Seduced By The Scoundrel
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Her arms were round his neck, her fingers were raking through his hair, her breasts were pushing against his chest—which had to be why they ached so—and her lips …
Her lips moved against Luke’s, answering his caress, and it was, some stunned part of her mind that was still working realised, a caress and not an assault. His mouth was firm and dominant, but that dominance was curiously arousing. The heat and the moistness were arousing too and the thrust of his tongue was so indecent … and yet she wanted to echo it, move her own tongue, although she did not dare.
Against her stomach she felt his flesh pulsing and lengthening and sensed the restraint he was imposing on himself. Her legs wanted to open, to cradle him, and her aunt’s words came back and made sense now of what had seemed embarrassingly ludicrous before. He only had to move a little, to thrust. Suddenly she was frightened again and he sensed it.
‘Averil?’ They looked at each other, noses almost touching. ‘Have you ever been kissed before?’ Mute, she shook her head.
‘I thought not.’ He threw back the covers and got out of bed, the sudden cool rush of air as effective in cutting through her sensual daze as his abrupt words had been. This time she had the sense to turn her head away from his nudity and to stare at the wall. After a few minutes he came back. ‘Averil?’
‘Yes?’ She kept her head averted.
‘Look.’ She risked a quick look. He was holding out a small mirror. ‘You see?’
A wanton creature stared back at her in the scrap of glass. Its hair was a wild tangle, its eyes were wide and dark and its mouth—her mouth—was swollen and pouting.
‘Oh,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, my. Does it last?’
Luke had moved away and was lifting some things down off the shelf, but at that he turned his head and studied her. ‘For a bit. Then I have to do it again.’ She felt the crimson flood up from breast to forehead and his lips quirked. He looked thoughtful. He had, thank goodness, put on his clothes. ‘I’ll get you some hot water. When you come out don’t forget that you have been conscious these past four days.’
Averil sat up as the door banged behind Luke. One kiss and she felt like this—and she didn’t even like the man, or want him. He thought it was amusing, the wretch. It was not amusing, it was outrageous and shameful, those were the only possible words for it. Her breasts still tingled, her stomach felt very strange—almost as though she was apprehensive, but not quite the same—and lower down there was the most embarrassing awareness and that strange little pulse stirring. He had made her feel like this—and he must have realised—and then he had stopped.
The door opened, Luc dumped a bucket inside and then closed it again. Whatever his morning toilette consisted of, he was performing it elsewhere. Averil climbed out of the tangled bedding and went to fetch the hot water. Then I have to do it again, Luke had said.
‘Oh, my heavens,’ she murmured. ‘I had no idea.’
Luc stood on the shore, pocket watch in hand, as half-a-dozen of the crew fitted the oars in the rowlocks and pulled away towards the bulk of Round Island to the north. There were no other ships or boats out in the area and it seemed a good opportunity to work the excess energy out of the men.
Behind him the others lounged on the short grass, jeering at the rowers. ‘You reckon you’ll do better?’ Luc asked. ‘You drew the short straw—you’ll be rowing with breakfast in your bellies to weigh you down and they’re pushing to get back to eat.’
‘Wot about the mermaid—Miss Heydon, I mean, Cap’n? I’ll take her breakfast down to her, shall I?’ Harris’s tone could have served as a definition of the verb to leer.
‘I—’ Luc broke off as a figure walked over the shoulder of the hill. ‘No need, Harris, Miss Heydon has come to eat with us.’
He had to admire her. From the set of her shoulders and the frown between her brows she was as tense as any sensible woman would be under the circumstances, but her back was straight, her chin was up and she had scraped back her hair into a plait down her back in a way that must have been intended to diminish her attractiveness. The fact that it simply showed off her bruised cheekbones and her wide hazel eyes was not her fault, Luc pondered appreciatively as she got closer.
He saw with satisfaction and a sharp pang of arousal that her mouth was still lush and swollen from his kisses. He had never kissed a complete innocent before and it had been … interesting. He wanted her. Was he going to have her? It was a stimulating fantasy, that and the thought that by the time he took her she would want it just as much as he did.
‘Good morning,’ she said, her voice as coolly polite as if they were all in a drawing room. ‘Is that breakfast? You are Mr Potts—the one who cooks?’
