Her Master and Commander (19 page)

“I suppose,” he said, completely unconvinced.

“You are coming along nicely,” she said, blinding him with her smile.

The problem was, he didn’t want to “come along nicely.” He wanted to come along in a way that wasn’t nice at all. In a way that was heated and sensual and decadent. One that took him beneath her skirts and between her thighs.

She took a sip of tea, her lips touching the edge of her cup in a damnably attractive way. “Very well, my lord. After you’ve seated the trustees, what will you do?”

“Make mind-numbingly inane conversation. At some point, I will ask them about the will, but during this earlier time, I am to establish myself in their eyes as a gentleman of the world.”

“Excellent! You will do marvelously well.”

“Oh yes. This week has been a great success. I can now bow like a boot-licker of the worst kind, listen to frivolous coxcombs as if they had something of value to say, and speak a full half hour without saying anything at all.”

She laughed then, a gurgle of a laugh that made him smile in return. “I am sorry the skills seem so useless.”

“They
are
useless.”

“Not to the trustees.” Her lashes dropped down over her cheeks. “My lord—”

“Tristan.”

“I cannot—”

“I am the earl here, not you. I want you to call me Tristan. Please,” he added softly. “We have spent enough time together that I thought you might consider me more than a neighbor, but a friend.”

Her brows rose. “That was very prettily said! My lord, may I ask you a question? It is something—well, you might not wish to answer.”

“Ask anything. Just know that I shall return the favor.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I have nothing to hide.”

“Neither do I. So what do you wish to know?”

“About…when you became a sailor. You were pressed into service at such a young age. Was it very difficult? You certainly seem to have grown to love it.”

“I did grow to love it. However, the first year was very difficult. I was homesick and angry and would learn nothing unless it was at the tip of a cat-o’-nine-tails.”

She glanced at his shoulders.

“Yes. There are scars. Many of them. I was as stubborn as a child as I am now, if you can imagine.”

“You said you were but ten! Surely they would not whip a ten-year-old.”

“They did and do. It’s a hard life.”

“That is barbaric!”

“I agree. For that reason, I did not use impressed men on my ships.”

“Good for you!”

“Oh don’t make me into a saint. It is a safety issue. I had no desire to wake up with a knife in my back.”

“I can see how that might happen!” She frowned a bit. “Tristan, if you didn’t press your men into service, then how did you keep your crew?”

She’d used his name. He hid his triumph only by moving his aching foot a little and wiping his smile off his face before it fully came to rest. “The sea is a hard life, but a profitable one if you have a good captain, as I was.”
Was.
That was certainly hard to say. He swallowed and continued, “I believe that only poorly qualified captains must press their crews.”

“When you were pressed, was your father aware of what happened?”

“Reeves said my father was out of the country at the time. I don’t think he knew what happened to either me or my brother—”

“Brother?”

“I have a twin. He and I were separated when I was pressed.” Tristan gave a mirthless smile. “I told myself for years that my father really cared and would have prevented my mother’s arrest as well as my own fate had he been aware. But now I rather doubt it. I daresay in his way, he was glad enough to see my brother and me out of the way. He certainly made no effort to find either of us. Not until recently, that is.”

Tristan looked down at the dinner setting, at the sparkling silver and delicate china. “My brother escaped. I looked for him, but was unable to locate him. This morning, Reeves told me he has found my brother. I haven’t seen him in so long—” Tristan could not continue.

Silence filled the air between them. Tristan wondered about Christian, where he was, what he was doing. Why hadn’t he come to see him? What “business” did he have to attend to before he came? It was possible that—

A small, warm hand covered over his. Tristan did not know what to do. It was a simple gesture, one that probably happened hundreds or thousands of times each day. Yet he could not remember a single time someone had done such a thing—reached out to him with nothing more than the spirit of human kindness. Touched him for no other reason than to reassure him.

For a moment, Tristan could only stare at the delicate fingers that slipped over his. He followed the line of that hand to the narrow wrist and on to the sweetly curved arm. From there, he found Prudence’s well-defined shoulders, graceful neck, and finally, her sensually velvety brown eyes.

