When a Rogue Falls

by Caroline Linden

  “It . . .” Markwick slipped his fingers through her hair and grasped the back of her neck, gazing wildly, disturbingly into her eyes, as if searching for something. “I cannot have what I want.”

  Her heart fell from its usual place. His refusal to accept what she offered him sliced through her. “You have only to reach out and take what you want.”

  Her legs weakened as a flickering, feral heat blazed in Markwick’s silver-blue stare. His unexpected behavior did things to her she’d never felt before. Here, now, she knew he wanted her. And she needed him in return, a coiling heat burning deep inside, drugging her with abandon and stealing her breath. She closed her eyes, succumbing to the sensations that charged her blood with maddening heat. But beneath her lashes, a light flickered in the darkness, illuminating figures descending on helpless men.

  Markwick cupped her face. “Are you unwell?”

  “No. I am . . .” Heaven help her, he’d set her ablaze. Was she so weak with desire that she couldn’t breathe? Or was she, even in the midst of sensual delight, doomed to forever envision the horrors she’d seen?

  The cabin began to spin.

  “Bloody hell, you’re going to catch your death.” He grabbed her wrists and set her back at arm’s length, leaving her shivering for more of his addicting warmth as he moved about the cabin.

  She reeled as a cold agony swept over her.

  Captain Teague’s voice infiltrated her senses. “Abandon ship!”

  She felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her lightheaded, and her body began to shake uncontrollably. “I hear them . . . swimming . . . crying out,” she said between chattering teeth, willing the sickening, tormenting screams she’d heard aboard the Mohegan to fade. “What I’ve seen . . .”

  “You will never see again. It is over now. You are on board the Fury.”

  “They didn’t know,” she continued. “Those poor men swam for shore thinking they would be safe.”

  “You are safe . . . with me.”

  “Safe?” Why did her voice sound like it came from miles away? Why did she whine like a pitiful child?

  Children. Whenever she and Jane had been topside, the men on board the Mohegan had boasted about their children, the ones they missed, the ones they’d never even seen. Now the ones they never would meet.

  Who would take care of the fatherless waifs now?

  She’d never wished anyone harm before. Not even the Marquess of Underwood for what he’d done, first to Pru and Blackmoor, and then to his own son. But now . . . God help her, an aged shriek threatened to burst from her lungs. Someone needed to put an end to the wreckers who’d forced the Mohegan onto the rocks and premeditated the horrific murders of the ship’s crew. No other man should be forced to leave his wife and children in poverty.

  Markwick shook her gently. “Chloe!”

  Hysteria welled within her among waves of enveloping blackness. An uncontrollable wail rose from her breast. She sucked in air, trying with all her might to submerge her panic, to rejoice in her good fortune, but at what cost?

  “You survived, Chloe. Focus on that one miracle.”

  Yes. Miracles happen . . . happened. Blackmoor rose from the dead. Markwick came for her!

  Markwick’s fingers snaked through her hair. Ever so slowly, he drew her close enough to feel his warm breath fanning across her face. Baptized by the air he breathed, shocked and titillated by her response, Chloe drowned in the delicious torment, clinging to an unquenchable urge to ignore everything—anything—but this.

  “Come back to me.” He placed his lips on hers, the contact featherlight at first, then growing more demanding as her feeble mind and quivering body fought for dominance.

  A moan escaped her as he stroked her face, caressing her skin lightly with his thumb and forefinger, shocking her all the way to her toes. Growing bolder, she eagerly fled her tormenting thoughts, kissing him back, luxuriating in the feel of his velvet tongue on hers, moving her hands across his shoulders as he broke away to trail kisses from her cheek to her neck. Each moment of contact ignited deeper yearnings. Beyond caring where she was, she arched into him, pressing her body as close as a body could get.

  Every grinding movement chased away the terrifying images of what she’d seen in the past twelve hours. Soon, nothing existed but this moment—his touch, the creak of the swinging lantern, and their quickened breaths.

  I am safe as long as I am with Markwick.

