Lord of Temptation (2 page)

He’d felt a quick, almost brutal tightening of his
body in response to the exquisiteness of the face revealed. High cheekbones,
flawless skin. Her hair, piled on top of her head, was not quite blond, not
quite white. The palest of shades.

She’d spoken to a man standing nearby, and
Tristan—who had never been jealous of any man—was envious. When the lady began
wending her way toward him, he’d anticipated her arrival as he’d anticipated
little of late. He’d made a wager with himself regarding the shade of her eyes.
Green, he’d thought. But he lost the wager. They were a faint silver, haunting.
They’d known tragedy. Of that he was certain.

But they’d not been conquered and he was suddenly
of a mind to do so. Her fiancé was a fool of the highest order to go off and
play at war when he had her here to warm his bed.

Sebastian had fought in the Crimea. He’d left half
his face on the battlefield, perhaps even a portion of his soul, until Mary had
come back into his life and made him whole again. So Tristan had no love for
that area of the world, for the trouble it had caused his brother, but the
notion of having Lady Anne on his ship intrigued him. Although he didn’t quite
fancy the idea of delivering her to another man. Rather he wanted her for
himself. For a time anyway. For a bit of sport, a bit of fun.

He wasn’t surprised that she’d not recognized him.
He wasn’t decked out like a gentleman. It was also possible, since she was
betrothed, that she’d not attended the two balls where he and his brothers had
made their scandalous appearances after returning to London.
The nerve of them to actually be alive and not devoured by
wolves.
While Sebastian might be frequenting those circles now, it
would take a keen eye to recognize the similarities between the two men. Most
people didn’t see beyond his brother’s disfigurement.

Tristan liked that she didn’t know how he fit into
her world—quite uncomfortably if the truth were known. He’d hid it well with
quick smiles, laughter, and teasing. But he had little desire to return to the
maze of London Society. Rafe had the right of it. Better to stay in the shadows
where they were comfortable. They’d been too long without politeness. It was a
tight shroud, one he didn’t enjoy wearing.

He had a keen insight when it came to discovering
buried treasure. He wanted this Lady Anne who’d dared approach him and offer him
money. He could have taken it and then wooed her once she was on his ship, but
that would have made it all too easy.

He stroked her discarded glove where it remained on
the table. In her haste to leave, she’d forgotten it. He yearned for a
challenge.

He was fairly certain that she would provide him
with one—one he was likely to never forget.

Chapter 2

“W
ell?” Martha asked as soon as Anne was comfortably settled in the carriage and they were on their way.

“Your brother was unfortunately mistaken,” she said succinctly to her lady’s maid. “He has not the makings of a hero at all, and he is most certainly not an honorable man.”

“Are you certain you spoke with the correct person?”

“Quite.”

“I don’t understand. Johnny sailed with him, spoke so highly of him—”

“Yes, well, I assure you that he is a man with whom I have no wish to associate.” She balled her hand into a fist. Blast it! She’d left her glove behind. Her hand was still so warm from the journey his fingers had taken over it that she’d not even thought about the silly glove. She’d never known such a sensuous touch. It was dangerous. So very dangerous. “Please, speak with your brother and ask him for another recommendation.”

“Would it not be better to simply book passage—”

“I will if I must but I’d rather not.” She didn’t want a long sojourn. She simply required a little bit of time with Walter to say good-bye. But when she had mentioned this to her father and brothers, they’d thought it an awful idea to go there. They didn’t understand, but then how could they? She loved Walter, but during their last night together before he left, she’d hurt him with words and deed. Perhaps if she hadn’t, he would have come home. She needed to apologize, to ask for his forgiveness.

He’d sent her his wages every month. It wasn’t a great deal, but she invested the funds for them, for their future. It was those funds that she would now use to visit him. She would leave a note for her father to find after she was gone. She feared that her departure being at the mercy of schedules and other passengers would result in her family being able to find her more easily, prevent her from leaving.

But a ship at her beck and call—they would leave during the dark of night and be well out to sea before her family discovered she was gone.

She gazed out the window and strove not to think about how Crimson Jack quite possibly ruled the night as easily as he did the sea. He no doubt was accustomed to women fawning over him, crawling into his bed with no compunction whatsoever. A naughty part of her that she didn’t wish to acknowledge could hardly blame them.

He was devastatingly handsome and something about him was regal in bearing. He’d ruined the illusion, though, when he’d turned down her offer for passage in exchange for money and asked what else she might barter. His smoldering gaze had revealed exactly what he had in mind.

She’d not given it to Walter. She certainly wasn’t going to give it to a crude sea captain, even if he did cause images of them tumbling between the sheets to invade her thoughts with little more than the tip of a finger caressing her skin. It was only because he was earthy and rough. A heathen. A man for whom lust was common. He was interested in the conquest, but his interest would wane once a lady was conquered.

She had no interest in being conquered.

