Nicole Jordan (32 page)

To Antonia’s regret, her next lesson in pleasure was deferred for three more days, since Deverill was occupied patrolling coastal waters. There had been no more local murders, but he had yet to catch the pirate who was preying on the district fishermen, and his duty took precedence over his own personal concerns.

Antonia fully understood—she was not so selfish as to wish Deverill would stay with her if it meant forsaking his obligations—but she eagerly looked forward to his return.

When finally they met in the secluded cove, Deverill insisted on giving her another swimming lesson first. The event, however, had its own delights, for they spent as much time touching and caressing and kissing as swimming. Deverill claimed there was method to his madness: anything that helped Antonia to relax also helped her to forget a novice swimmer’s instinctive fear of drowning. Furthermore, Deverill explained with a smile, if they indulged in passion first, they both would be too weary to swim at all.

His strategy proved successful. Antonia made great progress, learning to stay underwater for long moments at a time, and even to swim beneath the surface for short distances.

Later, when at last they made love, their desire was just as sharp as before, but the urgency was somehow tempered, the torment eased. Perhaps because they knew they had the entire afternoon together.

With unspoken accord, they drew out the moment, reveling in the sensations of slick wetness and luscious heat. Their joining went on forever, timeless and lazy and beautiful, filled with the same wild enchantment that now touched all of Antonia’s dreams of Deverill.

Afterward, they lay naked together on blankets in the shallow rock cave, sheltered from the hot summer sun. The cave floor had the disadvantage of being uncomfortably hard—much less forgiving than sand—so Antonia was glad to report that Isabella had offered them a nearby cottage to use for their trysts.

“She said it is the hideaway Lord Wilde built for her so they could have privacy from servants and prying eyes.”

Deverill arched his stiff shoulders, saying wryly, “Isabella has my gratitude. I confess I would prefer a soft bed for a change.”

“The cottage has additional benefits,” Antonia added with amusement. “Miss Tottle says my complexion is getting far too brown. I fear she will force me to wear cucumber masks if I don’t make an effort to keep out of the sun.”

“I am very fond of your tanned skin,” Deverill replied, reaching up to stroke her cheek.

With a pleased sigh, Antonia curled more contentedly against him. “Isabella showed me the cottage yesterday. It is perfectly lovely, with a walled garden and a gazebo that reminds me of my mother’s at home. Perhaps we can visit there tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow, I’m afraid. Our elusive pirate has apparently moved farther down the coast, if the sightings are true. I spoke to Sir Crispin this morning as soon as I put in to port, and he asked me to expand my search. I plan to leave tomorrow afternoon and will be away for at least several days.”

“So now that you have made the waters safe here, you must follow the villain where he leads? It won’t be easy to find him, will it?”

“We have a good description of his ketch and of him, and the ocean is not so vast that he can hide forever. If we can apprehend him, there are enough witnesses to warrant a trial and probably convict him for murder.”

Antonia raised herself up on one elbow. “How does one apprehend a pirate if you find him?” she asked curiously.

“A warning shot across the bow, to begin with. I will sink his vessel if I must. He’ll likely refuse any demands to surrender, since he doubtless considers himself invincible. His ketch is armed with a half-dozen four- and six-pounders—which is what has allowed him to terrorize the local smugglers and rob them of their contraband over the past several months.”

“Are a half-dozen cannon enough to mount a defense?”

“They are no match for my schooner. While it may come to a battle, unless he manages to get in a lucky shot, I should win easily.”

“It still sounds dangerous.” With a finger, she drew a slow, circular pattern through the sprinkling of hair on Deverill’s chest. “I confess it worries me to think of cannon shooting at you.”

His low chuckle was indulgent. “I have been shot at hundreds of times, sweeting, but I am still in one piece.”

Are you?
she wondered. Absently, she touched the worst of his scars, reflecting that his body might be whole but not unscathed.

At her touch, Deverill reacted instantly, reaching up to grasp her wrist tightly and hold her away.

Startled by his abruptness, Antonia returned his gaze solemnly for a long moment, aching at the pain she had unconsciously ignited in the green depths.

“I am so sorry they hurt you,” she said softly.

Deverill winced, then looked away, his dark lashes lowering to shadow his sensual eyes. “I survived. I was
fortunate.
” He spat the word like a curse.

