Lord of Temptation (8 page)

He was truly the barbarian that the Londoners
considered him.

He was also—in spite of wearing a coat out into the
storm—damp and chilled. If she’d not been drowning in her own misery she might
have noticed and insisted he change into dry clothes. Not that he would have
with her awake. But with her asleep . . .

He eased his hands away from her. She didn’t stir.
As gingerly as possible he rose from the bed and crept to a chair where he
removed his boots. Then he grabbed a linen towel and rubbed it briskly over his
wet hair, before finger combing the strands back. He was exhausted. Every muscle
ached from fighting the storm.

What he truly wanted was to lie in his own bed,
curl his arm around her, and sleep the sleep of the dead. But he supposed for
tonight it was either the floor here or a hammock in the area where his men
slept.

Wearily, he forced himself to his feet and wandered
over to the chest where he kept his extra clothes. He dragged his shirt over his
head and tossed it aside, before lifting the heavy lid.

“Oh, dear God, whatever did they do to your
back?”

He froze, fighting against the need to hide the
unsightly latticework of scars that marred his back. He forced a casualness into
his voice that he was far from feeling as he grabbed a shirt. “I thought you
were asleep.”

“No, only drifting about. Those are lash marks,
aren’t they?”

He slammed down the lid and shoved his arms into
his shirt, before jerking it down over his head and shoulders, welcoming the
knowledge that with the material in place, the ugliness was once again hidden.
“They’re nothing.”

“They must have hurt terribly.”

“For a short time, yes,” he gritted out.

“But the pain long remembered, I should think.”

Shoring himself up to ignore the pity in her eyes,
he gazed over at her. She was sitting up, clutching the blanket high at her
throat with both hands, as though that could protect her from him. Her eyes were
wide damp saucers. Damnation but he never flaunted his scars and he hated that
she’d seen them. “I believe that’s the point, Princess.”

Chapter 8

H
e was angry at her, furious in fact, judging by the tautness in his features. And so profoundly proud, standing there so magnificently, almost rebelliously, trying to show that the scars didn’t matter, that they were nothing. She wished she hadn’t seen how terribly he’d been hurt. But she had and she couldn’t undo what she’d seen. She felt sicker in her stomach now than she had during the worst part of the storm.

He’d been a lad when he’d gone to sea, seeking adventure, not much younger than Mouse. Had he been as slender, as vulnerable? Had he been near that age when he felt the bite of the whip? Had he screamed? Had he cried? Had he begged them to stop?

“How can men do that to another?” she asked.

“It’s standard practice on a ship when someone isn’t behaving . . . quite properly,” he bit out.

“Do you take the lash to your men?”

“No, but then none were forced aboard my ship against their wishes. They share in the bounty. They work together because it adds coins to their pockets.”

“You said you went to sea for adventure. Were you forced—”

“No,” he interrupted before she could finish her question.

A knock sounded, and relief washed over his face as though the disturbance would bring a natural end to this conversation, which he obviously loathed. She watched as he strode across the room, his hair freely grazing over his wide shoulders. She wondered what he would say if she offered to take a brush to it, to sift her fingers through it, to provide comfort to him as he had to her. He opened the door and Mouse scurried in with his rocking gait. On the desk, he set a tray with a teapot and some cups on it.

“Mr. Peterson thought ye be needin’ this.”

“Good lad.”

“She gonna be a’right?”

“Should be. Just a bit of seasickness.” He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. It seemed a tender gesture, even though he was guiding the lad out of the room. Had anyone placed a kind hand on the captain’s shoulder or brow after the flesh on his back had been ripped apart?

When they were again alone, he returned to the desk and poured some tea into a cup, then added a splash of amber liquid to it.

She settled back against the pillows, ever conscious of keeping the blanket high.

“This should help settle your stomach a bit,” he said as he handed her the cup and saucer. The china seemed incredibly delicate in his large paw.

As for himself, he poured a generous helping of spirits into a glass before pulling over a chair and sitting beside the bed.

