Of Risk & Redemption: A Revelry’s Tempest Novel

by K. J. Jackson

  A slight gasp escaped her lips and she glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one else had wandered onto the upper deck in the darkness. There was only the man at the wheel who still faced forward and away from them—most likely asleep—but also a far enough distance away that he couldn’t hear their low voices.

  Her look travelled back to Rorrick, her right eyebrow cocked high at his words.

  He chuckled. “Is that feigned surprise you are reaching for?”

  Her eyes went wide. “Surprise? No, I suppose not. But—and I say this with the most amount of humility I can, Rorrick—I am accustomed to men undressing me in their minds at the Revelry’s Tempest. It is just that most men keep those thoughts sequestered deep in their own heads.”

  “Most men are idiots.” His voice dipped lower, the moonlight angling against his head and sending half of his face into shadows. “I think you know full well that since the moment you walked into that drawing room at the Revelry’s Tempest, my first thought was that I wanted you in my bed.”

  “I was a complication—that was the word you said.”

  He gave a slight shake of his head. “No, you were desired.”

  “But you said complication.”

  “Yes, well, complications make getting what you want all the sweeter.”

  Her lips pulled into a tight line to hide a smile. “You must enjoy complications far more than I do, Rorrick. Perchance you have some secret to make it past them?”

  “You master them, one tiny step at a time.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “So I am a step?”

  “No.”

  “Then I need to be mastered?”

  He chuckled, not falling to her bait. “No, and that seems to be my trouble with you, Foxfire. You are one that is not to be mastered—and that has thrown all my plans to the wind.”

  Her mouth pulled to the side as she searched into the shadows of his face. She wasn’t sure if she should be glaring at him or smiling at him.

  “Perhaps it is best to say the complication of you was wrapped in desire, then.” He bowed his head to her, acquiescing. “The complication part was that I was looking at a smart woman. One that didn’t take denunciation. Didn’t suffer fools. One that wouldn’t be wooed by flowers and sweet words. One that I needed to deal with at an intellectual level. One that demanded respect. That is the complication of you.”

  He took a step closer to her, leaning in, the heat in his words warming her to her toes. “But desire, Foxfire—desire is something altogether different.”

  His bed was not for her.

  She had to remember that. He wanted the land from her. And who knew what beyond that.

  No. She was not about to be careless with her heart again. Once, twice, she had been a fool—but three times would be the death of her.

  As much as she wanted to stay in his aura of heat—stay in the sphere of his scent—she stiffened, taking a step away. “This is kind of you, Rorrick. But I don’t deserve—”

  “No?”

  Her hands on the railing curled, her fingertips digging into the wood. “Reserve your judgment until I tell you the rest of the tale.”

  His head tilted as he stared at her, his blue eyes piercing. “Fair enough.”

  “What Percival did—leaving me—I was saddened, humiliated, but I always thought he would eventually come back. I loved him, so why would I not believe that? Why would he not come home? I believed that for six years. That he would come. That I loved him. I lived by those two beliefs.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “No.” Her head shook. “When he left me, left England, he went to India—his family had investments with the Company there. And once he was there, he never came back to England.” Her lips drew inward for a long breath. “But she did.”

  “She?”

  “Ashita, his mistress—his other wife for all intents, for she was more so a wife to him than I ever was. My husband had gone to India and had fallen in love with her.” Her words rushed, the faster she said them the less embarrassment she would have to endure. “He stayed there for her. They had a child. A home. Until the cholera epidemic hit Bombay. They escaped before it reached them, or so they thought. The three of them were traveling to England when Percival died of cholera.”

  “You never saw him again?”

  “No. And the cruelty of it was that I knew he was coming—news of the epidemic had travelled quickly to England and he had sent word he was coming home. I was waiting. Happily waiting.”

  Her gaze dipped downward only to find her knuckles were bright white again. Her words paused as she had to concentrate on unfurling her fist. Her fingers stretched and she set her palm lightly on the railing, then looked up to Rorrick, her voice even. “I waited and waited, and then I received the news of Percival’s death. He was on a ship in the harbor, dying—dead—under a yellow jack flag. I was destroyed. Finally—finally my life was going to start—just as I imagined it. I would have my husband home and we would have children. But then he died. In those days after the news of his death, I was heartbroken and I didn’t yet know about his mistress. Not until she arrived at my home with her son.”

  “How long was it after you learned of your husband’s death?”

  “One week.”

  He winced.

  “I was not at my best.” She turned from him, facing the railing as both of her hands gripped the wood to steady herself. Her eyes lifted to the moon, wishing for cloud cover, for anything that would send the air into blackness so he couldn’t see her—couldn’t see the sins that clung to her.

  To dwell on them in her own mind was one thing, but this, speaking them out loud, welled the shame so thick in her lungs she couldn’t take a breath.

  “What happened?” His voice soft, Rorrick turned to the ocean, mimicking her pose, his attention on the tips of waves reflecting the moonlight.

  “Ashita was penniless. She had a three-year-old child. She knew no one in the country. She was seeking refuge. Mercy.”

  Rorrick stood silent, not pushing, not looking at her, not demanding her next words. Silent. Patient.