She would find a more suitable captain. An old one with more experience. A hideous one who did not cause her heart to flutter. A poor one who had need of coins.

Captain Crimson Jack might believe he was tempting—and she had to reluctantly admit that he might be a delicious morsel of manhood—but she was made of sturdier stuff and was not going to be lured by smoky eyes or the promise of passion they held. She had denied Walter, after all, while loving him with all of her young heart. Every day, every night, she lived with regret over their parting. She needed to go to Scutari so she could assuage her guilt, so she could find happiness—if not with him, then with someone else.

“W
hat do you know of the Earl of Blackwood?” Tristan asked, standing in the doorway. The clocks had only just tolled midnight, and he’d known he would find his brother in his office. After all, vice dens were busiest when decent people slept.

Rafe gazed up from his ledgers and glared. “I’ve not seen you in two years and you can’t even bother with a proper greeting?”

“Hello,” Tristan said laconically before wandering into the room and glancing around. His brother had added a new globe to his collection since Tristan had been here. Interesting. He wondered why his brother fancied them.

“How long have you been in London?” Rafe asked.

“A month, give or take a week. Blackwood?” Bless Mouse and his eagerness to prove his worth to Tristan for providing him with a place aboard his ship. He’d not only followed the lady home, but he’d managed to speak with a servant in order to acquire the particulars regarding the household. The earl had four sons and a daughter.

Studying him intently, Rafe leaned back in his chair and rubbed a thumb over his smooth chin, making Tristan wish he’d tidied up a bit; on the docks the rougher one looked, the tougher he was thought to be. Although Tristan had obtained a reputation for being incredibly tough. He suspected he could prance around in lacy shirts and no one would mess with him. At least not with Crimson Jack.

“Does Sebastian know you’re back?”

With a sigh Tristan dropped into a chair across from Rafe. “I’ve not alerted him to my return.”

“He has an heir now, you know.”

He waited as Rafe poured whiskey into a tumbler and set it before him. He downed the amber liquid in one long swallow before saying, “I hadn’t heard, but I’m relieved. Takes the pressure off me.”

“You’ve no desire to be a duke?”

“None whatsoever.”

“You’re not going to follow in uncle’s footsteps and try to take the dukedom?”

“Uncle’s actions would indicate that he was mad, I believe. I’m not. His demise was welcome.” Especially as his last act was an attempt to kill Mary. Attacking the brothers was one thing, but to turn his bloodlust on sweet Mary—

“Sebastian and Mary should be arriving for the Season soon,” Rafe said.

Tristan tried not to look taken aback. “I assumed they would forever stay at Pembrook.”

“I think Mary convinced him that he must be accepted by Society for the sake of his heir, and any other children that come their way.”

They could be of assistance in his quest to entice Lady Anne into his arms, but he didn’t want to wait until she returned from sailing on another ship.

“So—Blackwood. What do you know of him?” Tristan prodded, wanting to get the conversation back to his purpose for being there.

“He doesn’t belong to my club. His two youngest sons do. Mine is not quite as posh as other clubs, so it appeals more to younger men who are not so keen about keeping up appearances.”

“And his daughter? What do you know of her?”

Rafe arched a brow. “I don’t believe she’s a member of my club.”

“Aren’t you quite the hilarious one? I see you’ve not grown more communicative in the months I’ve been away.”

“Why do you care about her?”

“She sought to hire me to take her to Scutari.”

“Why? The war is over. Nightingale is no longer there to lure nurses.”

“She wishes to visit with her fiancé.”

“Are you taking her?”

“Only if she’s willing to pay my price.”

“And that would be?”

He grinned wolfishly. “Between the lady and me.”

Rafe scowled. “I see
you’ve
not grown more communicative either. But if she is betrothed and a lady, you would be unwise to seek a dalliance. Especially as she has four strapping brothers. You could very well find yourself in a bit of bother.”

“I’m not certain she has shared with them her desire to make this trip.”

“Why would you think that?”

“She has an air of mystery about her, and she is almost as tight-lipped as you. I sensed there was a good deal she had no wish to share. I rather enjoy unraveling mysteries.”

“Let her go, Brother.”

“Why?”

“My gut tells me that nothing except trouble awaits if you pursue this path.”

“You’re no doubt correct.”

But in his experience trouble was seldom boring.

I
t was a week before she returned to the tavern. He’d known sooner or later she’d seek him out. What surprised him was how quickly the sight of her inflamed his desire. He knew, as a gentleman, he should stand as she approached but then all would know how badly he wanted her. So he stayed as he was, lounging in his chair, stroking the dew from his tankard as lazily as he’d like to caress her damp skin after a rousing session in his bed.

She marched across the room with the force of a summer gale, purpose in every stride. Fire ignited those silver eyes, turning them pewter. He could see the pulse at her throat fluttering with her anger. Her high cheekbones carried a red hue. Her lips were pursed tightly. How he dearly wanted to part them, dart his tongue between them, and taste the honeyed nectar of her mouth.

