Nicole Jordan (8 page)

“It is hardly empty. I find you immensely desirable.”

Her brows drew together in skepticism.

Max was surprised by her response. Caro Evers was oblivious to her own beauty, he realized.

It was true, he thought, surveying her; she didn’t fit the ideal mold of womanliness or femininity. Her outspoken frankness alone set her apart, as did her lack of artifice. Her figure was lithe and slim, more boyish than the accepted fashion, her body firm and lightly muscled, he knew from experience. And she did nothing to enhance her features, favoring dark, practical gowns and wearing her unruly hair scraped back in a stern knot. Her hands, although gentle, were strong and capable rather than dainty and ladylike.

If he was honest, she was very different from the soft, voluptuous women he’d found appealing in the past. Yet to his surprise, he did consider Caro beautiful. And wholly remarkable.

Beneath her restrained surface lurked something unexpected, something fierce and passionate and unbelievably sensuous.

The enchantress he’d known that night on Cyrene had possessed more sensuality than any woman he’d ever encountered. Her innocent, eager response to his lovemaking had turned him inside out. Even now Max felt a rush of heat whenever he remembered.

And she was courageous and intrepid—many of the qualities he had thought primarily the prerogative of men. From the first he had been struck by her keen intelligence.

Most importantly, she cared ardently about the things that really mattered. About saving lives, about rescuing her captive friend. He suspected Caro would never do anything by half measures. Thorne had been right when he’d dubbed her singular.

The thought of Thorne, however, rekindled the spark of jealousy lingering in Max’s breast.

“So what is your relationship to Christopher Thorne?” he asked. “You aren’t lovers?”

She blinked at his unexpected change of subject, then gave a soft laugh. “Good heavens, no. He thinks of me as a sister.”

“So there is no other man in your life?”

She eyed him with puzzlement. “Why would you ask?”

“I’m possessive enough to want to be your only lover,” Max admitted.

He could hear her sharp intake of breath, could see surprise flit across her face.

A moment later, though, her chin lifted. “If you think to use me merely to pass the time and relieve your boredom, you can abandon that notion at once.”

Max shook his head. “Dealing with boredom has never been a problem for me. During the war I grew accustomed to long hours of waiting between battles and learned to develop vast reserves of patience.”

“Then what are you about?” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to provoke me as Thorne suggested? He was entirely wrong about my needing a diversion. I don’t require a seduction to distract me from dwelling on Isabella’s fate, I assure you.”

“Provoking you wasn’t my design, but I want very much to be your lover again.”

“Why?” Her tone was challenging.

“Because ever since a certain moonlit night,” Max replied honestly, “I’ve been obsessed with a ministering angel. I need to know if what I felt for her was real or merely a fantasy.”

For a long moment Caro remained silent while she struggled with disbelief. “I told you, you were suffering from the stresses of war that night.”

“Perhaps so. But my mind doesn’t seem to respond to logical arguments. Nor does my body.” His gaze dropped to her breasts. “Does yours?”

No, certainly not.
She had little control over her body’s sensual reaction to him.

Lifting his gaze, he smiled in satisfaction, as if guessing her thoughts.

After a searching glance, she shook her head. “I understand your problem, Mr. Leighton. It
was
merely a fantasy that night. You were affected by Cyrene’s spell. That is why you found me desirable then—and why your imagination is playing tricks on you now.”

Max leaned an elbow against the railing. “You claimed Apollo created your enchanted isle, but it’s pure myth, of course.”

“Probably, but the legend is one I have always found appealing. Cyrene was a water nymph and princess who relished the hunt and enjoyed wrestling lions—”

“Lions?” Max sounded faintly amused. “She must have been rather unique.”

“She was. Apollo saw her and fell in love, but when she spurned him, he cast a spell over a secluded isle to create a lovers’ paradise and then kept her captive there until she came to love him in return. Even now the island has an inexplicable effect on all who come there.”

“It affects mere mortals, you mean.”

“It makes them feel passion.
That
is why you think you wish to become my lover again.”

