Her Favoured Captain (4 page)

  
If she could remain in his arms forever,
his eyes looking into hers, she wished the answer could be yes, though well
aware such could never happen. “I trust you, and perhaps foolish in doing so.”

  
“Listen, and listen good.” His lips touched
hers, tender light, but momentary. “Whatever happens in the next three weeks,
do every thing within your power to delay official announcement of your
betrothal to Moorby.” His lips came to hers, a kiss potent in deliverance,
breath knocked out of her. Yet, in letting slip her lips from his, he was
nonetheless in full sail. “Trust me, I can help in this matter, but I need
three weeks grace, at least three weeks.”

 
 
“How, how can you, a buccaneer, see me safe from Moorby’s intentions,
and what of Ned?”

  
“I have connections in high places, and Ned
too will benefit.”

  
“If this is so, then I will be forever in
your debt.”

  
He chuckled. “That you will, my lady, and I
perchance able to secure payment in kind.”

  
She blushed, for the flush to her cheeks
was nothing less than hot-tide of desire, though her tone cutting to allay true
feelings. “Then you would be no better than Moorby.”

  
He laughed, a hearty laugh. “I had in mind,
meat, good wholesome beef fresh from pasture.”

  
“Oh, I quite thought
 
. . .”

  
A kiss to silence her was enacted upon so
swift and intoxicating than the last it afforded twice the thrill. She fought
his every attempt to persuade her lips to part and succumb to plunder of
tongue. His eyes warned of mischief, his whispered voice teasing the senses.
“You think me a rogue, I may as well act the part.” She had not expected him to
roll over and crush her beneath him, nor kiss with such passion it compelled
her to surrender, and fully give as much as take. With skin of neck left
lusting his tongue, flesh of upper breast tingling with desire beneath his
lips, she delighted in his touch.

  
“Am I not to be stopped,” he enquired, a
fleeting kiss to cleft of breasts, “nor chastised by your sharp tongue?”

  
“I fear you take advantage,” her reply,
heart all a flutter, “and I at your mercy.” Was this how it would be to lie
abed with a man, to feel something inside so wilful and wonderful and pleasure
seeking that it could not be controlled? “I trust you will be considerate and
most tender in having your way with me, albeit I your captive.”

  
A strange breeze suddenly whipped up sand
and dust, and waves slapped the shoreline. “You cannot mean . . .” He glanced
skyward, neither aware a storm had brewed whilst she entranced by her buccaneer
and he intent on stirring her senses. “We cannot stay here, there’s no
shelter.” He rolled away from her, grabbed his belongings and scrambled to his
feet. Hand outstretched, his tone became most urgent, “Come with me, now, to
the ship, before a deluge soaks you to the skin.”

  
“I cannot go aboard with you. I must return
home, or servants will be sent to find me. Ned might even come himself, for he
knows I love walking by the creek.”

  
“Then we must get you to the bridge by
boat.”

  
They were not alone in their haste, for as
he hauled her hand-in-hand toward the rocky outcrop a rowboat came into view
from behind the grey mass, its bulk hauled by seamen to the water. Once the
boat afloat they began clambering aboard, and in seeing their captain a lady
alongside they waited before pushing off and away.

  
Her buccaneer yelled, “Upstream Bryant, as
fast as able,” his voice thrown back at them by turbulence of wind and rush of
incoming tidal swell. The young man heard every word or lip-read, for he leapt
to his feet and stepped past men to stand in the bow.
 
Her captain threw his belongings aboard, handed his sword to one
of his men, and further said, “There’s a bridge beyond the bend, so head
starboard to steps,” and before she knew it he had her in his arms wading
through water, her on board and him clambering behind her.

  
Huddled between her captain’s knees she
clung to them, his chest against her shoulders his arms about her loose but
comforting. Bryant she assumed to be a young officer, for he stood in the bow
not a backward glance at four oarsmen, his balance remarkable, his voice thrown
forward on the wind.
 