Potts gawped, displaying his few remaining teeth, then, to Luc’s amazement, touched a finger to his forehead. Goodness knew how long it had been since someone had addressed him as Mister, if they ever had. ‘Aye, er … ma’am, I am and ‘tis that. Got mackerel or bacon, unless you fancy porridge, but it’s wot you might call lumpy.’
‘I would like bacon and some bread please, Mr Potts.’ Averil sat down on the flat rock Luc usually took for himself. He wondered if anyone else noticed the automatic gesture to sweep her non-existent skirts out of the way. ‘And is there tea?’
‘Aye, ma’am. No milk, though.’
‘Really? Never mind.’ She turned and looked directly at Luc for the first time, as haughty as a duchess at a tea party. ‘Couldn’t you have stolen a goat?’ She was overdoing the confidence and completely forgetting that she was supposed to have just passed a night of bliss in his arms.
‘We did not plan on company,’ he said with an inimical glance at the cook. Potts might well decide that a raid on the neighbouring islands to steal some livestock would be amusing. ‘And we will not be drawing attention to ourselves by stirring up the islanders and lifting their goats either.’
Potts grunted; he knew a warning when he heard it. Luc studied Averil and was rewarded by the colour staining her cheeks. So, she was still agitated by that kiss; it was strangely satisfying to know that he had unsettled her like that—and it would be a pleasure to do so again. He was not used to virgins and Averil’s untutored responsiveness was unexpected. It was doubtful whether she realised she had responded—it was all very new to her and she had been too shocked to think.
The other men had been down by the water’s edge, catcalling at their rapidly vanishing comrades. Now they turned and began to walk back to the fire, their focus on the woman in the badly fitting clothes. He saw her eyes widen and darken as the haughty young lady vanished, leaving a girl who looked ready to run. His hand rested on the hilt of his knife as he watched the men’s reaction. Would they react as he intended or would they turn as a pack and attack to get at the girl?
Chapter Five
Luc saw Averil’s eyes dart from one man to the other and the almost imperceptible relaxation when she realised that Tubbs and Dawkins, the two who had found her, were not there. He had sent them off with the first crew so they would be too winded for an immediate reaction when they encountered Averil again. In their turn the men stared at her with interest, but the mood was different from when they had found her on the beach. He took his hand from his knife and shifted his weight off the balls of his feet.
Time to mark his territory. Luc took two platters from Potts and went to the rock where Averil sat, legs primly together, hands clasped in her lap. ‘You’re in my seat,’ he said and got a cool stare in return. In the depth of her hazel eyes fear flickered, but she tipped up her chin and stared him out. ‘We’re lovers, remember, ‘he mouthed and she blushed harder and shifted to make room for him next to her, hip to hip.
Luc handed her a plate and touched her cheek with the back of his free hand. ‘Hungry, sweetheart?’
‘Ravenous,’ she admitted dulcetly, her eyes darting daggers at him. She folded the bread around the slices of bacon and bit into it. ‘This is good, Mr Potts.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ the cook said, then spoiled it by adding slyly, ‘nothing like a bit of exercise to give you an appetite, I always say.’
‘Quite,’ Averil retorted. ‘That hut was in a shocking state—it took a lot of work to tidy it up.’
Thwarted, Potts returned to his frying pan, glowering at the grins of the other men. They were good-humoured smiles, Luc noticed, neither jeering nor directed at the young woman on the rock. ‘Well done,’ he murmured. She narrowed her eyes at him, so he added more loudly, ‘I’ve a pile of washing needs doing.’
‘I am sure you have, Luke darling,’ Averil said, then softened her tone with an effort he could see. ‘I will need hot water, please.’
‘See to it after breakfast, Potts.’
‘Is she doing all our washing, Cap’n?’ Ferret asked through a mouthful of herring.
‘Miss Heydon is not doing anything for you, Ferret.’
‘Are you the man who lent me these clothes?’ Averil asked as Potts handed her a mug of black tea.
‘Aye, ma’m.’
‘Is Ferret your real name? Surely not.’ She took a sip of tea and gasped audibly at the strength of it.
‘Er … it’s Ferris, ma’am.’ ‘Thank you, Mr Ferris.’