  He turned her around until her back was braced against the bulkhead. “I will not allow anyone to hurt you again.” The husky pitch of his voice sounded riddled with pain as he broke away long enough to speak.

  She clung to the spell he wove over her senses, knowing that if the sensations he roused within her continued, they’d face dire consequences. To hell with being prim and proper! She’d sacrificed her personal desires for everyone else. Now she was taking back what was rightfully hers as passion unlike anything she’d ever experienced gripped her. Wherever and whenever Markwick touched her—her face, back, waist, hips—she craved more. His touch purged her mind of what could have been. Their molding bodies created a friction obliterating right and wrong. All that mattered now was the present, this intimate dance unchanged by time.

  “I am undone,” she breathed between kisses as he stroked her breast through her pelisse, gown, and stays, creating a delicious throbbing pulse inside her.

  “You are perfect.” He kissed her soundly, cutting off her delightful moan with a fervor she’d never dreamed possible. She’d never felt so brazen, so cherished, as she did when he picked her up then—as he’d done so many times in her dreams—as if she weighed not a stone, and carried her across the cabin. After several kisses and booted footsteps, he lowered her to her feet near his bunk.

  He leaned down, his dark hair hanging over his brow, staring at her strangely as he stroked her hair away from her cheek. Her mind reeled beneath his skilled seduction. Had he been taught how to ignite her passion by previous lovers, or did this heart-pounding, intimate dance between them come from an intuitive place? Her heart latched on to the latter. Yes, the attention he gave her must mean he loved her, too. After all she’d been through, surely he meant to profess his devotion.

  She waited for words that never came. Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest as she glanced from the bunk to Markwick and back again. “I’m not sure—”

  “We’ve got to get you out of these wet clothes.”

  She gasped as if he’d thrown icy water over her face, and then glanced down at her body. Clothes? It was true her pelisse dragged along the floor, weighting down her shoulders, but . . . A shiver swept over her. She’d lost herself in his embrace. Until this moment, she hadn’t wanted his kisses to stop. But he had stopped kissing her, allowing her mind firmer ground to function properly.

  Did he plan to take his seduction a step further? She was in love with him, foolishly susceptible to his nearness, how his touch undid her, but she wasn’t so far gone that she did not know when their passion had gone far enough.

  “I’m going to unclasp your coat,” he said.

  She swallowed, hard. “Is that wise?”

  “It’s not only wise but necessary. If you don’t get warm and dry, you’ll catch your death.” He took her hands in his. “Trust me.”

  “I do trust you.”

  “Then allow me to help you.” Markwick lifted his long, lean fingers to her double-breasted pelisse and slowly began to undo the silk-covered buttons.

  Her heart beating madly, Chloe’s breath caught as she watched him unfasten each one, fascinated, drawn to each movement his fingers made as if her next breath hinged on his success. She closed her eyes, imagining that Markwick was her husband, that this would be how he cared for her once they were married.

  If only she could be locked inside Markwick’s cabin for eternity—a passage of time that would surely help her convince the earl that she truly loved him, to cast aside his pirate garb and return home. But she was a respectable girl. She
’d be a fool to give in to such flights of fancy. No matter how passionate they were together, no matter how deliriously enjoyable their coupling would be. Life waited for no one. And hadn’t she already proven her love by sailing off to find him?

  Concern hardened his features, and anticipation rippled down her spine. Her buttons now freed, he stood there, the taut, tangible bond between them tested beyond comprehension as he cast an intensifying spell over her and she waited, breath caught, for him to make the next move. Would he put a stop to any seduction he launched toward her? Could she deny him if he didn’t? It pained her to think about that as she tried to wriggle out of her pelisse sleeves. The garment, however, had a mind of its own. The wet silk clung to the fabric beneath, countering her attempts to remove it. Had she not expended what little energy she had left to indulge in Markwick’s kisses, she might have been able to manage on her own.

  Suddenly overcome with lethargy, Chloe dropped her arms, accepting defeat. “I am going to need your help.”

