The Rogue

by Emma V. Leech

  She smiled and blinked, finding her eyes fill at the soft look in his eyes. “My name is Henri.”

  He laughed at that and her heart lifted at the sound.

  “Well,” he said, taking one of her hands and raising it to his lips. “In that case ... my name is Lawrence.” He pressed a kiss to her fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. “And other than Mousy, you are the only person on board who knows that.”

  She blinked, quite taken aback that he should choose to share something he had clearly taken great pains to keep secret.

  “Lawrence,” she repeated, smiling. “I like that very much. But I promise you I will never use it in front of your men. You will be Lars, until you say otherwise.”

  “Use it now,” he said, his hand closing around hers, and such desperation in his voice that she didn't know how to respond “Please. I want to be Lawrence again, just for a little while at least.”

  She hesitated, whatever was she to do? She would not see him dead. Whatever he had done, she would not believe he was a bad man. She needed to know exactly what it was aboard that ship that made such guilt burn in his eyes. But he would only tell her that if he trusted her.

  She clasped his hand in hers and held it to her cheek, before turning her head and kissing his fingers, one by one. “Lawrence,” she murmured his name against his skin, feeling with delight the shiver that ran over him. There was a panicked voice screaming in her head, reminding her of how nice young ladies behaved. But then she'd never been that good at being a nice young lady. She had too quick a temper, she was too stubborn and wilful, and she was far too impetuous. If she was a nice young lady she would have been delighted at being found such a wealthy husband as the Earl of Falmouth. She would not have run to a dubious part of town, alone, at night, in order to blackmail a pirate so that she didn't have to.

  The voice grew fainter by the moment. His big hand was rough and calloused and she had begun to imagine how it would feel, sliding over her skin. Oh good Lord, Henri, stop, but she couldn't. She turned his hand over and pressed her mouth to his palm before looking up. His eyes were dark, his breathing ragged, and she knew what she should do, what she wanted to do. “Kiss me,” she said.

  He stilled and for a moment she felt as though her heart waited for him to move before it dared to beat again. And then his hand was at her waist, pulling her towards him and she went willingly.

  She moved forward, into the space between his thighs as he pulled her close. One hand clasped her at the small of her back, the other cradling her head. She reached up, meeting his mouth as his head ducked towards her and this time there was no gentle brushing of lips, this wasn't gentle at all. His kiss was hard and desperate and she gasped in surprise as his tongue invaded her mouth. She tensed in his arms, but he persisted, his tongue stroking hers, the warmth of him like being enveloped in a blaze compared to the frigid temperature of the room. Encouraged by his example she began to imitate his moves as their mouths worked with increasing need. She slipped her hand under his coat until just the thin fabric of his shirt was between them. Reassured to feel his heart was thundering just as hers was she reached up her other hand and slid it around his neck, tangling her fingers in his thick hair and pulling his head down to her.

  Oh God but it felt good. She felt warm for the first time since she had left her home on that freezing night. Except it wasn't just warmth, it was heat, a luxurious burn that blazed just beneath her skin, and the heart of the fire was being kindled somewhere deep inside of her. Every slide of his tongue, his mouth, his hands, added fuel to the fire, and she wanted to burn.

  This, she realised, this was what Annie had warned her about. She'd never truly understood the idea that a woman could become so lost in a man's touch that she would do anything, risk anything, to be with him, to feel his touch again. But now, now she knew. Her body was crying out for more, her skin needed to feel his hands against it, and there was a deep and clamouring ache inside of her. It demanded his attention, this empty, hollow sensation that only he could fill.

