"Am I what?"
"Contemplating someone real to marry," he clarified.
She gazed up to him with a purposeful look of confusion. "You mean someone other than the Black Knight?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
She hugged herself against the cool sea breeze. "If you mean a conventional Englishman, no." With a small, impish laugh, she added, "But my parents will believe it, and that's what matters. They're desperate to have me married, since, at nearly twenty-three, I'm a frequent topic of conversation at parties. I've turned four respectable gentlemen down in as many years. Lots of people find that, if not amusing, a bit strange."
He waited again for a second or two, watching her closely. "What about Lord Richard Mydell or Geoffrey Blythe of Guildford?"
She grasped a stray curl blowing across her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. "Richard is a slob, and poor Geoffrey, sweet though he may be, has the personality of door-nails…" Her voice trailed off as she looked back to his face. He'd said the names almost distastefully, but what surprised her was his knowledge that both Richard and Geoffrey had asked her to marry them.
"How did you—"
"I know lots of things," he intimated, dropping his voice to an indifferent whisper. He reached for the collar of her cloak and began stroking it with his thumb. "But what I can't imagine is either one of them … kissing you to satisfaction, Natalie."
Suddenly she was hot, unsettled from such an impertinent comment. Especially from him.
"But of course they're both rich," he continued matter-of-factly. "Little Richard even has a title, and those two things are usually what a woman wants most from a marriage."
She firmly pulled back from him, and he dropped his hand. "Richard is half a foot taller than you. Hardly little."
He grinned devilishly. "But sickly skinny. A man who would no doubt die of consumption or fever at an early age, leaving you with all the money—"
"I care nothing for riches in a husband," she cut in, rubbing a palm across her forehead in irritation, unsure why she felt the need to defend herself.
"Really," he stated, unconvinced. "Then what are you looking for in a husband, Natalie, sweet? What does the legendary Black Knight have that you could possibly want?"
He was teasing her, and she could scarcely be nasty to him with the almost tender way he approached the subject. But she didn't want it to drag on for their entire trip abroad. She got enough pestering about it from her parents.
He stood silently next to her, waiting for an explanation, and since they were all alone on deck, she organized her thoughts and decided to confide in him, to get everything out in the open now so they could move on.
"About two years ago," she began with a sigh, "I came to the conclusion that if I lived the life my mother wanted for me I would grow old and fat and bored, sitting around at teas, eating cakes and chocolates, chatting idly with other ladies about things like who wore what ghastly shade of red to which ball, and whose daughter suddenly needed to marry within the month to save her family disgrace."
She tossed him a quick glance to see how he reacted to her words, but he held his tongue, expression neutral, giving her his full attention now in the quiet of growing nightfall.
"If you must know, Jonathan," she carried on thoughtfully, "I'm not altogether good at embroidery, or gardening, or choosing the appropriate dessert for a menu, or any of the silly little things a lady of fine breeding is expected to do well or, at the very least, efficiently. That's why my mother and I have been at odds with each other for so long. What my parents want from me is to settle down and have babies with someone boring who expects me to do the boring things I loathe." She snorted with disgust. "My mother adores Geoffrey Blythe."
"Go on," he urged huskily.
She raised glowing eyes to his, leaning so close to him the warmth of his body touched her.
Fervently she whispered, "I want to live, Jonathan, to travel and see the world. I refuse to marry an average Englishman who will take me for granted, who will expect me to speak only when appropriate, entertain when necessary, and ignore his husbandly indiscretions. I am not a prize to be won and placed becomingly upon a shelf."
Her voice grew with intensity as she fisted her hands at her chest for emphasis. "I want to be in love, I want to feel passion, like a … a fairy princess who meets an extraordinary, handsome prince and is swept off her feet by a tide of powerful emotion. I want to grow old with someone who wants me as a woman, as a person, not as a dutiful wife."