She supposed as things were settling down that Martha could rejoin her now, but she didn’t suggest it on the off chance that she was sleeping. She didn’t want to disturb her. More, she wasn’t quite ready for him to leave. She took a sip, recognized the flavor, and smiled. “Brandy.”

“Your indulgence of choice, I believe.”

“Only because it was the easiest bottle to swipe from my father’s liquor cabinet.” She studied him more closely. He appeared older now than he had before, and she realized fighting the storm had taken a toll on him. She missed his ready smile and teasing.

His eyes contained a distance, as though he were looking inward rather than outward, and she wondered where his thoughts traveled, if he was thinking about the pain he’d endured when they whipped him or how he battled the sea or . . .

She knew so little about him, knew it was foolish to want to know more. Once they were again in England, she would never see him again. They would take diverging paths, hers leading her to ballrooms and his returning him to the sea.

She wanted to talk, but the brandy was having its way with her, swirling warmth and lethargy through her bones. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised, considering that nothing remained in her stomach to absorb it, to halt its progress.

After finishing off the tea in one long unladylike swallow, she set aside the cup and saucer on the table beside the bed. Then she snuggled beneath the blankets, slipped her hands between her cheek and pillow, and watched Jack. He didn’t quite look like a Jack to her. His lids were half lowered, his glass empty, and she wondered if he was feeling as languid as she. “Why did they whip you?” To her surprise, the words came out slowly, slightly slurred.

“I won’t discuss my back, Anne.”

The anger was still in his voice and he studied his glass as though it were far more interesting than her. She didn’t know why that stung.

“Where did you grow up?” she asked.

Finally, he shifted his gaze over to her. “On the sea.”

She smiled, or at least she thought she did. Her mouth definitely moved. “Before that.”

“Yorkshire.”

“Lovely country.”

Leaning forward, he brushed back some wayward strands that he’d failed to secure in the braid. “You should sleep now, Princess.”

“So should you.” She furrowed her brow. “Where do you sleep . . . since I have your room?”

“In the room next door or in a hammock on the berth deck.” He cradled her chin, his thumb stroking her cheek.

“Doesn’t sound comfortable.”

“It’s not.”

“You should have taken my two hundred pounds to make it worth your while.”

“It’s worth my while.”

He sounded as though he meant the words. How could a kiss make up for all the discomforts he endured?

“Are you going to kiss me now?”

“Not when you’re too weak to return the kiss with enthusiasm.”

“You seem to have a rather high opinion of your kissing talents. I might not have any enthusiasm for it at all.”

“You will.”

Such an arrogant cad, she thought dreamily as she fought to keep her eyes open. “I thought we were going to die tonight,” she whispered.

“I would never have allowed that to happen.”

He said it with such confidence, as though he commanded the sea. She trusted him, believed in his skills, and had to reluctantly admit that she even liked him. “You had a rough night of it, didn’t you?”

“Very rough.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“Terribly.”

He shouldn’t have a hammock tonight. He should have his bed. Only she was in it. She certainly didn’t want a hammock. “You could sleep here . . . on top of the covers,” she hastily added.

His response was a tender smile that caused her heart to flip. She didn’t remember moving, but between one blink and the next, the cabin was in darkness, she was on her side, and he was spooned around her. In the vaguest corners of her mind, she thought she should stiffen, elbow him in the ribs, or shove him away with a reprimand of, “Not so close.”

Instead, she snuggled more securely against him, his soft moan wafting around her as she sank into the land of dreams.

W
ith her body pressed against his, she felt better than he’d anticipated. Even with clothing and blankets separating them, he couldn’t recall ever being quite so aroused with so little effort. Especially as his body felt as though it had been transformed into an anchor and was dragging him down.

He’d spoken true. He was exhausted. Beyond measure. He wasn’t certain that he could have made his way out of his quarters to a hammock below. In all likelihood, he’d have been able to do little more than slide out of the chair and land in an unconscious heap on the floor.

The weariness had slammed into him the moment he’d finished braiding her hair, the moment he’d realized that her bout of sickness had passed. The moment he’d acknowledged to himself that she would survive, that she would recover. Until then, he’d been so focused on seeing to her needs that he’d had no time to consider his own.