  Which made her next words even more difficult to form on her tongue.

  “And I had none. I sent her away. I sent her away with not even a scrap. My friends—both Violet and Adalia—tried to convince me not to. Tried to get me to see the path I should have chosen.” She paused, her lips drawing inward as she shook her head. “I would not hear of it. I would not hear of anything but the hatred and vengeance that had manifested in my head. In my soul.”

  Her head bowed. “So I had Logan, the head guard at the Revelry’s Tempest, do it. I had Violet and Adalia help. I drew all of them into my web of malice. They are beyond loyal—all of them—and I made them sacrifice their morality because I was weak.” The words ripped shards of pain as they tore up her throat. “They set Ashita and the child on a ship to America. Set them to the seas without a penny. Abandoned them to the mercy of the fates.”

  She stopped, drawing a deep breath as her look lifted to the waters. “No—they didn’t do that. I did that. I was the one. They did that for me. I was the one that punished a woman and a defenseless child, their only sin being that they loved my husband. Love he asked for. Love he did not want from me.”

  It took her a long moment to move her gaze to Rorrick’s profile. “So this—this is not revenge. Not revenge at all.”

  “Guilt.” He looked at her, his blue eyes shrouded in a shadow. “An incredible amount, it would seem.”

  Cass nodded, her lower lip slipping between her teeth to hold back tears. To hold back the hot shame of her actions.

  “In all honesty, Cass, this does not seem like your burden to bear. This was your husband’s doing, and you were dragged into his mess by his mistress.”

  “It does not matter how it transpired. She was penniless. Destitute.” Her voice sank to a whisper, her eyes closing as she drew in a shaky breath. “You do not know how that haunts me. How the eyes of their child haunt me. S
uch…such hope in that little boy’s face. In his eyes. Eyes that mirrored my husband’s. So I need to find her and her child.”

  “For what purpose?”

  She opened her eyes to him. “If I can amend my past mistakes, is it not something I should do? I have the means to do so now—to right my wrongs. Or should I go about life, pretending it never happened? I tried that for a number of years. But it doesn’t go away—that black mark on my soul. I was grievously wronged by my husband. I know that now. But I do not get to assign offense onto him, while ignoring my own actions and what they have wrought.”

  The tip of Rorrick’s head angled outward toward the sea as he stared at her. Even with the shadow looming over his eyes, his look penetrated her so deeply she was convinced he was delving into her soul, examining her worth. “You want to be a better person?”

  “If it is possible. Yes.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll take you. I’ll take you to find her. To find the boy.”

  Words of gratitude floundered on her tongue as the relief sweeping her body stole all ability to speak. The judgement she had been sure was forthcoming hadn’t manifested as she knew it should.

  Rorrick turned back to the ocean, his forearms resting on the railing. Cass followed in like. They stood for long minutes, silent in thought, the rhythmic lapping of the water on the ship the only sound in the night air.

  The low rumble of his voice cut into the air around them, even as his look stayed on the dark swells of the sea. “You recall how earlier I said I wanted you in my bed, Cass?”

  She started, turning to him. “Yes?”

  His look left the water, seductive in its laziness as it travelled to her face. “It has changed.”

  “It—it has?”

  He turned fully toward her, leaning close, his voice dropping lower. “Yes. I now want you more than ever.”

  Her eyes widened at him, her stomach flipping at the scorching heat in his words.

  His head cocked to the side. “Why are you covering your nose?”

  She jumped slightly, her fingers instantly dropping from the bridge of her nose. “I was not.”

  “You were.” A squint crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. “Foxfire, I know when a woman is hiding something from me. And you were just hiding your nose.”

  He saw. Blast it. He saw.

  Her look dove away from him, searching for a point in the waters to concentrate on and save her from his stare. She found a swell and followed the crest of it as it moved along the ocean, avoiding him. Her breath exhaled in a rush through her teeth. “I have freckles.”

  “And so? You have three, maybe four.”

  It took a long breath for her look to lift to him. “You were close and I try very hard to hide them. I know they disgust.”

  “Disgust?”

  “Yes.” Her fingers itched, begging to lift and cover her nose once more. “That was the one thing my husband commented on.”

  Rorrick straightened slightly, a hard line setting into his brow. “When?”

  “Our wedding night.” Her cheeks started to flame and she had to concentrate on the white swath of Rorrick’s linen shirt under his coat. Just how much humiliation—how much shame—could she endure in one night? She inhaled, bolstering words from her chest, from that raw spot where she held the memory. “Percival crawled into my bed, looked at me, and his face turned to horror. Freckles. It was all he could say. That one word. Again and again. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. He could not bear to look at me as he…he…”

  “As he consummated the marriage?” Rorrick’s voice dipped to a growl.

  She nodded. “He wanted perfection from me. And he married me regardless. But it was why Percival left after that night. I was not perfection. Not the perfection he was promised.”

  Rorrick took a step forward, filling the space between them. “Foxfire, no one leaves a woman as fine as you because of a freckle. There was something wrong with your man.”

  “No. It was me. Percival needed flawless. Not dirty freckles. He told me so.”