  Her hand slid down his hard chest, feeling the taut muscles beneath her fingertips and wishing there was no cloth to keep her from touching the warm flesh beneath. She allowed her hand to drop further, resting on his thick thigh and sliding towards his hip, noting with satisfaction the way her touch increased his desire as he groaned into her mouth. Confidence growing, she reached for his shirt, snatching at it and pulling it from the confines of his waistband. And then her hands slipped under the infuriating material and slid over his skin. He paused, his mouth still so close to hers, but now his eyes were what consumed her, his hot gaze just as intimate as his mouth and tongue had just been. She watched him watch her, as her hands explored beneath the shirt. Beginning at those broad shoulders her hands glided lower, over the strong outlines of his chest. There was a key hung on a lace around his neck and she touched the metal, hot from its continued connection to his skin, absurdly she envied it, so close to his heart. She recommenced her exploration, down over his taut abdomen, finding the trail of coarse hair that tickled her fingertips and led her lower.

  He gasped and wrenched her hands away and she almost cried out in alarm that he should stop her now, but then she saw by the look in his eyes that he had no intention of them stopping at all. “Stand up,” he demanded, his voice rough.

  She did as he asked, almost stumbling and tripping over her own skirts in her eagerness to obey him. With fingers that fumbled at the buttons she shed her pelisse, allowing the deep blue velvet to fall in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  “Come here.” If his demanding manner had irritated her before, now it made her breath catch and she climbed onto the chair as he moved her to straddle his lap.

  The small voice whispered in her ear, pleading for decency, demanding what she was about, as she imagined she must look like any common whore if someone were to walk in on them now. But then his hands gripped her waist and pulled her down and she gasped as the evidence of his desire was plainly illustrated. Her skirts had ridden up so there was nothing but the fabric of his trousers between them. She was momentarily pleased that she hadn't given into the sales lady on a recent shopping trip, who had been trying to sell her the latest fashion in the shape of a shocking pair of bloomers. But then he tilted his hips and rubbed against her, just so, and her breath caught in her throat.

  The room was still freezing, she knew it must be, but she didn't feel it. She felt nothing but the heat of him, the burn of his flesh under the fabric of his clothes that she wanted to snatch at and tear from his body. She was vaguely aware that she was in the grip of some kind of madness but so far gone that she was beyond caring.

  He sought her mouth again and she gave it to him, her breathing coming fast now, and punctuated with sighs and moans and small breathless noises that seemed to inflame him more as his hands slid up her sides to cup her breasts. His fingers caressed her nipples, torturing the tight little nubs of flesh through the cloth of her gown. Seemingly frustrated by the inconvenience of her dress, he wrenched at the buttons and tugging at the fabric, yanking it apart to expose her breasts, and she gasped as the cold air peaked the tight skin further. And yet that was nothing to the sensation of his hot, wet mouth closing over the tender flesh and suckling her until she cried out.

  Her head tipped back, eyes closed as something inside her seemed to contract and the ache intensified. She buried her hands in his hair, pulling his head closer as the sensitive skin between her legs began to throb. She arched and pressed against him harder, seeking relief from the sensation that was driving her to madness. For if this wasn't madness, her all consuming need for this man, then she did not know what was.

  He stopped suddenly, his head resting against her breast, his breathing harsh and she tilted his head, intending to kiss him again when the look in his eyes stopped her.

  “Oh, God, Henri,” he whispered. “What have you done?”

  “What?” she demanded, bewildered, wondering what on earth he meant.

>   He clung to her, his embrace so fierce she could barely breathe, and then with a ferocious curse he got to his feet, depositing her none too gently in the chair he had just vacated, and crossing the room. Apparently he wanted to put as much distance between them as he could.

  “What did I do?” she asked, as colour flooded her cheeks. She was mortified, humiliated. With fingers that trembled she rearranged her clothing until she was more modestly attired. She felt like a fool and a slut. What could she have done to kill his desire for her so very thoroughly? And yet when he looked on her she could still see that desire in his eyes as though it was a living thing that prowled between them, devouring the distance of the room with the heat that burned between them.

  “Nothing ... everything!” he exclaimed, running a shaky hand through his hair.

  “You d-don't want me?” she asked, not daring to believe the evidence of her own eyes when he stood so very far away from her.

