The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) (7 page)

She’d be damned before she gave him the satisfaction of a smile. Incensed, she turned away and stumbled toward the open stern windows. Beyond, the ship’s wake left a faint line through the sea behind them.

“I’ll bet ye’re pretty when ye smile,” he said from behind her. She wished she could step forward, away from him, but there was nowhere to go unless she fancied a dive out those windows and a swim. “And why don’t ye? Missin’ a tooth or two?”

She stiffened, refusing to turn around.

“Or maybe ye’re afraid that smilin’ will give ye wrinkles before yer time.”

She clenched her fist around the dividers, solid and reassuring beneath the fabric of her skirts.

“On the other hand, maybe ye’ve just got too much stubborn pride. Given that ye’re English and all.”

She turned then. “Are you quite finish—”

—And gasped, as he had come right up behind her, as silent as a cat.

He had been in the process of reaching up toward her hair, and she froze at his brazen audacity. He did not pull back, did not pretend he wasn’t about to touch her, and did not step away to give her space.

“Are ye afraid of me, lass?”

She could not answer. Could do nothing but stare at that hand while her own tightened against her makeshift weapon, still hidden in her skirts.

“I’m the last person ye should ever be afraid of,” he said soberly. “I’d swallow boilin’ oil before I ever lifted a hand to harm ye.”

“You—you were about to touch me,” she managed.

“Ye’ve a beautiful head of hair. It’s like a paintin’, backlit by the light from outside. Aye, I wanted to touch it, just to see if it was real.”

And he did. Touched it. Let his rough, calloused fingers drag down a length of it that fell haphazardly over her shoulder, while Nerissa, trapped between him and the window seat behind her, froze. Her heartbeat quickened and her hand tightened harder around the dividers.

And just like that, he reached down and grasped the hand hidden in her skirts. Found the dividers. Smiled indulgently, knowingly, and took them away from her as he might’ve forced a trinket from the hand of a child. He had known all along that she’d had them, Nerissa thought in alarm, and as he put them on the table behind him she realized all over again that he was far bigger than her, far stronger, and far, far more observant than he let on.

Dear God.

He said nothing, just stood there looking down at her with a speculative and faintly admiring gleam in his eye that began to unnerve her even more.

She glared at him, determined not to show fear. “I wish you would leave.”

“I wish I could.”

“You have two feet. Why don’t you use them.”

“Because I also have two eyes that can’t help but drink in yer beauty, Sunshine. Two ears that enjoy the sound of yer voice. Two hands that itch to touch ye just to see if ye’re real or a vision. Two lips that ache to—”

“Enough!”

He stepped closer. And pushed his hand—his very strong, scarred and calloused hand—past her jaw and into the fall of thick, pale hair that had long since come loose from its pins, and with his thumb, tilted her chin up so she was forced to meet his eyes.

She could feel the heat of his large, powerful body, could smell the sea on his clothing, on his skin. The blood froze in her veins. Sometime between last night and now, he’d loosened his hair from its queue and now it hung in disarray to his broad and capable shoulders, unruly, untamed, a fall of thick, riotous black curls that made him look like a pirate. She felt her body responding to him, her mouth going dry, and a fluttery sensation beneath her breastbone. She fought to breathe. He had no business making her feel this way. No business talking to her like this. None at all.

And then, with his thumb, he pulled down on her lip like a buyer might examine a horse, exposing her pretty white teeth and letting his finger rub wickedly over the sensitive skin of her bottom lip before releasing her.

Recovery was instantaneous. Nerissa’s hand flashed up to slap his face, the full force of her rage for this latest insult behind her swing. But he had anticipated her reaction and easily caught her wrist.

Once again, she was reminded how much bigger and stronger he was than she.

Once again, she had underestimated him.

Caught helplessly in his unyielding grip, she glared up at him.

“Stop it,” he said softly, his voice no longer cajoling but full of menace, and she saw the hard crystalline glitter that had come into his eyes and it frightened her. The sheer strength of his fingers dwarfing her wrist frightened her, as he could break the bones there with one savage twist if the fancy took him. The nearness of his mouth frightened her, a mouth that was playful one moment and cynical, hard, and dangerous the next.

Everything about him frightened her.

She jerked free of him and backed away, chafing her wrist as though she could rub away the offensiveness of his touch. Her lower lip still tingled where he’d touched it, and she realized all over again how perilous her situation was, trapped here in this small cabin with a man who hated the English, who appeared to hate her, who could ravish and destroy her without a single soul on earth to stop him.

I will get through this. I will survive. Even now, my brothers will be turning London upside down to find me. He won’t get away with this. My brothers will make him pay. They will kill him, if I don’t find a way to do so myself, first….

There was a knock on the door.

“Come on in,” her captor muttered.

A young man with light ginger hair clubbed at his nape entered. He was dressed in some sort of a blue uniform and carried a wooden tray. On it were two bowls of something gray and ugly and steaming. Another dented coffee pot, two tin mugs and a pair of pewter spoons completed this sad and very un-elegant ensemble.

Nerissa’s nose wrinkled.

“Thank ye, Mr. Cranton,” said her captor. “’Twill be all.”

The young man nodded and quietly left.

“Sit down and eat,” the Irishman said, pulling out the single chair for her.

“I am not hungry.” She gave the contents of the tray a baleful look and turned away, her gaze directed on the horizon beyond the stern windows.

He eyed her for a moment, then sat down in the chair she’d refused. “Suit yerself. But starvin’ yerself won’t change yer situation. Might as well make the best of it.”

She said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him reaching for one of the bowls of gruel and plunging a spoon into it. He ate rapidly, not savoring the food but shoveling it down with the same finesse that one might find in a hungry horse.