Taking her elbow, Max turned Caro to face him. “Did you feel passion that night, angel?”

She flushed. “Well…yes…but I was affected by the same spell.”

His gaze examined her face intently. “I think what we both felt that night had little to do with any spell.” He took a step closer. “And I don’t believe you are as sanguine as you pretend now.”

He reached up to stroke her cheek in a gentle caress, making Caro feel a sudden heat. She drew back abruptly.

“It burns, doesn’t it, my touch?” he murmured.

Yes, it burns.
Caro had a momentary flash of strong, bronzed fingers cupping her pale breasts in the silver moonlight.

He lowered his voice to a hush. “Do you remember the feel of me, moving between your thighs?”

At the question she was assaulted by a sizzling memory of Max’s hard male flesh lodged deep within her, and her breath faltered.

Refusing to admit her weakness, though, Caro managed a light reply. “I remember everything about that night, and I am not eager to repeat the experience. I don’t relish letting my senses be carried away again by the enchantment of the moment.”

The slow, knowing smile he gave her made her pulse race. “I think you are deceiving yourself.”

“And I think you vastly overestimate your appeal.”

Max’s eyes darkened as he studied her for a long moment. “I promise you, I don’t intend to let you forget what it was like between us that night.”

Their gazes locked. The air was suddenly charged with a heated current, and Caro found it difficult to breathe.

The hot attraction sizzling between them grew stronger, more intense. Then Max raised his hand again, letting his thumb brush her lower lip.

His touch was as searing as a bolt of lightning. The warmth spread through Caro, feeding her nerves little shocks of desire. It left her skin tingling with raw, sexual awareness—

Alarmed, she took a step back…and then stopped herself, tilting her chin up instead.

“Don’t worry,” Max murmured, a smile flickering over his mouth. “I’m not about to ravish you here and now.”

“I would advise you not to try.”

Yet her warning would have little impact, Caro realized. It was clear Max had no idea of the kind of dangerous skills she possessed. Thus far he’d seen only the healer side of her—the gentle talents a soldier would doubtless find appealing. If he knew the masculine side of her, she suspected he wouldn’t be so eager to renew their lovemaking or profess to find her desirable.

Caro held out her hand. “Pray, give me your knife.”

Her order gave him pause, made him lift an eyebrow. But he complied, retrieving his knife from his jacket pocket.

“Allow me to show you precisely why gentlemen find me intimidating,” Caro said sweetly.

Turning, she took careful aim at the cask Max had been using for a target, then drew back her arm and let the knife fly. The blade landed point down in the wood, vibrating, perhaps two inches to the right of center.

“My aim is a bit rusty,” she complained, “since I am out of practice. I can do better, I assure you. But for the moment I must return to the tasks Captain Biddick gave me.” She gave Max a deliberately provoking smile. “If you tire of playing with your knife and seek other diversions, you can make yourself useful by mending sails.”

With that dig, she spun on her heel. But as she walked away, she thought she heard Max’s low, husky chuckle follow her.

Caro put little stock in his admission that he wanted to become her lover again. Most likely, she conjectured, he was merely attempting to relieve his boredom with a seduction because she was the only woman available, or trying to divert her as a favor to Thorne, even though he had denied both.

Nor could she take seriously his other startling claim—that he’d become obsessed with her after their passionate night together. To her mind, Max had undoubtedly been entranced by the magic of that enchanted night. And because of his memories, he might still view her as an object of desire. Yet she was certain his professed obsession wouldn’t last upon deeper acquaintance.

Even so, Caro regretted they still had the major part of their two-week journey remaining. The sooner they reached the island, the sooner she would no longer have to deal with Max in such close quarters.

She was also anxious to arrive home and discover if there had been any word of Isabella. The schooner had been specifically commissioned by Sir Gawain and designed for speed, and thus was remarkably swift compared to other sailing vessels. But the voyage still took far longer than she had any patience for.

