by Sharon Page
Devlin walked his horse back toward her window. The sun was behind him and the brim of his hat cast his face in shadow. She could not see him, but she saw the straight, tall posture he held. The way he turned to scan constantly all around him.
She heard another crunch on the gravel slightly behind them, and she leaned out the window to see.
A fashionable phaeton drew to a halt, the owner perched a good six feet above the ground. A gentleman, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a greatcoat. She spied a touch of silver in his black hair, but despite the lines that bracketed mouth and eyes, he was handsome. Enough to send the breath spilling from her chest. Brilliant green eyes beneath black lashes. Full lips surrounded by dark stubble. A scar that followed the sharp line of a cheekbone. From the back, a tiger and a groom jumped down.
“Grace.”
Her door, the one opposite, swung open and let the warm afternoon air spill in, along with the melody of the fields—the whisper of leaves and grass, the sounds of bugs, the lowing of cattle.
She stared at Devlin, who stood, with hand outstretched, waiting to help her down.
“You should leave now. You’ve delivered me.”
“I do not like this. The nob in the phaeton is Lord Sinclair. Bloody notorious rake. He’ll be in your bed before the moon comes up.”
“Devlin! I would never allow such a thing.”
“He doesn’t ask, sweetheart. You need me here.”
Grace swallowed hard. Two years had passed since she’d made the mistake of believing Lord Wesley, when she had made the mistake that had tainted her forever. But two years was really not all that long. She wanted to believe she could outwit a revolting rake but she wasn’t certain. Two years ago, Devlin had come to her rescue. He had protected her reputation. As much as she wanted his protection, she had to send Devlin away.
And the real truth—she didn’t want him to go. “Devlin,” she whispered, “You can’t possibly stay.”
10
But as he’d warned her, he did not abide by the king’s laws, so he was not about to be deterred by any of her threats, arguments, or—at a moment of extreme frustration—pleas.
Grace could see that Devlin was determined to stay. At least he had the good grace to lounge in the background, where he watched from beneath the brim of his tilted hat and smoked a cheroot while she rapped on the front door of the cottage.
An elderly servant opened the door—a butler, she would guess, from the grand look of his clothes, though she was surprised to see a butler at such a modest house. His back was rounded and, as he cocked his head in curiosity at her question, he looked like a question mark himself.
“Whom did you say, Miss?”
“Lady Warren. She is a guest of Lord Avermere. I am…” Her words failed her. Was she allowed to publicly admit to being her ladyship’s granddaughter? “I am Miss Hamilton.”
“Aah.” The man bobbed his head. “The party is being held at the house, Miss. This is the cottage. You shall have to sail to get to his lordship’s house. It’s on the island—just west of Cowes. Not a long trip, though, Miss, and a boat has been engaged to ferry the rest of the party, who have recently arrived. Your luggage should be taken to the quay. I will send out assistance for you.”
The door swung closed once more. Only to abruptly reopen. “The boat will not be leaving for an hour. Perhaps you would care to refresh yourself, Miss.”
She was tired. And sweaty and gritty from the dust on the roads. Her heart fluttered in panic at the thought that she had arrived only within an hour of the boat leaving. What if she had missed it? But she nodded and glanced back to Devlin. He appeared engaged in a jovial conversation with the grooms. “Yes,” she said. “I would care to refresh myself.”
She followed the butler with the curved spine, who also walked with a limp. All in all, she could not imagine her beautiful, fashionable grandmother finding any element of this house acceptable. Her slippers coasted along a worn and uneven floor. The house smelled of the kitchens—and heat seemed to pour off the walls. The summer had been hot and dry and the house had absorbed it all.
They reached a closed door, and voices sounded behind it. But the butler continued on and paused at an open door. “The west parlor,” he announced. “Preferred by the ladies.”
Grace straightened her shoulders and approached, but she found only a small, empty room, with a settee, two wing chairs, a low table, and an unlit fire. She shivered, though the sun poured in the paned, west-facing windows.
This all felt…odd. Not right. She paced toward the windows, but these looked out at the gardens. What was Devlin doing? Had he left, as he should do? Or was he determined to defy her, to put her at risk, and stay?
Grace stood at the back of the assembled party waiting at the quay. Two gentlemen, Lord Sinclair and Mr. Nelling, a handsome auburn-haired playwright, sprawled in chairs set out by the servants as the trunks were loaded on to the small boat. Elderly Lady Horton sat in a sedan chair beneath the shade of both a leafy tree and a parasol. The breeze blew up the Solent, ruffling her parasol and the flowers of her bonnet. Grace has seen her ladyship—a notorious gossip with silvery hair and narrow eyes—at many balls and routs. Lady Horton held a book on her lap but her eyes darted to the handsome gentlemen, appraisal and appreciation evident in her faded blue eyes. At her side sat a lovely woman Grace knew to be Mrs. Montgomery, a wealthy and fashionable widow.
Devlin strolled over and bowed before her. “Miss Hamilton.”
Grace saw Lady Horton’s gaze rivet to her. Obviously all knew he was a marquis’ bastard and not a gentleman. Did they all also know he’d been a pirate and was now a highwayman?
“Mr. Sharpe, we really should not converse.”
“I’m not a threat to your reputation in front of so many watchful eyes.”
“Mr. Sharpe, you are always a threat to my reputation,” she whispered. She glanced from the gentlemen to her ladyship. “This seems a strange group to bring together.”
“House parties always are. Makes my line of work more interesting.” He grinned. “And most would not have a highwayman on the guest list.” His eyes twinkled. “Lady Horton would receive me.”
