Nicole Jordan (22 page)

He understood her answer at least, remembering his own wildness. Their simple embrace had inflamed him beyond reason. He’d lost his head, his blood surging thick and hot in his need to finally take what he’d been craving since the first time he’d held Antonia in his arms.

Deverill stared at her, trying to come to terms with the passion that had ignited between them. He had never known such hot, wrenching desire. And perhaps he was lying to himself. Despite her innocence, he might still have made love to her just now—but he certainly would have taken much more care if he’d known this was her first time. He hadn’t given her any pleasure, only pain.

“You should have warned me,” Deverill muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “I would have tried not to hurt you.”

Slightly dazed, Antonia stared back at him. She could still taste Deverill on her lips, still feel the imprint of his mouth burning into hers, the hard flesh that had possessed her throbbing inside her. His abrupt withdrawal, however, had left her with the same unfulfilled ache that had haunted her dreams for years.

Her senses were in turmoil as well. One part of her was dismayed by her wantonness, while another part was glad it had been Deverill who had breeched her womanhood.

“You needn’t feel remorse,” she murmured finally. “It was my fault, not yours. I wanted you to make love to me.”

She saw Deverill’s hard, virile face tighten at her declaration, but he kept silent as he wrung out a cloth and carried it over to her.

When he started to draw up her skirt, Antonia snapped out of her daze. “What are you doing?”

“Washing away the blood.”

“I can do it myself.”

“Not with your hands bandaged. You need to keep them dry. Now be still, vixen, and let me take care of you.”

Antonia felt a flush of embarrassment sting her cheeks, but Deverill’s gentle stroking over her thighs and feminine cleft was perfunctory rather than loverlike.

His next words as he straightened were just as perfunctory. “You realize, don’t you, that this leaves us with little choice but to marry.”

Antonia sucked in a sharp breath.
“What?”

“You heard me. We will have to marry. We’ll hold the ceremony as soon as we reach Cornwall and can call the banns.”

“You can’t possibly be serious,” she said, staring at him. “You have no desire to wed me. You don’t wish to wed anyone.”

His mouth twisted wryly. “Perhaps not, but I took your innocence. Marriage is the only honorable course.”

“You did not
take
my innocence, Deverill. I gave it to you. There is a difference.”

“Not from my standpoint. And not in the eyes of the ton. I won’t leave you unprotected, Antonia. If our carnal union becomes public knowledge, you’ll be branded a fallen woman.”

If her legs had been limp before, they nearly gave out now. Quickly she moved over to the armchair and sank down there before she toppled over.

She had no intention of accepting Deverill’s unwilling proposal. In the past, he’d made it very clear he had no interest in settling down in marriage. Certainly not a society marriage, since he had no use
for the idle, shallow, pompous pretensions of the ton. He had no desire to give up his bachelorhood, she knew very well. For mercy’s sake, only two nights
ago he had been carousing at a brothel with a lightskirt—

No, he didn’t want a wife, and even if he did, she doubted he would choose
her.
They were like tinder and flame together, always kindling sparks that threatened to erupt in a conflagration. She didn’t want Deverill, either, Antonia told herself firmly . . . an arrogant, overbearing, exasperating rogue who would only provoke her to distraction.

“No,” Antonia said firmly. “Fallen woman or not, I won’t marry you. I don’t require you to fall on your sword to save me.”

Deverill walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a decanter of brandy and a glass. “It needn’t be a true marriage,” he said brusquely, pouring a large measure of the spirits and swallowing half of it in one gulp. “It can be in name only. I’ll give you the protection of my name, then leave you to your own devices. We can each go our separate ways. You can continue to reside in London, while I’ll live on Cyrene when I’m not at sea.”

Admittedly her pride was piqued at his casual dismissal of their entire relationship. She held out her hand for the glass. “May I have some?”

He raised an eyebrow, but crossed to her chair to hand the glass of brandy to her. Antonia took a small swallow, gasping as fire burned down her throat.

