Too Great a Temptation (20 page)

T
he large London square was bustling. Harlequins in bright costumes danced. Giants and dwarfs mesmerized little children with their antics. A theatrical booth in the center of the square delighted spectators with a rowdy Punch-and-Judy show.

A fair.

“Bloody hell.” Damian dismounted first. “We’re going to have to wend through on foot.”

And so they did. Damian steered the horse through the crowd with one hand and gripped her bound wrists with the other. He was careful to keep her close to him, so no one would see her tied wrists—and so she couldn’t escape.

Her dire predicament forgotten for a moment, Mirabelle was enraptured by the enchanting spectacle. Minstrels piped their jigs. Vendors peddled their wares. She passed a gingerbread stall and inhaled the spicy richness of the freshly baked fare.

She even smiled a bit. She had not been to a fair in years. Father had always loved to attend such festivities. Going to the Goose Fair had been his favorite pastime. Each year he would take her and Quincy and Eddie along, until the boys grew too old to attend the event—or care, as it were—and then it was just she and Father who’d amble out into the countryside to partake in the merriment.

Mirabelle glanced around the revelry. It was a pleasant reminder of days gone by.

Damian cut through the masses, past the furniture sellers and silversmiths. Beyond the muslin dealers and toy makers.

She finally thought to ask: “Why did we come here?”

“Because it’s quicker to cut through the city.”

“To get to where?” she wondered.

“To get to my…”

“Your what, Damian?”

Silence.

She huffed. Of course he wasn’t going to tell her. He was going to drag her across the country, make her brothers fret, then abandon her in some remote village with neither knowledge nor means to get back to the
Bonny Meg
. He was just that kind of a devil, she was sure. Not a trace of honor in his soul.

Why, he wouldn’t even admit to the real reason he’d absconded from the
Bonny Meg
. Oh sure, he’d tried to convince her of an “oath” to his dead brother he had to fulfill, but really, did he think her so daft? The navigator wanted his freedom. He wanted to roam the land, the sea. Whatever suited his fancy. He wanted to cavort with wenches and frolic in gaming hells. And being imprisoned on a pirate ship for a whole year would put a pesky wrinkle in his pleasurable pursuits. Damian was not the kind of man to stay in one place for very long—or be with one woman for very long.

She suddenly felt a flutter of unpleasant emotions and suppressed the ache to demand, “I want to go home, Damian.”

He steered her round a dancing harlequin. “Not yet, Belle.”

“Then
when
?”

“Soon, Belle.”

She twisted her bound wrists. “Damn it, Damian, let me go! You’ve punished my brothers long enough. Even you, scoundrel that you are, can’t be this cruel.”

He stopped and whirled around, his lips so close to hers, she could feel his words brush her skin. “Oh, but I can, Belle.”

The chill on her spine was biting. The rogue. He was going to be spiteful. And to think, she had once considered him a kindred spirit. She had once empathized with him, deeming him another lonely soul like herself. She had fretted over him. She had lusted after him…

Mirabelle took in a deep and measured breath. She had a lot to regret. And she was going to spend a lifetime nursing those regrets, she was sure.

“Move that cart!”

Mirabelle started and peered over Damian’s shoulder. A fruit cart blocked the street, and the obstinate vendor refused to budge, thumbing his nose at the navigator.

A row erupted then, the two men bickering. The commotion proved timely, as Mirabelle struggled for freedom. But of course the lout of a navigator had a grip on her like an iron manacle.

Too engrossed with her fight for liberty, she didn’t notice the buxom flower girl strutting through the square. Not until the girl walked right past her, that was, and broke the bond with the navigator.

Mirabelle blinked in surprise.

Free.

She backed away.

Damian grasped behind him for a wrist. He grabbed the flower girl’s instead, too distracted by the heated quarrel with the vendor to notice he had the wrong woman.

“Let me go!” the flower girl demanded, twisting her wrist this way and that.

Damian held her fast, squabbling with the fruit seller, oblivious to the stranger he had snared in his grip.

