Too Great a Temptation (11 page)

“Life?” She maintained her vigil of the floorboards. “It was fine for a while. Father took to the sea again, but as captain of his own ship.”

“How did he afford the vessel?”

She blinked. “Oh, he, ah, got an inheritance. A wealthy aunt died.” She had to omit the part about Drake’s tour as a pirate, and how it ensured him a fair share of the booty. Once back in England, he could afford to captain his own vessel—and he chose to captain a pirate one. “Father didn’t travel too much as captain. He was home with us a lot.”

“But then?”

“Mother died in childbirth.” Her lips quivered slightly. “A governess came to take care of us then.”

“
You
had a governess?”

She met his wide gaze, her brief sadness forgotten. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I just can’t imagine you in a schoolroom, taking orders.”

She snorted. “I wasn’t very good at it. Taking orders, I mean. But I did like school.”

“What did you study?”

“Everything.”

“Latin? Philosophy?”

“Geography and mathematics.” She sighed. “But what I really wanted to do was sail.”

“I would never have guessed.”

Her lips twisted at his sarcasm. “Don’t start that again, Damian. I really do belong here, whatever you or my brothers might think. Father taught me everything about seafaring.” After letting out a frustrated huff, she resumed, “It isn’t fair, really. James and William have served abroad the
Bonny Meg
since she first set sail. And then, two years ago, Eddie and Quincy joined the crew, both restless on land and needing some
adventure
, as they’d put it.”

“And you were left alone in England,” he concluded with a knowing look.

“At first, I didn’t mind being at home. Honest. I had Father to keep me company.”

“So he retired as captain?”

“He had to.” Her voice softened a bit and she looked down at the floor again. “He wasn’t feeling well, always plagued by headaches, sometimes bleeding from the mouth, and he was growing feeble. Father didn’t want to appear weak in front of the crew, so he gave the ship to James and came home. We were together for almost a year before he died.” She gave another heartfelt sigh. “It was a good year. Father even took me to London.”

A black brow cocked. “And what did you think of the city?”

“Loud. Dirty. But it had its admirable features. Riding in Hyde Park, for one. Or betting at Ascot’s. I liked
Vauxhall
Gardens
, too.”

“Good Lord, you got around that season. In your leather breeches and all?”

“No.” She snorted. “Father made me wear a dress. More than one, actually. He had a seamstress come to do a proper fitting, made sure I had the latest in fashion.”

A soft whistle. “That must have cost him a penny or two.”

“Father could afford it. As captain of his own ship, he’d profited from his many ventures.”

“So what did you think of Londoners?”

“Stuffy, the lot of ’em…well, except for Henry.”

Damian’s deep voice rumbled in the small cabin space, and she could feel the rumble echo in her breast like a storm. “Henry?”

She shivered at the sudden coolness in his voice. “Aye, Henry’s a real spitfire.”

“Is that so?” he drawled.

Brooding. Snarling. What the devil was the matter with the man?

Mirabelle decided to ignore his churlish temperament and went on with her story. “Henry and I met in a tree.”

His brow furrowed. “A tree?”

She smiled in fond remembrance. “Henry was in flight, desperate to get away from a certain admirer.”

“Sounds like a bloody clodpole to me,” he grumbled.

Mirabelle bristled in defense of her comrade. “She’s not a clodpole. She’s just a little eccentric.”

“
She?
”

“Aye. Henrietta Ashby.” She wrinkled her forehead. “Did I not mention that?”

“No,” he said in a low but more tepid voice. “You didn’t.”

Mirabelle was confounded by the sudden improvement in his mood, but didn’t dwell on it too much. Thoughts of Henry filled her mind, and she grinned. “You see, Henry didn’t want to meet a certain dandy her mother had picked out for her, so she clambered over the balcony ledge to escape.”

“Why didn’t she just use the stairs?”

“Her mother was stationed at the foot of the stairs to ‘escort’ her to the sitting room. Henry had to go over the balcony and down the tree. She didn’t have any other choice.”

It was still clear in Mirabelle’s mind, that first encounter. A crisp autumn morning. A light fog churning. “I was walking through the West End alone. Father wasn’t feeling well, and so stayed behind at the hotel to rest. All of a sudden, I heard an odd groaning sound coming from one of the fancy houses. I was curious and peeked over the iron fence, into the courtyard.”

“And there was Henry.”

“Trapped in a tree.” She smiled. “I felt sorry for her, so I quietly opened the gate and tiptoed through the yard.”

“I’m sure Henry was happy to see you.”

