Seduced by the Scoundrel (2 page)

A midshipman stood up in the bows, his freckled face serious. How old was this brat? Seventeen? ‘Mr Dornay, sir?’ he hailed from the boat.

‘Yes. You’re enquiring about survivors from the wreck, I imagine? I heard the shouting and saw the lights last night, guessed what had happened. I walked right round the island at first light and I didn’t find anyone, dead or alive.’ No lie
—he
had not found her.

‘Thank you, sir. It was an East Indiaman that went down—big ship and a lot of souls on board. It will save us time not to have to search this island.’ The midshipman hesitated, frowning as he kept his balance in the swaying boat. ‘They said on St Martin that they saw a group of men out here yesterday and the Governor had only told us about you, sir, so we wondered. Writing poetry, he said.’ The young man obviously thought this was strange behaviour.

‘Yes,’ Luc agreed, cursing inwardly. The damn fools were supposed to stay out of sight of the inhabited islands. ‘A boat did land. A rough crew who said they
were looking for locations for new kelp pits. I thought they were probably smugglers so I didn’t challenge them. They’ve gone now.’

‘Very wise, and you’re more than likely right, sir. Thank you. We’ll call again tomorrow.’

‘Don’t trouble, you’ve got enough on your plate. I’ve got a skiff, I’ll sail over if I find anything.’

The midshipman saluted as the sailors lifted their oars and propelled the jolly boat towards the southern edge of Teän to find a landing place. Luc wandered back up the beach until they were out of sight, then strode over the low shoulder to the left, behind the old isolation hospital he was using as his shelter and where the woman now lay.

He did a rapid headcount. They were all there, all twelve of the evil little crew he’d been saddled with. There had been thirteen of them at the start, but he’d had to shoot Nye when the man decided that sticking a knife in the captain’s ribs was easier than the mission they had been sent on. Luc’s unhesitating reaction had sharpened up the rest of them.

‘That was the navy,’ he said as they shifted from their comfortable circle around a small, almost smokeless, fire to look at him. ‘Someone on St Martin saw you yesterday. Stay round this side, don’t go farther east along the north shore than Didley’s Point.’

‘Or the nasty navy’ll get us?’ Tubbs sneered. ‘Then who’ll be in trouble, Cap’n?’

‘I’ll be deep in the dunghill,’ Luc agreed. ‘From where I can watch you all be hanged. Think on it.’

‘Yer. We’ll think on it while you’re prigging that mermaid we found you. Or ‘ave you come round for a bit of advice on technique, like? Sir,’ a lanky redhead
asked, as he shifted a wad of chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other.

‘Generous of you to offer, Harris, but I’m letting her sleep. I prefer my women conscious.’ He leaned one hip against a boulder. Instinct told him not to reveal how ill she seemed to be. ‘It could be four or five more days before we get word. I don’t want you lot getting rusty. Check the pilot gig over this afternoon and we’ll exercise with it some more tomorrow.’

‘It’s fine,’ the redhead grumbled and spat a stream of brown liquid into the fire. ‘Looked at it yesterday. Just a skinny jolly boat, that’s all.’

‘Your expert opinion will be a consolation as we sink in the middle of the bloody ocean,’ Luc drawled. ‘Dinner going to cook itself is it, Potts? My guest fancies broth. Can you manage that? And, Patch, bring me a bucket of cold water and a bucket of warm, as soon as you can get some heated. I don’t want her to taste of salt.’

He did not bother to wait for a response, nor did he look back as he walked down to the little hospital building, although his spine crawled. At the moment they thought their best interests were served by obeying him and they were frightened enough of him not to push it, not after what had happened to Nye. That could change if the arrival of the woman proved to be the catalyst that tipped the fragile balance.

He needed them to believe her conscious and his property, not vulnerable and meaning nothing to him. He didn’t want to have to kill any more of them, gallows’-bait though they were: he needed twelve to carry out this mission and they were good seamen, even if they were scum.

