by Deb Marlowe
‘Indeed?’
‘Indeed. I am in possession of the perfect weapon, one that will guarantee he will tell us everything we ask.’
‘Are you?’ he asked with mild interest, running a discerning eye over her sitting form.
‘Yes. You see,’ she said, lowering her tone and leaning forwards, ‘I am intimately acquainted with his mama.’
He choked back a surprised laugh. ‘Do you know, that is exactly the sort of thing that might weight the ballast in our favour?’ He smiled at her with tepid approval. ‘I swear, I’ve never met a lady so naturally up to every rig.’
Mild interest. Tepid approval. Up to every rig? What utter rubbish. Portia watched his attention wander again and clenched her fists in frustration. There was nothing mild about her response to Mateo. Quite suddenly, being treated as an equal became woefully inadequate. She wanted to be seen, to be treated, to be wanted as a woman.
Her eyes narrowed. But how to go about it? The old Portia wouldn’t have had a clue; would never have attempted it, in any case. She’d do what she’d always done as a young girl, duck her head and accept her own inadequacy.
But that girl didn’t exist any more. Like a sharp blade she’d been forged by fire and honed by hardship. Portia was no longer content to wait for what she might be given; she was ready to go after what she wanted.
She stood. Gathering her skirts, she straightened and threw her shoulders out. She took a step forwards, positioning herself so a shaft of sunshine caught the golden frogging on her habit, setting her chest ablaze.
He looked up. ‘Well, there’s no hope for it,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I suppose you’ll have to come along to Marlborough.’
She froze. Her heart fell and she let her skirts follow it to the packed dirt floor.
‘You’d meant to leave me behind?’ she whispered.
He nodded.
The gathering cloud of ire inside of her must have shown on her face, because he hastened to add, ‘But only because I can travel more quickly alone.’
Speechless, she picked up her skirts again and headed for the door.
He stopped her just as she reached the threshold. ‘Portia?’ He took her arm. ‘Where are you going?’
‘We passed a gunsmith, just down the street,’ she snapped. ‘I feel the sudden need to purchase myself a firearm.’
His mouth quirked. ‘Does someone need shooting?’
She jerked her arm from his grasp. ‘Yes. You—for being a great, irritating lout. And me—for being a great, naive fool.’
‘Cara, come back.’ His tone rang smooth and caressing. And also insincere and patronising. She knew he didn’t mean anything at all, calling her beloved. She’d heard him use the term with his cousins, with her cousins. She was sure he’d used it once with a scullery maid from her father’s kitchens. But she wanted it to mean something when he said it to her. ‘Surely it cannot be as bad as all that.’
He really did need shooting.
‘Tell me,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘What is the trouble?’
The trouble was that he stood too close yet again. Sensation rippled from the top of her head and took a swirling detour round the front of her, raising her nipples to stiff peaks. She shivered and all the fine hairs on her nape and along her arms stood on end, straining towards him, no doubt.
‘The trouble is that I have been silently singing your praises,’ she grumped.
He grinned. ‘It does not sound so bad.’
She crossed her arms in front of her. ‘It is. All morning I’ve been thrilled because we were acting as equals in this endeavour. Now I see I was mistaken.’ She turned away again. ‘You are no different from any of the men in my family—dismissive and in no way inclined to believe that I have a brain and an idea how to use it.’
‘No—not so!’ he exclaimed. He grabbed her hand as she tried to walk away again. ‘I was rude, it is true. I am most sorry, Portia. Of course we are equals, just as you asked. Partners in this damned rum.’
‘Hum,’ she said. Which was exactly what her body was about, humming, even while her brain was slowing, ceasing to function altogether. Warmth, thick and rich, spiralled from their clasped hands, crawled up her arm and slid downwards, settling low.
But Mateo had grown serious. ‘Truly—I thought only of speed,’ he said earnestly. ‘You must understand, it is very important that we finish this as quickly as possible.’
