Elizabeth Boyle (88 page)

Her home was the sea.

But Julien’s life was different. That she knew. And she couldn’t help but think there was no room in it for her.

Still, she loved the little attentions he gave her, drawing her into the conversations, asking her questions about sailing, bringing her small presents.

Gifts a man brought a lady.

First it had been a tortoiseshell comb. To hold her hair out of her eyes when she was on lookout duty. Next came a blue ribbon, which he claimed matched her eyes.

Why a man kept such trinkets about, Maureen could only speculate, but she was sure they were meant to entice a lady into doing unspeakable things.

She’d accepted his gifts and wondered how long she’d have to wait for the unspeakable part.

And a few nights ago, as he’d been about to leave the
Forgotten
after a long evening of dining, drinks, and tall tales, he’d caught her in the passageway, just the two of them.

She had thought, half-hoped, he was going to kiss her right there and then. For she’d spent most of the night staring at his lips and wondering how they would feel pressed to hers.

Instead, he’d grinned and leaned forward until his warm breath caressed her ear. “The next time I come over, I’ll bring you a dress,” he said. “A dress you can wear for me.”

“I won’t put it on,” she’d told him. And for the first time in her life, she’d even batted her lashes.

He grinned at her, his gaze roaming from the top of her head down to her bare feet. “Yes, you will, Reenie.”

“And why would I be doing that?” she’d asked, her heart hammering in her chest, her legs suddenly feeling like the cook’s bread pudding—wobbly and not too set.

“Because it is what I want.”

“And what about what I might be wanting?”

“Oh, that can be taken care of right now, you little sea witch,” he whispered into her ear. And without a moment’s hesitation, he’d done exactly what she’d wished and kissed her.

His lips had touched hers almost reverently, the gentle pressure sending shivers down her spine and arms. Her mouth sprang open in a soft sigh, and his arms wound around her neck and waist, pulling her closer to him.

She’d never been kissed before, not like this.

As if he knew, he kept his kiss contained, but she could feel the fire in his blood burning just beneath the surface. He wanted her, and not just for kissing.

The notion startled her, yet she felt her own body melting to his, answering for her untried heart, begging for his touch and kiss.

One of his hands slowly stroked the small of her back, while the other worked its magic at the nape of her neck. He’d pulled the ribbon from her hair, the blue one he’d given her. Her hair, which she’d so carefully arranged, came tumbling down in a wild mess.

She thought to protest but heard the sigh of delight in the back of his throat as he pulled his fingers through the long coils.

She swore right there and then to never tie her hair up again. Not if de Ryes was around.

And just when she thought she could no longer stand the torment of his touch, when she thought she would lose all reason and turn as wanton as any dockside baggage, the door to her father’s cabin began to creak open.

They broke apart like guilty children caught stealing tarts. Julien backed down the corridor into the shadows, where he could remain unseen.

“Is that you, Reenie?” her father called out.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, smoothing out her shirt and pulling her hair back.

“Haven’t you got this watch?” He stepped out of his cabin and into the hall, eyeing her with a speculative glance.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I was just going up.” She motioned toward the ladder.

“Well, get on it, lassie. I need my best lookout up there. There’s a moon tonight, and I don’t want to be taken unawares.”

“Aye, sir.”

He nodded to her and turned to go back into his cabin.

“Sleep well, papa,” she called to him.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said over his shoulder. “And Reenie, tell de Ryes there to go back to his own ship.” With that he’d chuckled and closed the door.

D
uring the carriage ride home, Maureen stared out the window and wondered at her own stupidity, while Lady Mary prattled on about their triumph at Almack’s.

