Lord of the Privateers

  Edwina glanced at Isobel and invited her in with a smile, then returned to her pondering. “It’s August. I’m not going to need heavy fabrics for the temperature, but in the jungle, from what you’ve said, I’ll need my sturdier skirts.” She arched her brows at Aileen, then appealed to Isobel. “Won’t I?”

  Isobel glanced at Aileen, then looked at Edwina. “Breeches,” she said. “And a lightweight jacket and riding boots.”

  Edwina blinked. Then her expression cleared. “Of course!” Almost immediately, her face fell. “But I don’t have any breeches, and Declan’s certainly won’t fit.”

  Aileen grimaced. “I don’t have any, either, although you’re perfectly correct—lightweight breeches and a jacket would be the ideal attire for the sort of jungle we’ll need to tramp through.”

  Edwina looked at Isobel. “I suppose you have a pair?”

  “Several.” Isobel pushed aside two confections in silk and sat on the dressing stool. “I came prepared—I usually wear them when climbing over hulls and rigs in the shipyards. As for jackets, summer riding jackets will work well enough.”

  “The jackets, I have. And the boots.” Edwina whirled to her armoire. She hauled open the doors and started hunting. “But breeches...” Her muffled words trailed away into silence, then she popped upright and swiveled to face Isobel and Aileen; the delight in her face made it clear she’d solved the problem. “I know just who to appeal to.”

  She bustled across the room to her escritoire, sat, and pulled out a sheet of paper. “My brother’s secretary, man of business, account-keeper, or whatever his title—Jordan Draper. He’s a magician when it comes to problems like this—he’ll wave his magic wand and voila! We’ll have breeches.”

  Edwina scribbled madly, pausing only to survey Aileen—“You’re much the same height as my sister-in-law, Miranda”—and three minutes later, her note had been dispatched. Edwina shut the door on the footman. “I do hope Jordan isn’t out prowling Julian’s clubs. If he’s in Dolphin Square, I expect he’ll send something suitable around by the end of the day.”

  Isobel thought that estimation a trifle optimistic, but she held her tongue and allowed herself to be beguiled by a discussion as to the likelihood of them requiring evening gowns while in the settlement or if they might need to attend a church service.

  “And then there’s the matter of the right gown to appropriately impress Governor Holbrook to ensure he toes our required line.” Edwina held up two elegant walking gowns, one in jonquil, the other in blue, displaying them to Isobel and Aileen. “Which do you think?”

  “The blue,” they said in unison.

  * * *

  By early evening, they were packed—even the men, who, in Isobel’s experience, always left such things to the last moment. Trunks had appeared at the bottom of the stairs, along with traveling bags and seabags; she noted the pile as she descended the stairs and the clocks in the house struck six o’clock. The only items missing were Edwina’s and Aileen’s smaller cases and Isobel’s bandbox, which would join the pile come morning.

  Footsteps on the stairs behind her had her lifting her head. The sensation that swept down her back told her who it was.

  She reached the last stair, stepped onto the tiles, and turned to watch as Royd descended the last flight.

  He, too, glanced at the luggage, then he looked at her and arched a brow. “Ready?”

  For what? But she was too wise to ask such a question of him. “I gather the carriages have been ordered for five o’clock in the morning.”

  He nodded. “Even with four fast horses to each carriage, it’ll take seven hours to reach Southampton, and we can’t afford to miss the tide.” He waved her to the drawing room.

  She turned and walked that way. He followed close behind. Determinedly ignoring the phantom sensation due to his hand hovering at the back of her waist, she asked, “When, exactly, is the tide?”

  “Half past three. We’ll make it.”

  They passed into the drawing room and found the others already there. Edwina had arranged for dinner to be served at six so they could retire early with a view to their pre-dawn departure. Humphrey appeared almost immediately to announce the meal.

  Royd caught Isobel’s hand and wound her arm in his. She permitted it; there seemed no sense in attempting any distance. Not when they both found a certain...comfort with each other.

  Much in the way she sensed Declan and Edwina did; they’d been married for months, yet still shared private smiles, still touched in that unobtrusive yet telling way of established lovers.

  Robert and Aileen were heading down the same road.

  As for Royd and herself...as he sat her at the table, she owned to the truth that they had always been each other’s “other half.” That was undeniable, but whether they could find their way to some place—some workable relationship—that satisfied them both remained to be seen.

  Inevitably, they returned to the subject that dominated their minds.

  “Do we try for Holbrook first or the fort’s commander?” Declan mused.

  “We do it simultaneously,” Robert said. “I’ll go to the fort while you go to the governor’s residence.”

  “One thing,” Royd put in. “Send a group of men to block the path from the settlement to Kale’s camp first. I’d rather not have any unexpected surprises wandering up to the compound from that direction.”

  Robert nodded. “Easy enough. I’ll send a small squad. They can guard the path until we’re ready to march out that way, then fall in with us.”

  When the discussion turned to the arguments most likely to make the situation—and how they were expected to respond to it—clear to Holbrook and the fort’s commander, Edwina and Aileen made several excellent suggestions.

