How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series)

by Alexandra Benedict

  Holly attempted to excuse herself when Sophia grabbed her other hand in an unbreakable hold, keeping her from moving an inch.

  “Should we tell her?” the exotic beauty asked.

  “I believe so,” returned Amy.

  Mirabelle remained quiet, reflective. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I would hardly think so,” countered Sophia. “If she ever tells another living soul, we’ll confess her identity as Lord H. I don’t believe she’d ever risk such scandalous exposure, not with a teenage sister to marry off.”

  Holly balked. Were the women about to blackmail her? Heavens, whatever for? What had she done to deserve such iniquitous treatment?

  Oh, why hadn’t she remained silent about her personal troubles with her husband? She should not have confessed such intimate details to his family, clearly. It was wholly improper. And she would pay for her folly by suffering under the threat of extortion!

  The duchess finally nodded in agreement. Her umber eyes fell on Holly. “We all have a past, my dear.”

  Holly twisted her hand, trying to free herself from Sophia, but the woman clamped down even harder.

  “It’s all right,” Holly rushed to express before any more uneasy confessions were revealed. “I should not have bothered you with my private concerns.”

  “You are always welcome to come to me with your concerns, Holly.”

  “And to me,” said Sophia.

  Amy smiled. “And to me.”

  “We are sisters,” the duchess resumed, “and we support one another.”

  “Always,” said Sophia and Amy in unison.

  Holly blinked. Were they going to blackmail her or initiate her into a sisterhood? She stopped struggling and listened with intent.

  “Who am I?” asked Sophia. “Where have I come from?”

  Under the woman’s darkening gaze, Holly quivered. “You are an heiress from the West Indies. Your late father, an Englishman, and your late mother, a Portuguese lady, owned a plantation on the island of Jamaica.”

  Sophia lifted a cunning brow. “It does sound very respectable, does it not? In truth, I am the daughter of a pirate and a whore. I was raised in a brothel until the age of twelve when my mother insisted I earn my keep on my back. I refused and left her to live with my mad father in the jungle. After his death, I took his stolen riches and came to England.”

  Holly dropped her jaw. “You . . . You are not . . .”

  “Telling the truth?” A wicked light sparkled in her bay brown eyes. “Oh, but I am.”

  Holly believed her then. Her sophisticated ensemble belied the dangerous, even venomous tone in her voice—a tone no proper miss could ever wield.

  Hesitant, Holly turned toward Lady Amy. “Are you the daughter of a duke and duchess?”

  “I am.” She angled her head, her golden curls bobbing. “But as a child, I was abducted by Gravenhurst.”

  “Your former husband?”

  “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “You see, my father had wronged the marquis, terribly so, and in revenge, Gravenhurst had taken me away from my family. I escaped into the rookeries before he could kill me and found sanctuary in a foundling asylum.”

  “Goodness,” breathed Holly, captivated by the unfolding account.

  “I eventually found work in a notorious house called the Pleasure Palace, where I danced in disguise as the foreign princess, Zarsiti, enticing rich men to part with their gold coins.”

  Holly’s jaw remained in position this time as she grew accustomed to the fantastical tales. She next peeked at Mirabelle under lowered lashes. “I’m not even going to guess your past, Your Grace.”

  The duchess chuckled. “I was raised by my father and brothers. My mother died from childbed fever shortly after giving birth to Quincy.”

  Holly gasped. Quincy had shouted his mother’s name in his troubled sleep, she remembered. And he had begged the woman for forgiveness. Forgiveness for what, though?

  “My father was pressed into navel service when James and William were just boys,” she went on. “Stolen from his family without the chance to even say farewell, he remained imprisoned aboard the naval vessel for ten years. He was treated heinously during that time, so when the naval vessel was attacked by pirates, my father turned traitor and joined the pirate crew. He sailed the Caribbean for two years under the pirate captain, Dawson.”

  “My father,” added Sophia.

