Historical Romance Boxed Set (56 page)

“Come in.” Momentarily distracted by the promise of a visitor, he would have rolled onto his back had his wounds not prevented the slight movement of raising his head.

A large woman entered, judging by the outline of her bulk. Mrs. Hawker, he realized, blinking against the light that poured into the room from a lamp in the corridor. Only she wasn’t alone. She had a boy in tow—Jean Vicard, by Treynor’s guess.

“Mrs. Hawker? What—”

The bosun’s wife plunged them into darkness by shutting the door behind her. “I hate ter disturb ye,” she whispered. “But Mr. Hawker sent me.”

In all of his and the Hawkers’ acquaintance, never had Treynor known the bosun to send his wife anywhere. She acted only on her own initiative, but she was generally levelheaded, if forthright to a fault. He knew if she stood in his cabin in the middle of the night, she had good reason to be there.

“What is it?”

“Ye might want ter light a lamp.” She proffered a small stick of punk, glowing at the tip.

Treynor was as surprised by this request as he was by her unexpected appearance. For what would they need a lamp? Was it truly necessary to make him move?

Biting back a groan, he stood. “You do it,” he growled.

“What’s going on?” he asked as soon as the lamp’s wick caught.

“This.” Mrs. Hawker turned flinty eyes on Jean Vicard. “Tell ‘im.”

The boy glanced at the bosun’s wife, then at the floor.

Giving a snort of impatience, Mrs. Hawker reached out and grabbed hold of Vicard’s shirt. Treynor heard the fabric tear right before he saw a pair of tightly bound breasts, their soft white flesh swelling above bands that looked tight enough to asphyxiate.

His jaw dropped. The woman—for it was definitely a woman, though she was young, perhaps eighteen—gasped and tried to shield herself from his view.

“Bloody hell!” He stared, swallowed, then glanced back to Mrs. Hawker for some sort of explanation.

The bosun’s wife nodded smugly. “Name’s Jeannette. She told me just as the mate finished with ye. Couldn’t stomach the violence of it. Never seen the likes, I expect.”

The young woman hung her head in shame.

“I would ‘ave brought ‘er right away, but she insisted on cleanin’ up first. An’ the way she smelled, I had ter agree. Then I began to wonder if it wouldn’t be better ter wait until dark. I mean, ye brought ‘er aboard an’ all. I’d ‘ate ter see what Cunnington would try to make of it….”

Refusing to gawk any longer, even though he was surely tempted to do so, Treynor clamped his teeth together. Jean Vicard was feminine in the extreme. He’d noticed before, but he’d never suspected …damn! The truth now crystallized with amazing rapidity. How could he have been so easily duped?

He knocked her hat to the floor with one hand and grabbed her with the other, dragging her closer to the light. Jagged locks of thick black hair stuck out in an unruly mess above a fine-boned, delicately sculpted face with arched eyebrows, a small nose, and a rather sharp chin. A blind man could have seen what he’d missed. Not only was this a woman, she was a beautiful one.

“Hell!” His movements had caused the pain of his stripes to crescendo like some great symphony. He never should have brought Jean Vicard aboard. Had he paid more attention, had the others not been standing within earshot, had Dade not disappeared …

“Why?” he demanded.

“She won’t say—” Mrs. Hawker started, but Treynor put up a hand to silence her. He needed answers, but the bosun’s wife was not the one who could best provide them.

“You can go back and get some sleep, Mrs. Hawker. I will handle this from here. She will tell me what I want to know if I have to beat it out of her.”

“But you’re in no condition—”

“Which is fortunate for her.”

The bosun’s wife nodded. “Yes, sir. I am sorry ter disturb ye. I didn’t know what else to do—”

Treynor softened his voice. “You did the right thing. Thank you. And please, don’t tell anyone about this until I have made a decision.”