He’d never been selfish when it came to women. He’d always put their pleasures first, but he’d never been quite so consumed with a female to the degree that he was when he was around her. Pain, aches, weariness ceased to exist for him until she was clearly out of harm’s way.

It was a strange . . . thing. He didn’t quite understand it.

But he did understand that being this near to her was dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

From the moment he’d seen her, he’d wanted her beneath him, his body pounding into hers with a fierceness that would cause the ship to rock on still waters. But with her in his arms now, he feared he’d not be content with having her only once. He would want her again. When they returned to England.

He wished he could work up the energy to skim his fingers along her cheek, down her neck, across her shoulders. When he woke up with her, he might very well be unable to resist the lure of a kiss—but he would have to remain strong, stronger than he’d ever been.

Because he just realized with startling clarity that he couldn’t kiss her before they arrived at Scutari. No, he would have to wait until afterward, until they were nearer to England.

Her fiancé would no doubt kiss her when he saw her, kiss her when he said good-bye, and his mouth on hers would wash away anything that remained of the kiss she would share with Tristan. Therefore, it stood to reason that he would have to remain in purgatory a bit longer.

Because when they arrived at England’s shores and she walked away from him, he wanted his kiss to be the last upon her lips.

I
t was a bittersweet awakening for Anne. The captain was gone, so she was spared the uncomfortable awareness of being in his arms. She ignored the disappointment that struck her because he had taken his leave so quietly, so unobtrusively.

Which left her to deal with the guilt and the immense longing to have such a memory of being held through the night with Walter. He’d wanted it, had asked for it, and she’d denied him. Of course, what he wanted involved more than simply holding her. But she now had an inkling of how lovely it might have been. It was no longer just a wispy imagining. She knew the feel of a man’s body pressed against her, the warmth, the scent. She knew the sound of his breathing luring her as though it were a lullaby.

She was beginning to regret that she’d decided to take this sojourn, but it was far too late to turn back.

Stepping onto the deck, a much recovered Martha at her side, Anne shielded her gaze from the brilliant sunlight reflecting off the blue water. After what they endured several hours before, she expected to encounter some remnants of a storm, but instead all appeared as though it had never been. Men were working. The breeze toyed playfully with the sails.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think we imagined the horrors of last night,” Martha said.

Only Anne did know better. The leather strip with which the captain had bound her hair was tucked into a hidden pocket on her skirt.

“Oh my God, land.” She walked to the edge of the ship and gripped the railing. “We can’t be too far from our destination, do you think?”

“Not too far,” a deep voice responded.

She spun around, her heart seizing as she gazed at the captain. He, too, looked as though last night had never happened, as though he hadn’t held her, as though they hadn’t shared a strange sort of intimacy. She wanted to reach out, touch him, curl her fingers around his shirt, and bury her face in his shoulder, inhale deeply of his now familiar fragrance. Instead she balled her hands into achingly tights fists. “How soon?”

“A few more days.”

They turned out to be the longest and loneliest of her life. He didn’t have dinner with her. If she was on deck, he was below or on the opposite side of the ship. She knew it was just as well that they weren’t in each other’s company. Each day she recovered a little more from the illness she experienced during the storm, but as they neared their destination a weariness settled over her.

Finally, she saw the spires of the city as they pulled into the harbor. They were here. They had arrived.

But a secret mourning part of her wished they hadn’t.

Chapter 9

S
tanding on the deck in the predawn, Tristan waited for the night to retreat.

They’d arrived in the harbor yesterday afternoon. He’d expected Anne to go flying off the ship to be with her fiancé. Did she even know where he was? Surely, she did.

Instead, she retired to her quarters, maid in tow. Mouse reported that she’d asked for hot water, enough to fill the copper tub. Tristan had forced himself to stay on deck, because he wanted nothing more than to burst through the door and watch as she luxuriated in the bath. At first he’d imagined a soapy cloth skimming over her skin, but then the cloth became his hands. Beginning at her neck he would glide his large hands along her shoulders and circle around until he cupped her breasts. He could almost feel the weight of them against his palms. He thought of going into his quarters and claiming his kiss then. Leaning over the tub, taking her mouth as though he owned it. Claiming it. Claiming her. Making it clear that when she returned to the ship, he would be waiting.

