The uncle, grateful for his prisoners, summoned a magistrate to take Rafe’s testimony. By the time Rafe had finished, and, with a copy of the Prussian’s information verified by the magistrate in his pocket, returned to the wharf, the Loreley Regina was ready to sail. Julius gave the order to cast off as soon as Rafe stepped on board.
Pausing by the rail, Rafe watched as the boat nosed away from the wharf, watched as the town’s spires slowly slid away astern. He felt the currents catch and grab, then the sails rose and the Loreley Regina gained speed.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he breathed in the cleaner air, savored the tang of the freshening breeze. Opening his eyes, he turned and went down to the salon.
Esme was still sitting where he’d left her, staring out of the window at the banks slipping past. Instead of the tea she’d earlier held, she now sipped from a glass of brandy.
Loretta was there, too, standing before another window; she turned and looked at him, a question in her eyes.
He gave a slight nod, then turned his attention to Esme. Crossing to her, he again sat in the straight-backed chair facing her. When she shifted to look at him, then arched a brow in question, he said, “I take it you know a gentleman by the name of Sir Charles Manning.”
She grimaced. “So it was he. He was the only one I could think of who might be … black-hearted enough for such a deed.”
“The Prussian said Manning hired him to dispose of you—he specifically instructed the Prussian to ensure younever returned to England and that no more was ever heard of you.”
“How dreadful.” Loretta sank into the armchair alongside Esme’s, her gaze trained on Esme’s face. “Why would he do such a thing?”
Esme’s gaze turned agate hard. “Money. Why else?” She sipped, then explained, “I stand in the way of him making a great deal of it.”
“How?” Rafe asked.
“There was a company set up, decades ago now, when the new mills were springing up everywhere.” Esme sipped again, then went on, “The companies running the mills, all sorts of mills, needed housing for their workers. Their idea of housing was generally along the line of hovels. However, in a number of towns this company—Argyle Investments—bought up land not far from the factories and built decent, livable cottages. Because the company was run by gentlemen who, shall we say, had a certain clout, the milling companies were persuaded to do the right thing and pay for their workers to live in these better cottages. The milling companies paid Argyle Investments, and the workers had decent roofs over their heads.”
“Argyle owns the cottages?” Rafe asked.
Her expression distant, as if she were looking into the past, Esme nodded. “All went well for many years. Indeed, as far as the milling companies and their workers are concerned, all is still well. However, within Argyle Investments the years brought inevitable changes. To make matters simple, from the first there were only ever one hundred shares in the company. They were divided equally between the ten farsighted gentlemen who founded it, of whom Richard was one. Over the years, as those gentlemen passed on, their shares were divided between their heirs, some of whom sold them. Richard bought some. Those of the original shareholders still alive bought others. Just over a year ago the four remaining original shareholders discovered that Sir Charles Manning had taken an interest in the company. He hadamassed a holding of forty-six shares, becoming the major shareholder. As such he called a meeting, and informed the remaining original shareholders of an astonishing deal he had brokered with a company wishing to build a new foundry. In return for one of the largest tracts of workers’ cottages Argyle owns, the company was prepared to hand over a staggering sum.”
Esme’s lips twisted. “Sadly, Sir Charles hadn’t done his research, or rather, had chosen to ignore what he’d learned. The founders of Argyle had never intended the company to make profits of that magnitude. What profits have been made over the years have either been plowed back into making improvements to the cottages, or buying land and building more. But Sir Charles wasn’t interested in workers’ cottages. If the money had been intended to rehouse the workers displaced, perhaps something might have come of it, but no—Sir Charles insisted that the money from the sale should be returned to the shareholders. A capital return on their investment, in more ways than one.”
“I take it the other shareholders were opposed?” Rafe asked.
