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For a moment she was struck dumb, a rare occurrence. He was appalling, bewitching. She should slap his face, but she didn’t dare touch him.
He was watching her, and she would have given almost anything to see what lay behind his enigmatic expression. Was he going to let her go or take her back to that soft, enticing bed, cover her with his strong body, push that hard part of him between her legs, kiss her into senselessness…? Her entire body tensed at the thought, flooding with heat rather than ice, which made no sense. She wanted it. She wanted him to kiss her again, to touch her, take her, to give her no choice.
Had he read her mind? Could he see in her eyes the need that plagued her? He reached out one hand to cradle her face, his thumb gently caressing her skin, and she wanted to turn her face into that hand, to bury herself in his body, lose herself, forget everything. She held very still, unwilling to pull away, unwilling to go forward.
Finally he spoke. “If you won’t come to my bed then go to your own,” he said, dropping his hand and moving out of the way.
That wasn’t disappointment flooding her, she thought. It was relief, though she didn’t make the mistake of thinking she was safe yet. She picked up the bucket, tossing his ruined shirt inside. She edged toward the door, carefully, and now there was real amusement on his face, his eyes glinting in the darkness.
“Are you afraid of me, little girl?” he murmured. “The big bad pirate, plundering and pillaging? I’ve given that all up for Lent.”
She didn’t smile. He hadn’t truly dismissed her, and she was uncertain what to do. There was a long silence, and then he stepped back. “I’m going to bed,” he said, reaching for the fastening on his breeches. “You can stay there and watch me disrobe if you like. You’re no housemaid, and sooner or later you’re going to tell me who you are, and you’re going to be naked with me. Beneath me. Or above me, in front of me, any position I can think of. But for now you’d better run like hell.”
Finally, finally common sense hit her. And Maddy ran.
Shit. Shite. Shit. Shite. The words went round in her head, a litany of obscenity that would have pleased her no end if she weren’t so disgusted with herself. She’d never been sure which term she liked more, shit or shite. The stable hands had used shite with abandon, the sailors seemed to prefer shit, and Nanny Gruen had washed Maddy’s mouth out with soap the first time she’d dared utter it when she’d dropped a rock on her foot. In fact, she could still taste the nasty, almond-scented stuff, and she’d hated almonds ever since.
But it was a damned fine word, particularly when she’d made such a mess of things. And here she’d been so cocky, thinking she was doing such a brilliant job of her masquerade, when all she had to show for it was blistered feet and hands, a suspicious employer, and not a damned bit closer to the truth than she’d been when she’d left Somerset.
Not to mention the fact that she’d been ready to forget everything for the touch of those sure hands. Shit!
Nanny had warned her when she’d used the word damn or blast. She knew other words as well—her education had been very thorough—and there were worse ones she kept for special occasions, like the one the captain had used. But that word was dangerous, it conjured up physical intimacies, not anger, and she couldn’t use it. She really shouldn’t use any of those words. In fact Bryony, whose own language could get a bit salty, would often berate Maddy for her ability to curse, and she’d tried to behave herself, particularly when she was traipsing through society in search of a proper husband. Things had changed with her father’s death, and she’d been confused, hurt, and above all, angry. She was beginning to cherish those words she’d heard and hardly begun to use.
“Shit,” she said again, remembering the captain’s hands on her. How could she have been so stupid as to fall asleep on the captain’s bed, of all places? She had been so weary, and yet right now she was wide awake, tense and shivering with all sorts of conflicting emotions. Why couldn’t she remember what she was supposed to be? A maid never criticized the housekeeper or her employer’s friends and acquaintances. And lovers. The beautiful Gwendolyn Haviland must be his lover—after all, they were engaged, and how in the name of God could she resist such a devastating man?