Disappointment nearly choked her. Aghast, she could only marvel at her own stupidity. Of course he wanted to be done and gone quickly. Of course his interest in her was only mild at best. She’d come a distant second to adventure nine years ago. She placed further behind his business interests now.
Mateo reached up and squeezed both her shoulders in what was meant to be a comforting grip. Letting his hands slide, he grasped both her elbows and pulled her close. ‘Now,’ he said with a warm smile, ‘was that all that was bothering you?’
It was the smile that did it. She wished he’d snapped at her. She wished he’d agreed that she was a woman, and of no use. But he stood there, smiling that easy, encouraging smile and she couldn’t help herself. It blended into all the countless other times he’d teased her, heartened her, made her feel special and alive. Fondness swamped her, along with exasperation and a great flood of hot and molten desire.
‘No,’ she said. She gripped his arms tight, stood on her toes and leaned in until her breasts pressed against the hardness of his chest.
His eyes widened, and then darkened. His heart beat against hers, quickening to match the racing tempo of her pulse.
‘There’s more,’ she whispered, right before she leaned in further and kissed him.
She’d caught him by surprise. But experience and a seaman’s instinct to seize life’s bounty as it came had him quickly entering into the spirit of the thing. And perhaps there was another reason, as well. The thrum of a familiar chord sounded in the back of his mind, a twang of awareness and want that he’d been ignoring. He listened to it now, and let his tension melt away, returning her eager kiss, deepening it, in fact, and sliding his hands along the length of her trembling arms. Tenderly, he pulled her in and wrapped her in his embrace.
For several long, delicious moments he indulged them both. Her mouth was sweet, their kiss languid and deep. But then, at last, he settled his mouth against the white, endlessly tempting turn of her neck. And the chord thrummed deeper, more primitive and carnal. Inside him it echoed like a growl of satisfaction. Mine.
He had to acknowledge it then, the sense of recognition that had struck him when first she barged into the tavern the other night. It overwhelmed him, sweeping over him like a great wave over his bowsprit, leaving him muddled with longing.
He couldn’t think, couldn’t formulate a thought past his need to see her as overcome as he. Slowly his lips and tongue travelled, dancing over the pulse point at the base of her elegant throat and on to the one just below her ear. She let out a whisper of a moan, a sound of pure pleasure. The resonance of it, low and throaty, vibrated against his searching mouth and sent a surge of lust straight through him.
She turned her head, capturing his mouth with her own, moving her hands along a sensual path around his ribcage and across the breadth of his back. She trailed naughty fingers down to his buttock, making him writhe against the slow, soft circles she drew there.
Not a nymph, then, his Portia, but a siren, full of mischief and devilry of the most appealing kind. He measured the weight of her breasts in his hands, stroking his thumbs over nipples already peaked in desire. His erection strained further and he pressed it against her. Let her feel what she did to him with her bold mix of confidence and need.
He stilled, his caressing hands slowed. The sudden realisation of where she had come by such confidence struck him like a blow. J.T. Dio, she’d been married to that snivelling boy. He’d had the teaching of her, had the right to put his hands all over her, in just the way Mateo did now. And more.
No. It was an image
that he could not endure. He kissed her again, purposeful, urgent and hot. He was desperate to drive the image of J. T. Tofton from his mind, the memory of him from hers.
But the heavy fabric and high neckline of her habit frustrated him. He ran his hands along the length of her, delighting in the sweet turn of her waist, rejoicing in the abundant curves of her breasts. He pulled her close, wrapping himself around her, as if in that way he could claim her, make her his own.
She pulled her mouth from his, breathed his name in his ear. Her voice rasped, husky with need.
Portia. He stiffened, torn reluctantly away from desire once more. This was Portia in his arms, tempting him, driving him wild and making him forget.
But he ought to remember. No matter how much he burned for her, he needed to remember who she was and why he was here. Remember that only yesterday he’d accused her of the vilest betrayal. Remember that people were depending on her. That others looked to him for their livelihoods and on top of that responsibility he also carried the weight of a centuries-old family tradition.