“
Very
happy.”
Oh, bless you!
Henry had cried. She had chattered on in appreciation for a full five minutes. “I scaled the tree and set Henry’s foot loose. Together we headed down. But Henry slipped. She knocked me clear out of the tree. We both landed in a pile of leaves. Dazed, it took us a few minutes to gather our wits, and then we burst out laughing.”

“Instant solidarity.”

“Exactly.”

Damian shook his head in wonder. “Why do you call her Henry? It’s so masculine.”

“She was christened Henry—unofficially, of course.”

“By who?”

“Baron Ashby, that’s who. You see, the baron was desperate for a son and heir, and when his wife produced a
fifth
daughter, the baron simply decided to name the girl Henry. Lady Ashby made sure the church scribe recorded the name Henrietta, though.”

“The poor girl.”

She chuckled. “Don’t feel too sorry for Henry. She’s quite fond of the name. It’s a term of endearment, really.” Reserved for family members and intimate acquaintances alike, so when Henry had informed Mirabelle she could call her by her nickname, Mirabelle had been mawkishly pleased. She had never had a close friend before, being a pirate’s daughter and all. Not that Henry was privy to her true identity. Certainly not.

She sighed in longing. “I haven’t seen Henry in almost a year.”

“Why?”

Mirabelle shrugged. “Father was very ill and I had to take care of him. Once he died, I was determined to be a sailor.” She gripped the chair back tighter. “I still write to Henry, but I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to see her again.”

It was a gloomy thought, being friendless and alone. She had already lost her parents and Henry. She might lose her place aboard the
Bonny Meg
, too…

She quelled the sorrow gurgling in her throat and looked back up at Damian. “That wasn’t a very cheerful bedtime story, I’m afraid.”

“But it was an interesting one.”

She quirked a half smile and stood up. “Then you owe me a story, Damian.”

“What?”

“Next time James bothers me with his snoring, it’ll be your turn to tell a tale. Your life’s, preferably.” She headed for the door. “Good night, Damian.”

With a smoky look in his eyes, he said softly, “Good night, Belle.”

“T
hat does it. I’m going to kill him!”

Damian popped open his eyes to find a tempestuous siren strutting across the cabin, her long golden hair billowing with each sharp step, her arms tucked snuggly under a pair of heavy breasts.

After last night’s visit, Damian had given up hope that Mirabelle would stay away from him for the remainder of the voyage. And while he couldn’t stop her from invading his room, he was determined to stop her swaggering. Watching her parading around in a brilliant display of temper, all her best features showcased, was making his groin ache.

“Dare I ask whom you’re going to murder?” he rasped, throat still sore.

“The captain, of course.”

“Snoring again, is he?”

“Like a bear!” She stopped pacing and gripped the roots of her hair. “I haven’t slept in days. I’m going mad!”

“Couldn’t you talk to your brother? Ask him to—”

“What? Cut out his tongue? Plug his nose with canvas?”

“I was going to suggest move you to another cabin.”

She snorted and resumed pacing. “He’d never do that. He
wants
to annoy me, to make my life miserable so I beg him to take me home. This way, it’s
my
choice to leave, and I can’t blame
him
for it.” She let out a growl. “Brothers. All a bother. Why couldn’t I have had four sisters instead?”

“The fates love to torment us.”

Her heated gaze skipped over him, burning him, before returning to the floor. “Do you have any brothers, Damian?”

An unexpected twinge in his heart. “One.”

“And is he an obnoxious lout?”

“No, Adam is without fault. My exact opposite.”

She paused in her ramble, honey gold eyes connecting with his. “What do you mean? You’re stubborn, granted. Overbearing at times, too. But you have a few redeeming qualities.”

After that scalding review, it was a wonder she believed him to have any good qualities at all, and in a dry voice, he wondered, “And what would you consider to be my redeeming qualities?”

“You’re a good sailor.”

“That’s a skill, not a quality.”

“You have courage, then.”

“Meaning?”

“You saved Quincy’s life…and mine.”

“Aye, I did.” He gave a wry, hoarse chuckle. “But there was a time in my life when I would have done neither. When I would have watched you and your brother die—in amusement.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, believe me, Belle.”

A blond brow tilted. “So what prompted you to change?”

He could tell by the tone of her voice she still didn’t believe him, that she didn’t think him capable of such cruel apathy. But she didn’t know him very well, did she?

“My brother prompted the change in me,” he said.

“How?”

“He died.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “He died at sea, didn’t he? The lost soul you mentioned the other night?”

Damian nodded. “So don’t mistake the guilt I feel for courage. Guilt makes one do balmy things, like risk one’s neck for the welfare of others.” Though that wasn’t entirely true, not in her case anyway. With Belle, his emotions ran deep, beyond guilt, and into a realm unfamiliar to him—even frightening.

“Why do you feel guilty?” she asked.