  He laughed, a desperate bark of laughter that sounded like he was at his wit's end. Perhaps he was? Was that her fault?

  “Of course I want you, you little fool,” he ground out, though his words were so angry she wasn't sure she was reassured. “I want you,” he repeated. “But I want you enough not to ruin you.”

  “What?” She stared at him as though he truly had run mad. “What on earth do you mean? I was ruined the moment the militia appeared outside of that Tavern and you well know it!”

  He shook his head and met her eyes. “No. You have a chance now, Henri, and I cannot ... I will not take it from you. I'll not condemn you to a life where you'll have to fight for survival, never mind happiness. I may be beyond help, but you ... For heaven's sake, let me for once in my life do the right thing.”

  She stared at him, not understanding how he believed she could be saved now, and even more perplexed by the idea that she wasn't sure she wanted him to save her at all.

  He walked closer to her and crouched down so that their eyes were level.

  “Henri,” he said, his voice soft. “The commander on that ship, he's a good and honourable man.” He reached out and took her hand, covering it with his own and the ache in her body seemed to bloom outwards all over again, and yet this time her heart was the source of it. “He will help you, Henri, I know he will.”

  Chapter 14

  “Wherein a lady may be saved and is none too pleased about it.”

  Henri frowned. Her brain felt as though the world had been tipped upside down and everything she had understood had been shaken and upended with it. The pirate, the wicked corsair with a reputation for thievery and seduction, was trying to save her. That in itself was ... quite unbelievable. There was a gnawing uncertainty in her heart that told her she didn't really want to be saved ... This fact was shocking, and possibly not so far out of character as she might have wished to believe.

  “But then ... if that is true, could he not help you too?”

  She watched as Lars ... Lawrence shook his head. He smiled but there was an underlying sadness to it that she wanted to understand.

  “He's a good man, but he can't perform miracles.” She saw a shadow enter his eyes and knew the past was stalking him once again. “I'm not sure he'd even want to,” he added, as though talking to himself and then, with sudden anxiety in his eyes. “I wouldn't blame him,” he said, as if knowing that she would and wanting to exonerate the man.

  She felt the solid warmth of his hand, as it was still holding hers, and she gave it a slight squeeze, hoping the intimacy of her touch might make him confide in her. “Who is he? Who is he to you?”

  He shook his head, and she knew she wasn't going to be granted her wish. “Someone I once knew.”

  She had no opportunity to question him further as there was a bang on the door. He released her hand and a moment later, Mousy stuck his head around the door.

  “Ye need to see this, Capt'n.”

  He was out the door before she could utter another word and she was left alone. She shivered. His departure seemed to have robbed her of the heat he had brought and she felt suddenly cold and sick, and very alone. What was she doing? What in the name of heaven was she doing?

  If there really was someone on that ship who could take her back home, back to her life, then she should grab the opportunity with both hands. But even if what he said was true, how was he proposing to get her to him? She doubted that the plight of one girl would weigh very heavily on the shoulders of a man who had been sent to hunt down a pirate ship. She could only imagine that whoever was commanding The Revenge had once been his friend. She imagined two young boys and the way life may have conspired to send one on the right path, and one on the wrong. How must it feel to him to see his friend had been sent to hunt him down and send him to his death.

  She felt the slide of ice down her back as it occurred to her just how he might get her to The Revenge. He would give himself up.

  Her heart felt as though it had lodged somewhere in her throat and she scrambled up, snatching her pelisse and pulling it on before she ran out of the cabin and on deck to find Lawrence.

  She turned and climbed the steps to the quarter deck where he was standing with Mousy.

  “She's damn fast,” the big man was saying, shaking his head.

  Lawrence smiled and she thought she saw pride in his eyes. “Yes, she is.”