  Rorrick’s tongue slipped out, wetting his lips. Hungry, almost.

  Her itching palm able to take no more, her hand lifted, her fore and middle finger lightly resting on the bridge of her nose. She hated it of herself—the unconscious and despised reaction, yet she had no control to stop it.

  His hand whipped up, snatching her wrist and tugging her fingers away from her face, his head shaking. “No. No hiding from me, Cass.”

  He leaned forward, his tongue slipping out, and in one long swipe, he licked the line of her nose, freckles and all.

  Her head jerked back.

  Horrified. Dumfounded. The oddest sensation. And also strangely, oddly, erotic.

  What man would lick her?

  Rorrick pulled away with a slight shrug. “You taste of clementines. Citrus. Not dirt. I had to make sure because you seemed so certain. And believe me, I have tasted the worst dirt.”

  “You—you just licked me.”

  “That I did, Cass.” A smile—so wicked it sent carnal pangs vibrating unabashed though her core—curved across his face. “And it isn’t the only thing I’ll be tasting on your body once we get off this ship.”

  { Chapter 8 }

  “Hell, I want to kiss you, Foxfire. And I want to kiss you hard.” Rorrick paused, glancing past Cass’s shoulder at a deckhand as he hauled a rope past them.

  It had been weeks since he had, of all things, licked her nose in the moonlight. Had he considered it properly, he probably wouldn’t have done it.

  Or maybe he would have.

  He didn’t regret it all.

  His only regret was that he had introduced them on this ship as brother and sister and now he couldn’t touch her.

  The sailor moved away from where they were sitting and Rorrick’s eyes settled back upon Cass. “But my lips can’t touch you because you are my damn sister.”

  The words slipped out before he could control them.

  Not that he would take them back.

  Not when he could revel in the shock that crossed her face.

  Her bare fingers lifted to her lips, covering the escaping gasp. The only pair of gloves she had brought on the journey had been ruined along with most of her clothes during the first days she was sick. She would need new gloves when they landed in Charleston. And real ones. Not the delicate kidskin type that graced the hands of most of the women in London. He didn’t want to see her delicate skin marred by the brutal winds that still held the land this time of year.

  Cass’s fingers fell from her lips, her eyes still wide. “I—I am your sister?”

  Rorrick crossed his left leg in front of him, resting his ankle on his knee as he reclined in his chair by the railing of the quarterdeck. “Here on the ship. You’re my sister. It would be unseemly. Five weeks into the farce and it is a little late to change our story.”

  “Oh. Of course.” For a long moment, she stared at him, her jaw slightly askew.

  He liked it when he threw her into a flustered shock. Everything she felt, everything she thought was mirrored in the flawless lines of her face. A face he especially liked when he managed to procure a flush in her cheeks.

  A wave of composure washed over her and she shook her head, her look landing on him in censure. She leaned forward, her voice in a low scold. “How in the blazes did you just manage to transition from our discussion on the value of copper mining to kissing me?”

  He shrugged, a devil smile carving into his face. “It was the first time I’ve heard a woman talking about copper securities and trading routes. Your lips curled quite enticingly over the words smelters and tariffs, and then my thoughts wandered. I realized it would only be respectful to report to you what was consuming my mind.”

  He had for weeks, in all honesty, been preparing her for the moment they stepped off this vessel. Little by little, wearing down her resistance. Veiled suggestions. Letting their bodies brush against each other in the tight corridor
s below.

  He wanted her. And he was damn well sure she wanted him as well—if she could manage to get out of her own way enough to recognize that fact.

  Cass sat a little straighter, her back stiffening as she glanced about the deck. The chill had come back into the air as they had turned north from southern waters, so they had the deck mostly to themselves. No one within earshot. Perfect.

  She looked to him, a mischievous spark flashing in her eyes. “I admit I was befuddled for a moment on the change in topic.” Her words sang with challenge. “Tell me again, what it is that you want?”

  He chuckled under his breath. Minx. She didn’t know who she was playing with.

  Setting his hand on his ankle, he twisted slightly to her, his voice sinking to a low rumble. “I want to kiss you, Cass. I want to run my thumb along the line of your jaw, down the sweep of your neck to trace your collarbone.” His eyes followed the line he spoke of. “I want the smooth skin of your chest beneath my fingers as I dip beneath your dress. Your chemise.”

  Her jaw dropped slightly, her fingers going to the bare skin above the lace on her bodice, spreading, touching the very spot he was staring at. The very spot he was imagining the taste of. Her ring finger dipped beneath the lace trim of her bodice. Not far. Just enough. Enough to taunt.

  Maybe he didn’t know who he was playing with.

  It took her a long moment to form words, and she had to clear her throat as the shocked innocence in her eyes gave way to wariness.

  Her hand abruptly dropped from her chest and fumbled to the small round table with carved inserts for cups. She picked up her tea cup and for a long moment she stared down at the amber liquid. Her forefinger ran in a methodical circle along the bottom edge of the china. She looked up at him, her honey-brown eyes locking onto his gaze. For the briefest second, she looked almost startled—distressed—and then it flashed away. “Do you realize you have the same eyes as your brother, Rorrick?”

  “I do? I never actually compared.”