making love.’ There was exasperation under the patience and somehow that was reassuring. If he was bent on ravishing her he would not be discussing it. Still, it was wrong to simply succumb so easily.

‘Making love?’ She snorted at the word and he narrowed his eyes at her.

‘Do you prefer having sex? It will make life easier for both of us if you can give the impression that you have been seduced by my superior technique and are now happy to be with me.’

Averil was about to tell him what her opinion of his technique was when his words the previous evening came back to her. A pack of wolves. ‘I see,’ she conceded. ‘I am safer if I do not seem like a victim. If I am happy to be with you, then it is convincing that I would be confident. And they will think I am unlikely to try to escape and put you all in danger.’

‘Exactly.’ Luke breathed out like a man who had been braced for a long argument. ‘Now—’ He bent his head.

This was not how it was supposed to be, the first time. This was the antithesis of romance. And I wanted romance, tenderness …

‘You don’t have to kiss me. I can pretend,’ Averil said as she tried to move her head away. She only succeeded in clashing noses. Luke had a lot of nose to clash with. But she did not want to pretend. She realised that it was herself and her own desires that were the danger, not him.

‘You are an innocent, aren’t you?’ That was not a compliment. ‘Never been thoroughly kissed?’

‘Certainly not!’ She had never been kissed at all, but she was not going to tell him that.

‘You’ll see,’ Luke said, releasing her wrists and capturing her mouth.

It was outrageous! He opened his mouth over hers, pushed his tongue inside and … and … Averil gave up trying to think about what was going on so she could fight him. But she did not seem to have any strength; her muscles wouldn’t obey her and the rest of her body was in outright mutiny.