The man grinned. ‘Pleasure to help the Cap’n’s lady, ma’am.’
The others said nothing, but Luc sensed, with the acute awareness of his men any captain learns to acquire, that something in their mood had changed. They had stopped thinking of Averil as a nameless creature for their careless pleasure and started regarding her, not just as his property, but as a person. She was frightened of them still, wisely so—they had not forgotten that she was a woman and they had been celibate for weeks. He could feel the apprehension coming off her like heat from a fire, but she had the intelligence and the guts to engage with them.
Miss Averil Heydon was a darned nuisance and enough to keep any man awake half the night with lustful thoughts and an aching groin, but he was beginning to admire the chit. Admiration did nothing to dampen desire, he discovered.
‘They’re coming,’ Tom the Patch said, his one eye screwed up against the sun dazzle on the waves.
Luc pulled out his watch. ‘They need to do better than that.’
‘Nasty cross-current just there,’ Sam Bull observed with the air of a man determined to be fair at all costs.
‘These waters are one big cross-current,’ Luc said. ‘You reckon you can do better?’
‘Yeah,’ Bull said, and nodded his curly head. ‘Easy.’
They are training for something, Averil thought, watching the men as she sipped the disgusting tea. Her teeth, if they had any enamel left, would be black, she was sure.
The men were a crew, a real ship’s crew, not a motley group of fugitives. They weren’t hiding here because they were deserters, or waiting for someone to come and take them off. It was incredible how much more she was noticing now her terror had abated a little. Instinct had told her to try to treat the men as individuals and, strangely, that had been easier to do over the shared food than it had been to pretend an intimacy with Luke that she did not feel.
Or, at least, she corrected herself as she felt the warmth of his thigh through the thickness of their trousers, she felt an intimacy, just not one involving any sort of affection or trust.
He was a good officer though, albeit a rogue commanding rogues. She had seen enough army officers in her time in India, and she had watched how the Bengal Queen was run; she could recognise authority when she saw it.
The men were focused on the approaching boat while Luke ate his bacon, his eyes on the pilot gig, too. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked, low voiced.
He shook his head without looking at her.
‘Deserters have no need to train for speed,’ she carried on, speculating. ‘And why steal one of those big rowing boats, why not a sailing ship? A brig—you have enough men to crew a brig, haven’t you?’
‘You ask too many questions,’ Luke said, his eyes still trained on the sea. ‘That is dangerous, be quiet.’
A threat—or a warning? Averil put down her empty plate and mug and studied his profile. She could believe he was a man of violence, one who would kill if he had to and do it with trained efficiency, but she could not believe now that he would kill her. If he had been capable of that, he would have been capable of raping her last night.
‘It is less dangerous to tell me the truth.’
‘For whom?’ he asked. But there was the slightest curve to the corner of his mouth and Averil relaxed a little. ‘Perhaps later.’
The rowers were close now and she could see Tubbs at the tiller and Hawkins heaving on an oar. Some sound must have escaped her lips for Luke turned towards her. ‘They won’t hurt you—you are mine now.’ He dipped his head and the shock of his mouth on hers, here, where the men could see them, froze her into immobility. It was a rapid, hard kiss on the lips, nothing more, but it felt startlingly possessive and so did the way his hand stayed on her shoulder when he stood to watch the men land, his pocket watch in the other palm. That big hand would curl into a formidable fist in her defence. She could feel the pressure of each finger and shivered—how would it feel if he caressed her?
‘Not bad,’ he called down to the rowers as they splashed through the shallow surf and up the beach. ‘You could do better. The rest of you, get going. On my mark—now!’
There was a scramble as the others heaved themselves aboard and began to back-water away from the shore. The first crew, without a backward glance, made for the fire and the food Potts had left for them. Then they saw Averil on her rock and they slowed like a pack of dogs sighting a cat, their eyes narrowing.
Luke left his hand where it was for a moment longer, then strolled down to meet them. ‘Close your mouth, Tubbs, or something will fly in,’ he said mildly. The man muttered and a snigger went round the group as their eyes shifted between Luke and Averil.