T
he light was coming from an odd angle. Averil blinked and rubbed her eyes and came fully awake with a jolt. She was not in her cabin on the
Bengal Queen,
but in some hut. She had seen it before—or had that been part of the nightmare, the one that never seemed to stop but just kept ebbing and flowing through her head? Sometimes it had become a pleasant dream of being held, of something soft and wet on her aching, stiff limbs, of strong hands holding her, of hot, savoury broth or cool water slipping between her lips.

Then the nightmare had come back again: the wave, the huge wave, that turned into a leering hulk of a man; of being stared at by a dozen pairs of hungry eyes. Sometimes it became a dream of embarrassment, of needing to relieve herself and someone helping her, of being lifted and placed on an uncomfortable bucket and wanting to cry, but not being able to wake up.

She lay quite still like a fawn in its nest of bracken, only her eyes daring to move and explore this strange
place. Under the covers her hands strayed, and found coarse sheeting above and below, the prickle of a straw-filled mattress, then the finer touch of the linen garment that she was wearing.

There was no one else there. The room felt empty to her straining senses, she could hear nothing but the sea beyond the walls. Averil sat up with an involuntary whimper of pain. Everything hurt. Her muscles ached, there were sore patches on her legs, her back. When she got her arms above the covers and pushed back the flopping sleeves to look at them they were a mass of bruises and scratches and grazes.

She was wearing a man’s shirt. Memory began to come back, like pages torn at random from a picture book or sounds heard through a half-open door. A man’s voice had told her to drink, to eat. A man’s big hands had touched her body, held her, shifted her. Washed her, helped her to that bucket.

What else had he done? How long had she been unconscious and defenceless? Would she know if he had used her body as she lay there? She ached so much, would one more pain be felt?

Averil looked around and saw male clothing everywhere. A pair of boots stood by the window, a heap of creased linen spilled from a corner, a heavy coat hung from a nail. This was his space and he filled it, even in his absence. She twisted and looked at the pillow and saw a dark hair curling on it. This was his bed. She drew a deep, shuddering breath. For how long had he kept her here?

Water. A drink would make it easier to think. Then find a weapon. It was a plan of sorts, and even that made her feel a little stronger. She fumbled with fingers
that were clumsy and stiff and threw back the covers. His shirt came part way down her thighs, but she was sitting on a creased sheet. Averil got to her feet, wrapped it around her waist, then staggered to the table. She made it as far as the chair before she collapsed on to it.

There was a jug beside a plate and a beaker on the table and she dragged it towards her with both hands. She spilled more than she poured, but it was clear and fresh and helped a little. Averil drank two beakers, then leaned her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands.

Think.
It wasn’t only him, there were those other men. They had been reality, not a nightmare. Had he let them in here, too? Had he let them …? No, there was only the memory of the dark-haired man they had called
Cap’n. Think.
The rough wooden planks held no inspiration, but the knife next to the plate did. She picked it up, hefted it in her hand. He’d be coming back, and she might only have that one chance to kill him when he was off guard. When he was in bed. Kill? Could she? Yes, if it was that or … Her eyes swivelled to the bed. Under the pillow. She had to get back there. Somehow.

Her legs kept betraying her as she tottered to the bed, but she made it, just in time as the door opened.

He swept the hut with a look that seemed to take in everything. Averil clenched her hand around the knife under cover of the sheet, but it had been on the far side of the plate, out of sight from this angle. Surely he wouldn’t notice?

‘You are awake.’ He came right in, frowning, and looked at her as she sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You found the water?’

‘Yes.’
Come closer, turn those broad shoulders of yours, I’ll do it now, I only need a second.
Where do you stab someone who is bigger and stronger than you? How do you stop them shouting, turning on you? High, that was it, on the left side above the heart. Strike downwards with both hands—

‘Where is the knife?’ He swivelled to look at her, a cold appraisal like a man sighting down the barrel of a weapon.

‘Knife?’

‘The one you are planning to cut my throat with. The one that was on the table.’

‘I was not planning to cut your throat.’ She threw it on the floor. Better that than have him search her for it. ‘I was going to stab you in the back.’

