Nicole Jordan (5 page)

Excusing herself from Emily, Antonia pasted a welcoming smile on her lips and went to meet him.

Deverill had a distinct frown on his face as he left the overheated ballroom. Dancing with Antonia had been a mistake, he’d realized the instant he took her in his arms. Holding her, touching her, had been dangerously, unexpectedly arousing.

Roughly he locked his jaw to counteract the still-painful swelling in his loins.

Of course, his lust had a likely explanation. It had been months since he’d enjoyed a woman’s charms, with no female companionship during the long voyage from India to Cyrene. And once he’d discovered the housekeeper’s urgent letter waiting for him on the island, he’d been too impatient to reach London to give any thought to dalliance.

Moreover, Deverill admitted with grudging honesty, he’d always been partial to red-haired temptresses. And Antonia’s auburn hair glowed with a molten flame that made a man eager to singe his hands.

He wondered if her lovemaking would possess the same fire that shone in the depths of her hair. He suspected it would, even though on the surface she appeared every inch the polished, proper, gracious lady. The flash of temper he’d seen tonight in her vivid blue eyes suggested she had merely banked the fire in order to present the genteel facade expected of her.

It was that hint of fire that called to him.

He’d had a glimpse of it four years ago, during his first intriguing encounter with Antonia, but he had managed to ignore his male urges then, sternly quelling his inappropriate desire for her. Even though he’d satisfied her curiosity by giving her her first kiss, he knew full well she was innocent and untried and completely off limits, with a protective father who intended for her to make a brilliant marriage. A rakish adventurer was assuredly not proper husband material, no matter how much Samuel Maitland had professed to admire him.

Not to mention that Deverill was too dedicated to his life’s calling to ever consider settling down in wedlock, particularly in a proper society marriage dictated by the ton.

Antonia’s appeal, however, had taken him by surprise. And now that the enchanting girl had turned into a beautiful, spirited woman, he found himself in a quandary: his fierce attraction was still bloody inappropriate.

Honorably, he couldn’t touch Antonia. Not only was she essentially betrothed to another man, but out of respect for her late father, Deverill knew he had to shield her from a slightly disreputable—and untitled—adventurer like himself.

At the end of their waltz, it had taken iron-willed control to force his desire to remain in check, even knowing they were in the middle of a crowded ballroom, the focus of all eyes. He certainly didn’t want to tarnish Antonia’s hard-won reputation.

And if Heward was
not
a murderer, Deverill reminded himself as he stepped into the warm June evening, he had no reason to ruin her chances for an exceptional marriage. If she truly wanted the baron for her husband, then he had no right to stand in her way.

At least in that respect, he’d accomplished tonight what he had come here to do—to discover just how enamored Antonia was of her betrothed. The answer apparently was:
extremely.
Whether or not she truly loved Heward, she had rallied to his defense so ardently that Deverill knew she was unlikely to believe her housekeeper’s suspicions without definitive proof.

Deverill himself wasn’t even certain he believed the accusations, even after he had relentlessly questioned Mrs. Peeke this morning within hours of his arrival in London. But the woman’s fear couldn’t simply be dismissed. She was still dreadfully worried for Antonia.

The day before Samuel Maitland had died, Mrs. Peeke claimed, she’d overheard him fiercely arguing with Lord Heward about the baron’s ships illegally transporting slaves. A staunch opponent of slavery, Mr. Maitland had declared that no man who promoted it could marry his daughter. Mrs. Peeke had expected him immediately to call off Antonia’s two-day-old engagement when she returned to town from visiting Brighton. But then Maitland had suddenly died of heart failure the following day, shortly after another, less contentious meeting with Lord Heward.

“Just think of it, Mr. Deverill,” the housekeeper had implored him. “The master was as hale and hearty as they come, rarely suffered so much as a sniffle. Why would he collapse after drinking barely half a glass of brandy? I feel certain it was poison. Lord Heward had brought him that bottle of fine French brandy—trying to worm his way back into the master’s good graces, I’d say. After dinner Mr. Maitland took the bottle to his Map Room to drink it. I found him there lying facedown on the carpet when I brought his tea.”

“But the physician determined his heart had failed?” Deverill asked.

“Yes, but it was not
Mr. Maitland’s
physician who pronounced the cause of death. It was Lord Heward’s. His lordship insisted, when he happened to return to Maitland House that evening. That alone was exceedingly queer. And then the bottle of brandy disappeared as well. I did not even think of it at the time—I was too struck with grief and too concerned for poor Miss Maitland to consider what his lordship might have done. But afterward, I began to wonder . . . had nightmares about it, to tell the truth. And once they began, I could not get the suspicions out of my mind. If Lord Heward killed the master to stop him from forbidding the marriage, what is to keep his lordship from murdering Miss Maitland after they are wed to claim her fortune solely for his own?”

Deverill’s hesitation had elicited an earnest plea from Mrs. Peeke. “Please, Mr. Deverill . . . You were the master’s friend. For his daughter’s sake, won’t you help me discover the truth? If I were to accuse Lord Heward, no one would heed me. He is a nobleman and I am a mere servant, an old one at that. But if you could somehow prove his lordship’s guilt or innocence either way . . . I know I won’t rest until I am certain that dear girl is safe.”

Deverill had agreed to investigate the housekeeper’s claims. Her conviction that Antonia was in grave danger was still merely a gut feeling, yet he’d learned to trust his instincts over the years, since they’d saved his life and the lives of countless others numerous times. And of course the housekeeper was right: His friendship with Antonia’s father alone obliged him to make certain she was safe.

More crucially, however, protecting innocents was his sworn duty. He was a Guardian, a member of a secret society that operated as a small, select arm of the British Foreign Office, performing missions far too difficult and dangerous for the Foreign Office to undertake.

