Your Wicked Heart

  The reaction left her obscurely disappointed. What had she wanted? An expression of sympathy? A sign of caring?

  One kiss, and she imagined them . . . friends. Irked by her own naïveté—was there no end to it?—she started to pull shut the door.

  But he caught it and held it open. “Mrs. Pennypacker. The renowned memoirist. You say she beat you.”

  The derisive edge in his voice lit her temper like a match to gas. “Yes, and so she did! Now you know why she can’t keep a secretary in her service! And now, sir, I will bid you good day!”

  But his grip on the door resisted her fierce effort to close it. “You’re not lying.”

  Was that a question? His intonation was so even that she could not say. “No, I’m not lying! What cause have I to lie? Heavens, isn’t it embarrassing enough to admit that I stayed in the employ of a woman who thrashed me? What possible reason could I have to lie about that?”

  A muscle flexed in his jaw. “But you didn’t stay in her employ, did you?”

  The accusation in his voice undid her. She smacked his hand, hard. “Let go!”

  “Answer me!”

  “Answer you what? No, I didn’t stay! Yes, I am a dreadful woman, a low, base schemer—for when given a choice between a crotchety old dragon too fond of her switch, and a man who said he was a viscount—who said he would love me and cherish me for a lifetime—I chose the viscount!”

  He let go of the door. “A man whom you did not love,” he said, but his voice had lost its heat.

  She curled her lip. “True. I did not love him in the least. I was a terrible fraud.” Her own black laugh surprised her. “Truly terrible, now I come to think of it—for I didn’t even manage the fraud correctly. I found myself the dupe, didn’t I? Waiting at church for three hours, so certain he would appear . . .”

  His expression softened. But she did not like this new look one bit.

  “Don’t you dare pity me! After all, if you tell the truth, you’re the viscount. In which case, you’d best guard your virtue. I am, after all, a grasping, scheming harlot! Perhaps that kiss yesterday was the first step in my seduction! Perhaps you’d best lock your door tonight lest I come in and ravish you!”

  He stepped backward at that, exhaling audibly. “Miss Thomas—”

  His ridiculous formality was the last straw. “Oh, go away,” she said, and slammed the door.

  * * *

  It came to him that he was an ass.

  Spence did not precisely understand the reasons why he was an ass, and he did not wish to inspect his conviction too closely. But as he stood in the corridor, staring at the featureless surface of her closed door, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was an ass—of the lowest and most wretched variety.

  Still, his brain scrambled to provide alternatives. She was lying about her employer. Some unknown confederate—the villain who had schemed with her to defraud Charles—had put those bruises on her.

  Hell, for all he knew, Pennypacker might be her confederate.

  He winced at himself.

  All right, so he didn’t believe that.

  Very well, he even believed that she was telling the truth about Pennypacker. Evidently the woman was an abusive harpy. And he would do something about that once he was back in England. Such abuse deserved a reckoning, which he would provide.

  That did not mean Amanda was telling the truth about how she had gotten his cousin’s ring.

  But if she had stolen it from Charles only to give it away, then that made her the most tenderhearted thief in history.

  Very well, he supposed a thief could be tenderhearted. That did not make her any less a criminal.

  But it certainly made her harder for him to . . . dismiss.

  As he turned and walked down the hall toward his cabin, one thing became starkly clear to him: he could not touch her again. Not when one single hot kiss had so thoroughly corrupted his wits.

  God save him, but he did not like this new view of himself: baffled, frustrated, tempted. This was not who he was. He was stern. He was decisive. He governed with a firm hand; he was kind when kindness served, and cruel when it did not.

  But he was never tempted.

  Tempted against the voice of reason in his head, and against every wit that urged him to keep his distance from her.

  Tempted to turn back around and to knock on her door—to break it down if she did not answer—so he could apologize to her.

  And kiss her again.

  And do far more than that. The bed in her new cabin was large enough for it.

  He opened the door to his own cabin and groaned. This bed was even larger.

