The Scoundrel and I: A Novella (12 page)

“That is what everyone does when beset with challenges.”

“You don’t. You don’t lie.”

“I lied to a bishop today!”

“I lied to everyone for years.”

“No one knew?”

“Cob. And my first lieutenant.” He gestured to the logbook. “And now you.”

“
No
one else?”

“Bedwyr. And Westfall, commander I served under during the war.” His head was bent. “Seraphina, of course. The rest of our family, too, but they don’t think a naval officer needs to know how to read and write anyway.” The pleasure returned to his eyes. “Truth of it is, half of the time, he don’t.”

“Doesn’t.”
With a gasp, she bit her lips.

He laughed softly. Then his face grew sober again. “Are you disgusted?”

“Why would I be? Because the hero of the Bombardment of Algiers does not always dot his I’s and cross his T’s?”

“Bit more than that.”

“I am not disgusted, Captain.” He had overcome this to succeed. It gave her hope that miracles were possible. “Far from it.”

“If the Admiralty knew, they wouldn’t have given me a command.”

“Then it is a very good thing for Britain that the Admiralty did not know.”

“You’re not angry?”

“I have just said—”

“Angry that an illiterate fool can climb to the top of the ranks while you, clever, articulate, are trapped in the back room of a shop working for men who don’t appreciate you.”

Clever
.
Articulate
.

“I do not feel trapped. With each of Lady Justice’s pamphlets that crosses my table I am doing a service to the people of England.”

“You deserve better, Elle. You should be publishing pamphlets of your own, or books or what have you, not correcting others’ work.”

“I want to slap you for saying that.”

“For saying that?” He grinned. “Among everything I’ve said to you . . . and done?” The intensity returned to his gaze that now strafed the shoulder he had kissed the night of the ball.

“No one has ever called me clever before.” Her tongue had a will of its own. “Or articulate.”

“’Bout time they begin. Everybody. Friends, acquaintances, passersby on the street. You deserve it.”

Her lips twitched. “Passersby?”

“I’ll put an ad in the paper. Every soul who publicly declares you clever and articulate gets a guinea and a pint of ale.”

“You will bribe strangers to compliment me?”

“Whatever it requires.”

“Whatever it requires to accomplish what?”

“Whatever it requires to wipe the care from those pretty eyes forever.”

They stared at each other. An astonishing, powerful pulse seemed to course between them. Her heart pounded.

She snapped the logbook shut, shoved it onto the shelf, and moved across the room. Away from him. Away from temptation. Away from certain misery. Miracles did
not
happen every day, at least not to her. She refused to voluntarily compound her misfortune.

“If you will be so kind as to convey me to Brittle and Sons, Captain, I will be much obliged.”

“Can’t do that,” he said, remaining where he stood. “We’ve got the matter of fifty-three pieces of type to replace in the next four days. Rather, forty now.”

“No,
we
do not.”

“Yes,
we
do.”

“Captain—”

“Anthony.”

“Captain—”

“Call me captain once more, woman, and I’ll—”

“You will what? Keelhaul me? Or make me walk the plank?”

He crossed his big, muscular arms over his chest. “Been considering it.”

“Which?”

“Yes, you are a witch. But I don’t hold it against you.”

“That was
which,
as in—”

He chuckled.

Her teeth clamped together.

“You are so prim at times,” he said with such obvious affection that it wrapped around her and made her feel warm and safe and good. “Can’t resist teasing.”

“You are a scoundrel.”

“You say that so often I’m starting to think you wish I were,” he said in an abruptly deep voice. And then he smiled a smile that set off an explosion of heat inside her.

As if he knew what was happening in her body, his eyes changed.

She bolted for the door.

“By
God,
you’re difficult,” he said behind her.

“Fortunately for you, you need not contend with my difficultness any longer.”

“Difficultness isn’t a word.”

“Oh, look who’s Captain Vocabulary now. It most certainly
is
a word and—”

“You set every inch of every surface of my skin on fire.”

She spun around to him. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling jerkily.

“W-What does that mean?” she said.

“You feel it too.”