The Guardians of the Sword functioned something like a modern force of mercenaries but with a higher calling: protecting the weak, the vulnerable, the deserving. Fighting tyranny. Working for the good of mankind.

Deverill had joined the centuries-old order nearly a decade ago. While battling pirates in the Mediterranean, he’d gained their leader’s attention—because of his courage and inventiveness, he was told—and so was invited into their elite ranks. Deverill had leapt at the chance offered him, not only in order to serve a noble cause, but perhaps more importantly, to avenge his own personal ghosts.

Since then, in addition to harassing Napoleon’s navy, ridding the seas of the scourge of pirates had been his prime responsibility, and in fact what had taken him to India this past year—to aid the huge and politically powerful British merchant enterprise, the East India Company.

Deverill believed fiercely in the Guardians’ ideals and considered serving the order his life’s calling. Samuel Maitland, although not actually a member, had also been a strong supporter of their cause, and had supplied all the Guardians’ ships for decades. Ergo, if his daughter was in danger, she deserved their protection as well.

It was through the Guardians that Deverill had initially come to know Maitland—by defending the company’s commercial vessels from Barbary corsairs. Shortly, however, Deverill had begun buying his own private ships from Maitland’s firm, for their remarkable speed and maneuverability, as had his American cousin and fellow Guardian, Brandon Deverill.

Brandon had spent the past two years during America’s war with Britain defending his country from the powerful British navy and protecting his shipping empire from their ruinous blockade.

But his cousin’s business issues would prove useful, Deverill reflected, for they would give him a legitimate pretext to associate with Antonia, and more notably, with Lord Heward, who was now a chief adviser of her shipping firm. Under the guise of untangling his cousin’s dealings with Maitland Shipping, he could pursue his much more crucial goal of investigating the housekeeper’s charge of murder.

Yet even if he disliked admitting it, one constant motive continued to drive him, Deverill knew. One deeper even than friendship or duty. His own personal vow to save those under his protection.

Absently he touched his chest above his left breast, feeling the savage, unsightly scar made by a Turkish blade. The scars still burned, doubtless because they were a physical reminder of his worst failure.

Not that he could ever forget. His dreams were still haunted by the agonized screams of his men. Men he had been powerless to save. His first crew, during his first captaincy. As their commander, he’d been responsible for keeping them safe, but he’d failed disastrously.

He wouldn’t fail this time. He would die first before he allowed any harm to come to Antonia.

Whether she knew it or not, she was now under his protection.

He might be required to put an end to her brilliant match, which would surely disappoint her and likely earn her wrath. But that was far better than seeing her fall victim to an unscrupulous fortune hunter who might eventually murder her to claim her inheritance.

Two

His naked body was magnificent. Heat and vitality throbbed from him with a dangerous beauty that made her breath falter.

Her heart hammering, Antonia watched as Trey Deverill moved closer, his jeweled gaze riveted on her. The next moment she was in his arms, his hungry mouth hot as it claimed hers.

His kiss was scorching and sweetly ravaging. Flooded by yearning, she opened to him, molding herself against his powerful body, clutching the hard muscles of his shoulders.

He drank of her mouth as his hands roamed over her skin, gentle and ruthless at once. His touch was dangerously, wildly sensual, shooting arrows of pleasure downward to her moist, feminine center.

Then his lips followed his hands, kissing the arch of her throat, her collarbone, her breasts, the blistering heat searing her flesh. Her head fell back, and she moaned in surrender, overwhelmed by blind desire. . . .

With a start, Antonia awakened from her dream, her skin burning, her body shivering with longing. In the dim light of early morning, she lay in bed, tangled in her sheets, aching for the elusive fulfillment that had drifted just out of reach.

Giving a sigh of frustration, Antonia rolled onto her back to stare up at the canopy overhead. The dream always ended the same way—with a disappointing emptiness that left her restless and unfulfilled.

She was hot and moist between her legs, her body feverish with the desire her vivid fantasy had aroused. Regrettably, that was all it was—sheer fantasy. As a girl she’d had lovely dreams of a dashing pirate who carried her off on a glorious adventure. Then she’d met Deverill and tasted his stunning kiss. From that point on, he had become the sole focus of her dreams. For four years now she’d imagined him making love to her, kissing her, caressing her, sweeping her away to a world of dark desire and searing pleasure.

Not that she had much experience to base her fantasies upon, Antonia thought sardonically. She knew in principle what it was like to make love, for Emily had told her. But she’d never felt the ecstasy of a man’s flesh filling her, burning deep inside her. Deverill’s flesh.

Her eyes closed on the memory of her dream. She was achingly aware of her own flesh beneath the fine lawn of her nightdress. Her tingling breasts, her peaked nipples, the throbbing need between her thighs . . .

Trailing her fingertips over the budded crests, she imagined Deverill’s masterful hands stroking her. The mere thought kindled a wild, sweet fire in her blood. He had large, strong hands, ruthlessly gentle and demanding at the same time. Much like his mouth. His incredibly arousing mouth . . .

Hearing the strangled moan she made, Antonia suddenly drew her hands away from her body and forced her eyes open. She was only tormenting herself by dwelling on him this way.

She might have no control over her dreams, but now that Deverill had returned to London in the flesh, it was imperative that she quell her wanton imaginings, or she would never be able to again look him in the eye.

With another sigh, this one of self-disgust, Antonia threw off the covers and rose to dress for her usual morning ride.

She was still feeling restless and out of sorts by the time she left the house, although the bright, sunny summer morning raised her spirits somewhat as she descended the front steps of the elegant mansion.