  However, when attention shifted to the logistics of the subsequent trek through the jungle to the mining compound, several comments dropped by Declan and Robert made it clear both were still laboring under the misguided notion that their ladies might be persuaded to remain in the settlement.

  Edwina ruthlessly put an end to their delusions with a cheery, “Did we mention Aileen and I have acquired breeches? So just like Isobel, we’ll be able to tramp easily down the jungle paths.” She smiled brightly at Declan. “Jordan had them delivered an hour ago—such a sensible fellow. He didn’t even ask what they were for but just sent a note saying: ‘Wear these in good health.’”

  “Given the short notice,” Aileen said, “I hardly dared hope, but the pairs he found for me fit perfectly. With my boots and the jackets I had made for my earlier visit, I’ll have no trouble keeping up.” She looked at Robert and opened her eyes wide. “Or even running, as we had to last time. Without skirts, it will all be much easier.”

  After a second’s silence, Robert and Declan exchanged a glance and subsequently said nothing—at least at that point.

  Isobel suspected they would pursue the matter with their ladies in private, but if they asked her opinion, she would advise saving their breaths. There was no way either woman would consent to being left in the settlement. Edwina might be pregnant, but she was carrying the babe well and was not as yet encumbered by her increasing girth. As for Aileen...what was Robert thinking?

  That question raised another in her mind, one she resolved to address later, when she and Royd were alone in the corridor outside their rooms.

  Meanwhile, he and she continued to play their subtle game of mutual enticement. Of minor, unexpected touches and suggestive glances that spiked the inevitable tension between them.

  Where such actions would lead, she didn’t, at that moment, wish to dwell on. Time enough for that when they were back on The Corsair.

  It was mid-August and the pavements were baking, but Edwina’s cook had excelled in providing a refreshing and delicious meal. Vichyssoise had been followed by jellied eels and tro
ut in aspic, then slices of roast turkey and chilled baked quail had been served with a medley of boiled vegetables, eventually giving way to sorbet. The meal ended with a platter of freshly cracked nuts and fresh fruit.

  As she helped herself to a fig, Isobel made a mental note to ensure the supply of fruit aboard The Corsair was sufficient to see Duncan through the journey. The market in Southampton wasn’t far from the wharves, and she’d already decided she needed to make a quick visit to the local shipyards; the solution to the problem of the palisade was still nagging in the back of her mind. If she could see the things she normally saw, perhaps that would jar the required snippet of memory loose.

  “Here.” Royd handed her a fruit knife with which to peel the fig.

  She reached out and took it, allowing her fingers to glide over the back of his hand as she did.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw awareness spark in the moody gray of his eyes and contented herself with a small smile. She peeled the fig, then made a fine production of savoring the plump fruit in a way she knew would make him distinctly uncomfortable.

  For several moments, his gaze was locked on her face, on her lips; only when she had to swipe juice from her lower lip with the pad of her finger did he manage to tear his eyes from the sight.

  He shifted in his chair, swung his gaze to Declan, quietly cleared his throat, and asked about The Cormorant’s crew.

  Isobel swallowed a laugh. Royd would find some way to pay her back; her reckless side was looking forward to it.

  Sure enough, when half an hour later, after deciding against wasting any time in the drawing room and dismissing any need for tea, the group climbed the stairs and, at their head, separated with goodnights and reminders of the early hour of their departure, instead of letting his hand hover at the back of her waist, Royd set his palm firmly in place—as if reclaiming the right that once had been his to possessively guide her before him.

  She had too much control to overtly react; she smiled at the others and returned their goodnights. But inside, waves of warmth spread from where his hand burned through the two layers of fine silk separating his hard palm from her skin. One wave rose to fill her breasts, leaving them heated and swollen. A second wave sank to her hips, infused her womb, heated her thighs, and made her knees weak.

  Her lungs constricted. As with outward serenity she walked before him down the corridor to their rooms, longing flooded her. A yearning for him. Deep and abiding, that yearning had never left her. Over all the years, it had remained, dormant perhaps, yet always there, immutable and unchanging.

  As it rose and crashed through her, shaking her to her core, she realized that, if anything, the power of that yearning had only grown.

  But she wasn’t the girl-woman she’d been eight years ago, and he wasn’t the man with whom she’d naively handfasted.

  She halted before her door and turned to face him, and finally his hand fell from her back.

  The temptation to reach out and re-establish contact surged, but she suppressed it and met his eyes. “Just so we’re clear, you’re not imagining I won’t accompany you to the compound.”

  He’d halted when she’d turned; they were standing far closer than mere friends would—a wordless declaration of sorts.

  He studied her for a second, as if tracing her train of thought back to what had given rise to the statement-cum-question. Then his lips twisted wryly. “I’m not my brothers.”

  “No, you aren’t.” She’d never been the least intrigued—and even more importantly, challenged—by them. They were, if not typical, then reasonably predictable. He was not. With him, one assumed at one’s peril.

  He confirmed that by stating, “Just so we’re clear, from now on, I intend to share everything—every aspect of my life—with you.” He held her gaze. “Nothing held back—not anymore.”