She wanted to run. Instead she got to her feet, picked up Luke’s plate and walked down to the fire. ‘More bacon, darling?’ Somehow she produced the purr that her friend Dita had managed to get into the most innocuous sentence when she wanted to flirt. Dita, who was probably drowned. Averil blinked back the prickle of tears: Dita would have both charmed and intimidated this rabble.
Close now, they gawped at her and Averil remembered what Luke had said about the wolf pack. These men eyed Luke as much as they ogled her, on the watch for his reaction, edgy as if they waited for him to snarl and lash out if they encroached on his property.
‘Will the others beat your time, do you think?’ she asked, direct to Tubbs.
He blinked, startled, as if the frying pan had addressed him. ‘I reckon we’re better by a length,’ he said when Luke did not react.
‘The boat looks very manoeuvrable. At least it seems so to me. I have been on an East Indiaman for three months, so any small boat looks fast.’ She sat on the grass by Luke who had hunkered down, apparently intent on the gig. Without looking at her he put out his arm and tugged her closer and the men’s eyes shifted uneasily. Now what? Instinct told her to keep talking to them, make them acknowledge her as a person, not a commodity, but she dared say nothing that would seem as if she was probing into their purpose here.
‘Had a lot of treasure on it, did it?’ Dawkins said.
‘Not bullion, I’m sure. But there would have been silks, spices, gem stones, ivory, rare woods—those sorts of things.’ There could be no harm in telling them; the cargo would have gone down or been ruined by the water.
‘You come from India, then?’ one of the men asked. Luke began to stroke the side of her neck languidly, as a man pulls the ears of his gun dog while they sit and wait for the ducks to rise to the guns.
Averil found she was leaning in to him, her lids were drooping … She made herself focus. ‘Yes, India. I lived there almost all my life.’
‘Ever see a tiger?’
‘Lots of them. And elephants and huge snakes and crocodiles and monkeys.’
‘Cor. I’d like to see those. Did you ride on the elephants?’
They asked questions, and she answered, for almost twenty minutes. She felt better, safer in their presence now. Almost safe enough to be alone with them, she thought and then caught Dawkins’s eye and almost recoiled. What the big man was thinking about was plain to see and her whole body cringed against Luke.
His hand stilled. ‘What?’ he murmured.
‘Nothing.’
He stood, pulling her to her feet. ‘Just time to show you that washing I want doing. Timmins, bring a bucket of hot water and one of cold from the well.’
‘I suppose you realise I have never washed a garment in my life, let alone a male one,’ Averil said as they walked back to the old hospital.
‘Men’s clothing ought to be easier,’ Luke said. ‘No frills, no lace, stronger fabric.’
‘Sweatier, dirtier, larger,’ Averil retorted. She lifted one hand and touched her neck where he had been stroking it. The skin felt warm and soft, and her own touch sent a shiver of awareness through her that was disconcerting. She had not wanted him to stop, she realised, shamed by her reaction. What was the matter with her? Was she naturally a complete wanton, or was it shock, or perhaps simply instinct to try to please the man who could protect her?
‘You are a belligerent little thing, aren’t you?’ Luke said as they stepped into the hut.
‘You would be belligerent under the circumstances,’ she snapped. ‘And I am not little. I am more than medium height.’
‘Hmm,’ he said, and turned, trapping her between the wall and his body. ‘No, not little at all.’
‘Take your hands off my … my breasts.’
‘But they are so delightful.’ He was cupping them in his big hands, the slight movement of his thumbs perceptible through the linen of the shirt.
‘Don’t,’ she pleaded, as much to her own treacherous body as to him.
‘But you like it. Look.’
Shamed, she looked down. Her nipples thrust against the fabric, aching, tight little points, demanding attention.
‘I cannot help that reaction, any more than you can help that, apparently.’ The bulge straining against his breeches was very obvious. Luke moved back a little and she remembered another of her brothers’ lessons. But his reactions were faster than hers. No sooner had she begun to raise her knee that she was flat against the stones, his weight pinning her.
‘Little witch,’ he said and bent his head.
The kiss was different standing up. Even though she was trapped Averil felt she had more control, or perhaps she was just more used to the sensations now. She found she no longer wanted to fight him, which was disconcerting. She moved her head to the side and licked into the corner of Luke’s mouth, then nipped at his lower lip, almost, but not quite hard enough to draw blood. He growled and thrust his pelvis against her, blatantly making her feel what she was doing to him.