  “So why the devil hasn't she fired on us?” Mousy demanded and they both watched as Lawrence began to pace. “She's more'n capable of runnin' rings around this ship,” Mousy continued as his captain's frown increased. “I've been keepin' 'er at bay but she's jus shadowin' us. We make a move and she does too, but shows no sign of wantin' to take us. Like she jus' wants us to know she's there.”

  Lawrence suddenly stopped in his tracks and spun around to stare at Henri.

  “Why did you come and find me?” he demanded.

  Henri started in surprise, taken aback by the fierce tone of his voice.

  “Because I need to speak with you, about what you have planned.”

  He looked perplexed for a moment and then shook his head. “Not now!” he said, clearly impatient. “The other night, when you sought me out at the Nag's Head, why did you come. I know you needed money, but what for?”

  Henri flushed and her eyes drifted to Mousy. Remembering what she'd done was humiliating enough without explaining it in front of anyone else. With a huff of annoyance that seemed to mean he understood her reluctance, he grasped her by the wrist and towed her down the steps, pulling her back into his cabin.

  “Explain!” he demanded once he'd shut the door.

  She bristled at the tone of his voice. “I really don't think ...”

  “Miss Morton,” he said, his voice cool and hard, and dispelling any romantic ideas that she may have been harbouring that he cared for her. “I have a ship that is quite capable of sending us all to the devil sitting on my doorstep and yet it doesn't seem inclined to engage us. I want to know why that is, and I think it has something to do with you.”

  She couldn't understand why he would think that when there was a more obvious reason. “But if this man ... your friend commands it, perhaps he wishes to help you after all?”

  For a moment he looked perplexed and then he shook his head, all impatience and brusque movements. “He's not my friend, and he thinks I'm dead,” he snapped. “No, it's you. It has to be.”

  Henri opened her mouth and closed it again. “I--I,” she stammered as it occurred to her that he might actually be right. She didn't believe for one moment that her fiancé cared a whit about her or her fate, but he might care that something had been taken from him. In the same way as if Lawrence had stolen a fine painting. Perhaps he had somehow discovered her whereabouts and sent someone to retrieve her for him. “I came to you because my father was marrying me off to a man I despise. But the man in question is very wealthy and had offered to settle all my father's debts as well as giving him a stipend for the rest of his days.”

  She watched as his face closed of
f. She had no idea what he was thinking but his stance was rigid, his fists clenched.

  “I see,” he said. “A very generous offer but then ...” He looked at her then, and she thought she saw anger in his eyes. “But then he was buying something very fine indeed.”

  Henri swallowed. “If my father cannot pay his debts ...” She shrugged, finding she could not continue.

  “And this wealthy man,” he asked, his tone clipped and cold. “Who was he?”

  “Alexander Sinclair.” Her voice was barely audible now and she had the impression that some great cloud was gathering over them. “The Earl of Falmouth.”

  She watched as Lawrence closed his eyes, and she thought he seemed to be in pain.

  “Lawrence?” she said.

  “Don't,” he replied, his eyes snapping open and the blue bright with anger. “Don't call me that. I'm Captain Savage to you, do you hear me?”

  She gasped, shocked and hurt by his behaviour but she had no time to demand why he would treat her so as once again Mousy hammered on the door.

  “They've signalled, Capt'n, they want the girl, and ... they want you.”

  Henri's chest grew tight, it was as though all of the air had been sucked out of the room, but Lawrence ... Captain Savage did not seem surprised. He even smiled a little, though it was not a happy expression.

  “Tell them the terms are acceptable.”

  “What?” Mousy stared at him, uncomprehending, before storming into the room and slamming the door behind him. “I'll do no such thing! What's wrong with ye?” he demanded. "We've still got a fighting chance! Lord, man, we took the Corona and she 'ad more guns than thisun so you can't be tellin' me ye worrit we're out gunned! What the devil's ailing ye?"

  She watched, her chest aching as she saw the pain in Lawrence's eyes.

  “It's him, Mousy, it's Alex.”