“It seems to me you were indeed fortunate,” Antonia replied quietly. “You survived and lived to mete out justice against your tormentors.”

“
No.
There was no justice for my men.” The savage bitterness in his tone was inescapable. “My tormentors tortured and killed more than half my crew, when I should have died in their stead. Do you know what it’s like for a captain to outlive his crew?”

His gaze found hers, and for a fleeting moment, she saw a desolation in his eyes, a bleakness so deep that it shocked her.

Antonia swallowed, her throat suddenly burning with unshed tears. She hadn’t meant to make Deverill remember the brutal captivity that had resulted in his scars. Hadn’t meant to bring back his terrible memories or to remind him of his anguish at failing to save his men from torture and death. But now that she had, she yearned to offer him comfort.

“It was not your fault, Deverill.”

He shut his eyes, as if in great pain. “It was indeed my fault. A captain is wholly responsible for his crew, for their safety and everything that touches their lives.”

“As Fletcher tells it, you were betrayed by treachery. Had not the British government just signed a treaty with the pasha?”

“Yes.” His voice was a harsh whisper. “A bloody, treacherous deception. The pasha intended to punish me for previously sinking one of his corsairs’ ships . . . and to set an example for other Englishmen. He assumed if he showed his power, he would secure better terms for his kingdom.”

The ache swelled inside Antonia for Deverill’s suffering; her heart hurt for the grief she felt emanating from him. She feathered her fingers over his forehead, down his face, offering admittedly meager solace. “Fletcher thinks that is why you are so set on saving me.”

“Fletcher talks a damned sight too much,” Deverill replied savagely.

Antonia fell silent, and Deverill felt another prick of guilt, this one for shouting at her. He couldn’t deny the truth of her charge. For ten years he had made it his mission to save others, trying to atone for his failure to save his crew.

He squeezed his eyes shut, assaulted anew by the nightmare. The screams of his men as they were tortured. Their pleas, their cries for help. Calling out to him to save them. His own fierce struggle to break free of his bonds. Fletcher’s pleading whisper for him to cease fighting.
“Cap’n, we can’t save ’em. Hold on to yer strength.”

Fletcher had been right, Deverill knew. Even had he sacrificed himself, the pasha would not have spared his crew. He had been kept alive so he would suffer most, enduring the agony of watching his men die horrible deaths, one by one.

Deverill swore in anguish at the memory. It was indeed why he was so determined to save Antonia, and why he had become a Guardian, even knowing atonement was out of reach for him. He could never forgive himself for the sin of living when so many of his men had died.

Just then he felt the touch of Antonia’s lips on his chest, felt the hot moisture that fell from her eyes. He clutched her arms and held her away, staring up at her. Her eyes swam with tears. She was weeping for him.

His hands reached up to cradle her face. “God, don’t cry.”

She swallowed hard, trying to choke back a sob, but the tears continued to fall.

Deverill groaned. Her fiery, shimmering hair fell down around them in a silky curtain, and he tangled his fingers in it, dragging her close and capturing her mouth in a fervent kiss.

His hungry plundering quieted her sobs, but it wasn’t enough . . . for either of them.

Rolling Antonia onto her back, he mounted her with hard, quick urgency, burying his face in the curve of her neck as he buried his cock in her sweet warmth. Blood pounded in his ears, crashing louder than the nearby surf as he drove into her.

Not protesting his ferocity, Antonia wrapped herself around him, welcoming him, holding him tightly as finally he shattered, his climax primitive, fierce, endless.

Afterward, he lay heavy and spent upon her. Antonia stroked his scarred back, soothing him with her silken softness. For the first time ever, Deverill didn’t pull away from the offer of succor. Instead, he let her comfort him, taking her heat and her essence deep into himself, absorbing the warmth and strength of her.

A quiet gratitude filled him. For a moment he had found peace. In her arms, he was temporarily able to forget the grief and guilt that haunted him. Even if it was a grief and guilt he must forever bear.

His mood was somber when Deverill escorted Antonia back to Wilde Castle, only to discover that a surprise awaited him. Sir Gawain Olwen had come to Cornwall in search of him.

The elderly leader of the Guardians was ensconced in the drawing room with Lady Isabella, enjoying tea. Rising, Sir Gawain greeted Antonia fondly. “I was desolate to hear of your father’s passing, my dear. He was a good man and a dear friend.”

