Patricia Potter (25 page)

And where would she go? Back home? To what?

Her eyes went desperately to the title page of her book:
The Scarlet Letter.
She remembered the novel from school, a study of good and evil. How apt, she thought bitterly. It seemed a strange choice for an English sea captain and lord. She went back and studied the others. There were several books on shipbuilding and seamanship; a collection of Shakespeare; several English novels and even more American ones, including two books by Herman Melville and a second Hawthorne. All looked well read.

Another side of Captain Adrian Cabot. Her hand caressed the book, as if it were caressing him. She knew so little about him. She wanted to know so much more. And she would never have the chance now.

When she heard a knock at the door, she knew immediately it was Adrian. There was an authoritative quality that belonged to him alone.

The door opened before she could say anything, and he was suddenly inside, dominating the room as he did everything. He was carrying a tray with a bowl on it, and a pewter mug.

“Some soup and sherry,” he said. “Best thing for a touch of the sea.”

He had shaved and changed clothes. His shirt was white linen, which, even in the lantern light, contrasted with the rich deep gold of his skin. His legs were encased in gray trousers, which hugged the long muscled legs. As always, he exuded masculinity. Masculinity and raw energy. The latter radiated from him in waves as he sat the tray down on the table, pulled out a chair for her, and sprawled his long body over another chair.

Lauren knew she did not look her best. Much of her hair had worked its way out of the ridiculous bun, and her heavy dress was wilted and damp from the heat. She was miserable from the closeness of the cabin, and from nervousness, and doubt.

But Adrian, who had been awake for at least twenty-four hours, looked fresh and infuriatingly handsome. Lauren didn’t realize she was scowling at him until he leaned his head slightly to one side. “That bad?”

“Worse,” she replied.

“Would it help to know I made the soup myself?”

She looked at him with disbelief.

“My own hands,” he added with a lopsided grin. “We don’t have a regular cook, and we all learned long ago to take care of ourselves.”

“An English lord?” she said dubiously.

“A hungry English lord,” he retorted. He stretched out even farther until he seemed to take up the whole room.

Curious, Lauren took up a spoon and asked, “Where’s Socrates?”

He flashed a grin at her. “I bribed him to stay in my cabin. A few bananas and a piece of bark.”

“Bark?”

“That’s how he keeps his teeth sharp.”

Lauren looked suggestively to where he’d showed her one of Socrates’s bites. “I would think that was the last thing you would want to do.”

“The last thing my crew wants me to do,” he corrected, and glanced down at the untouched soup. “And you are delaying.”

Lauren took a sip of the sherry, feeling the liquid slide easily down her throat. She eyed the soup hesitantly, her fingers still clutching the spoon. She wasn’t sure she wanted to eat soup made by him … just for her. Guilt was already piling upon guilt. She wished he weren’t so kind, weren’t looking like an anxious child awaiting approval.

“The adventurous Miss Bradley trembling at a bowl of soup?”

She looked up at the mischief in his eyes. “Not just any bowl of soup,” she challenged straight back.

“Would you like a taster?”

“Like the Roman emperors?”

“Or empresses.”

Lauren took another sip of sherry. Liquid courage. Liquid foolishness, but her senses were singing now, and once again nothing was real but the man across from her with the enigmatic eyes. He was a study in contradictions. A sea captain and cook. An English noble and gunrunner. A man of tenderness who nonetheless bet on a woman’s virtue. A man who revealed little but who could charm the world into doing his bidding.

“Shouldn’t you get some rest?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “None of us will.”

“What if a Union patrol boat finds this river?”

“Few of their ships can enter these rivers,” Adrian said lazily. “We have a very shallow draft and can go places most of the Union ships can’t … and then, remember, you couldn’t see the opening of this river. It’s only a slit, looks more like a creek. We’re safe enough here for a few hours.”

“Then why don’t you get some sleep?”

He shrugged, and his fingers tapped on the table, not with nervousness but confined energy. “Anticipation, I suppose … it’s difficult to sleep this close to the coast. But tomorrow in Charleston, I’ll sleep away most of the day, and tomorrow night I’ll show you the city.”

“Adrian. What if … if the
Specter
is captured? What would you do?”

“You’re not eating the soup,” he observed.

Lauren had never been less hungry in her life, despite her lack of food during the day. “Now you’re changing the subject.”

“We’re not going to be captured, Lauren. You’re safe on the
Specter,
or I would never have agreed to bring you.” There was an arrogance in the words that would have been unattractive from most men. From Adrian Cabot, they were merely a statement of fact. “Now try the soup,” he urged.

His eyes commanded her, overwhelmed her, and to break their hold, she did as she was told. The soup was now lukewarm, although it had been steaming when Adrian set it down. And it was surprisingly good. She took another bite, and then another, finally looking up to see a grin of satisfaction on his face. She wanted to put her hand to where his mouth was, to touch it one last time, to feel his lips on hers.

Instead, her hand went up to push a wayward ringlet of hair from her face. He couldn’t want her now, not the way she knew she looked. He couldn’t. She bit her lips nervously as she stole a glance at his eyes.

Adrian watched her. There was something so completely appealing about her. Perhaps it was her large hazel eyes, always full of emotion, although he could never quite interpret the feelings there. Some of them, yes. There was a haunted quality, and a kind of fear lurked there, a fear he didn’t understand—he only knew she didn’t fear him. Not the way her body leaned against his with such trust … when she permitted it. But she usually projected a control that was unusual in a woman, and now it was gone, and she looked wistful and sad. Her honey-colored hair had escaped the severe bun and fell in waves around her face, and her dress clung to her figure in a way that showed every soft curve. She made him feel protective, even though there was fine steel in her. He had seen it that night she was attacked. There was nothing weak or missish about Lauren Bradley, but he longed to reach into her and extract that sadness from her eyes.