“And both Lady Wilcott and the dowager came over to me to ask about you. I hadn’t seen Eliza since … well, since before I married the Captain. But oh, she looked jealous when we were interrupted seven times by young men seeking introductions to you. How many requests to dance did you turn down?” The lady didn’t wait for Maureen’s reply, rather continued with barely a pause. “Fourteen by my count. The dowager almost went into apoplexy over your success, especially when my friend, Lady Dearsley, came over and pointed it out. Oh, the dowager tried to tell me that it was because her granddaughter is too modest to draw attention to herself, but then, one look at Miss Wilcott tells the entire story, doesn’t it? The poor girl favors her father’s side of the family—an exact replica of the old dowager.” Lady Mary sighed. “You outshone everyone.”

Maureen let the curtain fall back into place and smiled at the lady, her memories of the evening far different.

She could hardly call the night an unqualified success. She’d let de Ryes go.

How could she have been so foolish?

“And did I tell you we’ve been invited to a soiree Friday night? The invitations are quite exclusive. Oh, this is exactly how I always imagined it would be to have a—” This time the lady’s chatter stopped abruptly, as if she realized how close she’d come to revealing such a secretly held desire.

Maureen knew what she would have said if she’d finished her sentence.

… to have a daughter.

But Maureen wasn’t her daughter, not even the goddaughter everyone thought her to be.

How she wished she could join in Lady Mary’s triumph, forget who she was, forget de Ryes. Pretend she was nothing more than a daughter riding home from her first outing into Society. Have a woman like Lady Mary beaming across at her with motherly affection and pride.

But that was not to be. Those dreams weren’t meant to be a part of Maureen’s life. How would she even know what motherly regard felt like? Her own mother had died of yellow fever when Maureen was but three. And Aunt Pettigrew, well, she was a dear soul, but she hadn’t a maternal bone in her body.

Now, as Lady Mary’s make-believe fell away, Maureen regretted the loss of a mother she’d never known, much as Lady Mary’s face told her that her newfound “godmother” feared the day when this masquerade would end.

But Maureen never underestimated Lady Mary’s resiliency. In a matter of moments, the dear woman had settled back in the seat of the hired carriage, as if the cracked and stained leather were royal velvet, obviously choosing to relish every moment of her renewed social position. “Now, tell me about dancing with Julien D’Artiers.”

“With whom?” Maureen asked, her ears perking at the sound of Julien’s name, connected as it was to the unfamiliar surname.

“Julien D’Artiers. The man you danced with. I thought you were going to turn down all your offers, so imagine my surprise when I saw you out on the floor with
him
.”

Julien D’Artiers
. So that was de Ryes’s London name. At least he’d kept the Julien part. She wondered if D’Artiers was his real name or another
nom de guerre
.

“Yes, well, Mr. D’Artiers left me little choice.”

Lady Mary clucked her tongue. “I suppose I should be furious that he didn’t seek a proper introduction before he whisked you out on the floor. From what Lady Dearsley has told me, there seems to be no limits to what that man can do to the rules or the boundaries of appropriate conduct and get away with it. Why, it is scandalous.” The lady looked anything but horrified, more like delighted. “Is he as wicked as they say? Whatever were you two discussing?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Maureen said. “I found him quite annoying and told him so.”

“Oh, how delightful,” her companion said, rubbing her hands together. “Why, he’s considered the catch of London, and if you turn your nose up at him, why, you will be the next Original before the week is out. You’d never catch that dull Miss Wilcott calling Julien D’Artiers annoying.”

“I hardly think the Lord Admiral is doing all this so I can become the
ton’s
next Original.” Maureen didn’t like the direction in which this conversation was headed.

But even worse she didn’t know if she liked Julien being considered a catch. Not that she cared, but they were after all still married. Obviously, such a small fact didn’t matter to him. The heartless cad!

Then again, what would his beloved
ton
say when they found out who he truly was?

An American privateer and spy.

She smiled to herself. The idea of toppling him from his lofty perch only added to her satisfaction. It also meant he wouldn’t be very hard to find when it came time to betray him.

When
?

What was she thinking? One night at Almack’s, one dance with Julien, and she was becoming as fanciful as Lady Mary!

This wasn’t a matter of biding her time. She had the lives of her crew to consider. While they were locked in the cold and damp hold of her ship, eating whatever scraps their guards deemed worthy fare, she was partaking of three meals a day and sleeping on a feather mattress.

