One Wicked Night (41 page)

Drex smiled, his grin deceptively pleasant. “Of course I can…with your help.”

“Oh, no.” Greg shook his head adamantly. “Absolutely not. You saved my life once, and though we’ve been friends for ten years, I am not willing to dig myself a grave for you. I’ve already arranged for you to meet an arms dealer and secured papers for you to dock here in London. Nor did I mind spying on Manchester, but I won’t assist you in anything this devious. You’ll ruin her for polite society and any sort of marriage.”

“If I don’t, and Ryan is still alive, he will die and Rory will grow up without a father, as Ryan and I did. I can’t break my promise to Chantal.” Dragging in a deep breath, Drex reached for his mug and offered, “Look, I’ll make it easy for you. You know her, right?”

“Yes, through Manchester, of course. And were she to disappear, she could—”

“I’ll make certain she can’t point the finger at you,” Drex assured. “Can you think of a social event where you plan to see her?”

“Manchester has decided to cut her season short, which can only mean she has done something beyond the pale, and will send her to a ladies’ school in Switzerland.”

“A ladies’ school?”

Greg smiled. “I told you, she is quite a hellion. Circumspect is the last word anyone would use to describe her behavior.”

Drex clenched his fists anxiously. “When does she leave?”

“Next week.”

“Does Manchester have any upcoming social engagements she might attend?”

Greg paused. “Tomorrow night. His political crony, Lord Hartford, will host a ball. But—”

“Perfect. Tomorrow night it is.”

“Drex, no. You will undoubtedly scare the poor girl. Lady Christina is high-spirited, I grant you, but far too sheltered for your—”

“I promise, I’ll be gentle.” Drex smiled mischievously.

Greg snorted in disbelief. “And I’m Henry the Eighth.”

“I won’t touch the girl.”

“That is irrelevant. Everyone will believe you did.”

“Lady Christina and whichever husband Manchester chooses for her will know the truth.”

A long sigh signaled Greg’s defeat. “I let you talk me into the most outrageous things.” He turned and shouted, “Another ale!”

****

The short, gruff man tossed a scowl over his shoulder. “When did ye say you made this appointment with the cap’n?”

“Several days ago,” Christina answered, calling on the acting skills she’d last used two nights past when she made her bow on the London stage. Beneath her cloak, she adjusted the tight collar of her carriage dress and pulled on the bishop sleeves clutching her wrists.

“And it’s personal, ye say?” the man prompted, frowning.

“Quite.”

He shrugged. “Watch yer step,” he advised from the dark bowels of the companionway. “It’s hard to see these here footholds when the sun’s goin’ down.”

Christina held in a sigh of frustration. Clearly, this man did not understand the urgency of her situation. In his defense, no one had ever threatened him with Swiss finishing school, where girls literally disappeared from polite society for years. She shuddered. He, a free-roaming sailor, had never been denied the opportunity to experience life. And she would not allow her grandparents to prevent her from experiencing hers. Aunt Mary awaited in the Bahamas and had offered to teach Christina all about her business.

The odd little man glanced over his shoulder. Anxiously, she gestured for him to go ahead. “Go on. I’m following.”

He trudged on, mumbling incoherently.

She continued to trail the narrow-backed man down the cramped companionway, her nose wrinkling from the stench of the Thames that permeated the ship’s damp wood.

As she’d paid a lad working the docks to discover, this ship was the only one leaving for Grand Bahama. She’d hidden since last night in a longboat beneath a greasy tarp slathered in animal fat and vowed to sail with this tub. Although Grandfather would probably never think to search for her among London’s seedy docks aboard a merchant ship bound for the Bahamas, she knew better than to underestimate him by waiting for a more optimal means of escape.

Christina’s shipboard guide halted at the end of a hallway, bringing her out of her reverie and back to the present. He knocked on the door before him.

“Who is it?” a deep voice, sharp with impatience, barked from behind the closed door.

His tone pierced Christina with a needle of doubt. Would he refuse her? Pulling the collar of her cloak up to cover cold ears, she lifted her chin. She couldn’t let him turn her away. Her future depended on convincing the captain to accept her as a passenger. Otherwise, years of a cold Swiss castle’s walls awaited. All because she’d spent a few trifling hours acting on a London stage!

“Cap’n, it’s me, Hancock.”

“I figured as much. What is it?”

“There’s a woman here. Says she’s got business with ye.”

“If I’d wanted a woman’s business, I would have had one last night.”

Christina gasped. The man had intimated she was a—

“Not that type of woman, Cap’n.” Hancock cleared his throat. “A lady.”

“That variety of female I have no use for,” he said in a hard-edged tone. “Get her ashore now. We sail within the hour.”

His words plummeted to the bottom of her stomach, along with her heart. She had to persuade him, had to stay on board. If she failed, her grandfather would ensure she surrendered her freedom indefinitely and never saw Aunt Mary again.

Hancock nodded. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

He faced her, his back pushed against the door, as if looking to add mettle to his spine. His puffy, wind-worn face clearly bore reluctance. “Ye heard the cap’n, miss.”