He’d never in his life had such a strong reaction to a woman he barely knew. He wanted her, he couldn’t deny that. But it was more than the physical that appealed to him. What sort of woman would risk life and reputation to journey toward a man she’d not seen in four years?

He was not a great believer in love, could not claim to have ever loved a woman enough to risk all for her. Love was the domain of poets . . . and perhaps Sebastian. The last time Tristan had seen him, he’d claimed to love Mary. While Tristan held a fondness for her, he wouldn’t change his life for her. He didn’t understand emotions that ran so deeply.

“You cur!” Lady Anne spat.

Tristan arched an eyebrow and lifted a corner of his mouth in a mocking smile. “Good evening to you as well, Lady Anne.”

“I’ve approached five captains, seeking passage on their ships. They’ve each turned me away.”

“I told you: women on a ship is considered bad luck. Sailors are a suspicious sort. I doubt you’ll find any willing to risk it.”

“Not when you’re paying double what I offer to those who turn me down.”

He fought not to show surprise that she’d managed to uncover that little fact.

She took a step nearer, gripped the back of the chair in her gloved hands, and leaned forward, confusion marring her brow. “Why? Why would you seek to undermine my efforts? Why would you care?”

“Because I want you on my ship.” Damnation. He’d meant to toy with her a bit longer, like reeling in a fish. His bitter confession was prompted by her eyes. The sorrow there that he didn’t understand, the pain that he wanted to ease.

“But you won’t take my money.”

“No.”

“You want me to give you something else.”

“Yes.”

“I know exactly what you want and you shall never have it.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Careful, Princess. That sounded like a challenge. And I’ve never walked away from a challenge . . . or lost one.”

“Rot in hell.”

She spun on her heel and stormed from the tavern with the magnificence of the fiercest tempest he’d ever encountered. Dear God, he should accept her offer, take her money, anything to have her on his ship. Once on the sea, she couldn’t walk away.

Once on the sea, he would have her.

A
nne was furious, so furious that she could pull out her hair. No, no, that would not do at all. It was ridiculous to cause harm to herself. She was angry enough to yank out
his
hair. That’s what she should have done: simply reached across the table and jerked out a clump of those long ebony strands. That would show him that she was not a lady to be trifled with.

“I don’t understand,” Martha murmured meekly as though she feared Anne would turn her fury on her. “My brother speaks so highly of the captain—”

“Yes, well, how he treats his men is quite obviously very different from the manner in which he treats ladies.” But why? To ensure captains wouldn’t accept her offer, why would he pay double what she would pay them? He could have any woman he wanted, of that she was certain. Why her? Why did he want her on his ship? So he could lift her skirts? He’d damned well discover that where she was concerned, they’d be made of lead. “Tell your brother to find me one more captain. I shall offer to pay him five hundred pounds.”

“My lady,” Martha gasped. “This goes too far.”

Anne didn’t bother to inform Martha that she’d overstepped her bounds. They’d been together too long for her to chastise the maid, especially when she knew she was right. “We’ll see how Captain Crimson Jack likes paying a thousand.”

Martha reached across and took her hand. “Talk to your father again, explain why you need to make this journey. Surely he’ll arrange it.”

“It will take longer to journey on someone else’s schedule.”

“Not that much longer.”

She released a defeated sigh. “No, not that much longer. I’m being stubborn, I know.” But this captain had made her angry, and to go by other means now would make her feel as though he’d somehow won.

“It would be safer,” Martha added.

Would it? A woman traveling alone with only her maid? She might run across someone she knew and tongues might wag. She didn’t want anyone to know. That was the thing of it. It was her business and hers alone. “I just want to make this sojourn in my own way.”

“Lord Walter won’t care.”

With the tears stinging her eyes, she said quietly more to the night than to her maid, “No, he won’t.”

Her fury dissipated into sadness. They spoke no more as their carriage journeyed through the fog-shrouded London streets. Dear Walter. She longed to see him once more, to hear his laugh, to have him tease her, to have him hold her in his arms as he swept her over a ballroom floor in time to the music. Ever since he left, she’d avoided the balls, soirees, dinners. She’d devoted her time, along with Florence Nightingale’s sister, to gathering the much-needed supplies for the hospitals in the Crimea. She’d visited the returning soldiers in hospital, bringing them what comfort she could. And then she’d gone into mourning when she received word that Walter had died. Any chance for forgiveness had died with him.

Two years. Two years of being dead as well. Of feeling nothing. Of walking around like a silent wraith. She lost weight. She took joy in so little. Even her favorite pastime of reading brought no pleasure. She would reach the end of the book with no memory of any of the words, of the tale. Yet she had dutifully turned pages, thought she had been concentrating on the task. She forgot things so easily.