“Aye, sir. Ye’ve been right good ter me and Mr. Hawker. I’ll leave the matter up to ye an’ not speak a word of it to anyone. Not a word.”

“Very well.” Treynor held himself rigid until after she left. Then he moved to the only chair in his crowded cabin and carefully sat down. The change in position did little to relieve his misery.

“So. Do you volunteer the information, or must I drag it out of you?” he asked. “I should think, after everything you have put me through today, that you would cooperate to that extent.”

He studied the abject girl before him. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Had he met Jeannette before? What could have motivated her to dress like a boy?

Suddenly, her petite size, and the fact that she was wearing trousers, connected with a memory—a very vivid and recent memory.

He sprang to his feet. “Dear God! You’re the woman! The one in my bed!”

She backed up until she bumped against the far wall. “No. I do not know what you are talking about.” A blush stained her cheeks, revealing her words for the lie that they were.

“Let me refresh your memory,” he said. “We were nearly naked, the two of us. In my bed. You were warm and responsive—” He advanced upon her. “—as eager as any barmaid I have ever met, until you had me so full of lust I would have done anything for the pleasure of five more minutes with your glorious body. Then you—”

“Enough.” She clapped her hands over her ears—an infantile gesture, but proof in itself.

“You don’t deny it?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you wearing these clothes? Why did you come to my room last night and damn near do me in? Why did you join His Majesty’s navy and then try to desert, managing to get me flogged in the process?” Treynor realized that he was almost shouting and struggled to keep his voice down. “I will have those answers, for a start.”

She bit her lip and did what she could to avoid his gaze. “I had to steal Dade’s clothes to join the navy. Appearing in your room was an accident that I could remedy only by—” her voice faltered “—by the action I took.”

“You could have said something.”

“I was frightened. I did not know what you would do.”

He glowered at her. “And you are here now because…”

Her words started slow, then came in a rush. “I lost my post as a governess and had no other way to provide for myself.”

“Like hell!” Treynor pounded his desk, then winced at the pain it caused him. “That man on the docks was looking for you. That is why you couldn’t say anything last night. You didn’t want me to know who you were.”

Her eyes widened. “No!”

“You have to be the baron’s wife. There is no other explanation for all of this. Had your husband’s solicitor mentioned that the woman he sought was French, perhaps I would have realized sooner that you were no boy.” He scrubbed his face with his hand. “But I stupidly fell for your ruse, to the point of taking twenty stripes. You must be very proud of yourself. Perhaps you should take up the stage instead of navy life.”

“Please stop shouting. Others will hear.” She squared her shoulders and lowered her voice. “You volunteered for the flogging. I did not mean for it to happen, to either of us.”

“You did nothing to stop it.” Treynor grabbed her by both arms, noting with satisfaction the fear that flickered behind her eyes, fear she struggled to mask as she glared up at him.

“Do not touch me! You are going too far.”

“Whatever I do will be less than what you deserve. Did you ever stop to think how your actions might affect those around you—like me, for instance?”

“You were the last person on my mind.”

“That, I believe. You are not the first lady I have met who could not see beyond her own wants and desires.”

“I couldn’t say anything—”

“Because you were too busy trying to escape your new husband, who happens to be a friend of my own mother’s.”

Jeannette reached up to remove his hand from her arm. Her fingers were as cold as ice, but her voice remained surprisingly steady. “You know him?”

“I know of him.”

“He is not what he appears.”

“Many people aren’t. You have proven that quite nicely.” The light scent of soap on her skin brought back the feel of her, nearly naked, in his arms, and with that came the memory of her painful blow to his groin and a fresh desire for revenge. He smiled. His mystery woman hadn’t escaped him after all; he would take great pleasure in making her pay. “Take off Dade’s clothes. The ripped shirt—the trousers—everything.”

“What?” Her bottom lip quivered but he saw no tears.

“You heard me.”

“But I …I have nothing on beneath them.”

Treynor’s grin widened. “I know.”

