Lord of Temptation (18 page)

“You’ve chastised me before for discussing finances, but our estate provides a very nice income. Part of the reason Uncle no doubt wanted it. I would have had an allowance. I suppose I would have been a good deal like your brothers: drinking, gambling, seeking out the ladies.” He shrugged. “Much as I do now. Only now I have my own coins to toss about. And I would probably dismiss anyone who was not like me.”

Would he look at Mouse and see a cripple, instead of the potential for what he might be? Would he look at Peterson and see a lumbering hulk instead of a man who would protect his back at any cost? Would he see only Jenkin’s surliness and not a man who was hiding secrets, much as he once had?

“My brothers do have a rather narrow view of the world, don’t they?” She arched a brow. “That wasn’t a question, it was merely rhetorical. But I can’t see you being like them.”

Neither could he. He knocked over her bishop. “Take off your left shoe.”

He didn’t like where the questions were going. He didn’t want her to pry into his soul, his past, his regrets. He didn’t want to consider what he might have missed out on, what he might have gained.

Doing as he bid, she tossed the shoe at him. He caught it easily, studied it, concentrated on what he knew from holding her feet in the palms of his hands. He wanted them there now instead of the distance of this board between them. “You have such small feet. However do you walk on them?”

“You took only one piece, Captain.”

“Is that who I am tonight?” he asked. “The captain?”

She scrutinized him. “Aren’t the captain and Lord Tristan one in the same?”

No, he was comfortable as the captain. Knew his place, his role, his destinations. He had goals, dreams for what he would accomplish. Lord Tristan—it was as though he no longer existed.

He’d attended a ball for the sole purpose of dancing with one lady. Did gentlemen go because they wanted to be there? She made a move, he took a pawn. “Do your brothers enjoy attending balls?”

“I’m not certain they enjoy them so much as tolerate them.” As though understanding what he was truly asking, she added, “Chetwyn seems to enjoy them but then he’s hunting for a wife.”

“Will he make a good husband?”

She hesitated, and he knew she was trying to decide whether to stick to their rules of one question per piece, but then she said, “Yes, I believe he will.”

She boldly moved out her queen. He ignored it for a pawn. That was the piece’s purpose after all. To provide fodder, distraction, sacrifice. “Why?”

A
nne wasn’t certain what she’d expected to accomplish when she suggested this game. She knew she wasn’t ready for him to leave. Perhaps she’d hoped to learn more about the mysterious particulars that surrounded him. But his latest question flummoxed her. To compare Chetwyn to Tristan was to compare an unfolding blossom to a raging storm. In both there was beauty, power, something to be appreciated. But they were hardly the same. She had tasted a storm. Could she be content with a rose?

She cleared her throat. “He’s kind.”

Reaching across, he trailed his finger over her hand where it rested in her lap. “Many men are kind.”

“He’s generous.” Then she realized—

“I’m comfortable with him. I never have to measure my words.”

“Or your actions.”

“A lady must always measure her actions.” She balled her hand into a fist, moved it beyond his touch because she was growing warm. “I don’t always measure them with you.”

“Do you regret that?”

She hated the stupid game, the questions it was eliciting. She wished she’d never suggested it. She shook her head. “No, I would not take back a single moment but neither would I boast about it. I should hope that you wouldn’t either.”

“Your secrets are safe with me.”

“As yours are with me.” She moved her queen. “Have you a secret you wish to share?”

“I didn’t notice you capturing a piece.”

“Tristan, you don’t have to take the rules of the game so literally.”

“Well, then there is something I want to share, but you must never tell.”

“I won’t. I’ve already promised. You can trust me.”

Leaning across the board, he cupped her face with one hand and steadied himself with the other. He stroked her chin, circled his thumb around her mouth. “No one knows this, not even my brothers.”

Gazing into his eyes, she could see the seriousness there. “Tell me.”

He pressed his cheek to hers. She heard him breathing in her scent. His lips toyed with her lobe, before he whispered, “I am very, very skilled at chess. Checkmate.”