  What would the harm be? A shipboard affair . . . a tried-and-true custom, isn’t it?

  Right. That was likely to happen. Amanda Thomas did not strike him as the sort of worldly sophisticate who would leap at such a proposition. He would not be so reckless as to wager his fortune that her virginity was intact, but he’d certainly wager it on her virtue. She was not a woman prone to fleeting affairs.

  No shipboard seduction, then.

  And if he meant to keep his mind rather than lose it, that meant no more touching, either.

  He fell on the bed and closed his eyes. God above, he prayed, grant me mercy: Let the captain break his own record to London.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The steamer had a proper dining room, where Amanda passed a lonely breakfast as gaily appareled tourists chattered around her. She tried to ignore the curious and pitying looks, and the less charitable tsks from the group of matrons to her right.

  Still, the reactions felt depressingly telling. Before her employment with Mrs. Pennypacker, her solitary ventures into public had often been greeted with kindly inquiries about her parents’ whereabouts. But a single year had aged her into a new category. Now she received not kind concern but the pity and mistrust reserved for a woman without an escort.

  She was swallowing her very last sip of coffee when a momentary hush drew her attention toward the door.

  Did Ripton mean to enter so dramatically? She thought not. As he walked into the room, whispers rose from right and left—those from the matrons sounding distinctly salacious. Even limping, he drew admiring looks.

  He would do better not to smile like that as he walked—a slight smile, as though musing on some wicked secret. Had he ceased to smile, perhaps everyone would have turned back to their meals. But with that look on his face, he resembled nothing so much as a romantical villain, one of those pirates or highwaymen that featured in numberless melodramatic novels. His clothing certainly had nothing to do with his appeal, for he wore a black suit, plainly cut, unremarkable except that it clothed with loving fidelity a form that was taller, leaner, and broader-shouldered than most.

  He looked not only devastatingly handsome, but also . . . expensive. Even in rags, he probably would look expensive. He carried with him an air of casual elegance that could not be purchased. It was inborn. Even the simple knotting of his white necktie somehow served to highlight the bold angle of his freshly shaven jaw.

  To her left, a gentleman laid down his book to study Ripton—and then discreetly tugged at his ornate cravat, as though regretting its complexity.

  Amanda directed her sour smile downward at her plate of half-finished eggs.

  “What are you smiling about?” asked Ripton as he sat down across from her. He seemed wholly oblivious to the longing glances he was collecting.

  “You,” she said. “Women whisper and men feel suddenly inadequate. I can’t imagine it’s the most edifying effect to have on one’s fellow man.”

  He lifted a brow as he took a roll from the basket of bread in front of her. “That’s not at all the effect I have,” he said.

  “Oh? What effect do you perceive?”

  He took her knife from her plate—without so much as a by-your-leave!—and began to butter his bread. “What I inspire in other people, do you mean? Respect, I would hope. Goodwill? And occasionally”—he smiled—“a tou
ch of fear proves useful.”

  She snorted.

  “I recall you going quite pale when first we met.”

  “Extenuating circumstances.”

  “I recall you begging quite dramatically for my mercy.”

  “I never did!” Had she? “Besides, you’d threatened to drown me!”

  He laid down the knife, giving her a satisfied smile. “Well, and as I said: fear has its uses.”

  She held her rejoinder as a passing waiter poured tea for him. Then she said, “Is that a common tactic you use: threats of an untimely demise? No wonder you claim to be so popular with women! I imagine that they swoon quite regularly!”

  Ripton took a bite of bread, chewing thoroughly before swallowing. Retrieving his napkin, he patted his mouth. These movements, undertaken with such conspicuous leisure, seemed designed to provoke her.

  She bit her tongue. She would not take the bait.

  “Or perhaps they’re all angling for my title,” he said finally. “You must give me lessons in how to defend myself. I did lock my door, you’ll be glad to know.”

  Her face turned hot. “Very amusing. You can’t imagine I meant that threat.”

  “A man can hope,” he murmured.

