"I came to walk and be alone." She ignored his commanding tone, finding that heat flared within her. Looking down at where his gloved hand touched her, she felt his warmth permeate the material and puzzled at her reaction.
"All alone?" He seemed suspicious of her explanation. "'Tis not a night for walking." His eyes roamed over her. Roz tingled at his touch. Fire seemed to leap through his loved fingers into her flesh, stoking the furnace that drove her pulses. Firmly she stuffed the feeling down. "'Tis simple enough," she informed him. "There was a revel tonight. Everyone enjoyed themselves save me. I left to get away. It's what you would have done yourself, milord."
He cocked his head to one side, emitted a rough laugh. "Now how would you know who I am? Dare I guess?" His voice grew soft as he moved closer. He stripped off his gloves and clasped her shoulders with lean fingers. Bared of their covering, they seared radiant paths down her arms.
"So you recognize me, my Rose. Just like that. Though I have covered myself well." He indicated the mask, his cloak that fell to the ground. "My own seamen wouldn't recognize me, but you do. How is that? Are you a fairy? Or mayhap a witch?"
"Nonsense." Rozalinde choked out her answer, her heart beating a relentless rhythm against her ribs. Troth, she thought dimly, she must be falling sick. She felt as hot as if she were standing in the summer sun.
But it wasn't sickness. She knew it as she admired the sensual curve of his lips beneath black velvet, the glitter of his eyes through the mask. Her heart throbbed, filled her body with a strange ache as she watched the play of moonlight on his raven black hair. "You wanted me to know you," she whispered, steeling herself against her response to him. "You've come too near."
"I fear you are right, sweetling. I should have kept my distance." His voice was husky with suggestion, his arms tightened around her. "But since we are near, let us enjoy it. Calm yourself, Rose. You are safe with me."
Roz truly doubted that. I would like to kiss you, he'd said that morning. And tonight she'd learned of his reputation with women. Somewhere, in a corner of her brain, her good sense warned her, but for the first time in her life she ignored it. The exotic spice of cloves, the masculine scent of leather mingled with sea air that hung about him, both were too appealing to resist. His hair felt crisp and clean to her fingertips as she unthinkingly reached up and brushed a stray lock from his face.
As if she had requested it, he bent down and touched his mouth to hers.
Surprise leaped through Rozalinde. Her hands flew up to ward him off. Many had tried to kiss her, but first they had repelled her with clumsy avowals of love and gauche attempts to woo her. Each time she'd made sure they didn't succeed.
But this man gave no warning. And his lips ... they were different from the others, unexpectedly tender. Her arms fell helplessly to her sides. The warmth of his mouth feathered against hers, lulling her eyelids to flutter and close. As his fingers meandered lazily down her spine to discover her waist, a host of sensations rose up inside her. Excitement at his closeness. Pleasure at his touch. They were such alien feelings, she felt astonished by how well she liked them as his lips traveled across her cheek to nuzzle her ear. From a secret place deep within her, a pulse of desire bloomed, throbbed awake and threatened to spread.
Against her better judgment, her one hand reached to his shoulder, the other came to rest against his chest. There she encountered the pleasing symmetry of his muscles, his warmth penetrating to her through the linen of his shirt. A new feeling burgeoned within her—the outrageous impulse to explore the lean body pressed against her. Without thinking, she indulged it—let her palms journey beneath his cloak.
Hard planes of muscle. Smooth contours of flesh meeting bone. The cords of his powerful arms bunched and tensed beneath her fingertips. He was beautifully made, his body in prime physical condition. Without looking she knew it, could feel it. It made her want to explore further. So intrigued was she by her discovery, she failed to notice his response.
Without warning, he pulled her hard against him. Her body collided with his, her breasts crushed against his chest. Their hips ground together, the impact startling awake a new burst of feeling deep in her belly. Again his lips sought hers—his tongue a swift messenger girded with clove, darted forward to invade her mouth. She gave a sigh of pleasure and let her head fall back against his encircling arm. Never had she liked a man's closeness, but now her heart pounded in her chest at a wild pace. His breath had quickened also. She could hear it rasp in his throat as she slid both arms around his torso, let her head tilt yet farther to accept his deepening kiss.