“What? No!” Shoving him back, she stared at the board. He’d somehow managed to move his bishop into position while leaning toward her. He had her.

“My boon,” he said. “Meet me in the mews tomorrow at midnight. We’re going to the ship.”

“I’m not sailing—”

“It’ll stay moored. You, however, shall journey into the land of pleasure.”

S
he contemplated not living up to her end of the bargain. He’d obviously cheated, because she didn’t lose at chess, ever, but she couldn’t determine how he’d managed to do it. By distracting her, she supposed.

Wearing her pelisse with the hood raised over her head, she slipped out into the night. It was far easier than she’d anticipated, but she’d taken no more than a half-dozen steps when Tristan was beside her.

“I thought we were going to meet in the mews,” she whispered.

“I couldn’t wait to be near you again.”

Oh, he was such a flirtatious devil, and yet he sounded incredibly sincere. Her weak heart chose to believe in the sincerity. Before she knew it they were in an enclosed carriage traveling through the streets. He sat beside her, his hand wrapped around hers. The intimacy of it astounded her. Chetwyn had done the same and yet this, somehow, seemed more profound, not nearly as casual. Perhaps because she knew what awaited her on his ship.

She was rather surprised that he wasn’t devouring her within the quiet confines of the carriage, yet neither could she deny the mounting anticipation.

“Will you attend other balls this Season?” she asked.

“Only if you’re there.”

“You’re so flirtatious.”

“I’ve never said anything to you that I didn’t mean.”

She looked over at him, lost in the shadows. They’d not lit the lantern inside the carriage, which made their clandestine meeting seem even more forbidding. “I suppose, being with you now that I can no longer deny we’re lovers. Have you had many?”

She sensed a stillness in him. If possible, he’d gone even quieter. Finally, he said, “I believe you’re my first.”

“Lover?” she scoffed. “Now I know you lie.”

With the hand not holding hers, he cradled her face and she was immensely grateful for the shadows now. She didn’t want him to see how his words sliced.

“I’ve been with women, Anne. I’ve never denied that. But the trysts with each of them were few, and there was never this undeniable yearning that no other woman would do. If you had decided not to come with me tonight, I’d have not sought solace with another because I’ve no doubt the encounter would have been lacking simply because she wasn’t you. The words sound trite when spoken. And false. But for whatever reason, you are the only one who appeals to me at this moment.”

At this moment. But what of the next? she wanted to ask. How many moments would she intrigue him? How many before he’d had his fill and would look for greener pastures—or in his case, she supposed, bluer water? Yet even as the doubts assailed her, she couldn’t deny the truth of what she was feeling. “I know I should be ashamed of my behavior and yet I can’t seem to regret it.”

“For which I’m incredibly grateful.”

She saw him flash a smile in the darkness. Or perhaps she only imagined seeing it. Still she knew it was there. In spite of all he’d suffered, he’d not lost the ability to smile, and that was part of his appeal. He didn’t mope about wishing that his life had taken different turns. Instead, he forged ahead on the path that had been set before him.

She wondered if that was part of the reason that her brothers and the other lords didn’t like him. They couldn’t force him to fit into their world, and they feared they’d find themselves lacking if faced with the challenges that had confronted him. He’d been a boy, younger than Mouse, metaphorically thrown to the sharks.

When they stepped out of the carriage she tried to imagine what it might have been like those many years ago. With her arm wrapped securely around his, as they walked among crates littering the dock, she asked, “Were you frightened?”

“Pardon?”

“When you were put on your first ship. Were you frightened?”

Occasional lanterns fought to hold the darkness at bay, and she could see the harsh lines of his face. How different they might have been with a less adventuresome life.

“Terrified,” he finally said in a clipped voice.

“And yet you went.”

“Because it was more frightening to stay.”

“You must have been so lonely.”

“It was long ago, Anne. Nothing is to be gained by revisiting it.”

“But I want to understand you.”

“I am as you see me.”

But he had been shaped by the past. She suspected it influenced him still.