How weary he was of carrying so many burdens. He yearned to dump them overboard, leave them behind as so much flotsam and return to the discovery of this new and intriguing facet of his relationship with Portia. But could he do it? No doubt it was exactly what his father would have expected him to do.
He pulled away. Stepped back.
‘We cannot,’ he said, holding on to her hands, meeting the question in her eyes with regret. ‘This has to stop.’
Her eyes filled. She ducked her head. ‘Does it?’ she asked the floor.
‘It does,’ he affirmed. He let her go and retreated across the tiny office. ‘I’m sorry.’
She raised her head then and took a step towards him. ‘I’m not.’
‘No,’ he said again. ‘Portia…’ he turned her name into a caress ‘…my impetuous Peeve, you do not understand all the issues I am faced with.’
‘Then tell me,’ she said simply.
He ran a hand along his jaw. How to make her understand? Turning away, he braced a hand on the door frame and looked out over the small courtyard and the street beyond. But it was the thought of Philadelphia that occupied him, and a clipper he saw in his mind’s eye, heavy in the water as she fought an icy sea.
‘First I have to make you understand how things are at home.’ He sighed. ‘Twenty years ago, Philadelphia was the greatest seaport in America. Our ships, builders and seamen were famous, our reputations earned us the greatest respect. But war and blockades, the rise of other ports, shifting markets, they have nearly broken us.’ His head dropped. ‘You have been to my home. You know how all of my family is involved in Cardea Shipping, in one way or another. If the ships do not sail, if the warehouses sit empty, then my uncles and cousins and their wives and children do not eat.’ He shrugged. ‘Yet our port has fallen into an unprofitable pattern of revival and depression that must be broken.’
‘And you have an idea how to do that?’ She sounded interested, despite herself.
‘Everybody does,’ he snorted. ‘Many of my competitors have turned their backs on the sea altogether and now they ship coal from the interior on crude, box-like boats.’ He shuddered. ‘I have done what I can, what my stubborn father would allow me to do. I have searched out new markets. I fought to establish a presence in Baltimore’s rising hold on foreign goods.’ He paused to look over his shoulder and catch her eye. ‘Now Cardea Shipping is on the eve of its most important venture.’
He breathed deep. ‘Ships from Philadelphia were the first to break the monopoly of the East India Trading Company. Twenty years ago there were forty of our vessels engaged exclusively in regular trade with the East. It is a difficult market, yet the rewards are great. And I mean to revive it.’
He gripped the frame hard in his passion. ‘Any day now the Sophia Marie will be beating her way home. Near a year and a halfshe’s been gone. Mycousin Giorgio captains her—he and her crew will be weary from the long trip from the northwest and the difficult journey around Cape Horn, but her holds will be stacked high with the deep-piled furs that the Chinese adore. I have a warehouse stocked high with the ginseng they crave.’
He turned back to face her. ‘The risks are high in a voyage like this, but the odds become more favourable for a caravan of ships. For several years I have toiled, putting together this enterprise. I have spoken endlessly, cajoled shamelessly and forced compromise on a handful of uneasy, rival merchants. I’ve battled my father and risked my reputation putting this arrangement together. It was to be the biggest opportunity of my lifetime.’
He could see the comprehension in her eyes. ‘Until the reading of your father’s will.’
He nodded. ‘Until I was no longer the head of Cardea Shipping, nor even the eventual heir to the business. I was only a man whose own father had passed him over, whose father had given control of his business into the hands of a woman a continent away rather than see his son take over.’
‘Oh, dear. Oh, Mateo,’ she breathed. ‘I am sorry.’
‘You can imagine the value my judgement holds now. The caravan, the entire Eastern enterprise, began to unravel. My investors have fallen away. The insurers will no longer do business with Cardea Shipping until they hear from you.’
She bit her lip, but he pressed on. ‘Do you understand now why I must finish our transactions as quickly as possible? Cardea Shipping began generations ago in Sicily. My grandfather brought it to the New World. All my life I’ve planned to carry on the tradition left by countless Cardea men. This was meant to be the making of the business, setting us up for success for years to come.’