  That was all the motivation he needed. All too quickly, the garment lay at her feet, easily discarded. Once again she stood before him, vulnerable, confused, and with her heart pounding erratically in her hand, wondering how many layers of clothing would have to come off before he would take her into his arms once more.

  A delicious shudder engulfed her as Markwick’s ravenous gaze traveled over her, examining what she wore beneath. He swallowed thickly. “We cannot stop here. With your permission, I’ll help you out of your gown.”

  Her crazed heart beat ever faster. With a nod, she turned to offer him access to her fastenings. And true to his promise, he moved quickly to rid her of the heavy material until it, too, pooled at her feet.

  Now she stood in nothing but her chemise and stays, which did little to keep her warm or shield her body from view. A trembling spasm she couldn’t control lanced through her as she turned around to face him. Embarrassed, she crossed her arms over her chest in a meek effort to cover herself.

  Without saying a word, he scooped her into his arms and laid her under the coverlet. Her breath solidified in her throat as he tucked the sheets around her.

  He caressed her cheek, chasing away her anxiety, then moved as if to leave her. Just before he abruptly turned away, she reached out to grab his wrist. “D-Don’t go,” she stammered.

  Markwick froze, a tic working in his jaw.

  Chloe struggled to understand the battle waging war inside him, eager to win his heart. “Stay, I beg of you.”

  He turned back to her, his hawklike stare penetrating hers. A knot coiled in her stomach. Would he think her too wanton, reject her?

  In answer to her unspoken question, he bent down to smooth hair out of her face, his touch kindling a blazing trail to her heart. “Chloe, what am I to do with you?”

  A strange surge of affection emboldened her. “Love me.” She latched onto him with her other hand, desperate now. “That’s all I ask.”

  He kissed her forehead before rising to stand, then closed the drapes hanging from the bunk, blocking her view of him.

  Panic unlike any she’d ever known coursed through her. Tears escaped her eyes, rolling freely down her cheeks. She was all kinds of a fool sailing off to find the man of her dreams. Behaving like a ninnyhammer didn’t earn a man’s love. She’d harbored romantic feelings for Markwick for years, but he’d only just learned of it. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all!

  Forsaken, she turned to her side. Raw, primitive anguish mounted inside her as she listened to Markwick moving about the cabin. Wood grated against wood. Padded footsteps tapped a staccato beat on the floor. A swift rustling of heavy fabric warned her that he’d returned. Then the bed creaked and the mattress tilted from behind her. Suddenly, Markwick’s strong arms were enveloping her, pulling her against him, closer to his body than an unmarried woman should be.

  She inhaled sharply as her entreaty fought against her racing heart. “What are you doing?” She stiffened, unable to staunch the desire his closeness ignited within her. She loved Markwick, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to bed her. Not like this. Not yet. The very idea of his nearness aroused a temptation to give herself to him, to prove how deeply she loved him, and the urge was hard to resist.

  “Easy,” Markwick whispered softly. “This is the fastest way to chase away the chill. Our bodies will heat each other from within if you lie still and allow nature to do its brilliant work.”

  Ever thinking of her comfort, Markwick was right. Tension slowly began to ease from her body, replaced by a desire for him to touch her in places that made her blush. Though, as much as she desired his comfort, his embrace, was it wise to tempt fate?

  Alarm bells rang in her head as he pressed himself closer, the emboldened action making her acutely aware of the differences between their bodies. They were nearer than two people could possibly be without committing the sexual act that would bind them as one. Something about this seemed wrong—foreign—and yet equally right. He didn’t move, allowing the heat generated by their bodies to help her relax.

  “This is wrong, isn’t it?” she whispered in the disquiet.

  Laughter rumbled from Markwick’s chest. “It isn’t if it’ll save your life.”

  “But you already saved my life.”

  “You aren’t back in Exeter yet.” He leaned his face against her shoulder while he spoke, making her ache for him. “There are many kinds of danger, Chloe. The first are acts of violence between men. The second . . . well, I don’t think I have to explain that one, do I?”

