A Woman Made for Sin (24 page)

“Collins!”

Collins whipped his head around. Fear consumed his features. “Captain!”

Reece craned his head and could see that the mystery rigger was not caught, but frozen.
Literally. The water, the wind, the nighttime cold, all had proven too much. With
only twelve more feet to go, hands white with cold, body shaking, it was hard to believe
that this person had just helped furl the sails.

Another blast of wind came. The storm was not over and Reece needed to get back to
the wheel. “You’re almost down!” he shouted, signaling the other men to be quiet.
“Even though you cannot feel your fingers, you can still control them. Just force
them to let go. A few more steps and you’ll be down.”

The climber did not move. Fear had finally caught up with the onetime rigger and Reece
moved to climb up and help. If needed, he would carry the body down. But just as he
grabbed ahold of the first handle, the figure started to move and was about to take
a step. Just as the hand let go, the person looked down. Reece’s whole world instantly
imploded.

Green eyes, framed in an overly pale face that could only belong to one person, latched
on to his for a brief second before another wave crashed over the rails into them.
Reece instinctively held on, but when he looked up—Aimee was gone.

October 25, 1816

Chase had learned to be a patient man when it came to solving problems. Almost always
there were complications or peculiarities that required a unique approach, but that
only meant one had to adapt. But all problems could be resolved
if
one was willing to do what was necessary. And right now, all three problems he was
facing required him to go significantly beyond his comfort zone.

The first—his sister—was a quandary that only grew each day. After being alone on
a boat with Reece for so long, her reputation was in danger, which had only one solution.
But as he had little power over the outcome, all he could do was wait. In the end,
it was a situation of her making and therefore a problem for her to address. And while
he should feel for his friend, part of Chase also blamed him for ignoring her. Reece
should have known that Aimee would go to extreme measures to keep from being rebuffed
in such a way.

His second problem was less of a quandary and more of a predicament. As expected,
the thief had gone underground. But the maps were secure, and until the culprit decided
on his next move—if there would even be one—there was little Chase could do.

His largest dilemma—the ever-increasing wedge between him and his wife—was a result
of how he had set upon resolving the first two. Millie had yet to write him back.
He had even confirmed that she had not sent Elda Mae any letters asking about him.
Nothing. And of all the mysteries he was dealing with, his wife’s unexplained silence
was the most maddening.

Did she not realize how much he needed to hear from her? Was she not reading the letters
he sent expressing his concern and his regret, but most importantly, his love?

Like his father and his grandfather before him, Chase possessed a stoic personality.
It enabled him to be patient, and in many ways tolerant, but it also caused him to
appear apathetic and indifferent to the world around him. That he had found a woman
whom he not only loved dearly, but who could also love a controlled, serious man like
him had been a miracle. But Millie was more than just a loving wife; she had filled
his soul with life. Until her, Chase had not known how empty he had been, and he knew
he could not go back to the way he was. He needed her spirit to fill him—even if it
was relayed via sentiments in a letter.

Five times he had written her, and yet he had heard nothing.

Chase had assumed Millie would be cross for being summarily dismissed, but she was
neither subtle nor passive in nature. If anger was her chief emotion, he would be
hearing from her multiple times a day, expressing those very feelings. So when he
received no response to his first letter, Chase interpreted it as Millie’s small way
of retaliation against his being so overbearing. But after five letters, it was clear
that he could write a dozen more only to be similarly dismissed.

It was obvious that she intended for him to come to her, to seek out her company after
so bitterly rejecting it. He had resisted because he feared that with one look, one
touch, he would not be able to let her go. Bringing her to London was not an option,
but he could take her home to Dorset. He would just tell those dealing with the aftermath
of Sir Edward’s betrayal that he would be unavailable to assist them for the next
few months.

At the Chaselton estate, they would have time to be alone together, without the fanfare
of Town. There would be no duty toward Society matrons, his sister, or even her friends.
It would be just him and her. With enough time, they would mend what rifts had been
created.

It would also be the perfect opportunity to calmly and patiently address her dangerous
compulsions, the foundation of their current quarrel.

Millie leaned against the bar and tilted her head back slightly to stretch her neck.
She had not anticipated how difficult it would be to work in a tavern. She knew the
physical labor would be challenging and her tired feet and constantly aching back
proved that assumption right. But she had not anticipated just how hard everything
else would be. Remembering multiple orders and handling money exchanges were just
not things done by noblewomen.