“Because Adam was sailing home to save me when the ship sank.”

“Save you?” She dragged a chair over to the bed and sat down. “From what?”

“From myself.” He tucked an arm under his pillow to better prop up his head. “You see, I wasn’t always such a ‘good sailor.’ In fact, I wasn’t good at much of anything. Anything useful, that is. I had a tendency to be something of a rogue.”

She snorted. “All men are rogues to some extent. Just look at my brothers. When not at sea they’re getting into drunken brawls and chasing after skirts. I’m sure you’re no different from any of them.”

“Your brothers take pleasure in somewhat tame pursuits.”

She snorted again. Only this time, she didn’t elaborate.

His brows pinned together. “Their pursuits are not so tame?”

“Let’s just say my brothers enjoy one pursuit I would not consider tame.”

“Such as?”

“Never mind that. We were talking about you.” Her arms hugged the back of the chair, her chin resting on the rail. “Why do you consider yourself to be more of a rogue than any other man?”

Because any other man was not dubbed the “Duke of Rogues.” Though he kept that thought to himself. “I had an infamous reputation among…my kind.” He was about to say “the
ton
” but caught himself in time.

“Infamy can be a burden, true.” She sighed like a woman well acquainted with notoriety. Before he could question her about it, though, she added, “But just because you’re infamous for something doesn’t mean you’re guilty of it.”

“I happened to be guilty of my infamy.”

“All right, Damian,” she said in the same skeptical tone. “What were you renowned for?”

“Where to begin?”

His sarcasm must have triggered an idea in her head, for her expression grew thoughtful. “Well, why not at the beginning? I told you about my childhood. Now tell me about yours.”

Fair enough, he supposed. Though he really abhorred thinking about those days gone by.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted honestly. “It wasn’t much of a childhood.”

“Full of hard work, was it?”

Work? Damian had never worked a day in his life. No. That wasn’t entirely true. Damian the duke had never worked a day in his life. Damian the sailor had worked his
entire
life. Or so Belle had to believe. Damian couldn’t confess his true identity to her, to anyone else for that matter. He trusted no one with his secret. If word ever spread that the Duke of Wembury was hunting the pirates who had killed his brother, those pirates might catch wind of it and disappear on him. Then how would he honor his vow of vengeance?

“Hard work, yes,” he fibbed. “But there was something more.”

“Like what?”

An overwhelming darkness he didn’t care to dwell upon. “It was a very unhappy childhood…thanks to my father.”

“What did he do?”

She was adamant in her curiosity, wasn’t she? And Damian wasn’t sure why he was confessing his life to her—or why he found it so easy to do.

“My parents had an arranged marriage, you see.” He thought back to those awful early years. “I was the firstborn, so Father took an avid interest in my upbringing. He’d decided to make me into his image, and no one was to interfere with his plan, not even Mother.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t allowed to speak with my mother growing up.”

Her golden eyes widened. “At all?”

He shrugged. “I spoke to her at times, when in the company of others, but I was never allowed to be alone with her. Father made sure to keep us apart.”

“But why?”

“Because a mother’s influence would soften a boy, he thought. Make him into a hen-hearted ninny. And I was destined to be a devil, just like my father.”

The memories suddenly welled in his breast, pounding on his chest. He took in a ragged breath to quell the turmoil gushing around inside him, but it did no good. The demon of pain was released.

Damian couldn’t believe it could still hurt after all these years, the separation from his mother. He had cried for her as a babe. And each time he’d wailed, he remembered being chained in the dark and dank castle dungeon as a punishment. Mother had once tried to sneak down into the dungeon to comfort him, but Father had caught her traipsing in the stairwell and beat her senseless. It didn’t take long for Damian to learn that crying only brought about more pain. And so he’d stifled his woe, buried it deep within him.

“Mother eventually accepted that I was lost to her,” he went on to explain, steadying his voice. “Then four years after I was born, Adam came along. Father didn’t care about the second born, handed him right over to my mother without a qualm.”

An image flashed through Damian’s mind. An image from long ago. It was hazy, but still clear enough for him to make out the nursery, all decked out in pale ivory sheers and blankets of lavender and powder blue. He had wandered into the west wing of the castle by mistake—a wing he was forbidden to enter. And he’d found himself on the threshold of the baby’s room.

It had looked like a faerie world to Damian. Infant furniture and toys were scattered across the floor. Flowing lace adorned the windows, bright rugs bedecked the floor. His bedchamber didn’t look anything like that. It was frighteningly somber in comparison, with bloodred curtains and hideous gargoyles perched on either end of the mammoth hearth. He remembered thinking about the striking difference between the two worlds. And he remembered hating his brother for getting the better of the two, for Adam had not only the more peaceful room, but Mother as well. She had been perched in a rocking chair that day, murmuring softly, trying to soothe a fidgety Adam in her arms. The afternoon sun was coming in through the windows, casting a warm and fiery glow over the couple.