How could anyone? Except that Maddy had resisted him, a small triumph in a debacle of a night. Obviously he was the center of her thoughts at all times—that was what she was here for. She needed to know what he did, what he thought, what he hid. He’d been a privateer, which was simply a socially acceptable term for a pirate. He would have killed when necessary, just as a soldier would. He would have faced death, and he would have laughed at it.
He didn’t believe she was a maid, despite her working so hard she’d fallen sound asleep in the midst of her duties. She’d let something slip, at some point, probably more than once. The problem was, she’d always been inherently honest, even to the point of tactlessness. She’d never been one to keep her opinion to herself, not unless it caused pain to others, in which case she could lie with the best of them. If there was something wrong, she dealt with it. She didn’t sweep it under the rug.
There was nothing she wanted more than to slam the seductive, sarcastic captain up against a wall and demand answers. She might not lie well herself, but she was very good at reading other people, and she would know if he told the truth.
She laughed, only slightly amused at the thought of her taking the tall, muscled captain in her smaller hands and forcing him anywhere, much less up against a wall. And if she had her hands on him, what would she do? She knew what would happen. He would turn her, push her up against the wall, and take her that way. It would give him the excuse, and she suspected that was all he needed.
He could be everything she hated in this world. A man so devoid of conscience he’d betray and murder a man who’d befriended him, and the devil take the hindmost. He was a reprobate through and through, the complete opposite of what she wanted in this life.
And the wretched truth was, she was drawn to him. Her honesty extended to herself. In the quiet of her room, away from his unsettling presence, she could admit it. His dark, intense eyes, his laughing mouth, the indecent gold of his skin, and yes, the strange, tattooed creature embedded in his flesh. She could still feel the weight of him atop her, the overpowering strength of him that was both comforting and terrifying. She also knew why her father had never described his favorite among the captains of his ships, never allowed her to meet him as she’d met so many of the others. Her father had known her better than anyone, known the wild streak that she tried to keep hidden. He knew she’d be fascinated.
This was a devastating weakness, and she could fight it, as she fought everything, but the sooner she found answers and left this house the better. She needed to get this over and done with. Yanking off her clothes, pulling at her corset, she fell onto the bed in her shift, too tired to search for her nightdress. She was going to find her way into the captain’s study tomorrow, by hook or by crook. At this rate she wasn’t going to last here much longer, and once she was sent packing there’d be nothing she could do, and a murderer might go free. No, she couldn’t afford to let things go any longer. Tomorrow she was going hunting.
Luca found he was smiling when his door slammed shut behind his supposed maid-of-all-work. He could have finished what he’d started on the bed—he knew women well enough to know he could have her, soft and willing beneath him, with just a trace more perseverance. She liked his kisses as much as he liked kissing her, which was a great deal, and he wanted her so badly his very bones ached with it. He unsettled her, disturbed and aroused her, just as she
did to him, and the resultant bed play might be quite remarkable. She was a spy, and a proper lady, for God’s sake, and he really shouldn’t keep her in his house.
But he was going to, at least for now. A game of cat and mouse could prove quite entertaining, and he’d been so bloody bored recently. His unwanted interloper was the best thing that had happened to him in months. In fact, since Russell had taken his command away and then shown up accusing him of thievery.
Now Russell's daughter was here, at Luca's mercy, and he couldn’t resist her. It was the fire in her dark blue eyes, the secrets she hid, the fierceness that drew him. She could have faced down the dreaded pirates of Madagascar without blinking—she was more than up to handling him even in his worst temper. According to rumor, she wasn’t even a virgin—why did he hesitate?
He wanted to teach her how to kiss him back properly, how to do other things with that lush, remarkable mouth. He wanted her secrets, her body, her heart and soul.
What the hell was wrong with him? How had one smallish female upset his carefully arranged plans?
He’d have Crozier get rid of her tomorrow. That was the smart thing to do.
Just dump her and find some strapping lass with no secrets to take her place.
Tomorrow. Miss Madeleine Rose Russell would be on her way. Absolutely. Tomorrow.
CHAPTER TEN