  A hot shiver pulsed through her belly. She looked blindly away from the table. Was he flirting with her?

  “Dear me,” he said, still in that low, purring voice. “Whatever can you be thinking, to bring such color to your cheeks?”

  “Your moods,” she said through her teeth, “are as mercurial as a madman’s.”

  “As I said, your lunacy is catching.”

  She speared him with a sharp look. How dare he allude to that remark! He had spoken it just before he kissed her.

  He arched a brow. “I’ll add aggravation to my list of vaunted effects on others, shall I?”

  “Loathing,” she said. “Don’t forget that one.”

  “Come, now, Miss Thomas. You must admit it: you like me.”

  Her bewilderment was increasing by the moment. This was a side of him she’d never seen before: rakish, and aggressively so. It made no sense after their quarrel yesterday. Moreover, it was hardly fit behavior for breakfast.

  She decided to change the subject. “Have you seen the ship’s doctor yet? Your limp, by the way, now resembles a peg leg.”

  “Later,” he said with a shrug. Now came his breakfast plate, eggs and beans and kippers. He speared a slice of tomato.

  “Because I should not like you to sustain a permanent injury,” she said sweetly. “It would be such a pity if your good looks were forever ruined.”

  He widened his eyes, feigning astonishment. “Is that a compliment, Miss Thomas?”

  “Indeed not. I owe you no compliments! Your behavior does not merit them.”

  He set down his fork. “Yes,” he said. “About that. I suppose I do owe you an apology.”

  “You suppose? You were the very picture of a boor!”

  “But a handsome boor, it seems.” He flashed her a grin, which faded beneath her fixed glare.

  “You should see the doctor,” she said through her teeth. “While you’re at it, ask him to cure the rot between your ears.”

  He sighed. “Look here: I overstepped the bounds of decent behavior. I do beg your forgiveness. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “Good,” she said. “For next time I’ll slam the door on your fingers!”

  He frowned a little. “I was not referring to that conversation, but to the . . . event after the brawl.”

  To their kiss? She felt herself go red again. “Then you owe me another apology,” she muttered. “Two separate apologies.”

  He leaned forward now, looking intrigued. “But how curious. You weren’t upset about the kiss?”

  She slammed down her fork. “If you’ll excuse me!”

  He made no effort to follow her out of the dining room, no doubt fearing a public brawl. She felt capable of providing one—although, after a minute’s stalk down the promenade deck, the depth of her ire began to puzzle her.

  Why should it upset her that he apologized for the kiss? She should regret the kiss, no? She had no interest in kissing him, no matter how skilled he was at the activity. He was ill-tempered, overbearing, a kidnapper—

  And very handsome. And dutiful to his family, and startlingly kind when he wished to be. And . . . amusing. His wit, when he indulged it, never failed to make her laugh.

  She came to stand at the railing, taking deep breaths of the salt air. She could admit it: to have the attention of the handsomest man in the room was . . . gratifying.

  And whether he was handsome or not, she did rather like him. Imagine how it would be to know that somebody like him was watching out for you! Willing to chase you across the continent; to do whatever it took to find you and deliver you to safety.

  His cousin was very lucky.

  She continued along the promenade, eventually finding herself on the forecastle, which was supplied with chaises for those who wished to gaze out at the waves.

  It was here she was still sitting, two hours later, when the clouds began to darken on the western horizon. First came a sprinkling of rain here and there, and then fatter drops drumming into a downpour. Still, she did not move. The deck above provided shelter, and there was something dreadful and fascinating in watching the sky purple like a bruise.

  She’d had a nightmare a week before she embarked with Mrs. Pennypacker on the voyage to Turkey. Waking breathless and terrified, she had thought: It was a premonition. I will die in a storm during the journey. In her nightmare, the storm had begun just so: with a spattering of rain, and the darkening of the sky, and a freshening wind.

  The air was taking on a cleaner, wilder smell now. Stray strands of hair whipped across her eyes.

  Don’t mind the dream, Olivia had advised her. It’s natural to be afraid. Adventure and fear go hand in hand.