She stood back, composing herself to add determinedly, "Money cannot buy life, Jonathan, and I refuse to waste mine in the desire to possess expensive trinkets my husband provides me to ignore his various childish follies. Even if I become poor as a beggar, I won't settle for anything less than romance with friendship, and a marriage full of joy."
As her voice trailed off to stillness, her face bright with excitement, or perhaps embarrassment at such an open admission, he wasn't sure which, it occurred to Jonathan that she was going to be a good deal of trouble, indeed. He'd known that, in fact, the minute she walked up to him at the dock earlier that day, a dazzling smile parting her lips and her deliciously shaped body wrapped in a cloak that matched her brilliant eyes.
She was spellbinding, really, with creamy, glowing skin and thick, wavy hair the color of a summer evening sunset. And he knew she tried, if not to disguise her figure, at least to downplay it with plain clothing, but with that she thoroughly failed. Natalie Haislett was a frank and total beauty, with a mind of mischief and an adorable, charming character edged with innocence. And what the hell did he think he was doing, carting her along with him to France to meet the mythical Black Knight?
She had captivated him in his town house, he realized now, showing up unannounced, striking him down because she was again doing the unexpected, catching him off guard as she had nearly five years ago in her father's garden. Both times she'd made him do the irrational from sweetly spoken words and a simple naive but candid look from her gorgeous, hazel-green eyes.
But the timing couldn't have been more perfect. He could use her, he decided, although using wasn't really a word he liked to describe his actions toward a woman, even in her ignorance. Assisting him was probably a better way of looking at it, as it had occurred to him during that same moment of irrationality in his town house that the emeralds he'd been sent to retrieve could very easily be hidden, without her awareness, in her things for transport back to England, if necessary. God knew she'd brought enough of them. And they would surely look magnificent dangling in all their priceless glory from her delicately carved throat if he so chose to indulge her.
Jonathan groaned softly, raking his fingers through his hair as he forced himself to gaze out to the open sea, frustrated with himself and his weaknesses, mostly his weakness for the female sex.
She straightened beside him and smoothed her breeze-blown curls into place inside the knot at the back of her head. "I'm sure you think my notions are ridiculous, sir, but I assure you—"
"I don't think they're ridiculous," he cut in quietly, wiping his face with his palm in mild agitation. "I just—" He paused for a moment and tried again. "You think the Black Knight is going to fill all these idealistic needs for you? What if you don't like him; what if he doesn't like you? What are you going to do when you meet him and find him mean or … grotesquely ugly? What if he's a slob like Mydell or boring like Blythe?" He looked back into her eyes. "You're endangering your entire future on a fantasy."
She shook her head. "That's impossible."
"What's impossible?" he returned brusquely.
Pursing her lips, she said flatly, "I've studied this man and his escapades for two years, Jonathan. I know he is dark, sophisticated, charming, intelligent, handsome, and he does good things to help people. There is also a rumor that he has blue eyes, which, as it happens, I like most in a man." She dropped her lashes, as if suddenly realizing she was disclosing too much.
"You've got n
ice, romantic notions," he murmured thickly after several seconds of silence. "But adventure and eye color are no reasons to risk—"
"I didn't say I would marry him because he has blue eyes," she interrupted, glancing back to his face.
Jonathan knew he was aggravating her, but he refused to soften his approach simply to be tactful with her female sensibilities. These things needed to be said now. "You don't understand," he stressed. "I'm talking about your reputation, Natalie. If it's discovered you've left for the Continent with me, you'll be socially ruined, and for life. Have you considered that?"
Those words hung in the air like a dark, menacing thundercloud. He continued to stare down at her from only a foot away, taking note of the crease of perplexing contemplation on her brow; of her shining hair; her long, silky brown lashes; her soft, tightly parted, pink lips, perfectly shaped and lusciously alluring. She had evidently come to a conclusion that day as to the nature of their relationship on this voyage, for she found him neither threatening nor tiresome, but more of a companion. Almost brotherly. Presenting himself as her brother would never be believed by anyone, however, and just knowing that made him gloat inside. He would enjoy the next hour, even the rest of the night, immensely. He was about to clear up perfectly, with no uncertainty, exactly what their relationship was to be. And he had to do it before she pressed him to leave her and go to a room he didn't actually have.