First thing tomorrow she would send a message to the Lord Admiral and tell him she had, indeed, found Captain de Ryes and be done with this entire business.

But even as she made up her mind, Julien’s warning about the Lord Admiral haunted her.

…
don’t trust that man. It won’t prick his conscience to betray you any more than it did when he consigned your father to life on a prison hulk.

Her father in the Royal Navy, much less court-martialed or ever having spent time on a prison hulk? Why, it was too ridiculous to even consider.

No, Julien was lying. As he’d lied about everything he’d said tonight, including that he’d never stopped loving her.

As if he ever had to begin with.

The arrogant bastard probably thinks I won’t have the courage to do it
, she fumed. No wonder he walked out of Almack’s as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Oh, hand him over she would, first thing in the morning.

“Ah, yes,” Lady Mary was saying as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of her little house. “Tonight was a triumph that will be envied by every mother in Almack’s and all the ones unable to get their daughters vouchers. You were the only one with whom Mr. D’Artiers chose to dance. Whether you like it or not, you’ve been chosen. Tomorrow morning will find us buried in invitations, just you wait and see.”

Maureen settled into her bed, but sleep appeared as likely as de Ryes owning up to his sins in the morning paper.

Julien de Ryes
. She crossed her arms over her chest.
The wretched, base-born fiend
. Soon she’d be well rid of him.

Still, she found it wasn’t so easy to dismiss him from her thoughts. His words whispered over her, as if he lay beside her, held her close.

Reenie … I never stopped loving you
.

Pulling a pillow over her head, she tried to muffle the devilish murmurs.

Instead, she found herself back at Almack’s, dancing with Julien. His hand cradling her elbow, caressing her like a secret lover. The enticing sound of his voice edging past her sensibilities and calling to her long-unmet needs.

And if her tortured thoughts couldn’t get any worse, she saw herself stroking the breadth of his shoulders encased in his perfectly tailored dark jacket.

Her wayward imagination carried her from Almack’s, far away to the West Indies. She stood on that distant beach, pulling his coat away to reveal the muscles and strength of a man who sailed the seas.

A body she’d touch and claim and kiss—

Blast and curse
, she thought, tossing the pillow aside and flopping back and forth until she found a somewhat comfortable spot.

She wondered what the rest of the peevish little misses at Almack’s would think if they saw Julien naked, as she had? Would they be as reckless as she had been and throw themselves at him?

With that disturbing thought, she yanked the counterpane up higher under her chin and studied the water-stained ceiling overhead.

She had too much to do tomorrow to spend the night memorizing the blemishes in the Johnston’s’ leaky ceiling. She needed to sleep.

Tossing once more, she turned to her tried and true method of falling asleep—planning Julien’s hanging.

The images always gave her comfort and usually brought on a restful night’s sleep before she could even get to the crack of the rope as it went taut over his jerking body.

So pushing aside the images of soft Caribbean breezes, whispered words, and gentle caresses, she followed the cart hauling de Ryes to Tyburn. She joined in with the cries and insults slung by the bloodthirsty crowd, jeering with the best of them. She watched him, clothed in tatters, mount the stairs.

Coming to her favorite part, she reveled as his features whitened and then grayed with an unholy fear as he beheld the rope before him, the instrument of his final reckoning.

Even as his knees buckled and she watched with delight as the hangman’s assistant prodded him none-so-gently forward, she felt the welcome oblivion of sleep spread over her, the restful respite that always came in knowing that justice would be done.

But this time in her dreams, she found something entirely different.

She found memories.

M
aureen lay tucked in the bowsprit of the
Forgotten Lady
. With the ropes cradling her back, she stared up at the clear stars twinkling in the night sky. Anchored close to shore, she could hear the soft hiss of the gentle waves as they lapped against the white sand beach of the palm-studded cay. There was only the barest sliver of a moon, so the stars glittered like diamonds against the inky backdrop.