  The promise in his eyes shivered through her. She arched a brow as if unimpressed. “Just as well.”

  His gaze roved over her face, an intimate exploration all on its own. His eyes returned to hers; he held her gaze for an instant, then, his voice low, said, “We should get what sleep we can. Tomorrow will be a very long day.”

  She didn’t take her eyes from his. Couldn’t. “Indeed.”

  A pregnant second followed, then they surrendered. Whether she stepped to him or he to her, she had no clear idea. Once she was in his arms and his lips were on hers, all rational thought faded. Fled.

  She slid her hands up to his shoulders, gripped and clung as he surged into her mouth, and she gave herself over to sharing this moment, to giving and taking what she needed now.

  With his lips on hers and hers on his, her senses drew in to focus on the kiss.

  On the exchange, on the rioting sensations and the storm of feelings the simple communion unleashed.

  There was, Royd thought, drawing her deeper into his arms, angling his head to deepen the kiss yet further, nothing simple about what erupted between them—what still simmered, so hot, so vital, so demanding, within them.

  It claimed them both—effortlessly. Caught them and trapped them in this world in which they’d played before, in which their reckless, highly sensual natures instinctively reveled, freed to experience, to seize, to wonder.

  Together, to explore every pleasure.

  He plundered the dark haven of her mouth, savored the lingering hints of fig on her tongue, while she moved into him, shifting sensuously against him, wordlessly urging him on.

  The kiss drew them both deep. More heated, more steeped in promise—because the very action of seizing the kiss, of giving in to the compulsion of the moment as they had, said something.

  Quite what, he wasn’t yet game to define; with her, that would be premature. But that they’d both stepped forward meant they both were ready to go further.

  He was entirely as one with her as they did precisely that, their mouths melding, tongues tangling and inciting in ways far more potently evocative than they’d deployed eight years before.

  Eight years before, they hadn’t wanted with this much frustrated, pent-up desperation.

  The surging, swelling, tumultuous need was very much there, coloring each foray, driving them further.

  Her lips demanded, commanded, and he responded by ravaging her mouth, plundering her senses, and satisfying his.

  As always, her responses—her blatant wildness and her unscreened wanting—captured him and drew him on.

  Her passion had always been a siren’s song to him, an elemental call to the male inside him, an irresistible beckoning.

  But he couldn’t let her lure him on.

  Not yet.

  He knew just when to draw back—when her hunger had flared and her desire surged.

  The effort nearly staggered him, but he raised his head and all but ripped his lips from hers.

  Ignoring the harsh rasp of his breathing and the rapidity of hers, he looked into her face, into the sultry depths of her eyes, and managed a smile, although he suspected it was crooked.

  She blinked at him dazedly.

  Her grip on his shoulders had eased. He grasped her upper arms and gently set her back from him. He held her until she caught her balance, then forced himself to release her.

  Her eyes, fixed on his face, slowly narrowed.

  At the sight, his smile grew more genuine and deepened. He stepped back and saluted her. “Until tomorrow at four thirty.”

  He didn’t wait for her reaction but turned and walked the few paces to his door.

  He heard no sound from behind him. Curious, on reaching the door, he grasped the knob, then paused and looked back.

  In the soft light of the corridor lamps, he saw her eyes had narrowed to dark slits. They remained locked on him.

  Isobel waited a heartbeat, sensing—assessing—the heightened tension between them,
then softly said, “Two can play at that game, you know.”

  Her tone made the words a sultry challenge.

  Across the ten feet that separated them, his eyes held hers; the intensity of the connection was so weighty, so real, she would have sworn sparks flashed and smoldered.

  Then his lips curved slightly, tauntingly, and his deep voice reached her, dark and low. “Feel free to take me on anytime.”

  Then the damned man opened the door and went into his room.

  She heard the door softly shut.

  Leaving her struggling to breathe deeply enough to steady her whirling senses.

  And to wonder if the water in her pitcher would be cold enough to douse her fire.

  * * *

  At four o’clock the following afternoon, Isobel stood beside Royd on the upper deck of The Corsair and, with a sense of excitement she’d never felt before, watched the sails unfurl.

  The ship surged. The wind whipped her hair; fine spray stung her cheeks. She drew in a deep breath, her smile distinctly giddy.

  Still high in the western sky, the sun beamed down upon them and the other ships following in their wake—an omen, a benediction.

  They’d led the departing ships out of the basin. The Corsair was well known—larger ships gave way to her speed and agility, while smaller ships stood in awe of her power. The wind was brisk, and Southampton Water already lay largely behind them. Ahead, the waters of the Solent glimmered and beckoned.

  Then the royals unfurled, and the ship literally lifted on the wind. Clinging to the forward rail beside her, Duncan cheered.

  Grinning, she looked down at him, drinking in the sight of his hair ruffling over his forehead, of the bright-eyed delight in the face beneath.

  As she’d expected, although he’d missed her, his life aboard ship had been filled with activities—the sort of activities he’d long dreamed of. When she’d finally come aboard an hour ago, a mere half hour before they’d slid away from the wharf, he’d been waiting to greet her with hugs and smiles and endless chatter about all he’d done.