Averil let him take her mouth again, aching, wanting, despite the part of her mind that was screaming Stop! She was going to have to sleep with this man again tonight—was he going to be able to control himself after this?
‘Damn it,’ Luke said. He lifted his head and looked down at her, his eyes dark, his breath short. ‘I think you’ve been sent to try my will-power to the limit—’
The door banged open behind them, and he turned away so abruptly that she almost fell. ‘Over there by the table, Timmins.’
The man put down the buckets and walked out while Averil hung back in the shadows behind the door. He must have guessed what they had been doing, she thought, her face aflame.
‘I can’t do this any more,’ she said the moment they were alone. ‘I cannot. I don’t understand how it makes me feel. I am not wanton, I am not a flirt. I don’t even like you! You are big and ugly and violent and—’
‘Ugly?’ Luke stopped sorting through the heap of linen in the corner and raised an eyebrow. Nothing else she had said appeared to have made the slightest impression on him.
‘Your nose is too big.’
‘It balances my jaw. I inherited it from my father.’ He tossed the tangle of clothing on to the table. ‘There is some soap on the shelf.’
‘Did you not hear a word I said just now?’ Averil demanded, standing in his path, hands on hips.
‘I heard,’ Luke said as he dragged her back into his arms and kissed her with such ruthless efficiency that she tottered backwards and sat down on the bed with a thump when he released her. ‘I just do not intend to take any notice of you losing your nerve.
‘You’ll get over it. Make sure the collars and cuffs are well scrubbed. You can dry them on the bushes on the far side of the rise. Just make certain you keep the hut between you and the line of sight from the sea.’
Averil stared at the unresponsive door as it closed behind him and wished she had listened and taken note when she had overheard the sailors swearing on board the Bengal Queen. It would be very satisfying to let rip with a stream of oaths, she was quite certain.
Castration, disembowelling and the application of hot tar to parts of a certain gentleman—if he deserved the name—would be even more satisfying. She visualised it for a moment. Then, seized with the need to do something physical, if throttling Luke was not an option, Averil shrugged out of the leather waistcoat, rolled up her sleeves and went to find the soap. It was just a pity there was no starch or she would make sure he couldn’t sit down for a week, his drawers would be so rigid.
She began to sort the clothing, muttering vengefully as she did so. None of it was very dirty—the captain was obviously fastidious about his linen. It also smelled of him, which was disconcerting. Was it normal to feel so flustered by a man that even his shirts made one think of the body that had worn them?
Averil searched for marks, rubbed them with the soap, then dropped those garments in the hot water. How long did they have to soak? She wished she had paid more attention to the women doing their washing in the rivers in India; they seemed to get everything spotless even when the water was muddy. And it was cold, of course.
She was scrubbing briskly at the wristbands of one shirt before she caught herself. What was she doing, offering comfort to the enemy like this? Let him launder his own linen—or do whatever he would have done if she hadn’t been conveniently washed up to do it for him. But then, she was clad in his shirt and he said he had no clean ones, so if she did not do it, goodness knew when she would get a change of linen herself.
Her fingers were as wrinkled as they had been when she had come out of the sea, and she had rubbed a sore spot on two knuckles, but the clothes were clean and rinsed at last. Wringing them dry was a task beyond her strength, she found, so she dumped the dirty water outside on the shingle, filled the buckets with the wet clothes and trudged up the slope towards the camp fire.
The buckets were heavy and she was panting by the time she could put them down. ‘Would someone who has clean hands help me to—?’ Luke was nowhere in sight and she was facing eight men, with Dawkins in the middle.
‘Aye, darlin’, I can help you,’ he drawled, getting to his feet.
‘Leave it out, Harry.’ Potts looked up from a half-skinned rabbit. ‘She’s the Cap’n’s woman and we can do without you getting the man riled up. He’s got a nasty temper when he’s not happy and then he’ll shoot you and then we’ll have more work to do with one man less. Besides …’ he winked at Averil who was measuring the distance to his cooking knives and trying not to panic ‘.the lady likes my cooking.’ He lifted one knife, the long blade sharpened to a lethal degree, and examined it with studious care.