My Fallen Angel (11 page)

Unable to stop herself, she smiled back, a glorious, wonderful smile. A smile to end all smiles. A smile to tell him without words how grateful she was that he wasn’t mad at her anymore.

And then the oddest thing happened. He stiffened. She watched as before her very eyes the emotion dribbled from his eyes, leaving behind a cold block of ice otherwise known as Garrick.

“Leave.”

She shouldn’t have smiled, she thought. “I beg your pardon?”

“You should leave.”

She should? “I should?”

“Yes.” He turned away, reached down for his discarded shirt, and then
he
left.

Lucy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laugh, she decided an instant later. Definitely laugh, because she’d seen it again, that look. It
was
desire. She was sure of it. Garrick wasn’t as impervious to her as he liked tomake her think. He might try to act like it from time to time, but he wasn’t.

Miracles
could
happen.

She hugged her knees to her chest. Hope, as wild and uncontrollable as a Scottish rose, bloomed in her chest. She smiled. Just smiled like a child on Christmas morning, then fell gleefully back onto the bed. She could still smell him, salty and tangy. She could still feel the imprint of his arm against her back. She sighed. How quickly he’d scooped her up. So bold, so decisive. If she’d known he would do that she’d have dropped the bottle sooner….

She sat up. “Oh my goodness,” she wailed, clapping her hands to her cheeks. She’d forgotten Beth!

He was demented, Garrick decided the next morning. Absolutely and utterly demented. What other excuse could there be for the way he’d reacted? He should have stayed angry at her, but she’d looked up at him with so much hope, so much pained resignation that he’d felt instantly contrite for snapping at her. And so he hadn’t yelled at her; instead he’d teased her. Teased her. What an idiot.

He shook his head, wondering for the hundredth time what he’d done to deserve this fate. Not only was he trapped on board a ship with a woman who refused to leave him alone, but that ship wasn’t moving right now. He released a frustrated breath. Not moving one damn bit.

Was this God’s private little joke? Had he been such a horrible person when he was alive? He certainly didn’tthink so. He’d been an honest officer. A good officer, only killing when absolutely necessary, and only those who deserved their fate. Certainly he’d had more than his fair share of women, but that came with the territory. Women were intrigued by his profession, if profession one would call it. It’d really been more like a hobby, his title and estate having precluded the need for money. He’d been a rich man made richer by his hobby. At least he
had
been a rich man.

Once again his thoughts returned to his charge. God’s balls, her foot had been small. Too small to support such a walking mass of calamity. But it did. He scrubbed his hand down his face. And her hair. He’d seen it down before, but never so wild and untamed as it had been last night. For a moment, a couple of moments, he’d been tempted to reach out and touch it, to wrap it around his hand and pull her face close to his, but he hadn’t and he wouldn’t. They didn’t call him Wolf for nothing. He could control his emotions, would control the longing that clung to his soul every time he saw Lucy. She was not for him, he reminded himself.

“Calico said we’re not turning around.”

He started, mortified to realize that she’d sneaked up on him.

“He said that you’ve decided to continue on to Spain in an effort to save time.”

Bracing himself, Garrick turned to look at her. His hands clenched when he spied the picture she made in her green dress, her hair loose around her.

“Not that we’re making much time now,” she said with a laugh, “but I think your idea sound. I’m not suremy aunt would agree, though. She’ll wonder what happened to us.”

He looked away. He didn’t like the way she made him feel. Not one bit.

“Then again, I suppose we can send her word when we reach the first port. If we reach the first port.”

“Don’t you have someplace to go?”

A brief instant of hurt dipped into her eyes, then floated away. She was used to being rebuffed, he thought. But she didn’t let it break her. Instead she drew that pride of hers around her as if it were a battle shield. “Where would I go?”

He looked away. He would ignore her, he decided. She was his charge, nothing more.
Nothing more.
Never mind that her skin glowed like the finest of pearls. Never mind that her hair swirled around in little corkscrews that begged for a man’s touch. Never mind that the smile teasing the edges of her mouth begged for his kiss.

He would not be tempted by those lips. He would keep control of himself. Would force the sudden tightness in his groin to go away. He would force
her
away, by God.

“I thought I told you to stay below.”

“You did.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “I felt like getting some fresh air.”

