Page 20 of Against the Wind

His brother flashed white teeth in another smile, this one aimed at Kit. “I say, brother, are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“I’d rather not, but I suppose I must. And, please keep this encounter to yourself. These are unusual circumstances.” Mr. Powell reached back to pull Kit next to him, but he kept his arm protectively around her waist, the intimacy of the posture making her uncomfortable. “My lady, may I present my older brother, Captain Jean Nicholas Powell. Nick, the Dowager Baroness of Egerton.”

Nick stepped away from the doorway and came toward her. Though there was nothing proper about being alone with two men in near darkness, Kit held out her hand in proper fashion. The sides of the coat she wore fell away to reveal a slice of her expensive silver gown.

Nick bowed over her hand. Glancing up to see the scowl on his brother’s face, Nick gave his brother a teasing smirk and refrained from touching his lips to her fingers, which Kit was certain had been his intention. He rose and said, “My pleasure, Lady Egerton, and please forgive my comment about the stray. It was aimed at my brother, not you.”

“I forgive you, Captain Powell,” she said, as graciously as she could under the circumstances.

When it appeared his brother might continue the conversation, Mr. Powell said, “Ask no questions, Nick. Just tell me if the far guest room is unoccupied.”

Captain Powell nodded. “’Tis. And, of course, your room is always kept waiting for you, though you do not live here any longer. Our mother will have it no other way, though Father keeps insisting you’re gone for good.”

“Thank God for Mother.”

“A frequent saying of our sire,” the captain offered Kit as an aside.

“If I don’t see you before you sail, have a safe voyage,” Martin Powell said. “Oh, and I’m home to stay.”

Captain Powell reached out a hand, which his brother clasped with both of his own. “Happy to hear it, brother. Truly. Our mother will be pleased to know you’ve managed to survive the Corsican. She worries, you see.”

Kit had no idea what Mr. Powell’s brother referred to, but she suspected it was the war with France. She did know the Corsican was Napoleon. So, Martin Powell had been on the Continent? Had he fought with Wellington at Waterloo? He did not seem a soldier, more quick and lithe than strong and sturdy. There was nothing military in his bearing. But a long sojourn in France would explain his accent, which she’d noticed that first night they spent together. Then there were the French words he’d whispered as he made love to her. Yes, he was quite comfortable with the French language. Her body quivered at the memory.

As they left the entry hall and Martin Powell pulled her up the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder to see his brother once again leaning against the doorpost, still watching, smiling like he had a great secret. She hoped he would not share it. She could only imagine what he would say. But hope stirred when she recalled he was leaving in the morning for the Caribbean. And their parents had sailed east.

Martin Powell never let go of her hand, entwining his fingers with hers as his long strides ate up the corridor. Though she rather liked the feel, and remembered well that same hand caressing her body, she was becoming concerned about their destination and was tired of being treated like an errant child.

“You needn’t pull me so. I can walk.”

Ignoring her plea, he tugged her behind him. “Perhaps, but I am anxious to be alone with you.”

A feeling of nervous anticipation gripped her stomach. What was he planning? Then her thinking strayed again to the man they had left at the bottom of the staircase. Would he hear this exchange? “Your brother is a man of the sea?”

“Aye, my whole family. Merchant seamen.”

Ah. If Mr. Powell’s father and brothers were seamen, it explained why they lived so close to the Thames. From the Adelphi Terrace, one could easily travel by small boat to the ships docked further down the river. “And you?”

“Not for a long time. But yes, I once captained one of my father’s ships.”

Finally they arrived at the end of the corridor. He pushed down on the door handle and waved Kit inside. With some trepidation, she went. Stepping over the threshold into a large bedchamber, she could see soft tones of subdued elegance even in the pale light from the windows. A large canopy bed with pale gold and blue bed curtains stood prominently before her. Her anxiety increased.

Mr. Powell walked to the small table next to the bed and lit a candle. “I’ll find you something to wear.” He looked back at her. “My mother is of a size with you. You can borrow some of her things.”

“But that would not be proper.”

“Do not be silly. You heard Nick. She is gone for months, and if she were here, I assure you, she would insist upon it.”

“What are you planning to do with me?”

“That”—he faced her with a wry smile—“is yet to be decided.”

He walked to the fireplace and, crouching, struck a match to a well-laid fire. Then he rose, took off his cravat and tossed it aside before loosening the neck of his shirt. The light of the growing fire was reflected on the skin of his throat and the dark chest hair now displayed. Kit remembered the feel of that hair on her breasts, and her nipples tingled. What would it feel like to have her mouth once again on his naked flesh? She felt a sudden craving for the pleasure they had shared.

“Where are you sleeping?” she asked, breathless.

“Here, of course.” He slowly walked toward her, his eyes dark with desire.

She stepped back, though something deep within her urged her forward. And, there was that smile again. Kit was unnerved. Did he think just because she’d given herself to him once he could have her again? She had simply taken refuge in his arms and he had made her feel safe for the night, safe from Rutledge. No. Without the brandy, and thinking more clearly than she had the last time they were together, she had no intention of sleeping with a man to whom she was not wed. She perhaps wanted to feel safe again with him, but she was not willing to pay the price.