“Come on, backs
into it men. My Port, Pull . . . My Port, Pull.” She watched the oars to left
side of boat cutting the waves, the oars to right barely skimming the water,
then Bryant countered with, “All down, and heave, heave.” The oarsmen settled
to steady rhythm, the boat moving fast with the tide, Bryant’s voice continued
dipping and rising in rhythmic response. “Heave, ho. Heave ho.”

  
The oarsman nearest to her smirked and
winked and addressed his captain in deep sea-dog timbre, “Goodly voice, Cap’n,
has our young officer.”

  
“Lieutenant Bryant, to you, Mackerfield.”

  
“Sir,” Mackerfield’s response, his body
weight heaving backwards then sliding forward with ease of skill and arms laden
with muscle.

  
It seemed rather odd that a buccaneer
captain should be so formal about terms of address. Obviously his naval past
lingered and his ship tight run in naval tradition. It would be improper to ask
questions in the presence of his men, and come the morrow, out of pure
curiosity, Emerald Lady Penhavean would if possible delve a little into his
seeming formal stance toward his crew.

  
“Almost there, Emerald,” whispered through
her hair, her captain’s bearded chin brushing her cheek. “With luck you should
make the house before the storm lets loose a torrent.”

  
The boat now fast approached the bridge,
Lieutenant Bryant’s voice softer as though all on board were aware of unseen
danger. “To starboard, men, and easy with it or yon bridge will kiss
I
and
cast us all in the drink.”

  
Sniggers arose from the crewmen; oars
submerged fighting the pull of the tide as it rushed upstream beneath the
arches of the bridge. With the steps coming ever closer, Lieutenant Bryant
crouched, snatched at a rope and leapt from boat to a step, his feet soon
submerged in swirling waters. Similarly a crewman near to her captain, too,
leapt ashore rope in hand. Between the pair they hauled the boat closer to the
steps. With oars raised on landward side her captain slid over the side of the
boat, his feet below the waterline, and she then lifted safe above turbulent
flow.

  
“Tomorrow, same time?” she whispered, as he
deposited her safe on dry upper step.

  
“Tomorrow,” his reply, a smile and fleeting
kiss to her hand.

  
She fled, not wanting to get soaked to the
skin, not wanting to see him rowed away from her. What had she done in letting
her heart rule her head? He had no name, her buccaneer, and what of his plan
for her to stall Moorby on announcing their betrothal? And what connection in
high place had he spoken of? And why would this person even consider saving Ned
from disgrace of unpaid gambling debts?

  
With first spots of rain felt on face, she
was glad the house was now reached. She flung the door wide, but several trunks
and two pairs of manly boots standing in the hall caused her heart to plummet.
They had visitors, or a visitor. Pray God it was not Moorby.

Chapter Four

~

It was fair to admit Moorby
had kept her amused with gossip from Penzance, but his paunch, podgy jowls, and
slobbering lips utterly repulsive. His hand offered in escort to the dining
hall felt uncommon large and beastlike with hair. She could not, did not want
to imagine herself abed and in his arms his wife.

  
To her chagrin Moorby proved to be the
perfect gentleman, his attentions upon her throughout dinner extreme polite,
and almost caring in concern for her loss. Ned, though, turned severe in
countenance at her rebelliousness in mention of Tobias, but why should she keep
quiet about it. Never mind his guilt over Tobias, and Moorby’s visit. She was
no fool, and would not have him treat her as such.

  
Having had prior engagement at a nearby
friend’s country estate, Ned had supposedly encountered Moorby there and had
seen fit to invite the man over to Penhavean Hall, both then to escort her to
London. It was quite obvious Ned and Moorby had planned for this day, and she
then compromised into spending time with the man now her intended.

  
With the two men settled in the library for
the past couple of hours and the door still shut, it was right to assume
business was yet to be concluded. No doubt her reluctance to accept the earl’s
hand in marriage unless certain criteria could be met had probably raised an
eyebrow or two, but would he agree to a legal document drawn as proof of his
honour to rid Ned of outstanding debts?