No, no, no
. “F-Feel what?”

“You’re stuttering. At the ball you kissed me.”

“
You
kissed
me
.”

“You kissed me back, and you’ve been pretending it didn’t happen, but it did.” He searched her eyes. “Don’t try to tell me this is only me.”

“Only
I,
” she whispered.

“What’s holding you back, Elle?”

Their vast disparity of rank. Her wary heart. Everything except the way she felt when she was with him.

“I want to go now,” she said upon a note of urgency.

For another long moment they stood entirely still, staring at each other as uncertainty crackled between them. Then he broke the paralysis, passing her by and moving toward the door.

Elle turned to follow. He swung around, grabbed her shoulders, and captured her mouth beneath his.

It was neither a short kiss nor a tentative kiss, nor really just one kiss. It was long, intoxicating, hungry, and it went on and on. Air was not necessary, only lips touching, caressing, needing, and hands finding shoulders, cheeks. His fingers speared through her hair, holding her to him as he consumed her lips. Her hands delved beneath his coat and spread over his chest, and he groaned and sought her deeper. They kissed and she wanted it to never end, to fly away to a place where this was everything, everything in the world here in his mouth, his hands.

Which was insanity beyond insanity.

She pushed him away. “I
cannot
kiss you. I—I must go.”

“Good idea.” He raked his hand through his hair and she ached with wanting to do it for him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “In a bachelor’s house. What in the devil are you doing here?”

“What am I—You brought me here! You
made
me come inside.”

“Out of my mind. I was
out of my mind
. Good God.” He ushered her toward the front door, and even the brush of his fingers upon her lower back made tendrils of heat slip all through her.

“You—” She looked up over her shoulder. “You are making me
go
now?”

“Yes.” The syllable was hurried. He paused and looked down at her, and alarm ricocheted through her. His eyes were bright, fevered. His perfect lips parted. “Unless you—”

“I
do not
.”

“Course you don’t.” His voice was gravelly. He pivoted again toward the door.

“What are—I—” Words would not form. “You—”

“What? I—”

“Why are you limping?”

“Not quite limping,” he said, somewhat strained.

“Then what—”

“A man can’t—that is, don’t like to say—I’ve—
Miss Flood,
” he snapped, as if he were on the deck of a ship, but huskily. “
Go
. Now.”

She drank in his profile and the rush of heat inside her was so astonishingly good. Her feet would not move. The next statement popped out of her mouth without her approval.

“I don’t want to go.”

“You
don’t
want to go?” He shook his head. “No. No. I’m certain you do. And I want you to go too. I’ll call Cob down. He’ll drive you home.” He opened the door, stepped back from it, and turned his face away. “If you please.”

“I want you to kiss me again,” she whispered.

His eyes shut and the gorgeous sinews on his fists bulged. “I pray you, madam.”

“Please kiss me again,” she said.

“Gabrielle—”

“Captain,
kiss me
.”

He slammed the door shut, seized her shoulders, and pulled her against him. “Certain?” he said over her lips.

“So certain that I wish it were already happening.”

It was more than a kiss. It was ravishment, pure and simple, although who exactly did the ravishing to whom was not in the least bit clear. His hands were all over her—on her back and arms and neck and her back again—but hers were all over him too. When he kissed her throat and tugged her earlobe between his teeth she allowed it. Indeed, she whimpered her approval and spread her hands on his chest, then slipped them down his waist to his sides, making herself drunk on the hard contours of his body. He was so male, so muscular, so perfectly formed and she needed to touch every part of him.

Then her breasts were in his hands. She didn’t know quite how it happened. But she encouraged it. It was the height of weakness to allow it, but it felt so good, so very good, the gentle cupping of his big strong hands and then—upon her gasp—the touch of his fingertips, the stroking, fondling, caressing her nipples to a madness of pleasure.

“You are beautiful, Elle. Your face. Your hands. Your body. Your breasts,” he uttered, his lips on her neck making her wild. “Beautiful. Perfect. Every part of you. Every inch of skin I’ve glimpsed and every curve I’ve only seen clothed.”

