The Captain's Wicked Wager (3 page)

Belle felt as if she were floating on a cloud somewhere. Sated. Now she understood the word. She could feel Ewan’s breathing slowly return to normal. She had done something irrevocable, but she had enjoyed it. Relished it even.

Ewan raised his head to look at her and smiled. “Come to bed,” he said, sweeping her up effortlessly
in his arms. “To sleep,” he added in answer to her questioning look. “Tonight’s wager has been settled in full.”

He was awoken by the grey light of dawn creeping in through the gaps in the curtains. Sitting up groggily, he was startled to find an extremely beautiful naked woman lying asleep next to him. Then he remembered. Belle. Ewan groaned. He must have had far more brandy than he’d realised. He searched his mind for regret, but could find none.

She lay on her back before him, a picture to drive any man wild with desire. Lips swollen from kissing. Lids heavy and slumberous. Full ripe breasts. Hair strewn out on the pillow behind her. “Perfect antidote, I knew you would be,” he muttered to himself.

Slipping out of bed, Ewan threw on his robe and padded silently from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Isabella awoke to the appetising smell of fresh chocolate and warm bread. She rolled over in bed, wondering what on earth she had done to merit such an unaccustomed treat. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes and shivered with the cold, realising with astonishment that she was naked and not in her own bed.

“Charming,” a deep voice said.

Ewan was standing by the bed, holding a tray and smiling appreciatively at the vision of her black hair glinting through her powder and tumbling down over her back, her shoulders and her breasts.

Isabella grabbed the sheet, blushing furiously, images of the night before whirling through her mind
like leaves in a gale. She had behaved shamelessly. She risked a glance at Ewan, busying himself with the chocolate pot. He looked tired, but showed no other outward signs of last night’s events. It occurred to her that
she
must look different, changed somehow. Of a certainty she felt it.

Ewan handed her a delicate china cup patterned with dragons. Isabella took it gratefully, mumbling her thanks without meeting his eyes. She had no idea how to behave.

“I am no more familiar with the situation than you,” Ewan said, echoing her thoughts. “I don’t make a habit of letting women into my home. In fact, you are the first.”

He stood by the bed in a heavy brocade dressing gown, smiling mischievously down at her. In the light of day she could see streaks of gold glint through his copper mane of hair. The stubble on his chin was the same dark shade of copper as the hair on his chest. The animal magnetism which had drawn her last night seemed enhanced by his dishevelled state. Really, he was quite unfairly attractive.

“Belle?”

His voice interrupted her reverie. There was an edge of amusement in it which made her certain she had been staring. She met his gaze. “I beg your pardon.”

“I was asking if you regretted our wager.”

Isabella eyed him speculatively. “And if I said I did?”

He laughed, sure now that she did not, for there was no indication of either tears or recriminations. “And do you?”

She shook her head. “I had no choice.”

“You prefer the illusion that you are acting under duress. You will not admit you are enjoying yourself.”

“The only thing I am interested in is my money,” she said firmly.

“You are being less than honest, Belle.”

Her winged brows rose. Her mouth quirked. It was as if they were redrawing the battle lines for later, and she knew she had to muster every advantage. “I was your prize. I did as you asked, nothing more.”

Ewan remembered now what it was about her which had drawn him to her in the first place. Defiance in the face of adversity. A determination to win against the odds. He liked it. And in the luminous daylight, she was quite simply breathtaking. He was intrigued as well as aroused. “Let us call a truce for now. Have your breakfast, and then join me in the garden. You will find clothes in the chamber next to this one. My sister’s. She is recently married, and left them behind when she bought her trousseau.” He noted her sceptical expression. “I may have a reputation but I don’t lie, Belle, you may count on that.”

He disappeared into his dressing room. Isabella took her time, enjoying the rich hot chocolate, nibbling hungrily on the bread and butter as she pondered her own feelings. Had it not been for the extremity of her circumstances she would not have dreamt of entering into such an outrageous bet, but having done so she could not regret it one little bit.