"Then we will have to be extremely careful," she whispered dryly, cutting into his thoughts. "Someone of your reputation…"
Her voice trailed off into the clear night sky, as if it gradually occurred to her that she wasn't with her brother, but a man who might very well want her for more than companionship.
"And what do you know of my reputation, Miss Haislett?" he inquired soberly, inching closer to her even as she gripped the railing to her side for additional support.
As nonchalantly as she could, she acknowledged what to her was the obvious. "I know you adore women, and they generally adore you in return. I know you change mistresses as casually as you change your boots. I know you think no woman alive can resist you." She smiled impishly. "I, however, am the exception, and will be for the remainder of our trip. I know you're a trader of fine goods, whatever that means, and that it's made you a wealthy man—honestly wealthy, which is good. I know you enjoy lavishing that wealth on the women you … entertain. I know you come from a respectable family and that they enjoy you and discussing your escapades very much."
He blinked, suppressing the urge to laugh at her absurd generalizations, but feeling a stirring heat within of something akin to triumph as she openly admitted her knowledge about him and his personal affairs.
"You've apparently studied me to some depth," he responded with charming smoothness.
She looked out over the horizon, as if taking a sudden great interest in the near-black, lightly swirling ocean. "Not purposely, I assure you, although you as well as other unattached gentlemen come up in social conversation from time to time. Naturally such conversation can't be avoided easily."
"Naturally," he agreed.
"Your brother's wife is also my closest friend," she amended for additional escape. "It would be impossible for me not to hear at least some things."
A most contrived answer, and they both knew it.
"Ahh…" was his only reply.
Seconds ticked by in uncomfortable silence. Then, with keen anticipation of the line he was about to cross, he reached up and cupped her cheek with his palm, turning her face back to his, gazing into wide eyes of instant uneasiness.
"But there's one inaccuracy I must correct," he said softly.
She didn't pull away but batted her lashes in feigned innocence. "An inaccuracy? Which part?"
"The resisting part."
She frowned delicately, as if trying to remember exactly what she'd said. "That no woman can resist you? I hardly think—"
"You cannot resist me, Natalie, sweet."
And then he was kissing her, smothering any hint of denial with his lips, pressing tenderly at first, with no real trace of movement, just a touch. He didn't pull her into him, but stood there in the shadow of dusk, the faint sound of waves splashing against the ship beneath them, his palm softly caressing her cheek as his body came eagerly alive from nothing but the penetrating heat of her mouth.
Natalie was so thoroughly stunned she could not immediately react. They'd only been teasing each other companionably, like old friends, and without provocation he'd done the unthinkable.
Instinctively, after several seconds of shock at his daring, she tried to pull away. That's when he grabbed her around the waist and drew her against him, embracing her completely with an arm of solid strength. Her first rational thought was how this wasn't a kiss like the one in his town house only a few days ago—just a delicate brush of his warm lips. No, this was sweet desire, controlling and intense, the sudden taste of him so powerful she was flooded with the memory of their first intimate encounter five years earlier, of what he'd done to her then, both physically and emotionally. And passionately.
Trembling, Natalie reached up and weakly pushed against his shoulders, wanting desperately to break free because she knew she would soon succumb. And she was right. No longer could she think straight as he held to her tightly, caressing her back with one hand, her cheek with the other, as he played perfect music of beauty against her mouth.