“You disobeyed me.”

“Yes, I know. And it’s a lovely day to disobey someone, don’t you think?”

He frowned. She didn’t go away.

He scowled. She smiled.

He gave up. “Where’s Tom?”

“Tormenting the crew.”

He didn’t say anything. He should have locked her in her cabin. But as appealing as the idea might be, just now he didn’t trust himself to touch her.

“Actually, he’s with Calico.”

“Who’s Calico?”

“One of the crew.”

Again, he held his tongue.

“They call him that because the hair between his legs is three different colors.”

He frowned. What had she just said? And then her words sank in, sank in because of the teasing way her eyes flickered over his face, the way her cheeks filled with embarrassed color despite her bold words, the way she smiled up at him impishly.

“And there’s another crew member named Stubbs.”

He couldn’t speak, was held immobile by the mischievous light in her eyes.

“I
thought it was because of the peg he had for a leg, but Tom says it’s really because he has a small—”

“Don’t,” he groaned. Little hellcat. How did she know about such things?

“Do you want to hear about Long john?”

She was making it up, he realized. Bloody hell. He shook his head, unable to stop the smile that rose to his lips. “You, miss, you are a hoyden.”

She nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling nearly as brightly as the waves behind her. Garrick stared, telling himself to leave, telling himself to walk away now before it was too late.

“You need to smile more often.”

“I beg your pardon?

Her own smile grew. “Smile … as you are now.”

He was smiling? Hmph. So he was. He shook his head, refusing to be drawn in by her charm. What use had he for smiles? He was cursed, even if her gamine grin made him wish for things that could never be, things he had no business wishing for. The realization stung. Hell, the more time he spent with her, the more his lot in life—or death, as the case may be—stuck in his craw, niggled deeper and deeper into a place he didn’t want it to be. He was fated to leave this earth, fated to leave the ocean he loved, fated to leave Lucy.

Her smile faded. He could see the questions in her expression.

Ah, hellion,
he thought.
If only you knew.
He reached to stroke her cheek, caught himself in time, and forced his hand back to his side.

“You should go.”

She tilted her head. “So you told me last night.”

Last night. A memory of a dainty foot and a wondrous smile filled his head.

“As I recall,
you
were the one who ended up leaving.”

If he hadn’t, he’d have done something foolish, something that might have cost him his soul.

“I thought your backside might have been on fire.”

He’d been on fire for her, all right.

“So I think I’ll stay, if you don’t mind. You, however, are free to leave.”

She was baiting him, he realized. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been baited.

“If you’re not too afraid.” She raised her hands, made a scary face at him, then waggled her fingers like a witch casting a spell.

A laugh rose up in his chest. He changed it into a growl.

He told himself not to admire her courage. He told himself not to think about the hint of loneliness that shadowed her eyes. He looked away, fixing his eyes upon the horizon. Damnation, what was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he view her as he did other women? Apparently, flirtatious smiles and silly games he could deal with, but one blazingly honest, thoroughly open chit of a woman managed to keep him completely off guard.

He shook his head and stared out at the sea. The sky was blue today, the ocean so calm only a few white-tipped waves coasted along its surface. He stared harder, trying to find solace in the ocean he loved so much, trying to force himself to observe other things. It didn’t work. He’d rather observe Lucy’s smile while he still had the time to observe it.

“Decided to stay, eh?”

He clutched the rail.

“Well, I don’t blame you. ‘Tis beautiful out.”

“So you’ve said,” he grumbled.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her gaze rove over the ocean. They both dropped into silence. The sounds of a ship filled his ears, familiar sounds. The slurp of water. The clink of the rigging as it vibrated in the wind. The voices of the crew, what there was of it.

“Have you ever noticed that clouds have shapes?”

No, he hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t had time to notice such things.

“That one there looks like a squashed frog, and I happen to know what a squashed frog looks like.” She pointed. He didn’t look. “And that one there looks like a snail with a broken shell.” She turned to look at him. “Have you ever stepped on a snail before? They make that horrible little sound.
Criiick.”
She shivered theatrically. He said nothing. She gave up.

“Tell me about ships,” she asked when his silence became too much for her to bear.