“Implacably. As Richard told it, there was a row of biblical proportions that ended with Manning storming from the room vowing he’d take control of the company one way or another.” Esme sighed, then looked down into her glass. “Richard died a month later. Oh, it wasn’t in any way connected—he’d been fading for some time. However Manning, of course, saw it as his chance. He came up to see me in Scotland.”
A cold smile playing about her lips, Esme drained her glass. “I had barely put Richard in the ground, and Manning was there with an offer to buy the shares. I do believe he thought to bamboozle the grieving widow and leave with Argyle in his pocket.”
Rafe felt his own lips curve. “And?”
“I sent him to the rightabout in no uncertain fashion. Among other things, I told him it would be a cold day in hellbefore I let him get his hands on Richard’s shares.” Esme grinned. “It was most satisfying.”
For a moment, all was silent, then Rafe asked, “Why you? Why target you and your shares, rather than any of the others?”
Esme held up a finger. “Ah—there we see the craftiness of the man. The other three shareholders have sole male heirs who think as their fathers do, and who will continue to keep Argyle as it is, as far as they are able. The heirs know of their fathers’ wishes and will honor them. So twenty-nine shares are beyond Manning’s reach.”
“He needs five?” Loretta asked.
Esme nodded. “And that’s where the twenty-five shares I now control come in.” She looked at Loretta. “Those shares are now mine. Richard willed them to me, trusting me to see to it that they would be voted correctly. When I die, my heirs are you and your siblings. That’s common knowledge—I have no other blood relatives. There’s five of you. Manning is banking that each of you will get five shares. In that, he’s correct.”
“So if you’d died on this journey,” Rafe said, “then Manning would have had five separate chances to pick up the shares he needs.”
Esme nodded, her gaze returning to Rafe. “And given the present situation regarding Loretta’s future, all the speculation within the ton, I rather suspect that Manning has a very real interest in who will win Loretta’s hand. He will assume that the successful candidate will control her shares.”
Rafe studied her eyes. “Am I right in assuming that in that, he isn’t correct?”
Esme smiled. “I do like you, dear boy. And yes, you’re right—Loretta will control the shares she’ll inherit from me, as will her sisters. So along with Robert and Chester, they’ll have to sharpen their wits and sit at the board table and make sure the right decisions are made. The other original shareholders agreed with my view that the female perspective won’t go amiss.”
Rafe imagined they hadn’t dared argue.
Silence fell. He and Loretta exchanged glances, then both sat back. He imagined she, like he, was trying to digest all they’d learned enough to define their best way forward.
Esme, he suspected, was slightly tipsy.
And, he also suspected, sunk in the past.
Eventually, Rose and Gibson arrived to rouse their respective mistresses to change for dinner.
Rafe got to his feet. He looked down at Esme. “One thing—how likely is Manning to persevere?”
To his surprise, Esme’s gaze was sharp and clear. “Everything I know of him says he will, increasingly intently. However, there’s one point that stands in our favor—one I wish to think rather more about before we discuss this matter further.”
Rafe frowned; giving her his hand, he helped her to her feet. “What point?”
Esme opened her eyes at him. “Why, dear b
oy, with that Prussian in jail and unlikely to correspond with him, until he learns otherwise, Manning will assume I’m dead.”
Thirteen
Later that evening, a glass of brandy in his hand, Rafe stood at the window in the salon and looked out at the lights of Bingen. The Loreley Regina had tied up at the town’s wharf just before they’d sat down to dine.
The weather was too inclement to walk the deck, sleet and icy winds sweeping past. He was glad he’d arranged for the crew to stand the night watches, allowing him and Hassan to rest decently at night. After the day just passed, he was doubly glad of that.
Loretta walked into the salon. He glanced around, one brow arching as she came to join him.
Esme had eaten little, then risen from the table and declared she was retiring immediately. Such a happening was unusual enough to concern them all. Loretta had accompanied Esme down to the stateroom.