The pain in Antonia’s eyes reminded Deverill of his own remembered pain, but she shrugged it off with a smile of gratitude.

“Thank you, Sir Gawain. It was extremely kind of you to send me your beautiful gift of condolence. Sir Gawain,” Antonia explained to Deverill and Isabella, “gave me an exquisite sailing ship made of blown glass in remembrance of my father.”

“How thoughtful,” Isabella said approvingly before gesturing at the tea table, where an assortment of scones and crumpets and finger sandwiches were laid out. “My dear, will you and Deverill join us for tea? We have nearly finished, but I will ring for another pot.”

“Perhaps later, Isabella,” Antonia replied. “If you will forgive me, I must wash and then change my gown. I fear I have sand and salt everywhere. Deverill has been teaching me to swim,” she added for Sir Gawain’s benefit.

Deverill suspected she wanted to wash away the signs of their lovemaking from her body as well as
the sand and salt. And when Antonia directed a soft, unconsciously secretive smile at him, he was certain of it.

Instantly, he was struck again by a powerful surge of desire, which was irrational, considering that he’d spent the past several hours slaking his need in her sweet body. But with her hair pinned loosely atop her head and her sun-kissed skin flushed with a rosy glow, Antonia looked enchanting.

Deverill dragged his gaze away in time to find Isabella watching him with amusement, and Sir Gawain observing him with an intent curiosity in his shrewd blue eyes.

As Antonia left the room, Isabella excused herself as well. “I am certain you two gentlemen have much you wish to discuss, and I must speak to Cook about setting extra places for dinner. You will stay to dine with us, Deverill? We mean to enjoy a quiet evening at home and catch up on all the gossip from Cyrene.”

“I should enjoy that, Bella.”

“Excellent! Then I will leave you to yourselves.”

When Isabella offered her hand to Sir Gawain, he bowed gallantly and kissed her fingers. She patted his cheek fondly before sweeping from the room.

It had long been rumored that she and Sir Gawain had once been lovers, but Deverill suspected they were simply intimate friends. Not only because the age difference between them was more than two decades, but because Bella was too hot-blooded to give herself to any man who could not reciprocate her passion.

Possibly the baronet might once have been driven by passion. He was tall and lean, with chiseled features that women would consider handsome, and light blue eyes that were both penetrating and kind. But the burdens of his tremendous responsibilities had obviously taken a toll. His lined face appeared strained, and he wore his usual serious expression. He also limped slightly—the result of an injury during a mission long ago, before he had assumed control of the order.

Sir Gawain looked weary now as he settled on the sofa and invited Deverill to take the adjacent chair.

“So, my friend,” he remarked once they were seated. “I understand you saved Antonia from a disastrous marriage and perhaps worse, and in so doing, you became embroiled in a devilish coil.”

“Being charged with murder is indeed a coil,” Deverill responded with sardonic humor. “I have only myself to blame, though, for underestimating Heward’s malevolence.”

Sir Gawain nodded grimly. “I have hopes that with effort the damage may be remedied.”

“Have you brought any word from Macky, sir?”

“Indeed I have. I shall let you read his report for yourself, but the news is positive. Madam Venus in particular has been most helpful, and her discreet inquiries into Lord Heward’s predilections were informative. It seems the baron is rather fond of perversions. Specifically, he derives great pleasure from inflicting pain on the courtesans he frequents.”

Deverill winced. “I suspected as much. Which only makes me more thankful that Antonia is safe from that bastard.”

“Agreed. There is also success regarding the scar-faced knave who attacked you and killed the young woman in your company. They discovered his lair in Seven Dials and spied two rogues who might have been his cohorts in crime. Macky is only awaiting your return before moving against them.”

“Good,” Deverill said darkly. “I want to have a hand in their interrogation.”

Sir Gawain bent to retrieve his teacup. “I have spoken to Lord Wittington as well,” he said, mentioning the undersecretary of the Foreign Office. “Wittington is offended that you could even be suspected of murder, let alone arrested. He assured me that a number of his colleagues in the Foreign Office will vouch for you, and he feels confident that if you do return to London soon, you can avoid arrest and imprisonment, at least for the time being.”