Ill-bred cretin.

“You have the manners of a trough animal,” she said scathingly.

“Aye, well, at least I won’t be as hungry as one when I’ve finished both my portion and yers. Good stuff, this. Are ye certain you don’t want any?”

“It looks disgusting.”

“Oatmeal and peas. Navy food. Puts hair on yer chest.”

“I don’t want…hair on my chest. I want to go home.”

“Worth much to yer brothers?”

“That is a stupid question. But considering its source, I’m not surprised.”

“Because if you are, then this business will be over and done with before ye even have time to starve yerself. I dispatched a ransom note before we put to sea. You in exchange for the explosive and the formula on how to make it. I’m glad ye’re a close family. ’Twill be nice to have them hand over that formula with no trouble and no questions asked.” He looked up, smiling and all but batting those ridiculous long lashes of his, and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “To think, the mighty Duke of Blackheath doin’ me bidding. Now there’s a thought!”

At this, Nerissa actually laughed, for the idea of Lucien doing anyone’s bidding was about as ludicrous as that of a mermaid popping up in their wake and waving hello.

“Ah!” said the scoundrel beside her. “So ye do smile, after all. Laugh, even. Should do it more often. Makes ye even prettier, it does.”

She immediately sobered and glared at him. “My amusement comes from imagining what is going to happen when that
mighty duke
catches up to you.”

“Ye think he can best me in a fight?”

Nerissa laughed again, harder this time.

And now even her captor’s lips were twitching and the hard, intimidating edge to him had softened, his eyes sparkling with merriment. “Ye mustn’t love yer brother much, lass, if the idea of his demise brings ye such delight! Saints alive, Sunshine, if he doesn’t love you either, we might be stuck with each other longer than we both thought.”

“That is
not
why I’m laughing.”

He dug his spoon into his bowl and shoveled another glob of oatmeal into his mouth. His eyes were mischievous again, happy, bright. “Oh?”

“I’m laughing because it brings me delight to imagine your heart speared on the end of his sword.”

“Got a lot of faith in this brother of yers, do ye?”

“Captain O’ Devir, I think you have a death wish.”

“Aye, maybe I do,” he said, scraping the bowl with his spoon, “but at least I won’t die hungry.”

Chapter 5

Ruaidri left her with the untouched bowl and, hoping she’d eat something by the time he returned, picked up his hat and left the cabin.

He shut the door behind him, donned his tricorne and let out a deep breath.

God almighty, involve a female and a situation was never simple. Involve a rich, spoiled, aristocratic English one who felt she was above everyone else on God’s green earth and it made things even more complicated.

And amusing.

He enjoyed baiting her. Making her angry. Thawing the ice in her lovely blue eyes and watching her try to maintain her composure, probably thinking he didn’t notice when he couldn’t
help
but notice ever damned thing about her. Like her pretty pink mouth that he ached to kiss—and almost had. The willowy elegance of her body that he longed to mold with his hands. The curve of her cheek and the shade of her hair, like wheat bleached by the late summer sun or the sand on a Connemara beach. What he did not like, though, was that bruise on her elbow—and the fear that had come into her eyes when he had come purposely up behind her.

That bothered him fierce, it did. He might have been an absent son and brother. He might be a rogue and an ex-smuggler and yes, even a murderer. But he would never, not as long as God’s sweet air filled his lungs,
ever
force himself upon a woman.

The morning sun was cracking through massed clouds above as he moved to the weather side of the quarterdeck.

“Wind’s come ’round to the east, sir,” said Morgan, who greeted him with a salute.

“Grand. We’ll stay on this tack for another hour, then.”

“The lady, sir. Has she recovered?”

“Aye.”

“What is the plan?”

Improvise as we go
. “We’ll stay near the French coast in case we need to duck in, and hope the lady’s worth enough to her family that they’ll give us the explosive and its formula in exchange for her.”

“Don’t like how the wind’s blowing, sir. It’ll make it hard to beat back to safety if the Royal Navy comes after us.”

“The Royal Navy isn’t goin’ to come after us. Have faith, Mr. Morgan.”

“So what next?”

Ruaidri buttoned his coat as the sun went back behind the clouds once more, bringing a chill to the air. “We wait for a response to our ransom note.”

Or I go back to London. Continue to play the fool so my little sister’s heart won’t be broken when she finds out what I’ve done. Far better to let her go on thinking I’m tending the cottage back in Connemara. And far safer to let her husband think it, too. Not one I want to tangle with in a sea fight ever again if he comes looking for us.

“Sounds rather dangerous, sir. These waters are crawling with Royal Navy ships.”

Ruaidri make a sound that was half scorn, half laughter. “Well then, instead of exercising the guns with no real target as we’ve been doing every day for the last month, maybe we’ll find something to actually shoot at—”

He halted in mid-sentence as a sudden tension fell over the ship. The entire company had turned their attention aft. Not toward him. But beyond him.

He followed their gazes and the breath caught in his throat.

It was her, of course. He’d known it would be, the moment every man in his crew had stopped what he was doing and turned. She looked strangely out of place here on a naval ship full of rough tars, her fine clothes and proud bearing reminding him that he had plucked her from a world he had never known, would never know, a world that was as different from anything he had ever inhabited—even when he was the Irish Pirate and celebrated, feted and entertained by some of the most influential leaders of patriot Boston—as ice was from flame.

She was English quality. High-born and haughty, her father and now her brother, only one step down from a prince.

Whereas he was just a poor Irishman trying to make a fresh start in a new and emerging country.

She was, in short, unreachable.