He turned his hand and laced his fingers with hers. A flash of heat exploded through him, so strong and so sharp that he almost gasped aloud. Good God, but he wanted this woman. But it wasn’t just lust. He’d felt that before. This was different, lust and…possession. He didn’t simply want to taste her; this time, he wanted more. He wanted to devour her, possess her, take her and mark her as his. He wanted to languish in her arms, savor her feel and the scent of her skin.

His body tightened with need, with desire, and he fought it with all of his strength.

She squeezed his fingers in apparent sympathy. “I am sorry about your brother. I am sure you will find him.” She withdrew her hand. “I feel I have asked so many questions—I didn’t mean to pry.” She suddenly brightened. “Well! Now you may ask me a question or two.”

Still bemused, he leaned back, struggling to regain his thoughts. Everything seemed far away, like waves crossing a storm-washed deck. She’d held his hand, touched him with the most innocent of intentions and he’d exploded into a sea of lust. He fought for breath. “Yes. I—I—ah, there
is
one thing I’ve wanted to know for the longest time. Mrs. Thistlewaite…Prudence.” He lifted his brows in earnest inquiry. “What
is
your favorite color?”

She opened her mouth. Then closed it. She’d asked him such a personal question, she’d been certain he’d do the same to her. But…“My favorite color? It is red.”

“I thought as much,” he said, a sense of satisfaction sitting about him.

She pursed her lips, feeling a bit let down. “Is that all?”

“I may ask another?”

She nodded.

“Well then…” His voice deepened, strengthened. Slow and silvery his words slipped about her, an actual touch. “Why did you choose to come to Devon, of all places?”

Despite herself, her gaze flickered toward the window, toward the sea where it crashed and flashed below.

“Ah,” he said, his voice warm and appreciative.

“Since I was a child, I have loved the sea. It pulls me somehow.” She wrinkled her nose. “But I cannot sail for I get deathly ill.”

“You haven’t been on the right ship.”

“I’ve been on three. They were all different and they all made me ill.”

“You were never on the
Victory
.”

“The
Victory
? Nelson’s flagship?”

“
My
ship.” His voice rang with simple pride.

She smiled. “Your ship, then. Was that the ship—” She glanced at his leg.

His gaze followed hers, a shadow crossing his face. “Yes.” With an abrupt movement, he placed his napkin on the table and stood. “Come. Have a look at her.”

“Look? She’s here?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” He took Prudence’s hand and pulled her to her feet, then led her to the furthest wall. On it hung a large picture of a neat little rig fighting storm-sized swells.

She remembered looking at it the first day she’d come. “So this is the
Victory.
”

He nodded, his hand still clasped about hers. “Nelson himself gave me that picture when I first received command of her.”

Prudence tried to admire the painting, but she was too aware of where Tristan’s hand engulfed hers. He had very masculine hands, she decided with approval. Large and brown and curiously callused, one of his easily encompassed hers. For some reason, the sight sent a tremor through her, a faint quiver of excitement.

How silly. She pushed the ridiculous thoughts aside just as he turned to face her, pivoting a little on his cane as he did so. He was so close…so very close. If she tilted her head back and lifted her lips to his, he would be within reach. She wanted to kiss him. If she was honest, she wanted much more, too.

Prudence closed her eyes and stepped away from the temptation that so beckoned her. But as she did so, her heel hit the earl’s cane and she wavered an instant. His arm instantly shot out to catch her. In the space of a second, Prudence found herself held against the earl’s broad chest, her breasts pressed against his coat, her face upturned to his.

He looked down at her, his eyes on her mouth, his own lips parted. His skin was sun browned, his cheeks and chin covered with rough stubble that begged to be touched. She was aware of the warmth of his arm about her waist, of his strength as he held her so effortlessly, of the fact that by the simple expediency of lifting her face to his, she could touch her lips to his…

He slowly released her, allowing her to slide down the length of his body with the utmost slowness. Prudence’s heart pounded noisily in her ears. Her whole body ached with unspoken desire. God, but she wanted him. Wanted him so badly that she could almost taste his tea-scented kiss, feel the roughness of his scruffed chin on her bared skin.