And there was loneliness, a loneliness that struck a chord within him. How many years had he been alone? All thirty-six. He was still alone. He’d had only Ridgely to dream upon.

His hand reached across the table and took hers.

Lauren felt the oddest mixture of intense heat and freezing cold, of wanting to respond, wanting to pull away, but she couldn’t move, not any part of herself. Her eyes were fixed by his, like a butterfly on a pin, her own wings fluttering frantically inside.

“We will have time together in Charleston,” he said. “There is something … compelling between us, something I think we need to explore.”

“You must have had … something compelling before?”

His hand left hers, and he leaned back in his chair, studying her carefully. “I thought so … once,” he replied slowly.

“And … ?”

“She didn’t feel the same way.”

Lauren heard a touch of remembered bitterness in his voice, and she recalled the conversation about trust. She wondered if that woman had inspired it; then her thoughts turned back to herself. What would he think about
her
in the next few days?

She realized that deep down she was seeking a reason, any reason, not to do what she planned to do. Shivers darted up and down her spine.

“Why do you continue to risk your life, and your crew and your ship?”

His grin was lazy and wicked, all seriousness gone now as though he’d given away enough today. “I told you. And you saw for yourself. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel the excitement when we evaded those Yankee ships. I saw your face.”

And she couldn’t. Yet that wasn’t reason enough.
Give me a reason. Please give me a reason.

“A game?”

Adrian wished again he could decipher the emotions in her eyes, but he couldn’t. And he couldn’t tell her about Ridgely, not yet, not until he knew he could get it back. Perhaps it was superstition; to mention a dream invited failure. Or maybe he didn’t want her to know his family’s failures, that he was landless, that he had been penniless until the war came, that he inherited naught but an empty, scandal-ridden title.

“A game,” he confirmed. “An exciting, profitable game.”

He moved back in his chair, grinding it against the floor. “And I’d better return to my duties to make sure it remains that way.”

Adrian moved with the restless grace that always fascinated her. He hesitated as he reached her, then bent down, his hand bringing her face to look up at his. “I may not have another chance tonight to do this.”

His lips met hers, and they fused in sudden, fierce desperation.

Lauren was saying good-bye. Try to understand, she suddenly, silently, frantically demanded of him.

And then she was standing up, propelled by his hands, until she merged into his body. His hands caressed the nape of her neck, and his tongue played along her teeth until she opened her mouth, and it darted in, moving, sweeping, teasing, seducing until she was a quivering mass of jelly. The fierce heat she’d felt earlier simmered into a soft boil, like candy she used to cook for her brother.

Pain washed over her. Pure, undiluted pain so agonizing that she didn’t know where it started or ended, or its cause. Her brother? Adrian? She had lost the former, and in avenging him she would lose the latter.

The kiss deepened, filling her mind and senses, as their bodies pressed against each other. She could feel his hard muscles tense and move, and it aroused a hunger so strong she thought she would explode from it.

Sweetness and violence. They were both there. The sweetness was in the touch of his hands, the tender kneading, the gentle exploration, and the violence was in the voraciousness of his kiss. There was a promise in the kiss.

A promise …

She twisted away suddenly, her mouth stinging from the heat of his lips as she gasped for air, and sanity. Lauren looked up at his blue eyes, brilliant with passion and elation.

As they had been when he’d escaped through the Union net.

A
game. It’s all a game
to
him.
But why then did she see something else? Because she wanted to. But that was folly.

Her body shook in reaction, and she felt his hand steady her. She didn’t want to continue looking at him. But she couldn’t help it. There was a wry, puzzled look on his face. His free hand came up and traced the contours of her face.

“You’re a mystery, Miss Bradley.” His voice was soft. “You always run away, and yet …”

Lauren tried to gather her wits about her, but they lay in a puddle at her feet. “You go too fast, Captain.”

“Do I?” His voice was quizzical. “As I said, we’ll have time in Charleston.”

“But you’ll be dashing in and out.”

His eyes, however, vowed otherwise. “I’ll make time. And now I’d better leave while your virtue is still intact. You’re dangerous, Lauren Bradley, in more ways than one.”

He gave her one last, lingering look, leaving Lauren to slump like a rag doll in the chair as the door closed behind him.

As dreams closed behind him.

The engines of the
Specter
seemed magnified in the still night. A whisper of smoke followed the ship in a lazy curl upward into a dark, moonless night as Lauren went up on deck, her reticule fastened firmly around her wrist.

She had brushed her hair, letting it fall free, and changed into a clean dress. Like most of her clothes, it was a modestly cut gown with a high neck and puff sleeves, but the rich violet color contrasted with the honey of her hair.

Her face was pale. She bit her lips to put some color in them and pinched her cheeks. And as she studied herself in the mirror, she told herself again that Adrian was merely flirting in his careless way, that a man of his background and experience could not possibly be serious about her.

The night air was like a tonic, mixing with the sherry she’d had in her cabin. Adrian had left the bottle when he departed the cabin, and she had sipped another glass to bolster her courage, to dull her conscience. Or perhaps enhance it. She
was
doing the right thing, the honorable thing. She had to believe that.

She could not see land, only the open sea. They had been under way now for nearly an hour. How much longer? The reticule on her wrist grew heavier and heavier. And yet she knew that timing was important. If the ship lost power far from the patrolling Union gunboats, it might well be rescued by a Confederate ship or another blockade runner. The disabling must be done near Charleston, near the heavy cordon of Union patrol boats.