She had secured the funds—that was surely all that mattered. Even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie.
Last night she had discovered something shocking about herself. She had relished every minute of what had taken place. The memory of it aroused her now. More shocking still was the admission that she wanted more, and with it the understanding that it wasn’t just the physical act she had enjoyed. She had pleasured herself before, but it had never felt like that. So intense. So gratifying. So primeval. Ewan’s touch was part of it. Having Ewan inside her was another part— and a very large one, she remembered with a saucy smile.

But it was more than that. It was seeing him wanting her. It was about teasing him and taunting him and flaunting herself in front of him. It was knowing she was desirable and desiring to be more so. A heady mix, made all the more complex by their sparring.

Power was at the root of it all. And confidence. She trusted him enough to expose her secret self to him, though she could not have said why. She knew he had done the same. He was a stranger, yet he was familiar. As if she had always known him and somehow forgotten.

It was with a renewed sense of anticipation that Isabella dressed in a robe
à l’anglaise
of pale blue muslin. With her coal-black hair free from powder, she looked much more like her true self. Last night she had crossed over into a new world. Or so it felt to her. She was surprised to see no evidence of the journey reflected back at her from the mirror.

Tripping lightly down the stairs, she let herself out of a side door and into the walled garden at the back of the house. It was clement for the time of year, with the
sun shining high in a pale blue sky scattered with puffy white clouds. A paved path meandered through formal beds, the edges bordered with lavender and thyme which brushed against her skirts as she made her way towards an arbour at the centre of a rose garden where she could see Ewan waiting.

He was looking serious, but rose to greet her with a warm smile she could not but return with one of her own. He was so handsome, and the day was so perfect, and Isabella was so glad to have escaped the worries and sadness of the last few months. She felt released. Free.

“I’m sorry, Belle, but there is something I must ask you,” Ewan said as they wandered arm in arm towards a small fountain playing in the middle of a lawn at the bottom of the garden. “What need have you for such a large sum of money?”

Isabella hesitated. “To pay off a debt,” she replied cautiously.

He raised his brows. “That is a lot of debt. May I ask how you incurred it? Surely, not through gambling. Despite your best efforts you had not the look of a seasoned gamester.”

“And yet, in a sense it is a gambling debt none the less,” she said sadly. “My father’s, originally. And now my brother’s.”

“Tell me,” Ewan said gently.

They had reached the fountain, a frothy confection of nymphs and seahorses disporting themselves playfully. Isabella sat on the stone basin, trailing her hand in the icy cold of the water. The urge to confide
in him was strong.

“My father was always a bit of a dreamer. Always full of hare-brained schemes to make our fortune. When my mother was alive she kept his reckless impulses in check, but she died five years ago and since then—well, suffice it to say he was not inclined to listen to my advice.”

“You mentioned a brother. Surely, he had some influence?” Ewan sat down beside her on the stone basin.

Isabella smiled. “Robin is my twin. I love him dearly. We are very alike to look at though not at all similar in character, I’m afraid,” she said with a rueful smile. “Robin had rheumatic fever as a child, which left him with a weakened heart. His delicate constitution combined with his natural inclinations make him even more unworldly than our father.”

“Leaving you to look after them both?”

“Not any more. Robin is married now. To Pamela, last year. She is a good wife, she nurses him devotedly. They moved to the country when Papa settled an annuity on them, his wedding gift. They are very happy.”

“So happy that they did not enquire how your father funded his gift, I gather,” Ewan said dryly.

Isabella looked at him in surprise. “You’re quite right, they didn’t. It was another of Papa’s schemes of course. His grand design, he called it. Said it would shape our future. He was certainly right about that.” She was silent for a moment, staring off into the distance. Continued in a curiously flat tone, as if reciting something by rote. “The scheme involved buying ships and speculating on the value of the cargo
of precious spices and the like they could pick up in the West Indies. I tried, but nothing I said could dissuade him. In fact, the more I begged him to back out, the more determined he became to prove me wrong. He borrowed an enormous sum—privately, of course No bank would have given him the money. He sailed with the ships. They were attacked by pirates. The ships and cargo were taken and Papa killed in the melee.” Isabella’s eyes filled with pain. “Poor Papa. He may have been foolish but he only wanted the best for us.”