Then, suddenly, it was over.
He disengaged himself almost roughly, stepped back. Giving her a look over, he rearranged her cloak. "Impetuous wench," he muttered, pushing one of her sagging braids back into place. "I'm not known for my control." He still held her by one arm.
Fury reared up in Roz as she realized what he meant. "How dare you suggest ... you are as rude as ever!" She jerked herself away from him, groping for words. "Why do you insist on plaguing me? Just ... go away."
His chuckle was even more maddening. "This morning I was impolite. Now I am rude."
Rozalinde grimaced as she straightened her kirtle skirt. "That is because you go too far. Each time I see you, you do or say something indecent. You are nothing but a knave."
He shrugged nonchalantly. "You must give me a chance to redeem myself. Come, you're a charitable lass. Walk with me. Properly, along the shore. I'll not kiss you again," he added as she recoiled.
Roz hesitated, wanting inexplicably to say yes. She should not. She should return to the house, help with the revel, stand by her parents. This man was an earl, a man of the upper class. Nothing good could come of spending time in his company. But there was Trenchard to be reckoned with at home, and that thought canceled all the others. She held out one hand. "Very well." She rested her fingertips lightly on his arm, ready at his least advance to retreat.
They walked along the shingle. As she felt the crunch of stones beneath her feet, Roz decided she wouldn't look at him. It was too dangerous. She kept her eyes fixed ahead.
"This revel you attended," he began as they walked, "I see it gave you little pleasure. In fact, I think it's worse than that. You seemed agitated when I first saw you. Tell me why."
"I was not," Roz told him, flustered at the personal turn to his question. "The revel was fair enough as such things go."
Kit grinned down at her. "You are distressed. I can see the signs. Who has upset you, Rose?"
Roz stopped in her tracks and studied him, then removed her hand from his arm. She tossed her head to hide her consternation. One of her braids had come loose and she flung it over her shoulder. "It really is not worth mentioning."
Kit stepped forward swiftly, closing the gap between them and grasping her by one arm. "Tell me who was troubling you," he ordered. "I insist on knowing, so you'll not escape before you say."
Roz tried to shake loose, caught off guard by the anger in his voice. "You're not my kin, so why should I tell you?
"Why should you even care?" But he grinned that devilish, endearing grin of his, took her in his arms, and held her tightly so that tides of weakness swept over her at his touch. "I care a good deal when a person has difficulty in business." His callused right hand smoothed a wisp of hair away from her face. "If someone is causing you problems, I would be pleased to rid you of him." He made a careless gesture. "I assure you, 'twould be no trouble at all."
"And if he did not wish to be gotten rid of—if he fought you—wouldn't that be trouble?"
The earl gave his maddening chuckle again. "He wouldn't be causing trouble in the first place if he weren't capable of fighting back."
Rozalinde shook her head in confusion. "Do you always laugh in the face of danger?"
"It's better than giving in." His hands couldn't seem to stop touching—they brushed her cheek, her hair, her neck. "Come, you must tell me," he whispered. His voice had a deep, hypnotic t
imbre. "Who is it that destroys an entire cargo of fine lace?"
Roz frowned, thinking hard. If only she knew. "We haven't been able to tell whether it's deliberate or ... or just a series of accidents," she admitted. "And yet ..."
"And yet?"
"And yet, I thank you for your offer," she said primly, drawing away, deciding not to mention the suspect captain. "If I discover who it is and wish to be rid of him, I'll think of you."
Kit was watching her closely. Her expression was rigid and unsmiling, but when her eyes crinkled at the corners his mouth curved in a grin. "Is that the only time you'll think of me? You'll not think of how well I amuse you?"
Immediately she frowned. "You're not as amusing as you imagine."
