Between A Rake And A Hard Place [Pirates of London Book 2] (5 page)

At nineteen, she was not exactly worldly, though this was certainly turning into an adventure extraordinaire.

“Climax?” Much more candidly than she normally would have, no doubt due to her current state, she asked curiously, “Whatever do you mean?”

Chapter 4

The angle of the light threw shadows on her delicate cheekbones and Christopher tried to concentrate on that rather than calculating how many steps exactly to the bed. He could circle the table, sweep her out of her chair, then maybe four strides.

It was the very last thing he needed to be thinking about, but then again, the source of his current state of unrest was gazing at him in entirely innocent question. At least the information that she’d been given a drug of some kind explained why she’d been looking at him in a singularly shy but absolutely provocative way during their meal.

Which he needed to ignore. His sins were many, but he didn’t seduce innocent maidens. Usually, he stayed as far away from them as possible.

However, he’d never met one quite this alluring. He sank a little lower in his chair to hide his growing arousal, his unruly body ignoring his quest for self-control. God preserve him from beautiful, all-too inquisitive virgins.

“What do you mean?” she repeated, a fine frown furrowing her smooth brow, her slender body relaxed in her chair, her golden hair a shining fall down her back. “I admit I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about.”

It didn’t help that though he considered himself a man who admired all kinds of women, he admittedly was partial to blondes and she was, in a word, extraordinary.

How the devil to answer her question? Since orgasmic culmination was a bit difficult to explain in his opinion, he was momentarily at a loss for words and that didn’t happen often. “It’s impossible to describe,” he said finally, his voice as neutral as possible. “And indelicate of me to mention it.” He indicated the porthole window. “Isn’t the moon lovely gleaming over the water?”

There. That was suitably polite and evasive.

A new, less volatile subject was in order. The moon seemed a decently innocuous distraction.

The speed of the ship had slowed, which told him that they were now well out to sea with no chance of further pursuit and the sails had been trimmed. The
Sappho
was indeed a remarkable vessel, and he hadn’t lied during his misdirection, the waves gleaming silver with the reflected light were a beautiful sight.

Unfortunately for him, his guest was as intelligent as she was lovely and the sidestepping of her question didn’t work. “It is my impression that women don’t really enjoy…well,”—she stumbled over the words—“if I may be indelicate also, their husband’s beds.”

Apparently he was doomed to have this conversation. The tendency of British society to try to keep young women as ignorant as possible when it came to sexuality was extremely irritating at the moment. “If the male in question is a selfish oaf, then I am sure they do not.”

“That is even more confusing.” The hint of reprimand in her tone was as charming as he found the rest of her. Prim, and yet with that overtone of sensual inquiry, and those long-lashed eyes staring at him in open question.

God help him.

If she hadn’t leaned forward to pick up her wine glass and the robe opened a bit so he caught a glimpse of the valley between her breasts, all might have been well. But instead a vision of her tied to that divan in the palace flashed into his mind, and he said rashly, “Sexual enjoyment for a woman depends usually on the sensitivity of her lover and it has to be experienced firsthand, Lady Cassandra.”

For a moment he thought she might not answer, and truthfully he didn’t know if he even wanted her to say anything more, but she murmured, “Then I will probably never understand, for I don’t think Lord Jameson is sensitive in the least.”

“Jameson?”

“My future husband.”

“I see.”

Lucky bastard
.

She shook her head. “I doubt you do. Tell me, Mr. Ives, are
you
a sensitive lover?”

This situation was more dangerous suddenly than stealing into the seraglio.

However, he made his living by taking risks, though usually he listened to the inner voice that warned him when it was time to flee. Unfortunately, that voice was currently being stifled by his uncomfortably rigid cock, and the slight suggestive tone of her voice made matters worse, not to mention the question itself.

He should have dissembled, but she was entirely too beautiful, and he was experienced enough to know when a woman was attracted to him, though in this case, she might just be feeling the effects of whatever elixir they’d forced her to drink. “So I’ve been told,” he said softly, looking into her luminous violet eyes.