She exhaled slowly. ‘I begin to see just why you were so angry with me.’
‘I was laughed out of port, Portia, for losing my business to a woman,’ he said bitterly. ‘I am anxious to restore my reputation, yes.’ He met her gaze with a hard, direct stare. ‘And what do you think would be said of me, should it became known thatwe…’ he gestured ‘…were involved.’
‘That you were a man of great good taste and refinement?’
He did not smile. ‘No, and you are naïve to think so. I have no wish to for ever be the man who prostituted himself to regain his legacy.’
She shrugged. ‘It happens every day in the aristocracy.’
He began to grow impatient. ‘It does not in my world. And even were we to remove that consideration, still it would not be a good idea.’
Mute, she looked away from him.
‘Your father and mine might be gone,’ he said, folding his arms in front of him. ‘And I have more than a passing suspicion that my father’s mind was running along exactly these lines, but do you think I would betray their memories so?’
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘There is no betrayal between consenting adults. You don’t need an excuse, Mateo, a simple “No” will suffice.’
He should let it go. Clearly she was ready to do so. But for some reason his mind kept scrabbling around and around the idea. ‘I only consider the gossip that would arise about you. We were raised as a family in spirit, if not in blood. Your opinion of me must be abysmal indeed if you think I would dishonour that tradition and treat you so shabbily.’ Oh, Dio. He greatly feared that he was trying to convince himself, not her.
She looked at him squarely. ‘You are being dramatic again, Mateo. And you forget that I have been out in society a little. I did pay attention, you see. Married and widowed women have gentlemen admirers all the time.’
‘Is that what you want? A gentleman admirer?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Because your kiss told me that you are more interested in a lover.’
She stiffened. Perhaps he should not have been so crude. But she straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. ‘And if I was? You are free and so am I. There would be nothing shameful in such a…relationship.’
She put on a brave front, but he could see the start of tears swimming in the depth of her dark eyes. The sight caused his stomach to clench. ‘I do not mean to hurt you,’ he
said gently. ‘It is more than evident that I desire you, cara. Perhaps it is because of our history, but I cannot regard you so casually.’ He took the risk and approached her again. He caught her hand. ‘It is not in me to love you and leave you,’ he said softly.
She said nothing, only gazed up at him, hunger in her gaze.
And a warning clanged sharply in his head. ‘No—it could be nothing else. We’ve explored this avenue before, Portia.’
‘I know.’ He could barely hear the words.
A sudden fear set him to say, ‘I am too restless for married life. You, of all people, should know that, Portia. I cannot even stand still for long! Nothing in my life has prepared me for such a thing. I would be abysmal at it.’
‘I don’t recall asking you,’ she snapped.
He raised a brow.
‘A kiss!’ she nearly shouted. ‘I wanted a kiss. I’ve had it. I thoroughly enjoyed it. But that is all.’ She wrenched away from him. ‘Men! A lady asks for an inch and they fear you mean to steal a mile!’
Had he been wrong? ‘I am sorry,’ he said. Again.
‘Yes, I know,’ she said bitterly. ‘And you are not ready to be anything else. I understand. But all of this talk, if you ask me, is the true damned hum. We could have “dallied” seven times by now and no one would have been the wiser.’
He let loose a short bark of laughter. ‘Of course they would. People know. They always do.’
As if to prove his point, the attendant and a groom at that moment appeared in the courtyard outside, leading their mounts. Trying to silently convey the full weight of his regret, Mateo extended his hand and led her out to meet them.
But when the groom had gone and they stood alone next to her restless mare, he gave in to temptation once more and touched that wayward lock curling so prettily against her nape. ‘Can you see how a dalliance,’ he said quietly, ‘no matter how tempting, would not be wise?’
She looked up at him, her brown eyes shining, but did not answer.
‘You have Stenbrooke to get back to and I must make haste back home. A quick finish to our business and then we must say goodbye once more.’ He wrapped his hands about her small waist and lifted her easily into the saddle. She hooked her leg over the pommel and settled in.