But what Damian remembered most was the look in his mother’s eyes when she had glanced up to find him standing in the doorway. Utter fright. If Father had discovered him there, it would be the dungeon for Damian and perhaps something worse for Mother, like the loss of Adam.

Her panicked expression had told him clearly she didn’t want him to be there. And that had hurt him more than anything else.

Damian cleared his throat, cramming the bubble of emotion back down into his gut. “Mother doted on Adam. And she made sure to keep him far away from Father.”

Belle’s voice was gentle, soothing. “And from you?”

He nodded. “She was afraid of what Father would do to her if she allowed us brothers to be together.”

“But?”

“But Adam was too curious about me to listen to either of his parents.” Damian actually cracked a slight grin in fond memory—one of the few he had. “I had found Adam one night, tiptoeing through the corridor, looking for his mysterious older brother. He was four years old at the time and stout as a warrior. But I didn’t want anything to do with him then, and tossed him out of my room. Adam came back night after night. And each night I knocked him flat on his arse. But one night he appeared holding two boiled apples rolled in brown sugar.”

Mirabelle laughed, a soft, husky rumble that struck a chord of arousal in him. “So Adam won you over?”

“Right then and there. Adam and I visited each another in secret for years. But that all changed soon enough.”

“What happened?”

“I grew older. Old enough to start learning some of Father’s favorite pastimes, like drinking and gambling.”

“And whoring?”

He raised a brow.

She shrugged. “I have four brothers. Do you really think I don’t know what they do with their spare time?”

She likely had experience in that area herself, he mused, then quickly slew the salacious thought.

“I spent days away from home by the time I was twelve,” he said, and since Belle wasn’t such a naïve miss, added, “living in and out of gaming hells and whorehouses.”

“At
twelve
?”

He nodded. “Father wanted to make sure I didn’t develop a will of my own and thwart his plan of making me into his image. The older I got, the less likely I was to do as he bade, so he made sure to teach me young.”

“Is that why you had to steal your father’s books?”

“Aye. Father believed reading would lead to ideas. And ideas might change my immoral way of thinking. He was so adamant, he even destroyed
Robinson Crusoe
when he caught me reading it one night, tossed it right into the fire.”
And then tossed me into the dungeon
. But Damian kept that part to himself. “Father was determined to make me into a wastrel.”

“And he succeeded?”

“I’m afraid so. By my thirteenth year, I was thoroughly enjoying my depravity.”

The hurt of being alone had flittered away by that time. Adam had filled that empty void for a while, but the debauchery Damian had grown accustomed to had hardened his heart to the point where even Adam could not wriggle his way into Damian’s affections—or so he had believed. Of course, Damian’s heart hadn’t hardened enough, or the pain of losing Adam wouldn’t have affected him so profoundly.

Belle’s voice intruded on his pensive thoughts. “So you became just like your father?”

“Through and through. I even surpassed him in escapades and scandals alike.”

“What happened to your father?”

“He died during my twentieth year—of overindulgence.”

“And you didn’t stop
your
overindulgence once he and his influence were gone?”

“Stop? I was a foxed, disoriented, rowdy bounder. I couldn’t have saved myself even if I had wanted to…but Adam could. He always came to visit me, to pull me out of my lairs of decadence. But as soon as he was gone, I went back to my old immoral ways.” He paused, the ache in his chest growing more intense, making it hard to breathe. “Ever loyal, Adam was on his way back home to England to haul me from my drudgery yet again. The fool. He should have stayed in Italy. He should have given up on me like everyone else. Then he and Tess would still be alive.”

“Tess?”

Damian took in a ragged breath, the twinge in his heart suffocating. “Adam and Tess were on their wedding tour. If only they had stayed in Italy, neither one of them would have drowned at sea. It’s all my fault.”

“No, Damian, it’s not,” Belle said in a tender voice, rising from her chair and coming to crouch by the bedside. “You couldn’t have known the ship would sink.”

“I should have died instead of Adam.”

“Don’t say that, Damian.”

“I should be the one lying at the bottom of the sea, just like Mother said.”

She captured his face, taking him by surprise. The kiss was hot and hard, smothering the pain inside him, pounding it into oblivion until only a burning desire to be with Belle remained.

He grabbed the back of her head, wove his fingers through her thick golden mane to keep her from pulling away from him. Not that she intended to, if her zeal was any indication. The woman moved her lips over his with a hunger that rivaled his own. And that was a feat indeed.