"You thought so," he insisted, his voice as supple as kidskin. "Enough to make a jest. But I really don't wish to argue. I would prefer to serve you. When I take a cargo to the Netherlands or France, I might be able to learn something of import."
"You have your own ships?" She warmed to the subject instantly. "What do you trade, and what type of ship do you have? We hire the ships we require, though I wish we had our own. I've often asked my father, but he'll not buy even one. He says they are too expensive in upkeep. How long does it take you to sail to Antwerp? And where did your navigator train? Where was his astrolabe made, and what does he think of the shoals off—"
"Stop—" Kit held up his hands, laughing. "I cannot answer so many questions at once. Let us take them one by one. What does a lass know of astrolabes?"
"More than most people, I'll wager," she answered, bristling at his question. "I've talked to many ships' navigators and learned from them how to read a latitude and plot a course. I can do it as well as anyone," she told him, placing both hands on her hips. "I've been to Amsterdam forty times. More than that to France."
"Not of late, though." Kit eyed her with renewed interest. "The seas are unsafe."
"No, not of late." She looked suddenly downcast. "I've not sailed in two years. My father is ill. But we send wool and cotton to the Netherlands," she said, brightening, "and receive Italian silks on the return voyage. I shall go again sometime soon."
Kit looked at her slyly. "These astrolabes you've consulted," he began, "Am I to believe your father approved? That you should meet with the chief navigator and take lessons from him? Especially since the astrolabe, which measures the sun and stars, must also be used at night."
"Well, not always." She looked uncomfortable.
"And you went behind his back when he didn't. Tell me I'm right." Kit could see her wrinkling up her forehead as she had in the shop. "Out your window at all hours, no doubt, and slipping down to the wharves."
"Something like that," she admitted sheepishly, "when Mother was fretting and I just had to get away. It was quite safe, I promise you. Master Jenkins always saw me safely home."
"I would wager he did." Kit imagined how deeply in love this ship's master must have been. "But what of all the ciphering involved? I cannot think it an occupation chosen by a maid."
"Then you know nothing," she replied tartly. "Ciphering is an excellent occupation. I find it useful if people are being tiresome." Her loose braid had crept forward, and she flipped it impatiently over her shoulder again. "My brother in particular. When he has been vexing, I go work with my charts and instruments. They, at least, are reliable. After, I feel much improved."
Just as he had that morn, Kit threw back his head and laughed. But he stopped a second later, seeing her accusing face. "My apologies. Trade is serious business."
He tried again to probe gently, but she stubbornly refused to reveal more about her father's business. Obviously the man placed his trust rightly; the maid gave nothing away. Kit examined her soberly. She had mounted some rocks and balanced on one jagged peak, poised to leap to the next, her arms outstretched for balance. She clutched a corner of her cloak in each hand so it billowed behind her in the breeze like giant wings. The light from the moon shone on her hair, highlighting its rich chestnut hue, and he felt a rush of pleasure looking at it, but her frown from the morning had returned. It troubled him to see it, for well he knew the turmoil of the mind when business went awry. Rozalinde continued her progress along the rocks, and Kit meandered slowly after her, watching while she leaped from one smooth spot on the rocks to another. Her balance was good, but she was too impetuous, taking chances she shouldn't. She'd almost missed that last leap, and if she wasn't careful, she would....
Simultaneous with his thought she skipped for the next rock and missed.
Instantly Kit lunged toward her. She fell against his right shoulder, forcing him off balance. Somehow he managed to ay upright. Despite his six feet in height and considerable eight, she fell harder than he'd expected. Any other position and they both would have taken a tumble. Stumbling lightly, he wrapped one arm around her ribs beneath her billowing cloak.
Instead of thanking him, she convulsed against him with a faint scream. "Sir, loose me."
He tried, but his arm tangled in her cloak. Twisting the other way, his hand again contacted her ribs.