Halting beside him, Loretta sighed. “She’s resting on her bed—not sleeping, but thinking. When I asked whether she wanted to see any sights in Bingen, she said she’ll think about that later, that she has more important decisions that need to be made first. When I asked what those were, she said she’ll tell me, and you, in the morning. Then she shooed me out.” Loretta’s lips quirked. “She told me I could help by distracting you.”
Taking a sip of brandy, Rafe raised his brows. He stared out into the night. After several quiet minutes, he asked, “Do you have any idea what she has in mind?”
“No. But I should warn you that of all the willful and independent ladies of my acquaintance, Esme has it in her to be the most outrageous of all.”
Loretta had no idea what Esme was thinking, what she might decide on, but the possibility that her great-aunt’s decision might curtail her time with Rafe—the time she could seize to explore the nature of their connection before they reached England—spurred her to action.
One day at a time; one night at a time.
When the boat fell silent, in nightgown, robe, and slippers once more, she slipped out of the stateroom and down the dark corridor to Rafe’s door.
She raised her hand to tap.
The door opened. Rafe stood framed in the doorway. He grasped her hand, tugged her inside, and closed the door.
“Sssh.” Rafe turned to face her. Expecting—anticipating—her, he’d been listening intently. “I heard someone else in the passageway.” Someone who had gone into Hassan’s room further down and across the corridor.
“I didn’t see anyone.” Loretta stepped closer.
Without conscious direction, his hands slid about her waist as she pressed nearer, reaching up to twine her arms about his neck. Oh, yes, he’d been expecting her. Her nearness, her warmth, the promise in her slender frame as she leaned into him fired his hunger. The inner Reckless purred.
“I’ve been thinking.” Through the shadows, she searched his eyes. “I need to explore more.”
He’d expected that, too. “Just as long as you acknowledge one thing.” Eyes locked with hers, he backed her toward the bed. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re as good as affianced. Betrothed. Heading for the altar.”
Her brows rose haughtily. “Are we, indeed?”
Halting before the bed, he held her gaze. “To my way of thinking, you made your choice—accepted my proposal—last night.”
Her gaze remained level. Her lips took on a subtle curve. “I see.”
He didn’t. He had no idea what was going through her mind. Her intensely female, ergo unpredictable, mind. “Just as long as you agree to that, you can explore all you like.”
She tilted her head. After another unnerving moment of assessing him, replied, “I’m not agreeing, but neither am I disagreeing. As I told you last night—or was it this morning?—you’re rushing ahead too fast. I’ll need time to catch up.”
What did she expect? He wasn’t called Reckless for no reason. But the compulsion to decree their relationship determined, settled, recognized, and acknowledged sprang from a deeper imperative. And he knew it.
“Catch up?” He reached between them and tugged the belt of her robe free.
“I need time to explore, to learn and see, and reach my own decision in my own way, in my own time.”
He didn’t need further exploration. Didn’t need to look deeper into his own motives, his own emotions, to know that regardless of what he might find there, he really didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to have to face that reality.
Not if he could help it. Not if he could avoid it.
He set his jaw. “What exactly are you searching for—and how long do you intend to withhold your agreement?” Sliding his hands beneath her parted robe, he closed them about her waist, then, irresistibly tempted, reached further, the fine material of her nightgown tantalizingly screening her hips, her curves; closing his hands, he urged her nearer.
Lips curving, she came, arms tightening about his neck, face tilting up to his. “Last night was a beginning, a first act, as it were. I’m looking for more than a mere repeat—I’m looking for a wider, more far-reaching experience. Greater depth, greater intensity, a deeper engagement. More on all counts.”
He was sorry he’d asked; Reckless didn’t need further encouragement. But her answer gave him an inkling of a strategy—a way he could turn her exploration to his advantage. He could use it to support his own cause.
“As for time,” she went on, “while we’re on this journey, we’re outside our accustomed worlds. I see no reason we need to decide anything until we return to those worlds at our journey’s end.”
“I don’t agree. We’re still ourselves, not different people.”