He’d rather continue to be quiet, but it didn’t appear as if he would get his way. She wouldn’t let him. He could remain silent and hurt her feelings. Or he could answer her, and what? Answer and make her feel less lonely. Loneliness was something he knew a lot about.

“What do you want to know?” he asked against his better judgment.

She turned around, leaning her rear on the rail. The movement made the dress she wore outline her breasts, her woman’s mound, her thighs. “How hard are they to sail?”

“Hard.” Almost as hard as his manhood.

“What led you to become a sailor?”

“My father.”

Her brows rose, filling with an odd sort of romanticism. “Oh? Was he one, too?”

“No.”

“Did he always want to
be
one?”

“No.”

“Then why did you want to become a sailor?”

“I didn’t. He bought me a commission in the navy.”

The romanticism faded. “Did you want the commission?”

“No.”

“Then why did he buy it?”

He crossed his arms in front of him, debated how much to tell her. “Because I’d just burnt the south wing down.”

She looked startled, then amused, then sympathetic.

“’Tis a good thing they don’t allow women in the navy, else I’d have been consigned to a life at sea long ago.”

She said it with such endearing seriousness, Garrick was hard pressed not to smile.

“I suppose I should be grateful,” Garrick added, surprising himself. “It was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. Sailing became my life.”

Tom’s laughter rang out, a sudden reminder that Garrick had no life.

“Is your father still alive?”

His jaw tensed, then released, his gaze once again meeting Lucy’s. Best to remember he was an angel, one with limited time left on earth.

Lucy waited for his answer. He looked so serious all of a sudden. She tensed as she waited for his answer.

“He and my mother died two years ago.”

“Oh, Garrick. I’m so sorry.”

He turned away. Lucy stared at his big, broad back. They were both orphans, she realized, and being sad over the loss of one’s parents was something she understood.

Filled with need to see the smile that had colored his eyes just a few moments ago, she vowed to help him forget his loss, at least for a short while. Gazing around, she looked down the length of the ship, thinking. She needed to find the child in him, find that little boy who missed his parent’s love. Her eyes caught on the row of fishing poles.

An idea began to germinate.

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

He looked startled by her words, straightening from the rail.

Please, please don’t leave,
she begged with her eyes. He gave her an unblinking stare. She clutched at her skirts, turned and all but ran toward the poles. When she returned a few seconds later, a gust of relief blew past her lips to see him still standing there.

“Teach me to fish,” she said, offering him the pole.

Blonde brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said teach me to fish.”

He looked at her, just looked at her as if she’d asked him to lop off his head.
Do this for me, Garrick. Do this for
us.

“You do know how to fish?”

He stiffened. “Of course I do.”

She smiled. “Well, then good. Teach me how.” She offered him the pole again. He flinched. She held her breath.
Please, God. Please, God.

Reluctantly, he took it from her. “With your luck, you’ll probably catch a shark,” he grumbled.

She didn’t take offense. He was correct.

He undid the hook from where it had been secured within the spool of twine, checked the line, then expertly reeled in the slack. When he was done, he handed it to her.

“Now what?” she asked.

“You need bait.”

Bait? Of course. How silly of her. “I don’t suppose you’d like to volunteer for the job?”

He didn’t crack a smile, not even a teeny-tiny one. She blew a hank of hair out of her eyes. She had her work cut out for her.

“I’ll be right back.” She handed him the pole, then turned, hoping, hoping, hoping he wouldn’t leave. A few moments later, she returned triumphantly.

“What
is
that?”

“Cheese.”

“Cheese,”
he barked.

“Yes.”

“You don’t fish with cheese.”

“Well, you do if you don’t have any worms.” He wasn’t making this at all easy.

His eyes narrowed. After a second, he reluctantly held out his palm. She plopped a piece in it. When he was done baiting the hook, he handed the pole to her. She made sure their hands brushed. He didn’t seem to notice. Her own trembled.

“Now what?” she croaked.

“Cast it.”

“In what? Stone?”

Impatience flickered in his eyes. He had no sense of humor, she thought. None whatsoever.

“Miss Hartford, surely you’ve seen someone cast a fishing pole before?”

As a matter of fact, she had. But she still wanted him to show her. She wanted him to come up behind her and put his big, manly arms around her. Wanted him to clasp his warm, strong hands over her own. Wanted him to breathe instructions into her ear. She shivered in delight.