“I…I thought so. You seem as though you’d be competent at whatever task you might set out to do.”

Competent? There was a word that would challenge any man.

He shoved himself to his feet. The faster he left the stateroom the better. “If you need anything, Lady Cassandra, ring and one of the crew will come to your assistance.” He bowed, and quickly gained the door, whipping it open and stepping outside to take a cooling lungful of air. His taut body took issue with the change in venue, but then again, self-preservation was also a powerful force and it was not in the best interest of his future to stay a moment longer. Or hers, either.

Maybe if she hadn’t been innocent.

Maybe if she hadn’t been betrothed.

Maybe if bedding her didn’t involve a myriad of complications he didn’t need in his life.

Besides, he couldn’t be sure if her capitulation to a seduction would be genuine this evening, so that ended the debate. His honor was slightly tarnished, but it still existed. The beauteous earl’s daughter had been through quite an ordeal.

The sea breeze brushed his heated body, helping a little, and he saw that a dark figure stood at the bow of the ship. The wink of glass shone as Marcus lifted his drink to his lips. When Christopher joined him, his friend continued to stare over the waves, not glancing over, a faint smile curving his mouth. “They’ve got wagers going below decks on whether or not you’d stay with her. Most odds favor the charms of the delectable Lady Cassandra to keep you in that cabin all night.”

Christopher leaned against the railing, his grin more of a grimace. “And how did you place your money, my friend?”

“I am going to win quite a nice purse.” Finally, Marcus turned. His dark eyes gleamed. “I know you better than most. Your rakish reputation aside, you are too far-sighted than to touch the tempting—and I concede she is—young lady. The ramifications would at least damage your hard-won reputation as a man who can be trusted to do a job with methodical efficiency. The earl is influential, and you are not that stupid.”

“She’s been given some sort of drug,” he conceded succinctly. “I should have known because she didn’t blink an eye at jumping across a daunting distance to the roof, nor did she resist when I arrived to whisk her away, even though she had never seen me before. I expected at least somewhat more of a frightened maiden, so I can thank the Sultan’s desire for a pleasurable evening for a smooth rescue. Whatever they gave her lessened her inhibitions to a startling degree.”

Marc’s brows rose, his lounging pose negligent. “And you left her anyway, removing yourself from temptation? My congratulations.”

“I retract some of the disparaging comments I have made about your intelligence in the past,” Christopher said wryly. “You are very astute. Precipitous flight is sometimes the best course.”

His companion laughed. Marcus Atherton was a friend from Cambridge, where they’d met by virtue of their disdain for the hypocrisy of the snobbery of their peers. Marcus was the illegitimate son of a duke who deigned to acknowledge him enough to pay for his education, and Christopher had ties to the aristocracy himself through his father, a baron, but he was the youngest of three brothers and had needed to learn to make his own way in the world.

They’d recognized in each other on sight a mutual instinct for survival. That had been a saving grace as they had navigated the somewhat dangerous waters of first the young bloods who thought themselves superior in breeding and fortune, and then the equally haughty ladies of the social circles of the
haut ton
. The Peninsular War had actually suited them both as they’d served behind enemy lines, and it had given them…special skills.

Like avoiding imminent danger.

“You are wise yourself upon occasion,” Marcus murmured, gazing out over the silvery waves, the scythe of the moon above. “Tonight being an example. Deliver her to her father, Chris, collect the reward, and remember you’ll always have the memory of that delectable backside for the rest of your life.” Then he chuckled softly. “I know I won’t forget it anytime soon.”

And Marcus hadn’t had the pleasure—or maybe it was just plain the misfortune, for Christopher had a feeling he was going to be haunted by the vision for quite some time—of seeing her nude, displayed in lush offering as a symbol of sensual pleasure…all silken hair and smooth skin; woman incarnate.

He shook it off. After all, there was a world of willing women out there, and she was not available. Still, he muttered, “The sooner we make port, the better.”