  Adventure. She’d yearned for it, hadn’t she? And had gained so little in return for her gamble. Difficult to appreciate the Parthenon, the ancient ruins and churches, when one was constantly assessing the mood of one’s companion. Was Mrs. Pennypacker thirsty? Hungry? Angry? What would she find fault with next?

  Even the Hagia Sophia had been overshadowed by her employer’s temper. Outside, on the steps, Amanda had taken a sound boxing to her ears for the sin of forgetting to adjust Madam’s veil lest the sun graze her wrinkled face.

  Why did I stay in her employ so long? One imagined so many grand things of oneself—that one had dignity and pride and would never submit to abuse. That one would always oppose injustice, even if the only victim was oneself.

  But life held up a harsher mirror than one’s dreams and fancies did. Alone in a foreign country, Amanda had discovered herself a coward. She had told herself, I will endure it until I get home. She had promised herself, I will be safe when we are back in England. Then I can leave.

  But now, looking across a storm-tossed sky, she could not recover that sense of optimism. Perhaps she was not so much a coward as she’d feared—but she was never safe. Not even in this moment. Storms always lurked on the horizon.

  Why did she imagine it would be any different once she was back in England? Her friends were not well situated to help her. She had no family to rely upon. No letter of recommendation. And a single dress, no matter how resplendent, was a very poor surety on which to plan a new life.

  “Amanda.”

  Ripton’s voice gave her a terrible start. She turned, one hand clamped over her heart.

  He stood a few feet away, his head tilted; she had the fleeting impression he’d been studying her for some time. “Come inside,” he said. “You’ll be soaked.”

  For a brief moment, she felt angry with him. Why do you care?

  But her anger faded almost instantly, yielding to a curious feeling, one which threatened to call up tears.

  He had come looking for her. He cared enough to have come looking.

  It was a paltry, trifling kind
of care, admittedly. But it was more than she’d thought she’d had a moment ago.

  Lightning flashed off the bow of the ship. Ripton made an impatient noise and came forward, shrugging out of his jacket. “Here,” he said. “Put this on. We’ll have to run for it.”

  The wool was warm from his body, redolent of the spicy scent of his skin. As she rose, she clutched the jacket tightly around her.

  His cousin was a lucky man indeed.

  * * *

  Alone in her cabin, Amanda listened to the creaking and groaning of the ship. Now and then the bed seemed to rise and then dip, and through the bulkheads came the mounting moan of the wind.

  “Stay put,” Ripton had told her before letting himself out. As though she would willingly venture out in this mess!

  But his company would not have been unwelcome. She did not like sitting alone in the dark, listening to the sounds that possibly betokened the ship’s doom. And his cabin was closer to the ladder than hers. Should an . . . unfortunate event occur, requiring a hasty retreat to lifeboats, his stateroom would make for a quicker escape.

  She was not frightened, of course. But it was his fault she was on this particular ship, in this particular storm. No matter that she’d had no money to purchase her own fare home; she’d have found a way. But it would have taken a bit of time. And so she would have found herself on a different ship, one that would have traveled these waters long after this storm had passed . . .

  By kidnapping her, he had sealed her doom!

  She threw open the door and stepped into the corridor, gasping and catching her balance against the bulkhead as the ship listed hard to starboard. His cabin seemed an impossible distance away, awash in the eerie blue light that fell from the ladder. Bracing herself with a hand on either wall, she made a slow advance.

  Again the ship pitched. From a nearby cabin came a feminine shriek. More alarming to Amanda’s ears were the distant yells she now heard from above. Sailors should not sound so panicked! Sailors should always sound calm!

  Reaching Ripton’s door, she banged hard. Rain slapped her face, blown down the stairs by a savage gust of wind. “Let me in!” Again she pounded with her fist. “Ripton, let me in!” The floor bucked beneath her, as though the ship were trying to leap the waves. She grabbed hold of the doorknob to rattle it. “Let me in, let me in, let me—”