  “Yes.” Mirabelle smiled. “Dawson saved my father from the brutal life of a pressed seaman. Soon the two men became friends, and Dawson released my father from service with his fair share of the booty. Finally, my father returned home. Reunited with my mother, they had three more children, and my father took to piracy as a career. He purchased a schooner, named it the Bonny Meg after my mother, and raided the high seas for many years before he grew ill and handed command of the vessel over to my eldest brother, James.”

  Holly’s eyes widened. “James is a pirate?”

  “Was a pirate,” corrected Sophia. “He once roamed the waves as Black Hawk.”

  “What?” cried Holly. “The infamous rogue?”

  His wife smiled with pride. “The very one.”

  “He’s retired, though,” assured Mirabelle. “All of my brothers are retired from piracy.”

  “Well, that’s . . . Wait.” Holly almost toppled from her chair. “All of your brothers? You mean . . . ?”

  “Yes, even Quincy.”

  “My husband is a pirate?”

  “A former pirate,” reiterated Amy. “We’re all married—or soon-to-be married—to one.”

  “I am the only exception,” from Mirabelle. “I married the reformed ‘Duke of Rogues.’ He is the one married to a former pirate.”

  “You are a pirate!”

  “Shhh,” hissed the duchess. “Not so loud, Holly. I don’t want my children to hear the truth. They’re troublesome sprites, as is. Imagine if they caught word their mother was once a pirate? They’d turn into veritable hobgoblins.”

  Holly heaved a deep breath. Her head was spinning with too many sensational tales. The family had accepted her into the fold because of her scandalous past, not in spite of it? Pirates attended high society balls, masquerading as gentlemen?

  But one pertinent question remained after all the shocking confessions.

  “Who am I, then?” asked Holly.

  “A woman with a past?” suggested Amy.

  “Just like one of us,” offered Sophia.

  “Family,” said Mirabelle with a soft smile. “So don’t think for one moment Quincy is looking for a ‘better’ lady. If he wants to be with the same sort of woman as one of his brothers, he’s already with her.”

  Holly sighed. She even simpered. For the first time in many black days, hope sprouted in her heart. Her husband might be furious with her for the way in which they had married, madcap and under duress, but in time, might he really grow to care for her?

  CHAPTER 13

  “You look like hell,” said James, straddling a chair.

  Captain James Hawkins was the last of the brothers to arrive at the pub. Not since their bachelors days, when they’d all sailed aboard the Bonny Meg, had the four found time to spend together and get pissed.

  “I feel like hell,” growled Quincy. He sensed a familiar, uncomfortable pressure on his chest as he remembered his wife’s impudent condemnation. A disgusting offer, was it? Fine. If she wanted to be a martyr and remain celibate, she could go right ahead. He sure as hell wasn’t going to maintain a monastic life. And he would not feel guilty about avoiding his “husbandly” duty.

  “I was talking to Will, pup.”

  “Oh.” Quincy rolled his eyes toward William. “He’s looked like that for months.”

  James shouted for ale, then, “What’s the matter, Will?”

  After downing a pint, William wiped his mouth. “Nothing’s the matter.” He slammed the empty glass on the table and belched.

  The brothers exchanged bewildered glances, for William nev
er imbued.

  James shrugged, taking a swig of malt. There was a time when he would’ve beat the confessions out of them. But he’d considerably mellowed since his marriage to Sophia.

  He turned toward Quincy next. “So what the devil’s wrong with you?”

  “Forget I said anything.” Quincy raised his mug. “We’re here for a toast. To Eddie and Amy.”

  The others lifted their hands. “Eddie and Amy.”

  A cacophony of striking glass filled the already noisy pub.

  “Any word on Gravenhurst?” asked James.

  “No.” Edmund squeezed his tankard. “The bastard’s still at large.”

  “I don’t want to dampen your good fortune, but have you considered he might try to ruin the wedding? Or come back to hurt Amy?”

  “Consider it? It’s all I bloody think about, protecting Amy. If I can’t stand outside her parent’s house, I send patrols to guard her.”