“Still, I would like very much—”

Suddenly he shoved her away from him. She staggered back, her unceremonious landing softened by a pile of coiled rope. She stared up in horror as four men descended on Tristan like ravenous dogs. Screaming for help crossed her mind, but she feared she’d only distract him from his purpose and draw attention to herself. She glanced around for a weapon, but she saw nothing that she could use. All she had were her fists, her teeth, her feet. She could punch, claw, bite, kick but would she be more hindrance than help if she leapt into the fray?

Still she readied herself for the opportunity when she could strike.

Grunts, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, harsh curses filled the air. She’d expected Tristan to go down, to be beaten. Instead, he remained standing, tossing a man one way, pounding a fist into another’s jaw, sending him spiraling back. A kick into the stomach. A duck. A swing. A hit. Dancing away. Charging.

Dear Lord, even when fighting, he was poetry in motion.

One man ran away. Another limped into the darkness. The other two lay sprawled on the dock.

Breathing harshly, Tristan knelt beside her and tenderly touched her cheek. “Are you all right?” he asked, as though she’d been the one caught in the fracas.

In the dim light, she could see a dark oozing along the side of his beloved face. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing. Are you hurt? Can you stand?”

“I’m perfectly fine.” Not so fine she realized as he slipped a hand beneath her elbow and helped her to her feet. Her knees were weak and she was trembling. She forced herself to remain standing when she dearly wanted to sit.

With his arm at her back, his hand clamped on her waist, he guided her along the creaking dock.

“Who were they?” she managed to ask.

“Troublemakers.”

“That much was obvious. But what did they want?”

“They mistook me for a gentleman and thought to rob us.”

“But why?”

“Sorry, Princess. I didn’t think to invite them to tea in order to determine their motives.”

The words stung but she knew his impatience had nothing to do with her. She wondered if she’d not been there if he might have finished them all off.

They reached his ship. Once aboard, they were met by a surprised Jenkins.

“Cap’n, wasn’t expectin’ you tonight.”

“Double the watch, then fetch us some warm water. We ran into some ruffians up to some mischief.” He leaned in and said something she couldn’t hear.

The sailor nodded perfunctorily. “Aye, Cap’n.”

Tristan led her down the stairs to his quarters. Once the door was closed behind them, she rounded on him. “What if they had killed you?”

He grinned. “That wasn’t likely to happen.”

“You’re not invincible.”

“No, but I’m quite good in a fight.” He strode over to the corner table where he housed his spirits and poured two generous glasses. He offered her one. “This’ll take the edge off.”

She downed a huge gulp, grateful for the burning in her eyes that covered the tears threatening to spill. “How can you be so calm?”

“I’ve been in my share of brawls, Anne. I can hold my own.”

She rolled her eyes at his arrogance. Did he not comprehend—

“You did quite well,” he added.

She glared at him. “I sat there like a ninny and offered no help whatsoever—”

“Most women would have been screaming, crying, distracting me from my purpose.” He tucked some stray strands of hair behind her ear. “But not you. You were stoic and brave.”

“I was useless.”

“Never.” He stared into her eyes with admiration and she wondered how he could make her feel courageous when she’d been anything but.

The light rap on the door had them separating. He opened it and retrieved a large bowl from Jenkins before dismissing him. He set the bowl on the table and picked up a towel.

“Sit down,” she ordered. “I’ll see to your wound.”

She expected him to object. Instead, he sat. She angled a chair nearer to him and eased into it. After dipping the cloth into the warm water, she gently lifted the hair from his brow and began dabbing at the gash. He barely flinched.

“It doesn’t look deep, but there’s so much blood,” she said.

“There always is with a wound to the face.”

“Have you had many?”

He shrugged.

She pressed the cloth to the wound, hoping to staunch the flow of blood. “Do you often brawl?”

“Not as often as I did in my youth. I don’t start the fights any longer, but I don’t back down from them either.”

“You live a very dangerous life.”

He said nothing, and that was answer enough. Walter had as well. Before Tristan left England’s shores, she would have to end things permanently with him. It would be lonely enough waiting for his return, but it would be unbearable wondering if he would
ever
return. He could be dead for years before word reached her.