“I cannot breathe.”

“Dratted stays,” he murmured against her neck. “Let me help with that.”

He unfastened the hooks of her gown with remarkable speed. It gaped open at the back.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you breathe.” Where he tugged down her gown and undergarments his lips found her bare shoulder. Pleasure rushed through her.

“This is
not
helping me breathe.”

His hands were inside her dress now, moving down her back, his fingertips descending on either side of her spine, pressing inward, feeling her, memorizing her shape. Explosions of pleasure deep inside her followed his caress.

Clearing the stays, his palms spread over her lower back. Then lower.

She gasped.

His hands stilled. His breathing was hard.

“No farther, I promise,” he said roughly by her ear.

“
Yes
farther.” She reached back, covered his hand with hers, and pushed it down to her buttock. They both groaned and he took her mouth with his again. His palm was large and wonderful. Given his hand’s position of leverage, it seemed the most natural thing in the world next for him to draw her hips gently against his. And then not so gently. And then tightly.

Thigh to thigh, with his arousal hard against her, Elle shuddered.

“You feel good,” he said very roughly. “Like heaven.”

“So do you.”

Hand on her neck, then in her hair, then encompassing her jaw and tilting her face up, he kissed her, pulling her in and exploring her at once. She loved having him inside her, his tongue making love to hers, and his fingers around her behind. Clutching his sleeves, she felt his thigh come between hers and moaned when he urged the muscle against her. Trapping her hips between his thigh and his hand, he made her ride him. She sought breath; this mimicked mating better than anything she had felt, ever. And he was giving it to her, making her feel him, making her insane for more.

Then, suddenly, his hand was between them, between her legs,
on her,
touching her through her skirts. Air hitched in her throat. He stroked and the sweetest, hottest sensations tripped through her. Wild need collected. So swiftly, she throbbed. The ache was sublime, his caresses a mastery of restraint and encouragement at once, exactly what she wanted. Needed. Desperately,
desperately
. She rocked her hips, bearing down on him. She had never imagined this pleasure. Never
this
.

He groaned and his fingers went deeper. “Sweet Elle,” he whispered. “Whatever you do now”—he captured her lower lip with his teeth—“
don’t
lift your skirts.”

That was all it required. Everything burst, her pent breaths, her trapped moan, and the coiled pleasure under his hand. Cascading in shudders of heat, it seized her body, making her cling to him and cry out as he urged her through it.

When the final, stuttering sigh escaped her lips, he took her face between his palms and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling him with her whole body pressed to his and the hunger in his kiss.

“Shouldn’t have let that happen,” he said, his lips barely leaving hers to utter the words.

“This is—”

He held her mouth to his.

“This is a—” she tried anew, but he took her lips again, then again. She loved his mouth, his kisses, how he gave and took at once. She could kiss him forever.

“This is a moment,” she finally managed to say upon laughter, “when if you used a pronoun I would comprehend where I stand much more clearly.”

He lifted his head only enough to look bemusedly into her face. “You’re standing in my arms in my house. Rather, in my foyer, good God.”

She was smiling too widely. But she had never felt like this, like a hot, sated rag doll who could nevertheless lift off the ground at any moment and fly.

“
Who
should not have let that happen?” she said.

“
I
shouldn’t have let it happen, of course,” he said, his hands still surrounding her face, his arms still framing her shoulders, and the rest of his body making no indication that it intended to release her from entrapment against the wall any time soon. “You’ll never trust me again.” The intensity of distress in his eyes stole her breath.

She slid one hand inside his coat and felt all the taut muscle of him.

“You did not let it happen,” she said. “You made it happen, as you make everything happen that you want. For it, I am grateful.”

A decidedly roguish smile curved his lips. “Are you?”

She licked her tender lips and nodded. His gaze locked on her mouth and everything inside her got weak with fresh heat. His Adam’s apple rose and fell sharply.

“You’ve got to go,” he said deeply. “Out of my house. Now. Immediately.”

“That would probably be best.”

Swiftly he buttoned her gown as she straightened her hair, then he guided her outside with haste.