He picked it up and went to drop it back beside the plate. ‘It is like being threatened by a half-drowned kitten,’ he drawled. ‘I was beginning to think you would never wake up.’ Averil stared at him. Her face, she hoped, was expressionless. This was the man who had slept with her, washed her, fed her, probably ravished her. Before the wreck she would have watched him from under her lids, attracted by the strength of his face, the way he moved, the tough male elegance of him. Now that masculinity made her heart race for all the wrong reasons: fear, anxiety, confusion.

‘How long have I been here?’ she demanded. ‘A day?

A night?’

‘This is the fourth day since we found you.’

‘Four days?’ Three nights. Her guts twisted painfully. ‘Who looked after me? I remember being washed and—’ her face flamed ‘—a bucket. And soup.’

‘I did.’

‘You slept in this bed? Don’t deny it!’

‘I have no intention of denying it. That is my bed. Ah, I see. You think I would ravish an unconscious woman.’ It was not a soft face, even when he was not frowning; now he looked as hard as granite and about as abrasive.

‘What am I expected to think?’ she demanded. Did he expect her to apologise?

‘Are you a nun that you would prefer that I left you, helpless and unconscious, to live or die untouched by contaminating male hands?’

‘No.’

‘Do I look like a man who needs to use an unconscious woman?’

That had touched his pride, she realised. Most men were arrogant about their sexual prowess and she had just insulted his. She was at his mercy, it was best to be a little conciliatory.

‘No. I was alarmed. And confused. I. Thank you for looking after me.’ Embarrassed, she fiddled with her hair and her fingers snagged in tangles. ‘Ow!’

‘I washed it, after a fashion, but I couldn’t get the knots out.’ He rummaged on a shelf and tossed a comb on to the bed by her hand. ‘You can try, just don’t cry if you can’t get the tangles out.’

‘I don’t cry.’ She was on the edge of it though; the tears had almost come. But she was not in the habit of crying: what need had she had for tears before? And she was not going to weep in front of him. It was the one small humiliation she could prevent.

‘No, you don’t cry, do you?’ Was that approval? He put his hand on the latch. ‘I’ll lock this, so don’t waste your effort trying to get out.’

‘What is your name?’ His anonymity was a weapon he held against her, another brick in the wall of ignorance and powerlessness that was trapping her here, in his control.

For the first time she saw him hesitate. ‘Luke.’

‘The men called you
Captain.’

‘I was.’ He smiled. It was not until she felt the stone wall press against her shoulders that Averil realised she had recoiled from the look in his eyes.
Don’t ask any more,
her instincts screamed at her. ‘And you?’

‘Averil Heydon.’ As soon as she said her surname she wished it back. Her father was a wealthy man, he would pay any ransom for her, and now they could find out who her family was. ‘Why are you keeping me a prisoner?’

But Luke said nothing more and the key turned in the lock the moment the door was shut.

At about two in the afternoon Luc opened the door with a degree of caution. His half-drowned mermaid had more guts than he’d expected from a woman who had been through what she had, let alone the well-bred lady she obviously was from her accent. She must be desperate now. The table knife was in his pocket, but he’d left his razor on the high shelf, which was careless.

She was embarrassed as well as frightened, but she would feel better after a proper meal. He needed her rational and she was, most certainly, sharing his bed tonight. ‘Dinner time,’ he announced and brought in the platters and the pot of stew.

Averil turned from the stool by the window where she had sat for the long hours since he had left her,
thinking about this man, Luke, whose bed she had been sharing. The one who sounded like a gentleman and who was as bad as the rest of that crew on the beach. What was he? Pirate, smuggler, freebooter? The men were scum—their leader would be no better, only more powerful. She had dreamed about him, and in her dream he had held her and protected her. Fantasy was cruelly deceptive.

‘Here,’ he said as he dumped things on the table. ‘Dinner. Potts is a surprisingly good cook.’

The smell reached her then and her empty stomach knotted. It was stew of some kind and the aroma was savoury and delicious. Luke had put the platter on the table so she would have to go over there to reach it, dressed only in his shirt and the trailing sheet. He was tormenting her, or perhaps training her as one did an animal. Perhaps both.

‘I want to eat it here, not with you.’