  
The instant the doors to the library were flung
wide she sensed Moorby had agreed to her terms, for he swept toward her with
silver-topped cane in hand and performed a sweeping bow. His periwig slipped
forward a little, yet he pushed it back seeming not the least embarrassed.
“Delightful lady, you drive a hard wager, if I say so myself.” She stifled a
giggle, the wig now at slight tilt. Unable to resist the urge to straighten it,
she leapt to her feet and did just that. The earl’s face turned to that of
amused delight. “Well I do declare the lady hath the motherly touch about her
already,” he said, his attention redirected to Ned. “What say you, your
lordship?”

  
Ned’s scowl was most unexpected and she
could not make him out for he seemed less than pleased by the exchange in the
library. What had happened? Why did Ned appear so gloomy? Fair brooding for
want of better description. “Ned?”

  
“Yes, dear fellow, what ails you in this
time of celebration?” quizzed the earl, and much to her vexation his sweaty
palm clasped her fingers tight as a clamp and raised it to spittle moist lips.
“You are content with our arrangement, my lady, are you not?”

  
Ned drew breath as though about to speak.
He then exhaled, swayed a little, and she knew him to be drink sodden, and
incapable of comprehending much said in the blue room, so it was likely what
had transpired in the library was vague a best? Had he done as asked remained
her greatest worry, or had Moorby encouraged him to consume more wine than good
for him?

  
“I assume my brother has made clear our
terms on my accepting your offer of betrothal?”

  
The earl chuckled, stepped closer. “If not,
would I be so presumptuous in kissing your hand?” His movement alarmed her, for
he was too close, and hot breath upon her face imparted powerful essence of
ruby port. His cane, too, lodged against the back of a chaise implied her in
danger. “And now, my little Emerald, what say you to a kiss?”

  
For a man of bodily substance he was deft
with arm about her waist quick sharp, and no escape from his fat wet lips. She
squirmed, but he held her fast, and forced backwards by his protruding belly
the earl leaned over her, her head cupped in hand. “Come now, Emerald, have I
not saved your brother from ruin, and now deserving of reward?”

  
Mouth open to vent her spleen in revulsion
at his action, it was suddenly filled with a mighty tongue, whose power of
dominance and penetration allowed no breath to her lungs. Light-headedness
overcame her, and if not for Ned slumping to the floor the earl might have
caused her to fall vagary to the faints. He drew back a little his eye cast in
Ned’s direction, and she sought breath in gulps as the earl chirped in cocky
manner, “Fool, what a fool for a brother you have, my little Emerald?”

  
“Fool yes,” her reply, terrible afraid of
her fate now that her brother lay dead drunk upon the floor. “And I fool ever
to agree to this arranged marriage between you and I.”

  
“Now sweet Emerald,” he said, sweated hand
cupping her chin, “I can have you here and now, you do realise that, do you
not?” Forced to step backwards, she felt the chaise against her calves and
feared the worst. “Come sweet girl, give me something to keep me warm in the
times we must remain apart.”

  
“For sake of propriety, I think not.” Scorn
at his affectionate tone made clear, she furthered, “Is my agreement to
marriage not enough? Must you manhandle me before a penny paid of Ned’s debts?”

  
“But of course, dear girl.” His body weight
forced her to collapse on the chaise, and atop her he was deft with expert hand
in raising her skirts. “A sample of what I am to purchase is all I ask.”

  
“Purchase?”

  
“I shall own you as I shall own this
house,” he declared, mouth to her plumped breasts, tongue strafing bare flesh.

  
Hands thrust to his shoulders she tried to
rid herself of his vile paunch crushing her beneath him. “I am not a piece of
furniture nor a portrait to adorn your wall.”

  
He merely mumbled, “That too, my pretty
one, when I am of mind to let you out of my bed long enough to sit for a
portraitist.”

  
If it was her buccaneer atop her she would
be delighted, all her senses on fire. This despicable molesting beast, no, she
would not, could not surrender herself to him. She must try, must try to escape
his clutches. “You cannot do this, I . . .”