* * * *

She had the most unusual dreams. She was in Capri, sailing through the grottos, the soft motion of the water soothing, the sky a glorious blue, warm breezes caressing her skin. Fish in brilliant hues swam in schools beneath the boat, flashes of color in the azure pools, and birds called softly overhead. It was idyllic, magical, and she lay back and closed her eyes, the sun on her face.

The sun was not a dream, Cassandra realized as she came awake with a start. Slanting light came through a round window to her right, spilling across the coverlet and the rich rug. She was tangled in the sheets and an over-sized robe, a momentary confusion making her panic, but then it all flooded back.

The palace. Rooftops. A fire. The ship. Mr. Ives, who was an enigmatic figure if there ever was one, and then she didn’t really remember anything except him leaving the cabin abruptly and then suddenly being very tired.

If the position of the sun was any indication, she had slept a long time. At some time during her slumber someone must have come in for there was a tray on the table with an ornate silver pot, a beautiful porcelain cup and saucer and next to it a carafe of water. Also there was a napkin folded over what she discovered to be a bowl of a variety of pastries and some dried fruit.

She rose and went behind the screen, washed her face and took care of the necessities, and then returned to pour a cup of what proved to be very strong coffee, a taste she was still struggling to acquire. She diluted it with cream and stirred in several lumps of sugar. Sipping it, she gazed out the porthole. It was clearly a beautiful day, the sun holding a hard brilliance she didn’t recall ever seeing in England. Though she’d always wanted to travel, the urge to visit exotic places had been lost with her abduction.

Once home, unless word of her adventures somehow leaked out, she would duly go back to planning her wedding. Of course, there were prisons of all kinds…maybe the priggish Lord Jameson would decline to marry her after all if there was a hint of scandal attached to her name. It was a rather encouraging thought, which was startling. She’d known she wasn’t anxious for the match, but perhaps she was more opposed than she realized.

A firm knock interrupted her musings, and Cassandra started, nearly spilling her coffee. For a moment she thought of refusing to answer it because she was clad in nothing but a borrowed dressing gown. Then she remembered that there was nothing else for her to wear, this wasn’t a London drawing room, and as someone had obviously come in while she was sleeping, the knock was a courtesy, nothing more.

Oddly enough, she still felt safe.

To her surprise, when she got up to open the polished door, Mr. Ives did not stand there, but instead it was the one he’d called Marcus, his tall form silhouetted by the late morning sunshine. He sketched a short bow. “Sorry to disturb you, my lady, but Gaston sent me to inquire if you had a preference for luncheon.”

“Gaston?” She blinked, modestly clutching the robe closed, though that was no doubt a bit too late considering their precipitous ride together through the city.

“The chef. He’s an ogre. A despot. A demon.” Marcus smiled, leaning one broad shoulder casually against the doorframe and elevating a brow. “But I understand why he is most determined to please such a lovely lady and I am willing to do his bidding as long as he continues to cook. I assume you enjoyed your dinner last evening?”

She had to tilt back her head to look her visitor in the eye. He was even taller than Christopher Ives, by a few inches at a guess; his hair also jet black, but in his case falling sleekly to his shoulders, and she could see by the exotic stamp on his features that his dusky complexion was not entirely due to the sun. Handsome by the standards of any class with angular features and sensual mouth, his eyes were a midnight hue and framed in thick lashes, and there was insouciance in his smooth tone that caressed as if he’d touched her. He was dressed in polished boots and dark breeches, and his white shirt ruffled in the breeze. The contrast to his bronzed skin was striking, and so was the flash of his smile.

No, definitely not a London drawing room
.

“I…I did,” she stammered, not certain what to do next. Had she been at home in Mayfair, she would of course instruct the footman to invite him in, but she was half a world away, there was no footman, and blast it, she was about as out of her element as it was possible to be.

“That’s why we suffer his moods.” Marcus gave a theatrical sigh. “I am captive to his roast capon, I admit.”

She laughed. It was impossible not to. “Is that what you wish me to request?”

“I wish you to have your heart’s desire, Lady Cassandra.”

His husky tone made her blush as she recollected how closely he’d held her as they had galloped together with such reckless abandon through the walled city.