Steadily retreating, Mirabelle cast Damian one final, watery glance. Blasted tears! What the devil was she sad about? Certainly not that she was going to miss the scoundrel of a navigator.

Wiping the moisture from her eyes, Mirabelle turned on her heels and ran.

Twilight hovered over the city of London.

Wrists free of rope, Mirabelle hugged herself as she made her way through the misty cobblestone street. She was hungry and tired and she wanted to get back to her brothers. She wanted to forget all about Damian.

A little voice inside her snorted.
Forget the navigator? Not without a magic wand and a sprinkle of faerie dust
.

Nonsense! The man was a cad. A scoundrel. She would dismiss him from her mind, right quick at that, and go about her way…but what was her way?

For a brief and ludicrous second she had believed her fate was with Damian. But then he had betrayed her, the blackguard. Clearly her destiny lay elsewhere.

So where was she to go? Home? Tend house and garden, and wait for her brothers to return from yet another buccaneering adventure?

Like hell! She belonged on the
Bonny Meg
. And she wasn’t going to quit her ambition so easily. She was going to fight for it. She didn’t care how much James protested or how many times she had to stow away, she
was
going to be a sailor. She wouldn’t let Damian devastate her seafaring dream…as he had devastated her heart.

Mirabelle gathered her resolve and moved through the twisting alleyways, making her way over to the West End. Good thing it was dark. In her smudged apparel, she wasn’t fit to be seen in such a lofty part of town. But it was her only recourse. She had to see her best friend, Henrietta Ashby.

Mirabelle turned a corner and found herself on a familiar path. She could still remember the route to Baron Ashby’s home. She had come many times before to visit with her comrade. Secretly, of course. And she was so close now. If only the blasted vehicles would get out of the way, she could better see the grand houses.

Craning her neck over horses and town coaches alike, Mirabelle peered through the gaggle of masked females, searching for that proverbial iron gate.

Ah! There it was…and the gaggle of females were traipsing through it in throngs.

“Oh no,” she groaned.

A ball.

A bloody masquerade ball!

Mirabelle ducked into the shadows. Chattering ladies in resplendent gowns waggled up the steps, feathers and ribbons adorning their features. The gents were no less brilliantly attired in evening wear, with masks of dark silks and jewels.

All ages and shapes streamed into Baron Ashby’s summer home—and Mirabelle cursed the lot of them.

Huddled in the darkness, she listened to the thrumming instruments and counted the number of arriving guests. Twenty-seven in just the last few minutes.

Blast it! How was she going to get inside the house to see Henry? She certainly couldn’t waltz in uninvited. She might be friends with Henry, but no one else in the family had ever met her. And clad as she was, Mirabelle couldn’t parade around as just another masked visitor. She would be carted into the street before she got past the threshold.

She twisted her lips, put out. She would just have to wait, she supposed, for the ball to get well under way before she could put her piratical skills to good use.

And she waited for nigh an hour before tiptoeing from the shadow of her sheltered nook and slinking into the Ashbys’ yard. The ball was in full swing, the guests all crammed inside. And in the darkness of the night, no driver took heed of her skulking figure, the servants too engrossed with their own festive gathering in the street to pay her any mind.

Amid the jeers and laughter of the coachmen, Mirabelle made her way with stealth skill through the courtyard, into the back garden where the old gnarled tree stood.

She scanned the terrain first, to make sure no one was peeking, then hiked her skirt up over her knees and clawed her way to the treetop with ease. Good thing she’d practiced climbing the ratlines aboard the
Bonny Meg
or she just might have ended up in a pinch right about now.

But getting out of the tree in her skirt was another matter altogether.

Lips pressed in determination, she slowly inched her way along the prickly bark. If she was in her breeches, she would just leap the rest of the way, but in a skirt, she had not the dexterity to spread her legs wide enough to make the jump.

Reaching for the balcony ledge to better support herself, she stretched and stretched and…lost her grip.

Mirabelle toppled off the branch, landing on Henry’s balcony with a hard thud.

She winced at the pain in her side. What an inelegant tumble! Good thing she wasn’t aboard the
Bonny Meg
. Otherwise her cheeks would be glowing apple red right about now.