“Miss Hartford?”

“Oh, umm, yes. I have seen it done.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Lucy. You need to concentrate.

“Then try it,” he enunciated in the tone of a man who had thoroughly lost his patience.

She nibbled her bottom lip, determined to do such a fine job of casting the pole he would be dutifullyimpressed and declare his undying love. Well, maybe not love.

There were miracles, and then there were
miracles.

Turning, she hefted the rod.
I can do this,
she thought.
If old Ben Gardner can do it, so can I.
Old Ben was at least ninety.

She tensed. The end of the pole quivered. She flung the line.

The whole thing flew into the sea.

“Oh noooo,” she gasped, clasping her hands to her cheeks.

The pole landed with a splash and promptly sank.

“I’ve never seen that technique before,” Garrick drawled.

Lucy turned. She could feel the burn of embarrassment. But she forgave him. Especially as what he’d said came very close to a joke. Besides, she had suffered through similar humiliations before. Undoubtedly, she would suffer through more. She dropped her hands to her sides, raising her chin. “I didn’t like that pole, anyway.”

He coughed. Or perhaps it was a laugh. Lucy wasn’t sure. She pivoted on her heel, and a moment later returned with more cheese and three more poles.

He cocked a brow. “Do you have enough poles?”

Ooooh, he
was
teasing her. “Yes, thank you,” she said with her best smile.

He didn’t crack one in return, but she just knew it was in hiding. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then would you like me to bait it for you?”

Her smile grew. “Certainly.” She handed him the first pole, taking great care to let their hands brush again. Much to her disappointment, he didn’t seem to notice. Again. Bother.

When he was done, he once again handed it back to her. “Would you like me to cast it for you?”

“No, thank you.” She could do this. She was sure of it. And she did, watching in pleasure as the line sailed over the rail. The reel spun like a carriage wheel, the hook and cheese seeming to float on a current of air.

A white gull swooped down and caught it.

“Oh nooo,” she cried.

She thought she heard Garrick cough, wanted to glance at him to see, but she was too busy trying to stop her line from peeling off. She jerked on the handle. Didn’t help. She dropped the pole, catching the line in her hand. The bird faltered midflight. She tugged. The bird dropped from the sky like a rotten apple.

“Oh nooo,” she cried again.

But at the last second it recovered. She watched, heart in her throat, as her line continued toward the sea, sans the cheese, the bird caa-caa-caaing its anger at her audacity in nearly killing it.

Garrick coughed again, only now she recognized the sound for what it was. A chuckle. Just one, almost as if he couldn’t bear to let more than one at a time leak past his lips. She turned to him.

“Now
would you like me to do it for you?” he asked again.

“No.”

Her plan to make him smile was working splendidly. She’d look like a fool a hundred times to make himlaugh. She bit back a pleased smile. It took her a moment to get everything organized again. When she was done, she lifted the pole, flung the line back, then let it loose.

Nothing happened.

What … ? She turned, confused as to where her hook had gone.

It had
gone
into Garrick.

He didn’t screech, didn’t even bellow, just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, the hook, the cheese, and the fishing line dangling from his ear like a mouse family’s Christmas ornament.

“Oh my.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

He reached up, and it was then that she realized it wasn’t actually
in
his ear, it was caught on his ear
ring.

And the sight of Garrick, a frustrated frown on his face, the fishing line trailing from his ear like a miniature tightrope, was more than her easily amused sense of humor could bear.

She tried to stop it, she truly did, but the laughter rose up in her throat.
No,
she told herself.
Don’t do it. He’ll get angry if you do.

A giggle escaped. His eyes narrowed.

She bit her lip.

“You’re laughing at me,” he pronounced.

No. No. No. She wasn’t.

“You
are.”

She shook her head. Her jaw ached with the effort to contain her giggles. He took a step toward her.

The sight of that cheese swinging to and fro was her undoing.

Laughter burst free like birdsong. She convulsed, just wilted against the rail and clutched at her sides.

“You
are
laughing at me,” he all but bellowed.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasped. Poor Garrick. He tried so hard to be studious and in command. A single piece of cheese brought him down to the level of a human.

Tears clouded her eyes, her shoulders shook. She wiped at her eyes, which was probably why she didn’t see him reach out. All she felt was a warm hand against her shoulder.