The idea of marriage between them was absurd. Deverill might always have been her ideal. A man of passion and daring—strong, courageous, bold, exciting. She might envy everything he represented: adventure, freedom, life on one’s own terms. But the very qualities she admired most about him made him exactly the wrong husband for her.

“The whole idea is absurd,” she repeated aloud. “I don’t want to marry you, Deverill. And in any event, you are nothing like the kind of husband my father wanted for me.”

“At least I’m wealthy enough that you needn’t fear I am claiming you for your fortune.”

“But you have no title.”

“True,” Deverill agreed, taking the glass from her and pouring himself another brandy.

His tone was dry, but Antonia was only reminded of the prime reason she could never marry Deverill. Even though she no longer intended to have Lord Heward, she would eventually have to wed
some
nobleman to honor her father’s fondest wish. She owed it to him, particularly considering that he might have given his life in her defense.

Antonia flinched at the fresh stab of pain that shot through her, wondering what her father would think of how she had betrayed his dream. He might understand her losing her virginity in a blind moment of passion, but he would turn over in his grave if she had foiled her chance for a noble match.

But perhaps his dream could still be salvaged, as long as she handled it discreetly and created no overt scandal. . . .

It was another moment before she realized Deverill was speaking to her again.

“. . . you have no choice but to wed me. I’ve ruined you for any other husband.”

“No, you have not,” she replied, her tone slightly bitter but pragmatic. “As an heiress, I have the wealth to buy a titled husband, even if I am no longer a virgin. Although I assure you, this time I intend to take more care to choose an amiable, placid gentleman who won’t ruthlessly manipulate me as Heward did, or dictate to me as you do.”

The cool smile Deverill flashed her held little humor. Before he could retort, though, Antonia took a steadying breath. “I appreciate that you saved me from Heward’s clutches, Deverill, and obviously I owe you a debt of gratitude. But forcing you to wed me would put me even further in your debt.”

“And that would be too galling.”

“Exactly. Moreover, my reputation is hardly my chief concern just now. What I care about most is getting justice for my father. If Heward murdered Papa as you believe, I want him punished.”

“You may trust me on that score,” Deverill said darkly. “I grieved for your father, Antonia, and I fully intend to see Heward punished.”

“What do you mean to do? You cannot return to London as a wanted man, can you?”

His gaze grew hooded. “Before I left London, I put some plans in motion with surrogates acting on my behalf, searching for proof of your father’s murder and for evidence to clear my name, so I can bring the real killers to justice. As soon as we reach Cornwall, I mean to take additional steps. And I’ll send Captain Lloyd back to London to bring me reports.”

“But you eventually mean to return to London so you can expose Heward?”

“Yes,” Deverill replied, his jaw tight. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Antonia nodded in satisfaction, thankful for the shard of vengeful anger that pierced her pain. In her heart, she was persuaded that Deverill was right: that Heward had indeed killed her father so he could be certain to wed her and assume control of her fortune. And if she had accepted that, it was even simpler to believe he had framed Deverill for murder to eliminate him as a rival and prevent his interference in her marriage.

If Heward
was
guilty, she wanted him to pay for what he had done—to her father and to Deverill as well. “I intend to return to London with you,” she declared, her thoughts racing ahead.

“No, you won’t. Heward is far too cunning and dangerous an adversary. Until he is securely in prison, you’ll remain in Cornwall where you will be safe.”

When she pressed her lips together, refraining from arguing, Deverill shot her a suspicious glance. He was reluctant to share his plans for confronting Heward, or to involve Antonia in any way, for he wanted her well out of the crossfire. And of course he couldn’t reveal anything to her about the Guardians, since his oath of service swore him to secrecy.

But his strategy wasn’t the issue at hand. Somehow Antonia had managed to change the subject. They had been discussing the necessity of marrying.

She had made several pertinent arguments against it, Deverill acknowledged. It was indeed probable that as an heiress Antonia could find another titled candidate who would be eager to fill the role of her husband. Someone complacent enough to accept a marriage of convenience on her terms.