Hoisting herself to her wavering feet, she ducked into Henry’s room.

Closing the glass door behind her, a frazzled Mirabelle stepped into the bedchamber—and tripped.

Fortunately a ball of satin cushioned her fall this time.

“Bloody hell,” she grumbled, staggering to her feet once more.

Mirabelle peered around the dimly lit room. An oil lamp on the dressing table was still burning and provided enough light to illuminate the ghastly sight.

Gowns tossed everywhere. On the floor. On the bed. One frock was even perched high on a bedpost. Masks littered the tables, too. The chairs…

Crunch
.

The floor.

Mirabelle flinched and peeked under her boot. Some things never changed, like her comrade’s penchant for disorder.

Picking the peacock feathers from her heel, Mirabelle pondered her friend’s scatterbrained disposition. Henry was never one to make a decision until the very last possible moment, and even then, it wasn’t always the wisest choice. After tearing through a half-dozen gowns, Mirabelle couldn’t fathom what her friend had ended up wearing. It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume the girl was late even for her own parents’ ball.

She smiled. She’d really missed Henry.

Mirabelle got right to work, rummaging through the frocks. It would be so simple to swipe something from Henry’s room, hawk it, and get back to her brothers. But she wouldn’t do such a thing. Not to Henry. She would ask Henry for help. For money. Just enough to get her back to the
Bonny Meg
. It was too difficult to plunder the streets of London with no tools or weapons for defense. And there was the added risk of being caught rifling. No. It was much easier to request Henry’s assistance.

“This should fit,” she murmured, holding the dress up to the light. It was a coral peach in hue, with short puffed sleeves and a long flowing skirt.

Well, there was only one true way to find out.

Mirabelle set the frock on the bed and wiggled out of her blue dress. Henry was like her in size and stature, so the dress should fit.

She slipped into the evening gown, roomy so far. But she hit a snag when it came time to fasten the buttons on the back. She couldn’t reach the bloody things!

With a frustrated huff, she took the button hook from the dressing table and did something akin to a dance, as she twisted one way, then the other, trying to get the last of the buttons in place.

Finally, she sighed. The bodice was a bit too tight. But it fit.

She dropped the button hook back on the table and massaged her aching neck. Working out the chinks, she turned her attention to shoes. Slippers, really. Dainty satin slippers. She found a pair, but footwear, it seemed, was one thing she and Henry did not share in common. She could not cram her foot into Henry’s slipper without tearing it. And what good would it do her then?

Mirabelle tossed the slippers aside and yanked on her boots. She looked down to see if black leather peeked out from under the hemline. It did.

Oh well, she needed to talk to Henry for just a little while. Maybe no one would notice.

Now for the locks. Mirabelle sat down at the dressing table and shoved the ribbons and masks aside, combing through the paraphernalia in search of hairpins. She found a dozen or so scattered across the tabletop and set to work on her coiffure, twisting it and pinning it as her governess had taught her.

A half hour or so later, she was ready. Peering into the mirror, she examined her attire. The gown fit well, the satin a bit crumpled from Henry’s neglect, but not too apparent. The waistline was below the bust, unlike the former empire style of the regent years. Her locks were whimsical-looking enough. All she needed was a mask.

Swiping one off the bed, Mirabelle held it to her face and concluded she was presentable. No one would suspect she was anything but an invited guest.

She hoped.

Now to find Henry.

The bedroom door creaked open and Mirabelle peeked into the dimly lit passageway. Empty. She slipped out of the boudoir and treaded softly through the corridor, down the stairs, and through the causeway.

Wait!

What was she doing, slinking through the winding halls like a thief? She was a guest, remember? She looked the part; now she had to act the part. If she continued to think like a pillaging pirate, she would only attract suspicion.

Mirabelle paused and straightened her shoulders. She lifted her nose a notch to appear a bit hoity, and then strutted with confidence all the way to the ballroom doors.

But as soon as she reached the shiny threshold of the grand arena, she faltered.

What a dazzling sight! Yellow silk draperies…crystal chandeliers…ferns…tapestries…