And suddenly, so suddenly it startled her, the laughter faded. Well, not completely. One last chortle slipped out. She looked into his blue, blue eyes. He stood so close, the smell of him so … so sealike.

Oh, Garrick,
she thought.
You need my laughter. You need my love.

She reached out and placed her hand against his cheek. She saw his eyes widen. She moved her hand to the back of his neck. His gaze softened. She pulled his head down to hers.

He didn’t resist.
Yes,
she thought.
Oh yes. This is what you need. This togetherness. This connection we share. Let it banish the demons in your soul.

Her heart pulsed, then pressed itself against her chest. His lips were close. So close. She closed her eyes.

“Bloody hell!”

Her lids sprang open. Garrick cursed again. The ship creaked. Lucy looked up. The sails had snapped to life.

How?

And then they were both knocked from their feet as the ship tilted.

“Arlan,” she thought she heard him murmur. “Damn his feathered hide.”

It had been a narrow escape, Garrick admitted later that same evening. A
very
narrow escape. He swiped a hand over his face as another gust of wind tilted the ship. He reached for the wheel, though it was completely unnecessary to do so. The spoked hub had been securely fastened to a southerly heading, the salt-laden air blowing the
Swan
smoothly on course, thankfully. Now he could get on with man’s work. Now he could forget about Lucinda.

But like the persistent brush of wind across his face, the memory of their time together returned. Damnation. It was driving him mad, this way she had of looking at him as if he could slay her dragons. He didn’t
want
to slay her dragons. He wanted nothing to do with her. But every time he turned around, she was there. The solicitor’s. The tavern. His cabin. It was as if he were cursed, as if God smote him at every turn.

Was that it? Was this some sort of punishment? Some sort of test? Send him out to sea with her when he hadn’t had a woman in months. Make him want her. Then tease him mercilessly by making her think she wanted him? Because he knew she didn’t really want him. She was probably under some sort of heavenly love spell.

“Tough, isn’t it?”

Garrick whirled toward the voice.

“She
is
part of the test, Garrick. I’m surprised it took you this long to realize that.”

He stiffened.

The man said nothing, just stared at him with black, fathomless eyes.

And Garrick knew. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the being standing before him was the devil.

He was short, squat even, with eyes as black as smoke. His face was fleshy, so fleshy he looked more like a baker than a supernatural being. The face was covered with hair. That struck Garrick as odd, but what was odder still was the bright blue, knee-length coat with a stark white, multi-layered cravat he wore. That, combined with his fawn-colored, velvet knee-breeches and the six small pistols which hung from a strap slung over his shoulder, made him look like some of the men Garrick had battled with in the past. In fact, he looked distinctly like drawings he’d seen of … Blackbeard.

The devil swept his tricorn off his head and bowed low. “Actually, the name is Belial. Or Beelzebub. Or the Devil. Whatever. I’ve gone by many names in the past. Call me what you will.” His eyes swept appraisingly around. “I say, Garrick, this
a fine
ship.”

Garrick ignored his polite, almost cordial words. “What do you want?”

Belial affected a look of hurt. “Now, Garrick, is that any way to greet me?”

“Get off my ship.”

“My, my. We’re snappy today, aren’t we? Must be all that abstinence.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “It’s tough, isn’t it. Nothing like the lack of a good ball-bouncing to put you in a cranky mood, eh? They selected her for you on purpose, you know. Knew howirresistible you’d find her. Rather devilish of them, wouldn’t you say?”

Garrick didn’t say anything at all. He was exhausted, confused by the emotions coursing through him, and tired of dealing with beings who thought themselves in charge of his life. He almost snorted. Who was he trying to deceive? He didn’t even have a life anymore.

Exasperated, he turned and walked away, leaving Belial by the railing.

“I’m not finished, Garrick.”

“I’ve no interest in listening, Belial.”

“Not even about the little game I’ve set into motion?”

Garrick’s steps slowed. Game? What game? Slowly, he turned.

“You see, I’ve done the most delightful thing,” Belial continued. “I’ve sent my own minion after the boy, and, with a little help from me, he should be upon you within the next twenty-four hours.” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t think I need explain to you what should happen if this person gets his hands on Tom.”