The corner of Deverill’s mouth curled. Antonia would be bored silly within a fortnight with a milksop for her mate. But perhaps a milksop was preferable to the proper, stiff-necked nobleman she had chosen the first time. Having watched her on board his ship these past two days, Deverill was even more convinced that she would be miserable trapped in a society marriage with a husband who would only repress her spirit and stifle her hunger for life.

She deserved far better. She needed a man who could prove her match, one who could challenge her and keep her wits sharp.

He
fit the bill in that respect, but he was completely wrong for her in all the ways that counted. He certainly wouldn’t be the sort of genteel, malleable husband Antonia thought she wanted. More importantly, he couldn’t play the role in the Beau Monde that she needed.

His reluctance for their union was not because he was averse to marriage or because he craved freedom and adventure, as Antonia presumed.

Once, years ago, the thrill of adventure had been enough to satisfy him. But that was before his life had changed so drastically, shattered by the devastating loss of his crew. Since his escape from captivity, he had dedicated himself to one purpose, and he would let nothing interfere.

He wouldn’t let himself dream of anything more. Wouldn’t even consider a future with a family, a life with love and warmth and laughter . . . perhaps children. He couldn’t permit himself to be like every other man. He had forfeited the right.

There was also, Deverill added sardonically to himself, the minor detail that he was suspected of being a criminal and would be arrested for murder the instant he showed his face in London. He had every intention of proving his innocence eventually, but the tarnish to his name would hardly do Antonia’s standing any good.

Still, such a rationale couldn’t appease his nagging sense of guilt. He had taken her innocence, and he was a gentlemen, Antonia’s beliefs to the contrary. As such, he was honor-bound to make amends.

He would simply have to convince her to wed him, Deverill knew. He intended to make Antonia his bride, whether or not she accepted it at the moment.

“You are forgetting one other advantage,” he said, returning to the subject. “If you marry me, Heward’s main goal of claiming your fortune will be thwarted.”

Antonia frowned at that. “Perhaps so, but his goal will be thwarted no matter whom I marry. It needn’t be
you.
”

Unperturbed, Deverill drained the last of his brandy. “But it will be me.”

“Deverill, did you not hear a single word I said?” she exclaimed in exasperation.

“Yes, love, but it hardly matters. You might as well resign yourself. You will wed me as soon as I can make the arrangements.”

Antonia rose to her feet. “You can go to the devil. I certainly will
not
marry you!”

Deverill hid his smile of satisfaction; she had grabbed the bait as he’d expected. He liked watching her blue eyes flash when she was riled, yet his purpose in provoking her was more for her own sake. He would far rather see Antonia fighting mad than crying those heart-wrenching tears as she had a short while ago. And he didn’t want her languishing here, morosely contemplating her father’s loss or her own guilt in the manner of his death.

“It should prove an interesting contest of wills,” he said mildly. Setting down his glass, he turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Antonia demanded.

“To inform Captain Lloyd of our intentions. It just occurred to me that he can marry us without calling any banns.”

“Curse you, Deverill, don’t you dare walk away! We are nowhere near finished with this conversation.”

He made his escape, leaving Antonia fuming where she stood—but only for a moment. Refusing to allow him the last word, she stalked after him, determined to make him see reason.

She failed.

Their ensuing battle of wills, however, lasted the entire afternoon and into the evening. Deverill strove to avoid being alone with her, and Antonia was too well-bred to confront him and create a spectacle in front of his crew. But her smoldering glances followed Deverill everywhere he went on the schooner. And she was waiting for him at every opportunity to repeat her impassioned arguments against their matrimonial union.

At least it took her mind off her despair, Deverill told himself. Even so, he realized the necessity of plotting a strategy to counter hers.

Unlike Antonia, he had accepted the inevitability of their marriage, for it had always been a possibility. From the moment he’d abducted her, he’d known the consequences might be so damaging to her reputation, he would have to act. He had hoped they could manage to avoid it, for her sake more than his, but now he had no honorable choice. And he was resolved to overcome Antonia’s resistance to the notion.