Gradually she leaned into him, gliding her fingertips up along his shirt, relishing in the feel of hot skin beneath cool linen, of the hard, flawless muscle mass against her palms. She squeezed her eyes shut, shoving all from her mind but his powerful embrace, parting her lips a little at his insistence. She was breathing hard, her heart pounding in her breast, blood rushing through her veins, echoing in her ears as she tried to get more of him, as she clutched his neck and ran her fingers through the silky hair at his nape.
Jonathan erupted with a nearly uncontrollable inner fire when he felt her relax and mold herself against him, responding so quickly, so anxiously. He'd really expected her to turn rigid with indignation, even slap him—the standard reaction from someone of her upbringing. But he should have known. Their desire for each other was numbing, indescribable, and had been since the moment they'd first come together on the dance floor years ago.
But it wasn't the passion that so startled him. It was the realization that he'd never felt this strongly attracted to a female in his life—to her softness, her smile and eyes, her delicate curves, her scent of soap and flowers and woman. And this seemingly innocent kiss on the deck of the Redding, under sprinkled stars and soft moonglow, was the beginning of something he was afraid to acknowledge. He'd hoped that a shared kiss would put an end to his need, but it didn't, it wouldn't, and he was in trouble.
He ran the tip of his tongue along her parted lips, the fingers of his right hand gingerly massaging her neck, his left splayed across her lower back, holding her firmly against his rigid body. She moaned softly in his arms, and as impatient as he was to deepen the magic, to touch her more completely, more possessively, somewhere within he became painfully aware that he needed to stop the encounter before it was carried too far. This wasn't the time or place for this, and she would never end the kiss herself. He knew that now.
With immoderate difficulty, breathing rapidly, attempting to clear his mind from the urgency pervading it, Jonathan did what he'd never done in his life—quelled the passion first.
"Natalie…" he whispered against her mouth, drawing his hands forward to place both palms on her cheeks.
She didn't hear him, didn't respond immediately, and with great reluctance he pulled his lips from hers.
"Natalie," he repeated in a gravelly rasp, lifting his face away. He placed a kiss or two on her brow before he dropped his forehead to rest against hers, firmly cupping her cheeks, holding her to keep her from running, inhaling deeply to subdue his fired nerves.
He didn't want to say anything until she calmed, until her breathing slowed a
nd she regained control. She was probably embarrassed, and he wasn't exactly sure how to handle it, how to explain his actions, to keep her from feeling rejected.
Suddenly she was shaking. She pulled her arms down from around his neck and pushed against his chest.
"Natalie—"
"Stop saying my name like that," she whispered.
He frowned. Like what?
Slowly he released her, waiting, and she stood back, hugging herself, head lowered so moonlight reflected off her hair in shimmering streaks. Even in the darkness he could feel the tenseness emanating from her body. He just didn't know if she was angry at him for initiating the kiss or at herself for showing such reckless desire.
She drew a long, unsteady breath. "Don't ever confuse me like that again," she warned in a murmured rage.
What the hell did that mean? Only a woman would say things that stumped him. "Confuse you?"
"I am promised to someone else," she explained as if he were stupid, seething from every pore.
Enlightenment doused him with pleasure. Now he understood, and in the dimness he allowed himself to smile broadly with satisfaction. Expressing her confusion was completely different from expressing repulsion or shock, or from slapping his face.
He lifted his finger to caress her jaw. "You are not promised to anyone," he corrected in a deep whisper.
Her head jerked up, and she glared at him through furious eyes. "Good night, Jonathan."
She lifted her skirts with dignity and walked past him.
* * *
He gave her nearly twenty minutes to compose herself and get ready for bed. Then, with a somewhat guilty rush of anticipation, he knocked on the cabin door twice and opened it without waiting for a reply.
But she wasn't in bed or doing whatever it was women do to ready themselves for it. She was sitting on the edge of it, engrossed in thought, fully clothed, although her cloak was now unbuttoned.
She turned when she heard him enter, staring at him vacantly at first, then with what he could only describe as growing horror.
"How did you—"
STOLEN CHARMS Page 5