~o0o~

She allowed him to drive her home, but she did not invite him to enter the building. Before the door, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. The soft kiss made her want to sing.

The curate’s young wife had visited this evening, as she did once a week when Mr. Brittle required Elle to stay late at the shop. Tonight she had lit a candle in Gram’s room. It was beeswax, brought from the church so she could read aloud to Gram. Mrs. Curtis had left it because she knew Elle could not afford sweet, clean beeswax. She could barely afford tallow.

Blowing out the flame, Elle swallowed back the thickness in her throat. There was such kindness in the world. Without it, she and her grandmother would not have survived even until now.

“Were you . . . at the . . . shop?” her grandmother rasped.

“No, Gram.” She wrapped her hand around her grandmother’s fragile fingers. So little life crept through these limbs now. The sickness had wasted her, slowly, cruelly. That there could be in the same reality her grandmother like this and a strong, big, muscular man so full of life seemed utterly impossible. “Tonight I was—”

“With him.” Her grandmother’s whisper smiled.

“I kissed him. That is, he kissed me. Well, we kissed each other.” And touched and exploded in pleasure.
She
exploded. He exhibited heroic restraint.

“Tell me about him.”

“He likes to smile. And laugh. He is kind. Affectionate. And honorable.” When he wasn’t robbing a Prince of the Church. “He is a ship captain, Gram. Or he was until recently. An actual war hero.”

“He sounds wonderful.”

“He might be.” He was. Perfectly flawed and perfectly wonderful. “The other night, Gram, you said you thought I was happy. And I think it’s true. I am happy. But the most extraordinary thing is, I feel . . .”

“What do you feel?”

“Innocent.” Despite the kisses, and touches, and everything that she should not have done with him. “Jo Junior made me feel so dirty. So wrong.” As though simply caring for him were somehow her error. “But this, with him, it feels innocent.” It felt beautiful. “He makes me laugh, and he cares about people. He is such a good man.” Fear climbed up her throat. She laid her cheek down on the coverlet, facing away from her grandmother who always seemed to see through her. “Gram. I . . . I am . . .”

“Afraid of losing this happiness.”

Then Elle’s breathing stalled as her grandmother’s frail hand stroked her hair.

It had been
so long
. So long without caresses. No wonder she had fallen apart at his touch.

“I know you wonder why I have not yet brought him here to meet you.”

“Yes.”

“I cannot, Gram.” Her voice trembled. “When he goes away as he inevitably will, I cannot have the memories of him in this house.” Memories of his smiles and his laughter in these rooms. “I could not bear it.”

“You are strong, Gabrielle,” came the whisper in the darkness. “Stronger than you realize.”

Elle lifted her head. But her grandmother was already asleep.

~o0o~

Elle did not want to greet the new day—a day in which her grandmother was fading away and forty pieces of type were still missing—with a smile. But she could not help it. Smiles bubbled up her throat and onto her lips, refusing to be harnessed.

Bathing her grandmother, and then coaxing her to take a cup of tea and a spoonful of porridge, she kissed her and walked the three blocks to the shop. When she passed the spot where she had dropped the chase, she did a little pirouette.

Unlocking the shop door, she removed her bonnet, tossed her umbrella into the stand, and went to her worktable with a springy step. He had promised to call at lunchtime. He said he had an idea he would pursue in the morning, and then together they would contrive a solution to the missing type. She could not imagine what solution, but she trusted him—she trusted his outrageous daring and his determination—and she was willing to make the effort if it meant seeing him again. A solution must occur before the Brittles returned from Bristol in four days. It
would
.

When at half-past ten the door opened in the front office, she set down her pen and slid off her stool. Minnie’s employer never allowed her to leave the shop in the morning, but Esme or Adela sometimes managed to steal away for a quick cup of tea. Or it could be the captain—
early
—as eager to see her as she was to see him.

It was not Esme or Adela or the captain or even a customer. By the front door, Mr. Charles Brittle was folding his umbrella and removing his overcoat, and Elle knew that her briefly shining lucky star had abruptly set.