  “And the wedding day?”

  “I’ll have runners at the church and during the ball, looking out for him.”

  “We’ll keep watch, too,” said James, his voice lethal.

  Whatever their differences or disputes, the brothers always protected their family.

  A sardonic grin soon crossed the pirate captain’s face as he turned his attention back toward his youngest brother. “How’s married life, pup?”

  “Fine,” gritted Quincy.

  “Trouble in paradise already?”

  “Whoever said it was paradise?”

  Edmund snorted. “Can’t keep the wife happy? And you, the charmer in the family?”

  “Piss off. All of you.”

  James and Edmund sniggered. William called for another round.

  “It’s a strange time, indeed,” said James, still chuckling, “when mine is the only uncomplicated life.”

  “Perhaps it’s the full moon,” grumbled Quincy.

  “A word of advice to you all.”

  “Oh, crikey,” groaned Edmund.

  But James ignored the protest and lifted his mug once more. “Whatever your troubles, men, heed the wise words of our forerunner Blackbeard, ‘damnation seize my soul if I give you quarters, or take any from you’.”

  The brothers knocked glasses again. But Quincy considered James’s counsel the worst he had ever heard. He imagined the position he was in and what it would mean to take up such advice—both refusing to surrender and refusing to accept surrender from Holly. A fight to the death, in other words. Gads! Was his brother mad or foxed? Quincy wanted his wife’s capitulation. He’d remain miserable until then.

  The brothers quit the pub after some more ribald talk. William was so thoroughly drunk by the end of the night, James and Edmund had to carry him home. Quincy also treaded home on foot, though his gait slowed as he stepped onto Park Street and stalled altogether when he reached his house.

  Was he going to pussyfoot every time he arrived home? Like hell! He’d set his wife straight on the matter of their marriage once and for all: that they would lead separate, private lives. He with his lovers. And she with hers—or not. He didn’t much care at that point. He just wanted peace between them.

  Quincy pounded on the front door until his disapproving butler opened the barrier.

  “Where’s my wife?” he demanded, his words slightly slurred.

  The old man frowned before announcing, “In the studio, sir.”

  Quincy dismissed the disagreeable servant and climbed the stairs, heading for the studio. At the door, he paused and inhaled a fortifying breath. He then entered the room without making a sound.

  Inside, Holly was seated on a stool, covered in a body apron, her luscious locks pinned in an untidy bun, loose wisps sweeping across her temple and neck. He watched her furious fingers, stained with charcoal, gouge the canvas with a flurry of black marks, and for a moment he remained enthralled. Again, she didn’t notice his appearance. Again, he had the opportunity to study her in surreptitious solitude.

  He considered interrupting her work, to resolve the tense matter between them, but instead he found himself seated in an armchair in the corner of the room. And again, he leaned his head against the backrest, observing her as she brought to life another piece of art.

  It had startled him, the depth of her talent. He had thought her work limited to tawdry nudes, but since retiring as Lord H, Holly had unleashed an otherworldly ability.

  He shifted his gaze to her previous work, the oil drying on an easel, swirling with abundant color. He was lost in the never-ending whirlpool of brilliant strokes. He captured splatters of blue and red and yellow paint: colors of passionate emotions. Anger. Hurt. Lust. Hope. All screamed at him. And he grimaced in pain.

  Quincy shut his eyes and envisioned her slender fingers smoothing the conflicting hues, digging through them, blending them together, then slashing them apart. More paint. Heavy, thick, emotive color. Soon peace emerged as the fractious pigments joined in harmony.

  At last.

  He sighed. He needed those slender fingers to do the same to him, to smooth and dig and blend and slash until his shattered soul was remade in unified fragments.

  Quincy opened his eyes, the world still spinning like the artwork. What rot! He was sloshed. And he tended to make an ass of himself whenever he was drunk. Perhaps now wasn’t the right time to talk with his wife.