“I will not let you force yourself on me.” She spoke imperiously but with a slight tremble to her voice.

He laughed. “I am interested in a more subtle form of revenge. And the thought of getting some sleep appeals to me. If you do not have any clothes, you cannot go anywhere.”

She squeezed her arms more tightly over her chest, a protective gesture that did little to soften Treynor’s heart. This woman could have stopped him from being beaten had she only revealed herself soon enough.

“If you do not want to cooperate, I will help you.” After pulling his dirk from its scabbard on his desk, he sliced the fabric of Dade’s shirt in half in a completely new place than the one Jeannette held closed already.

She screamed and tried to whirl away, but he tossed the dirk on the floor before she could cut herself on it and shoved her up against the wall.

“You little idiot. You will bring the captain down on us if you are not careful, and I am not sure I want that just yet. Give me Dade’s clothes and be done with it.”

The sting of her nails across his chest made Treynor begin to strip her in earnest. He ripped off Dade’s shirt. “This is for the knee to my groin,” he told her as he tore the shirt into strips. “And this—” he grinned as he pulled the baggy breeches down over her hips “—is for my stripes.”

“You fool! Now what will I do?” Her chest heaved above the white bands that bound her breasts, as if she couldn’t draw a deep breath.

“We are not finished yet, my sweet.” He retrieved his dirk. “Hold still.”

Covering her head with her arms, she hunched into her shoulders as though she expected him to slit her throat. When he simply cut away the strips of fabric she’d knotted around her chest, Jeannette used her hands to shield herself. But Treynor wasn’t about to let her hide or huddle in a corner. Her wrists clamped tightly in one of his hands, he hauled her forward, though the effort agonized him, and tied her to the brass handles of his sea trunk, using the same strips of fabric he’d just cut off her.

“I cannot believe I felt badly about seeing you flogged,” she seethed when he stood back to admire his handiwork. “I hope your back pains you greatly.”

Treynor’s eyes traveled the length of her firm, supple body. He had to admit he’d seen few women more beautiful. She had round, full breasts despite her small size—making him marvel that she’d been able to pull off the boy masquerade at all—a flat belly, and slender limbs.

The sudden tightening in his groin annoyed him. “That ought to keep me safe from your mischief for awhile.”

She glared at him. “You will be sorry. My father is the Comte de Lumfere. He will not allow you to get away with this!”

Treynor chuckled and fixed his gaze on her chest. “You and your father should be grateful.”

“Grateful?” she repeated incredulously.

“You are getting off easily. If I wanted to, I could take what you so foolishly promised me at the Stag.” He ran a finger over her collarbone. “What would your father think of that?”

She shrugged his hand away, but Treynor marked the goose pimples that dotted her flesh. “He would see you hanged.”

He swiped at some blood that had seeped through his bandages to trickle down his lower back. “Lucky for both of us that I am in no condition to tumble you about my hammock.”

Giving her a mocking bow, he headed to bed, although he doubted he could sleep. His back pained him, but what bothered him more was that he was perfectly capable of finishing what they had begun at the Stag.

And, count’s daughter or no, he still wanted to.

Chapter 8

Under her breath, Jeannette called Treynor every name she could imagine and wished she knew a few worse ones to use. She didn’t care that a lady never spoke in such a way. Never had she felt more desperate, more humiliated, or more vulnerable.

She sat on the cold, hard floor, hugging her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth to keep herself from crying. Much to her relief, the lieutenant had locked the door, blown out the light and was settling into his hammock. She was rid of him for the moment, but morning would come, and she’d still be naked and tied to his blasted trunk.

“I hope you bleed to death in your sleep,” she mumbled, only half-expecting a response.

He laughed. “I doubt you want that. The men who would find you in such a compromising position would not treat you half so well as I have. Do you think most sailors would care if you are a baron’s wife or a count’s daughter when the promise of your sweet flesh awaits them?”