She wiggled and shrieked. "Stop it," she cried. "Your hand ... you ..." Caught in a spasm of some violent emotion, she bent over from the waist.
Kit's mouth widened in a grin as he realized she was laughing. "Ticklish little thing, aren't you."
"No!" Roz wriggled in his grasp. "Fiend from hell," she cursed as his fingers sought the place again. It was her worst tickle spot. No one had touched her there in years—not since she'd been young enough to wrestle with her brother. "Stop that. You're doing it on purpose."
But he was grinning down at her in the most outrageous fashion. He skittered his fingers insectlike, across her ribs. "I told you I would make you laugh and I did," he said, following her struggles so he could tickle her anew. "Though not in a way I expected. You should be merry more often, Rose. You have a beautiful laugh."
"I ... you ... insolent dog," Roz cried, laughing harder. "You really must stop ... oh, I beg you!" Another fit of laughter convulsed her. Her sides hurt from it, and she bent over to clutch her stomach. "Loose me," she panted frantically, "please. I'll do anything you say."
"Anything? Anything at all? You swear?"
"Aye, aye, truly," Roz almost shrieked. She hadn't laughed this hard in all her life.
"Then I'll stop."
He was as good as his word. The tickling stopped, but as Roz recovered herself, she felt him link his arms around her waist. If she'd had the strength, she would have pulled away. As it was, she needed him—or she would probably have fallen down.
And it felt wonderful, standing there, locked in his embrace. What alien feelings these were, caused by the dizzying thrill of his touch. He would probably demand another kiss, would take gross advantage since she'd promised to do anything he said. A promise was a promise. But she wouldn't like it. She swore she would not.
"Your cloak is falling off." He caught it as it began to slide.
"Whose fault is that?" she said, jerking it back around her shoulders. "Your hair is coming down."
Roz caught the loose braid, skewered it in place with a hairpin. "I'm surprised it's no worse than this. You could have simply said something clever to make me laugh."
He chuckled at the suggestion. "I don't think so. I believe in a sure thing."
"Tickling is a sure thing?"
"With you, yes. You're far too logical to laugh at a verbal sally. Besides, I have a strong preference for the physical."
"Clearly." She sniffed, pulling her cloak closer around her. "I suppose there's more of that to come. Get on with it, will you? Tell me what you want."
"Want?" he queried, touching her hair where she'd stabbed it with the pin. "What do you mean?" "You know what I mean," she snapped, summoning her dignity. "I made you a promise. I expect you'll want a kiss or something equally coarse. But that's as far as I go, so you'll have to be content with that." Kit didn't answer for a second. Then he broke into that maddening laugh of his
. It went on and on, tantalizingly low. "You may keep your kisses," he said, leaning to whisper in her ear. "I want something different, and since you promised, you must do as I bid."
"I said I would." She felt half afraid of what he would ask. "As long as it is harmless."
"Then you must promise to laugh each day, or if not that, to smile. It's good for your soul, Rose." She stared at him, dumbfounded, realizing he was right. He was so confusing, this man. She never knew what he would say or do next. Here he was thinking of her soul instead of kisses. She didn't know what to say.
"Promise, my Rose," he urged her. "Promise you'll laugh. Or think of me and smile. That's all I ask."
He was casting his spell again, and Roz felt herself slipping. "Why do you talk this way?" she mumbled. "You say such nonsensical things."
"Do I?" His voice was low, and he let his fingers slide down the length of one of her plaits. "As when I say you are a flower, fragrant and sweet?"
Rozalinde looked at the ground and nodded dumbly, afraid to meet his eyes.
"Or when I say your lips are the richest shade of rose?"
"Yes," she blurted out, looking at him against her wishes. "When you go on with all that trash."
"Why is it trash, my Rose? Why?"
"Well, I—because ..." She found herself stammering, tried to pull herself together. "Because it's a waste of time. We mean nothing to each other, so why annoy each other with such things? It's of value to no one, and there are more worthy subjects to discuss."
Pirate's Rose Page 6