  “No,” she said, her voice faltering.

  “I will not steal from you the only gift you can choose to give a man.”

  She swallowed the lump still lingering in her throat. He cared. He must if he didn’t want to hurt her. “I give you my heart gladly. I would give more if—”

  “And I would gladly take it. Unfortunately,” he said, “I have nothing left to give in return.”

  Chapter 7

  Sherborne Mercury ENDORSES Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post! CARNAGE and the BLACK REGENT ply the CHANNEL and will no doubt come to blows. CAUTION mounts!

  ~ Sherborne Mercury, 6 August 1809

  After Chloe succumbed to exhaustion, Markwick had lain awake for hours, listening to her soft breaths, counting their frequency as her shock wore off, comforting her when she relived the horror aboard the Mohegan and became fitful. He’d felt her forehead to make sure she hadn’t turned feverish and slowly became fascinated with the softness of her skin, the curves of her delightful body molded against his. Hunger had grown within him like yeast fermenting in bread, but he’d fought diligently against any inclination to test her untried passions.

  What did it even matter? That was the question roving through his brain. When she finally arrived in Exeter and authorities asked her to explain how she’d survived the wreck, inquiries would be made. Her family would be notified. What would the Walsinghams do if they thought their daughter’s virtue had been taken? Marry her off to the first man that came along, that’s what.

  The idea cut sharply through him. If he were any other man, he’d toss the notion over the side of the ship. But he wasn’t that man, and Chloe loved him. How could he subject her to a life of unhappiness married to a man selected to protect her virginal pride? He’d touched her, damn him. He’d lain with her. The facts far outweighed what gossipmongers could invent. And her branded scent of lemon and lavender clung to him as if she were standing right next to him now.

  He’d left the comfort of Chloe’s exhausted body, dressed, and gone over the list Pye had created of the Mohegan’s surviving crew members. He’d interviewed each man, hoping to better understand the events leading up to the wreckage. He’d quickly learned this hadn’t been the Mohegan’s first encounter with wreckers. Her voyage had been tirelessly calculated, which was one of the reasons Captain Teague, who had been greatly admired by his crew, preferred to sail to Exeter rather than from it.

  Now his head spun with an unbea
rable need to make Chloe his. What was happening to him?

  I’m not the fiend my father was, he reminded himself.

  No. He’d not force dishonor on any woman, no matter the circumstances. It wasn’t right to destroy someone else’s life, to bring another human being down into the muck with him. He was still the honorable man who’d set out to make things right. That truth would never change. But he was also the first-born—and only—son of the Marquess of Underwood, a name now deeply rooted in scandal. Not exactly the type of man Walsingham or his parents would want for Chloe.

  Markwick had been happy before. For two long years, he’d lived honorably, doting on Prudence, teaching her everything he knew about ledgers, numbers, and protecting herself.

  Look at him now. Where had honor gotten him?

  Hell’s fury, he was a fool clinging to a system that only served to fail him and destroy whatever he touched.

  Markwick walked the quarterdeck to the stern, examining the way the rising sun glinted off canvas that was thumping and popping on the three-masted rigging rising above his head. Ropes were stretched taut from their halyard blocks, creaking and groaning as the sheets billowed and snapped, knifing the Fury through the swells with a speed sure to dispel any unease residing inside him.

  Except nothing untied the twisting in his gut.

  This was too easy. Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t a nautical man, nor could he boast a seafaring sense of sight, but he was acutely aware that when things appeared too good to be true, they usually were.

  “Sail ho!” one of his topmen hollered with alarm.

  Markwick shielded his eyes from the sun’s brilliant glare, then raised his gaze aloft. “Where away?”

  Evans pointed west by northwest. “She’s tacking. Sighted us off the stern, she has.”

  Had they been scouted? “Can you make out her colors, Evans?”

  “Be damned. It’s the Windraker, sir,” he answered.

  “If Walsingham catches us, we’ll have more to worry about than wreckers.”