Though he’d allowed her feet to rest once more on the ground, he made no effort to release her. Prudence knew she should move out of reach, but the feel of a man’s arm about her was so comforting, so
right,
that she did not do anything at all but stand in place and savor the moment. A moment certain to pass swiftly.

“I suppose I should release you,” he murmured, his voice low and hot.

She closed her eyes, soaking in the feelings, the scents. The fresh sea smell of his coat, the starch scent of his white shirt. “I—I suppose you should.”

“A gentleman would.”

She had to lick dry lips before she could respond. “A gentleman would,” she agreed.

Neither moved. The moment stretched, the air thickening with each breath. She could feel his chest moving in and out, slowly and inexorably, and she found herself breathing to match his. Her skin prickled with awareness, her breasts tightened and peaked. How she wanted him. It was like being swept along in a tidal force, drawn resistlessly into the dark of a whirlpool. But she had to resist. She had to.

“Prudence…” The word stirred her hair. His lips brushed her temple. “Prudence, we should—”

She kissed him. With one gesture, she poured out the burning want and aching desire she’d been fighting since she and the earl had first crossed paths. It had been so long since she’d given in to passion, so long since she’d allowed herself to feel anything at all that it threatened to overwhelm her.

Tristan reacted instantly. His mouth moved possessively over hers, and he clutched her to him. Somehow—she was never certain how—he managed to maneuver them into the nearby chair without the slightest of staggers.

Prudence wanted to ask him if he’d hurt himself but forgot the words when Tristan’s mouth grazed her ear, his heated breath sending a cascade of shivers through her.

She burrowed her face in his neck, then wrapped her arms about him tighter. His hands slid from her waist, down her hips to her thighs. She could feel every nuance of his touch through her morning gown, the sound of their erratic breathing filling the air. Prudence gasped when his hand found the bottom of her skirt and he brushed it aside and cupped her calf, pulling her deeper into his lap. He was already erect, hard and straining, and she could taste the passion in his kisses, in the urgency of his touch.

Her own body answered, and emboldened by him and his wandering hands, she ran her fingers over his chest, pulling at his cravat to reach his skin.

He lifted his head and muttered a curse. “Too much damn clothing.”

For a moment, Prudence could only stare at him. Then a quivering smile tickled her lips. He was so dear just then, tousled and frustrated, his eyes dark with passion, his erection firm beneath her. Prudence would never know what possessed her. Indeed, later that very night, she would stare up at the ceiling of her own bed and wonder what wanton spirit overtook her.

Somehow, she found herself straightening, her gaze locked with Tristan’s as she slowly undid the tie at the neck of her gown.

She paused as the tie fell loose at her neck. This was it—the last moment she could turn away. Yet she knew in her heart that this was right—that being with Tristan right now, this instant was where she belonged. They might not be destined to be together for all time—indeed circumstances and their own personal paths made such a thing an impossibility—yet there was no denying she belonged in his arms at this moment. And right now, nothing else mattered.

Before her bemused eyes, his breathing quickened, his lips parted. He could not look away and she knew she held him in her thrall. It was a heady experience. It had been a long time since she’d excited just such a look in a man’s eyes and she drank it in now. It fueled her desire for the moment even more.

He watched as she pulled the neck of her gown open, then pushed it over her shoulders and to her waist.

Tristan groaned, his chest moving rapidly as he seemed to struggle for breath. His gaze brushed over her, lingering on the shadows of her breasts, clearly visible beneath the sheerness of her chemise.

Tristan didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so beautiful. She sat on his lap, proudly bared except for a bit of lace and silk. The chemise might cover her breasts, but they did so with a clinging touch that left little to his fevered imagination. The lace at her throat emphasized the delicate lines of her throat and shoulders. A tiny silk rosebud rested between her breasts, anchoring the center seam of the chemise.