  He was about to leave the room when Holly sniffed the air. Her concentration shattered, she looked over her shoulder and her flushed features and breathless beauty punched him straight in the gut. She had a smudge of charcoal across her fine jaw, and he had an insatiable desire to wipe away the soot with his thumb.

  He really was an ass. He shouldn’t have entered the room when he hadn’t full control of his senses. He barely made it through one of their encounters when he had his wits together.

  “I smell liquor.” She made a moue. “Were you at a gentlemen’s club?”

  He snorted. “A pub. I don’t play the bleedin’ nob when there’s no lady fussing about.”

  She humphed and returned to her sketch, but her shoulders soon slumped. “I shall have to finish it another time.” She looked back at him, piqued. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s my house,” he growled at her audacious reproach. “I can sit in any damn room that pleases me.”

  Her brows arched. “It pleases you to sit in here? With that?” She pointed toward a draped canvas, his nude. “And me?”

  Quincy scowled. He hadn’t meant to suggest he enjoyed her company, that he was looking for more than an orderly, unfeeling marriage.

  “Shit,” he hissed, reproaching himself for his folly. He pushed out of the chair and headed for the door. “I think I’ll go to that gentlemen’s club, after all. I need a good bedding.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t expect more from a pirate.”

  He hardened. Every bone in his body. Stone. Cold. Dead.

  “What?” he rasped.

  “Isn’t that all pirates do? Pillage and whore?”

  Slowly he turned around, blood throbbing through his veins, and met her bold stare. “What the devil did you call me?”

  She quirked another brow. “A pirate. Or do you prefer cutthroat? Blackguard? What is the most appropriate term?”

  Quincy couldn’t believe his ears. How the hell had she discovered his past identity? His heart hammered, and he sensed himself being pushed into a corner. But he quickly remembered he was privy to her secret identity. She wouldn’t dare breathe a word about his piracy and hurt his family, not when he could destroy her. So what was she doing taunting him?

  Holly hopped off the stool and reached for a rag, wiping her grimy fingers. “Well, I shan’t keep you from your whore.”

  She strutted toward the door, and as she passed him, he grabbed a hold of her arm. Slowly he pulled her across the breadth of his chest until she was positioned in front of him. He glared at her. She lifted her chin, undaunted, and returned his stare. Something kindled in her bright green eyes. Humor? A
nger? Hope? What the deuces was she thinking?

  “How?” he growled.

  “How do I know you’re a pirate? I have my source.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  Her flat refusal disarmed him. Damn her! Who had told her about his past? He had to plug the leak before others discovered the truth, as well.

  “You will tell me,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t see how,” she quipped. “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?” he snapped.

  “I propose a trade.”

  “I won’t bed you.”

  His swift refusal turned her delicate features into ominous storm clouds. “I wasn’t going to ask you to ‘bed’ me.”

  His heartbeat steadied at the assertion. “Then what do you want, wench?”

  “A kiss.”

  “No.”

  “And not a peck on the cheek,” she resumed as if he hadn’t just denied the request. “You once welcomed my artistic study.” Her voice dropped to a seductive octave. “You once offered me the opportunity to take my hands and lips and study you until I was satisfied. Well, I’m accepting the invitation. And then I will tell you my source.”

  He stiffened at her proposed “trade.” His blood burned in anticipation of her downright extortion—and the pleasure he would feel in giving her what she demanded: a bloody kiss that could ruin him.

  Quincy girded his muscles as his brain flooded with memories of that night in his coach, and he knew, he just knew he wasn’t strong enough to resist her, not when he was drunk and in need of a woman’s touch.

  He shut his eyes, about to refuse her again, when she offered:

  “I want just a kiss, I promise.” She whispered, “I won’t take more than that.”

  He had to be a bloody fool to trust her with keeping the kiss from becoming a thorough bedding, but what other choice did he have? He wasn’t going to lock her in the studio and starve her until she confessed her source. He even shuddered at the violent image. He would never hurt a woman, much less Holly. It seemed there was no other way to get what he wanted except to charm his conniving wife.