Reining in her panic, Christina stole a glance at the warped wooden door. He didn’t have time for her? Well, she’d insist that he make time.

A plan forming, Christina nodded tragically, eyes cast downward. “I understand.”

Hancock frowned suspiciously.

Ignoring that, Christina stepped aside. “Please, lead the way. It’s so dark, I shall certainly trip without your help.”

Hancock shrugged, then took the lead. “Follow me.”

She smiled before he turned to the ladder-like stairs.

Hancock stepped forward; Christina drew in a quick breath and whirled to face the captain’s door, white-gloved fingers clutching her valise. She clasped the cold latch and lifted. The door opened with a quiet click. She dashed inside.

The captain’s naked back, golden and muscle-hardened, filled her vision. She stifled a gasp at the snarling black and green dragon tattoo dominating one shoulder blade. Its open mouth breathed fire across the width of his back, to his other shoulder. The curling tail wound around a powerful biceps.

She couldn’t move, could not tear her eyes away. A tattoo? Dear God, what kind of a barbarian would have that arrogant monster permanently embedded into his flesh?

One without the worries or scruples of a gentleman.

Uncertainty assailed her. This man was the antithesis of all she’d known, spawned from an opposite end of the Earth. She knew nothing about his less-than-civilized world. Would she survive long enough to see Aunt Mary in Grand Bahama? Trembling, she shoved the dismal thought aside and glanced about his cabin.

An exotic, Oriental aura dominated the space, which looked half the size of her dressing room. A burning taper filled the room with a pungent musk. Her shocked gaze fixed on the dramatic austerity of the black decor, relieved only by the pale wooden walls. An ebony and emerald silk coverlet on his bunk boasted the same scaled symbol of fire and power as his shoulder.

He reached for his shirt and pulled it on, concealing the intimidating dragon from her view. She swallowed in relief.

Feet planted apart, broad shoulders filling his black shirt, he tucked the cotton garment into skin-tight, biscuit-colored breeches. “I told you I didn’t want to see you.”

Startled by his acknowledgment, she stammered, “But I must speak with you. Please. Five minutes.”

He whirled to face her. The sight rooted her in place.

A scrap of black silk stretched along the upper part of his square face, from brows to the bridge of his nose. She shivered. Only one type of man wore a mask: the dangerous kind.

The sight of his hard, bearded jaw arrested her next. A wall of power surged toward her as he stepped closer. Christina could not decide if she should attribute the feeling to the foreboding impression he made with black shirt, black mask, black beard, black eyes…or the displeasure thundering across the hard angles of his face. Then again, perhaps the sleek ebony length of his hair grazing his mammoth shoulders and the golden ring dangling from his left ear roused her unease. Either way, he was no one to trifle with; he’d made that abundantly clear without a word.

“W—why do you wear the…mask?” she stammered. “Oh, my… You hide your identity.”

“Hmm. Perceptive.” His low quip cut and didn’t invite further conversation. But she could not give up and return home. Life in Switzerland was much more abhorrent. And cold.

Hancock burst through the door. “Cap’n, I’m sorry. The vixen tricked me.” He turned to her, his look less than friendly. “Come on. The cap’n wants ye gone.”

A crooked smile curved the captain’s mouth as he waved the man away. Christina did not find his expression comforting.

“No need,” he assured, his gaze shifting to regard her. “I’ll handle her. Dismissed.”

The little man glanced from her to the captain, then back again, smiling now. “Aye.”

Hancock closed the door behind them, leaving them alone. In the ensuing silence of the small cabin, the captain scanned her with a thorough gaze.

She crossed protective arms across her chest and buried her apprehension. “I came to make you a proposition, Captain.”

“A proposition?” His already suggestive tone dropped to a purr that set her instincts on full alarm. He leaned his hip indolently against the small cherry-wood desk bolted into the cabin’s wooden floor. “Well, now you do have my attention.”

Christina gasped. The cur actually had the nerve to smile! She trembled, and he grinned like a well-fed cat.

They stood on opposite ends of the minuscule cabin—three steps from each other. The captain pushed away from the desk; his stride ate up one of the precious steps separating them. With her back at the door, Christina had nowhere to retreat.

She struggled for her next breath. The scents of salt, incense and man filled her nose. She forced herself to hold his stare, even as a tingling awareness of the captain rose inside her.

“I am talking about a business proposal,” she corrected. “And I will thank you to stop leering at me.”

An infuriatingly insolent grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “Don’t thank me; it won’t happen.”

He stepped closer. Closer still—only a breath away, a breath nearly shared. His gaze touched her face. The massive breadth of his chest rose a mere inch from hers. His presence swirled around her like a gust of hot wind. She found her gaze trapped deep in the intensity of his dark eyes.

“If you don’t wish to be leered at, don’t wander where you aren’t welcome.” His breath fanned across her cheek as he lifted a hand toward her.

Dear Lord, was he going to touch her?