A man shouted out something unintelligible and Millie kept her eyes closed, ignoring
him. Other than Devlin, only one group of men remained, and Bessie had laid claim
to them as soon as they had entered the tavern. Their hollers belonged to her.

Millie had stopped trying to gain Bessie’s approval and friendship by the third night.
The woman was just abrasive to everyone, including those who frequented Six Belles.
And yet, most of the men did not seem to mind Bessie’s saucy attitude.

On the second night, Bessie had arrived early and dictated that they would share the
customers, but she would choose which were hers and which ones Millie would serve.
After the first hour, Millie was unsurprised to learn that those who tipped or tipped
well, Bessie claimed, the others she gave away. But as Millie got better at serving,
more and more of the customers were requesting her to help them, overriding Bessie’s
initial claim. And each time, Millie braced herself for Bessie to explode, for it
was not a matter of if, but when. And Millie suspected that if Clive were driven to
make a choice between them, she would lose. She had little time left to execute her
plan.

It was this fear that gave her the courage to begin asking questions about Aimee,
the pinnace, and who owned the ship it belonged to. But she quickly learned that asking
outright was the fastest way to learn absolutely nothing. Millie was fairly certain
that not a sole she spoke to actually had the answers to her questions, based on their
puzzled expressions, but she was just as certain that if they
had
known, they would not have told her. The men might enjoy having her serve them, but
it would take a lot more than a fresh, pretty face to get them to part with any information.

With the direct approach not working, Millie shifted to a more indirect line of questioning.
She asked about the men’s work, or how their day went, trying to engage them in conversation.
But each time she brought up the pinnace, they changed the topic back to her.

“Green and white dinghy? Never seen such a thing. Don’t care to either, not when I
have you to gaze at.”

“Dinghy? Seen ’em all and none are painted, except maybe white. But if you want to
go with me to check inside a few, I can promise you an enjoyable tour.”

Millie sighed. She had promised not to return without information on Aimee, and she
intended to keep it. But she was beginning to wonder if working for Clive would ever
yield results.

A clinking sound beside her brought her out of her reverie. Devlin had risen and was
now beside her, placing his empty glass down on the counter. He plopped four half-crowns
onto the wooden surface. Millie slid two of the coins into her hand and gave him a
sincere smile but said nothing. Devlin always tipped Bessie and her equally, regardless
of who waited on him.

Millie watched him turn and leave the tavern. There was something about the man that
had her intrigued. On her second night, she had spied a handkerchief with a small
emblem on it. It had taken her a solid half hour of cajoling to get Stuart to tell
her what it meant. He would have told her outright for coin, but she was already paying
him to keep his ears open for any news from Hembree Grove about Aimee. She refused
to set the dangerous precedent of having to pay for answers to questions he would
have openly answered for anyone else.

In the end, Stuart said he knew very little. Only that the emblem belonged to a gambling
joint located near Goodman’s Fields and that its wild reputation was often the tattle
of the
ton
gossips. The joint itself brought in high-stakes gamblers because it had a reputation
for being one of the more honest establishments of its kind. However, the owner was
not a man to be crossed. If one lost his money, his livelihood, or even his home,
then it was lost.

Though Stuart could not say who the owner was, having never been near the place due
to his young age and lack of funds, Millie was sure it was Devlin. He dressed well
and sat alone, but it was neither of these things that set him apart from those who
came into Six Belles. It was something about how he spoke and comported himself. His
Scottish accent had been softened by training and, she suspected, a good deal of effort.
The way he moved spoke of confidence and ease, and something else she could not quite
define. And yet, while he acted as if he belonged in this harsh side of London, Millie
suspected that in reality he was as far from his true home as she was from hers.

As Devlin reached the door, he looked back at Clive and gave him a distinct nod. Clive
bobbed his head in return, but watching the silent exchange between the two men made
Millie’s eyes open wide with realization.

Devlin, like her, was an aristocrat.

Without a doubt, the man had been brought up and raised among the titled, either as
the backup heir, a cousin, or some other relation. Millie drummed her fingers on the
bar, letting her mind race. Someone with Devlin’s background and current occupation
would have access to information. Of all the people in this tavern, she had never
thought to ask him for help.