She straightened her back and shrugged her head as if to cast off unwelcome thoughts. ”That was some months ago. As his heir, poor Robin inherited the debt, which is far beyond what could be recovered by the sale of his property. He has tried, God knows, to find some means of generating sufficient funds, but without success. Now we have run out of time. We have until the end of the week, or Robin will go to prison.” She swallowed, brushed impatiently at a tear. “The doctor has made it clear my brother would not survive the harsh conditions of prison. It is as good as a death sentence. So you see, I had to do something.”

“Does your brother know of your actions?” Ewan asked harshly.

“No, no, of course not. I will think of some tale to satisfy him, you needn’t worry.”

“He does not deserve you,” Ewan said, anger on her behalf warring with a kernel of guilt. With her hair unpowdered and her face free of rouge Belle looked younger and far more innocent than he had taken her
for last night.

“I won’t have you judge my brother,” Isabella said vehemently. “You know nothing of him. And I won’t have you judge me, either.”

Ewan disarmed her by kissing her hand. “I would not dream of judging you. You have my deepest admiration, Belle. It is myself I would judge.”

“I don’t regret last night if that is worrying you. I have already told you that.” Unwilling to have him question her motives further, for she was not ready to examine them herself, she gave him a challenging look. “Do you?”

Here at least he was on firmer ground. Ewan smiled. “Not if you don’t. I knew the moment I saw you that we would give each other pleasure.”

She blushed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Come on, Belle, you felt it, too, admit it.”

She shook her head, turning aside to hide her smile. “That is the second time today you have tried to make me do so, but I won’t. I needed your money. That is what I found attractive.”

He touched her, a finger on the shell of her ear. His voice became low and husky. “You wanted me as much as I wanted you. I felt it in your kisses,” he whispered, his mouth on hers. “And in your touch,” he said.

She brushed his hand away. “You are quite right, I did,” she said, looking at him with the determined tilt of her chin he already knew well. “It was not just your money I wanted, it was you. But not for the reason you think.”

“My instincts tell me you are about to launch an attack. Yet still I would know. Tell me,” he said with a
sardonic smile.

She crossed her arms defiantly. “It’s simple. I was curious. I am four and twenty, with no prospects. I do not want to die a virgin. I wanted the experience without creating an obligation. The terms of our bet made that possible.”

He had known, of course he had known, that he was her first. It was inappropriate, but he could not help it. He was gratified as well as confused. “You should have told me. I would not have…”

“What,” she interrupted, anxious to stall the guilt she saw looming in his eyes, “what would you have done differently? I knew the risks. I accepted the odds. I put up a creditable performance—at any rate, you seemed to enjoy it. That is what it was, though, a performance.” She shrugged with what she hoped was nonchalance and turned to go, but a strong hand on her arm wiped the triumphant smile from her face.

“I wonder, though, my lovely Belle, why you waited so long? Had you made your need for a candidate to deflower you known, any man on earth would have been willing. Yet you chose me. Why?”

She licked her lips nervously.

Ewan laughed. “Take some advice from an experienced campaigner and retreat while you’re ahead, Belle.”

Isabella glared at him furiously, but could think of no retort.

Ewan took her arm. “It’s gone one o’clock,” he said, his tone more conciliatory now.. “I find a night such as the last makes me uncommonly hungry. Let us
go in search of sustenance.”

With her nose studiously in the air and her temper simmering, Isabella walked with him back to the house.

But it was not in her nature to sulk, and over a repast of cold cuts and hothouse fruits, Ewan set out to charm her. Since he touched not on the personal, and his opinions happily coincided with her own on an astonishing number of topics, this he did very well. He had a dry humour and pithy wit which Isabella found most invigorating. He made her laugh. She realised it had been many months since she had done so. His tales of his army days were fascinating, recounted with a modesty and humour which made her warm to him all the more.

“You’re very self-effacing about your exploits,” she said teasingly…“I had heard you were quite the dashing hero.”

“I prefer to let my actions speak for me, rather than words,” he replied with a shrug.

“Tell me,” she asked, “what turned you into such an avid supporter of Mr Fox and the Colonists— Americans, as I believe they like to be called? Having fought so loyally for the King, it seems a rather paradoxical stance to take.”