He’d barely slept last night, twisting and turning in the blasted hammock, almost upending himself. A foul mood hung around him when he returned to the deck before the sunrise. He wanted to be there when she left. He would be there when she returned.

It occurred to him, belatedly, that he’d never asked her how long she wanted to be in port. As she’d said that she wanted to travel on her own schedule, she no doubt wanted to remain here for days, possibly weeks. He’d become so obsessed with obtaining the kiss that he’d given little thought to the inconvenience of it all.

He didn’t like being here. The war was over, but still the ghosts of it remained. Sebastian had been here, recovering from the wounds he’d suffered during the devastating battle at Balaclava. Tristan had been half a world away, but still he’d sensed when his brother was wounded. Perhaps because they were twins, they shared a connection. Tristan seemed to have the stronger bond, was often troubled when Sebastian suffered. He frequently prayed that Sebastian never knew how much he himself endured during their time apart.

Strange that they were not in each other’s company now, but Tristan no longer viewed them as being apart. Simply separated by distance, no longer hiding from their dreaded uncle. Amazing how the blighter’s death could restore a sense of rightness.

As the sun began easing over the horizon, Tristan could make out the spires of a large building. He wondered if Sebastian had gazed at them, how much might have changed in the few years since he was here.

“That’s the hospital,” Anne said softly coming to stand beside him, bringing her lavender and citrus scent with her.

Her hair was pinned up beneath an elegant hat with a broad brim decorated with ribbons and delicate bows. Beneath her pelisse, her lilac dress had prim buttons and a high collar. He didn’t like considering that her fiancé might be loosening those buttons shortly after the sun set, if not before.

“Florence said I would recognize it by the spires,” she continued.

“Florence Nightingale?” His voice came out terse, angry, but she seemed not to notice. He was regretting that he’d brought her here. He wished the ship had gone down in the storm, that she and he had swum to a deserted island where they could be alone forever.

“Yes. There are other hospitals, but that’s the Barrack Hospital where she did most of her good works. She provided me with a map of things so I could find my way. The General Hospital is where I need to go.”

She finally lifted her gaze to his. He was surprised by the doubts and uncertainty he saw there.

“I was wondering if you would be kind enough to go with me,” she said. “Martha’s not quite recovered from her seasickness during the ordeal of the storm.”

The words that he recognized to be a lie came out in a rush and he wondered why she would want him at her side when she met with this Walter fellow. She had to know it would be incredibly awkward. “Your fiancé won’t be pleased by my presence.”

“He won’t mind, I assure you. Besides, I suspect I’d be safer walking the streets with you there.”

“I could send some of my men with you—”

“No, I don’t want . . . people about. It’s part of the reason that I didn’t purchase passage for other means of getting here. I didn’t want to run into someone I know or might have met on the journey. I need this to be private.”

Was she going to call things off with him? Why not simply pen him a letter? Why go to all this bother? No, all she needed was for Tristan to accompany her, then things would become private between her and her fiancé. Tristan would be expected to return to the ship. Could he do it? Could he leave her in another man’s keeping?

He was half tempted to kiss her now or to ask for an additional kiss for the service of delivering her safely through the streets. If she hadn’t been looking at him so beseechingly he would have bargained. As it was he could say little more than, “When do you want to leave?”

“Now.”

“Good.” Before he had any time to consider the ramifications and to change his mind. Smart lass. He contemplated shaving, making himself a bit more presentable, but what did he care what this bloke thought of him? And if she used the opportunity to compare them, he could undo any damage when they returned to the ship. It was chilly out, he had his coat, and quite honestly, he wanted this done with. “Let’s be off then.”