She looked at him for a moment, then softly said, “Speak for yourself.” Then she stretched up and kissed him.
This time he let her lead—let her think she was. He took advantage of the clear invitation of her parted lips, sank into the honeyed sweetness of her mouth. Took his time glorying in the taste of her, revelling in having her in his arms again.
Letting desire build, but slowly.
Her body was taut and supple beneath his hands, spine slightly arched as she pressed into him. Her breasts cushioned his chest, her sleek thighs warmed his, her belly cradled his rampant erection.
He told himself to go slowly, to savor and stretch the moments out …
The better to snare her.
To let desire thicken and grow, let passion seep into the exchange so slowly she slid into its grip without truly knowing. Without realizing that want and need could bind as surely as emotions.
That hunger could become an addiction.
He waited until she made the next move, until, sunk in the kiss, as unwilling to break it as he, she lowered her arms and shrugged off her robe. He drew it away for her, let it fall.
Welcomed her back into his arms. Angled his head and drew her yet deeper into the heat of their kiss.
Into the slowly rising maelstrom of passion and desire. Into the waltzing whirlpool of their senses’ giddy delight.
Once she was whirling, his hands on her back he stroked, tracing the planes, sculpting the curves of her hips and derriere. He cupped one ripe globe and urged her closer yet, tilted her hips so he could—slowly—shift suggestively against her, the movement redolent with blatant passion, yet utterly, unquestionably reined.
At her command.
Hers for the asking, the taking, the wanting.
His to deliver.
Loretta ached, longed, yearned for more. For his touch, skin to skin. For the thrust of his body into hers that the evocative pressure of his erection against the tautness of her belly presaged.
Hands sliding from his nape to frame his face, she kissed him, her tongue tangling with his, stroking, teasing, wordlessly encouraging, but if he wasn’t hurrying, she wasn’t about to rush him. This was what she wanted—exactly what she needed. The chance to study, to examine and assess what drove him. A chance to learn which emotions she could sense investing his touch, infusing each caress with hidden mea
ning.
When one hard hand slid between them, then rose to boldly cup her breast, her senses leapt. Equally bold, she pressed the already swollen flesh into his palm, held back a shudder of pure delight when he closed his hand and kneaded.
There was nothing tentative in his touch. He fondled and caressed with expert intent, then through the fine linen of her gown circled her nipples until both were hard and tight, then he closed thumb and finger about one and squeezed … until she broke from the kiss on a gasp.
Head tipping back, she felt her senses sway, felt her lips curve as the buttons of her bodice slid undone, helped by long, strong, experienced fingers. Raising her head, from beneath heavy lids she watched his face as he opened her gown all the way to where the placket ended at her navel.
Passion was already etched in his features, desire stamped in his expression. Yet there was more to see, to sense in the weight of his summer blue gaze as, her gown gaping, he pressed the halves wide, baring her breasts. The weak moonlight washed over her. He stared for a moment measured by the heavy thud of her heart, then he raised his hands, cupped her breasts, and possessed.
Possession. As her lids closed on an aching wave of pleasure, she listed that among his motives. His desires.
Then he bent his head, set his lips to her heated, aching flesh, and ripped her wits away.
Sent them whirling.
She clutched his head, all thoughts dissolving as feeling—raw and primitive—rose in a wave and crashed over her. Washed through her, then returned with the hot tug of his mouth about her nipple.
Searing sensation lanced, speared through her. Then receded as he lapped, laved.
Only to return again, stronger, hotter, on the next wave of his worship. Cresting on a gasp, knees buckling, she clung to him, grateful for the steely arm that tightened, banding her waist, holding her upright as the resulting wave spread and sank in, diffusing heat and pulsing need beneath her skin, and deep to her core.
Awakening her.
She’d intended to watch him, to learn what he felt and why, but she suddenly saw herself through different eyes—eyes opened by passion, by a hunger too visceral to be denied.