Could she trust him? Should she?

To know the answer, she first needed to learn exactly who Devlin really was.

Reece’s head snapped up at the first sign of movement from Aimee. She moaned and her
hand moved to her head. For a moment, he just stared at her, making sure that what
he was seeing was not a vision he had conjured. Aimee was not just alive, but awake.
He let his head collapse back into his hands.

In one second, he was seeing Aimee, frozen on the mast of his ship. In the next, a
wave had overtaken her. As soon as it cleared, he had frantically scanned the decks,
as had the rest of his crew—who knew that if she was not found, Reece would not be
accountable for his actions. But he had spotted her. Her body was curled into a ball,
her head against the gunwale just underneath the rail. And she was not moving.

He ordered Collins to take over the wheel from Carr and hurried to Aimee, gathering
her in his arms. A myriad of questions pummeled his mind, but mostly just one thought
kept repeating itself over and over again.
You will be fine. You will be fine. You will be fine.

But she had not been.

He had taken her to his room and examined her body. Nothing appeared broken; however,
on the back of her head was a large, angry welt. Reece knew that it was impossible
to accurately discern the ramifications of such injuries until the person woke up—if
they woke up. And he refused to leave her side until he knew she was going to be fine.
Only then would he decide how he was going to kill her. And he was still debating
just when and how to eliminate his crew.

“My head . . .” Aimee moaned.

Reece slid to the edge of his chair so that he was as close as he could get to the
bed. “You hit it when you fell.”

Aimee’s eyes fluttered open. “I fell?” she asked, clearly trying to remember just
what had happened.

“Do you know where you are?”

Aimee closed her eyes and nodded. “The
Sea Emerald.
There was a storm. Someone had to help Collins get the sails down. Did I?” she asked,
opening her eyes again. “Get them down? Are we safe?”

It took everything Reece had not to explode at the idea of Aimee acting as one of
his crew. His chief mate had already admitted to it being his idea for Aimee to climb
the masts, but to hear her call him Collins, as if they were close friends, was making
Reece’s blood boil. “
Someone
had to get them down. Not
you
.”

Reece watched her, but Aimee did not even flinch at his words or his tone. “What time
is it?”

“You mean what day is it,” he gritted out. “You’ve been unconscious for nearly twenty
hours.”

Aimee turned her head and blinked as if she was just now realizing to whom she was
talking. She turned to her side and raised her brows inquiringly. “Reece?”

He pulled her hand into his and said, “It’s me.”

Without warning, Aimee sat up and threw herself into his arms, pulling him toward
her. Reece’s eyes shut and his face twisted. Unprepared, he allowed himself to savor
the soft feel of her and immediately his body became aroused. Her smooth cheek nestled
against his and he basked in its warmth. He wondered why something so wrong had to
feel so right.

When he tried to set her apart from him, Aimee resisted, wrapping her arms around
his neck. Then he felt her fingers delve into his hair, soft and full of promise.

He stared down at her—her lips, soft, pink, parted slightly—and every muscle in his
body tensed. Reece knew he had a number of questions to ask her, but he could not
think of a single one. All he knew was that he wanted so badly to kiss her he could
not think straight.

Unable to continue resisting his growing desire, he caught Aimee’s face between his
hands and brought her lips to his. With barely any encouragement, she opened her mouth,
allowing him access to her moist warmth. Reece groaned and let the full force of his
own hunger break over her. He had been craving this—craving her—for so long. Aimee
was everything he remembered, sweet and ripe and incredibly fresh. Never had anything
tasted so exquisitely good as she.

He could not get enough of her. His hands soon became as undisciplined as his mouth,
taming and exciting as he stroked a warm path from her shoulders to the base of her
spine. She moaned softly and tightened her grip on his neck, moving evocatively against
him. When he showed his pleasure with a low growl, she smiled against his mouth.

Then, acting on a mixture of instinct and need, he deepened the kiss. Aimee responded,
sharing her own consuming desires as she mated her tongue with his. “Aimee . . .”
Her name was a soft growl of swiftly mounting desire on his lips as he eased her onto
her back. “I’ve needed you so.” His mouth moved away from hers and he laid a trail
of fiery hot kisses down her neck.