‘And I want you to use your limbs or you’ll be as stiff as a board.’ He leaned one shoulder against the wall by the hearth. ‘Are you warm enough? I can light a fire.’

‘How considerate, but I will not put you to the trouble.’ The worn skim of sacking over the window let in enough light to see him clearly and she stared, with no attempt at concealment. If he had any conscience at all he would find her scrutiny uncomfortable, but he merely lifted one brow in acknowledgement and stared back.

He was tall, with hair so dark a brown as to seem almost black. He was tanned, and by the shade she guessed he was naturally more olive-skinned than fair. She had seen so many Europeans arrive in India and burn in the sun that she knew exactly how every shade
of complexion would turn. His eyes were dark grey, and his brows were dark, too, tilted a little in a way that gave his face a sardonic look.

His nose was large, narrow-bridged and arrogant; it would have been too big if it had not been balanced by a determined jaw. No, it
was
too big, despite that. He was not handsome, she told herself. If she had liked him, she would have thought his face strong, even interesting perhaps. He looked intelligent. As it was, he was just a dark, brooding man she could not ignore. Her eyes slid lower. He was lean, narrow-hipped.

‘Well?’ he enquired. ‘Am I more interesting than your dinner, which is getting cold?’

‘Not at all. You are, however, in the way of me eating it.’ She was not used to snubbing people or being cold or capricious. Miss Heydon, they said, was open and warm and charming. Sweet. She no longer felt sweet—perhaps she never would again. She tipped up her chin and regarded him down her nose.

‘My dear girl, if you are shy of showing your legs, allow me to remind you that I have seen your entire delightful body.’ He sounded as though he was recalling every detail as he spoke, but was not much impressed by what he had recalled.

‘Then you do not have to view any of it again,’ Averil snapped. Where the courage to stand up to him and answer back was coming from, she had no idea. She was only too well aware that she was regarded as a biddable, modest Nice Young Lady who did not say
boo
to geese, let alone bandy words with some pirate or whatever Luke was. But her back was literally against the wall and there was no one to rescue her because no
one knew she was alive. It was up to her and that was curiously strengthening, despite the fear.

He shrugged and pulled out the chair. ‘I want to see you eat. Get over here—or do you want me to carry you?’

She had the unpleasant suspicion that if she refused he really would simply pick her up and dump her on the seat. Averil fumbled for the sheet and stood up with it as a trailing skirt around her. She gave it an instinctive twitch and the memory that action brought back surprised a gasp of laughter out of her, despite the aches and pains that walking produced and the situation she found herself in.

‘What is amusing?’ Luke enquired as she sat down opposite him. ‘I trust you are not about to have hysterics.’

It might be worth it to see how he reacted, but he would probably simply slap her or throw cold water in her face—the man had no sensibility. ‘I have been practising managing the train on a court presentation gown,’ she explained, as she reached for the fork and imagined plunging it into his hard heart. ‘This seems an unlikely place to put that into practice.’

The stew consisted of large lumps of meat, roughly hewn vegetables and a gravy that owed a great deal to alcohol. She demolished it and mopped up the gravy with a hunk of bread, beyond good manners. Luke pushed a tumbler towards her. ‘Water. There’s a good clean well.’

‘How are you so well provisioned?’ she asked and tore another piece off the loaf. ‘There are how many of you? Ten? And you aren’t here legitimately, are you?’

‘I am,’ Luke said. He returned to his position by the
hearth. ‘Mr Dornay—so far as the Governor is concerned—is a poet in search of solitude and inspiration for an epic work. I told him that I am nervous of being isolated from the inhabited islands by storms or fog, so I keep my stock of provisions high, even if that means stockpiling far more than one man could possibly need. And there are thirteen of us and we are most certainly here in secret.’

She stowed away the surname. When it came to a court of law, when she testified against the men who had imprisoned and assaulted her, she would remember every name, every face. If he left her alive. She swallowed the fear until it lay like a cold stone in her stomach. ‘A poet?
You?’
He smiled, that cold, unamused smile, but did not answer. ‘When are you going to let me go?’