When they rounded Gibraltar and the gray Atlantic gave way to the welcoming blue brilliance of the Mediterranean, Caro felt comforted by her more familiar surroundings and the much warmer climate, yet her mood remained dark. On clear days she could make out the Barbary Coast to the south, where Isabella was presumably being held captive. And when she thought of Bella being lost in such a vast expanse, she nearly despaired.

Surprisingly, however, Max’s mood seemed even darker than her own. By early in their second week, his restless pacing had grown obviously more agitated. And sometimes at night, she saw him prowling the decks with the slow, angry gait of a caged animal. He looked bedeviled by something.

Her concern prompted her to approach him one afternoon as he again stood at the railing.

“I would be happy to prescribe a sleeping draught,” Caro offered, “if you think it would help.”

He turned a grim gaze on her. “What makes you think I need a sleeping draught?”

“Perhaps the way you are wearing a hole in Captain Biddick’s deck?” She smiled, but his expression only shuttered further.

“I don’t care for the aftereffects of laudanum.”

“There are several herbals that don’t result in the same bad dreams as laudanum.”

“You needn’t try to cure me, angel.”

His terse reply irked Caro, yet she didn’t want to just walk away when he was clearly suffering. “Does sailing bother you?”

Max hesitated such a long while that she doubted he would answer, but then he shook his head. “No, but this voyage brings back memories of when I went off so blithely to war. Although the transport ships that carried us to the Peninsula had far less luxurious accommodations than this vessel.”

Caro waited, hoping he would say more. But he remained silent.

“Well…” She put a hand on his sleeve and felt the tension vibrating in him. “If I can be of any help, you need only ask.”

His jaw flexed as if biting back a response. Then he eased his arm from beneath her fingers. “I will be fine.”

Realizing he would brook no further discussion, Caro took her leave. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking of the bleak expression in Max’s blue eyes, or wondering what dark memories had caused it.

…exploding ground…a horse’s scream…falling…crashing to the wet earth…chest pain…shot?

Must move…mired…struggling to rise…ahead, Philip wheeling his horse…hurts…can’t stand…

Philip returning…leaping off…

“Philip…get the hell away…save yourself.”

His grim smile…“You’re bloody mad to think I would leave you….”

His hand reaching down…a sharp crack of rifle fire…his head…his face…the blood.

Philip sinking to his knees.

God, Philip, no. No! Please, God, no…

“Max, wake up. It is only a bad dream.”

Her soft voice. Her soothing hand on his brow…

Max woke drenched in sweat. It was the nightmare again, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

Chest heaving, he glanced wildly about him, seeing only darkness. Yet the rhythmic pitch of the ship made him recall where he was. His cabin on board the schooner.

He lay back, struggling for air.

The nightmare had been worse of late. More vivid, more debilitating. He always knew what to expect, and he could never stop it. He could only try to fight it.

He shut his eyes, conjuring up Caro’s face. His guardian angel. She could calm him with her soothing voice and gentle hands. Her gray eyes, so soft and luminous and understanding.

She couldn’t make him forget his guilt, though.

Flinging off the disheveled covers, Max swung his legs over the side of the bunk and dragged his hands roughly over his face. He still felt the searing pain as sharply as if it were yesterday, instead of five years ago. That moment of doomed courage when his closest friend had returned to save him and been killed right before his eyes.

God…he was still shaking from the vision.

Max drew a rasping breath into his lungs, wishing he had better control over himself. He didn’t want to forget entirely. He only wanted respite from the pain.

During the day, he knew how to numb himself. On dry land, he would go on long rides, driving himself to the limits of his endurance, making himself weary enough so that sleep would come. But he had no horse at the moment, or at any moment since this damned, endless voyage had begun. In London he would have gone directly to Jackson’s boxing salon, so he could take out his bitter frustrations in physical violence, using his bare fists. But there was no one to spar with on board the schooner, certainly not at this late hour of the night when most of the crew was asleep.

Rising from the bunk, Max strode across the dark cabin. He didn’t need light to find the knife. Rifling through his belongings from memory, he withdrew a leather sheath that protected the three-inch steel blade set in a carved wooden handle.