After disembarking she handed the map to him. He wished he was familiar with the city. He could navigate the world, certainly understood the lines on a map, but preferred the stars to guide him. But there were none out now, so he studied the scrawled lines and the scribbled words and the occasional arrow. Florence Nightingale was meticulous but things were not drawn to scale.

Anne kept her hand on his arm. From time to time, she’d squeeze and he realized it was her way of coping with nervousness. He supposed after four years that she might be a bit apprehensive about seeing this man. If her fiancé was at the hospital, Tristan wondered if he was recovering from wounds, but that seemed unlikely after this length of time. Perhaps he was a physician who had stayed behind to help the people. Maybe she had come here to persuade him to return to England.

He fought not to growl at the thought of the man on his ship.

It seemed to take forever, but it was only a distorted passage of time brought about by his lack of desire to go where she wished him to lead, and eventually they did reach the General Hospital. At their arrival, the lethargy seemed to leave her and a purpose in her step took hold.

As they came around to the front, she said with confidence, “This way.”

A short distance away was a sign: British Cemetery.

He was no longer leading, but following as she passed through the entrance. She strode past several marked graves until she came to an area that housed no headstones, where the land simply stretched down to the glistening blue waters of the Bosporus Strait.

She staggered to a stop, tears welling in her eyes. “More than five thousand are buried here,” she rasped. “With no markers. However shall I find him?”

“He’s dead?”

Her answer came as she sunk to the ground and sobbed softly, leaving Tristan to feel like an absolute bastard. He’d considered killing the man himself. Now he was irrationally furious at her fiancé for causing her this pain.

He knelt beside her, drew her into his arms, and held her while her shoulders shook with the force of her grief and her tears dampened his neck where she had pressed her face. If he still possessed a gentleman’s heart, he thought it would break at her mewling, her trembling.

If he had a heart, he would know how to comfort her. But all he knew to do was to hold her and swear softly in between uttering her name.

O
h, it hurt, it hurt so terribly much. She’d known it would, known that no matter how much she prepared for it, the reality of being here would undo her.

She had also known that the captain would hold her and comfort her, just as he had when she’d been ill during the storm. Martha would have comforted her as well, but with her slight frame it wouldn’t have been as reassuring. He was solid, firm, and strong. His large hands caressed her back, her arms. He held her until she had no more tears to weep, and then he walked with her along the water’s edge where birds darted about and swooped down to capture fish.

“Even knowing that Walter was laid to rest in an unmarked grave, somehow I thought I would be able to find him, that I would know where he was. That I would sense his presence. But I don’t feel him here. I had so much that I needed to say to him.”

They walked on in silence. No matter how she had imagined things, she hadn’t envisioned it being like this. She thought she would regain something she’d lost. Instead, it remained beyond reach.

“Why didn’t you tell me that your fiancé was dead?” he asked over the cries of seagulls.

“I never said the words to anyone. It would make it more real. A letter from his brother alerting me to his death, his condolences, a notice in the paper—they made everything seem so distant. He died of cholera. Such an ignominious ending. I’m not even certain if he ever saw battle.”

“Doesn’t make him less of a hero. He was willing to fight, to die.”

She peered up at him, at his strong features. “Thank you for that.”

“I’m not simply muttering words, you know. He was a soldier. That says a lot for his character.” He glanced out toward the sea. A muscle in his jaw tautened. “My brother fought in the Crimea. Was terribly wounded. Lost half his face.”

“Oh, my God. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t reveal that to garner sympathy. Rather I wanted you to know I understand the price your fiancé was willing to pay. I’m certain he would have much preferred staying with you than coming here.”

He could have stayed with her, but he had chosen the army because he was weary of living in his brother’s shadow.

“He was the second son of a nobleman,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun. “He wanted to make his own way in the world.”

“Which makes him even more worthy of you.”

She couldn’t quite stop the soft smile. Flattering women was simply a natural part of the captain’s charms. She suspected most of the time he probably gave no thought to the compliments he tossed out. She turned and glanced back toward the consecrated ground. “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?”

“Quite. And he’s with his brothers in arms.”

Yes, he was. Having come here, having seen where he was laid to rest, she thought she might be able to move forward at last.