“I imagine she would. She’s ogling the other gentlemen here and I’ve seen her eyes light up when she looks at you.”
“As a subject of gossip, I hope.” He grimaced and she laughed. He was correct about house parties. They always did assemble the oddest mix—which could sometimes prove disastrous.
She thought of her last house party with Lady Prudence; then she pushed away the memories of Prudence’s hateful words.
Grace gazed at the flamboyant beauty of Mrs. Montgomery—a good friend of Lady Prudence’s mother. She gleamed like a bower of summer roses, her skin pale and petal-soft, her lips a deep rose, her hair burnished gold with wispy ringlets dangling against her cheeks. A pelisse of delicate pink topped a sheath of deep pink muslin, all clinging to a lushly perfect figure.
Devlin bowed over her hand, and Grace started.
“I’m going to leave you to pay my respects to Lady Horton.”
“Why?”
“To acquire an invitation, my love,” he murmured. And with a wink, he left to prowl toward her ladyship. Of course, Mrs. Montgomery fixed her lioness-like gaze on him, and watched every inch of his approach. Her tongue slid over those red lips as though she knew how his mouth would taste.
Devlin bowed over Mrs. Montgomery’s hand, so gallant and charming Grace wanted to grind glass with her back teeth. But he quickly turned to Lady Horton and, before her eyes, Grace watched him turn the elderly gossip into a purring cat.
“Miss Hamilton?”
A young man stood before her, his brown cap in his hands. “The boat’s ready, Miss.”
Devlin was instantly at her side, sliding her arm through his to lead her down to the boat. He bent low, his lips tantalizingly close to her cheek. Instantly, heat washed over Grace’s skin, her cleavage became dewy, and her inner thighs went hot beneath h
er skirts. She breathed in his sensual, musky scent over the tang of the sea. “I have an invitation from Lady Horton, love. I have no reason to leave your side.”
“I’ve never sailed,” Grace admitted. “And I am not entirely certain I wish to have my maiden voyage now. Trapped on a boat with Lord Sinclair, lecherous rapist, and cold-eyed Mr. Nelling?”
“There is time to change your mind, love. To return with me.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Then trust in me to keep you safe. You are still my captive, love.”
“What?” She jerked her arm away from him.
His devastating dimple showed. “I haven’t actually let you go free, love, and I intend to keep you constantly under my supervision.”
She balked and straightened her spine. “I am not your captive anymore, Mr. Sharpe.”
“Not to worry, love. I’m as much your captive as you are mine.”
“Humph.” That she did not believe. A highwayman who kept a personal harem could hardly be her captive. She knew it and, for the sake of her heart, she could not let herself forget it. He had only wanted to spend a few days with her, indulging in passion.
A sexual adventure. Nothing more. There couldn’t be more.
The punt bobbed in the water, waiting to ferry her and Devlin to the ship. The sailing ship was moored out in the deeper, dark water. Devlin’s hand clasped hers tightly as she took a tentative step into the small boat. The boat shifted on the waves and floated slightly away.
Devlin’s hand at her waist steadied her, and for one proud moment she wanted to surge ahead, to prove she was in command of herself. Something she had never, ever been before. After all, the one decision she had boldly made had ruined her life.
The oarsmen brought the boat tight to the quay, and Devlin’s grip tightened. He was not going to let her go.
Suddenly, she didn’t care about proving herself. She let him help her in. Once she was seated, he easily slung his leg into the boat, gracefully got in, and sat across from her. She clutched the side of the boat as the oarsmen rowed them to the waiting sailing vessel and kept her eyes fixed on the horizon. She didn’t like water. It terrified her to think of being in water over her head, out of control, gasping for air but unable to breathe.
But Devlin’s confidence, Devlin’s easy smile, gave her courage. And soon she was standing at the rail of the sailing ship. Devlin had led her toward the bow to stand at the rail, even as the other guests settled inside the cabin. The sails furled open to catch the wind and they were off.
He stood at her side. Was this what he had felt as he captained a ship on the south seas? She felt as though she flew over the waves. “Oh!” She cried it out, a simple shout of exultation and she heard Devlin’s laugh. A wide grin split his face, half-shielded by his whipping hair. She tipped her face forward and shut her eyes, catching the spray on her cheeks and lips.
This was so exhilarating! So—
Her stomach began to roil and heave. She was going to be sick! The ship seemed to point to the heavens one moment and the bottom of the sea the next.
“Oh God—”
“Not a good sailor, are you, sweeting?” Devlin leaned against the rail at her side, and slid his arm around her waist. “Look directly ahead, at the horizon. Look in the direction we are going. It takes away some of the feeling of sickness.”
She clung to the rail, looking in the direction they seemed to be going, for that quelled her nausea a bit. For an instant she leaned against his familiar warmth and strength. Then she jerked away. Clapped a hand to her mouth as the deck lurched beneath her.
She couldn’t move so quickly.
She realized that his intimate stance made it obvious he was no protector. And she’d been terrified that cuddling against him would result in her being sick on him.
“H-how do you stand this?”
“It’s never bothered me, Grace.”
Of course it hadn’t, and it was another reminder that she and he belonged to entirely different worlds.
The sails billowed, catching the strong wind, blue-white against the brilliant sky.
He splayed his hand against the small of her back, steadying her as the damnable ship rolled up and down as though it was a giant, flexible snake, not a sleek wooden vessel.
“All the others are below—possibly sick. And the crew is too busy to notice us.”
“You aren’t—you aren’t suggesting we…make love here?”
Husky and deep, his laugh teased her. “Of course not, sweeting, unless you are interested—”
“Oh God,” she cried fiercely, panic in her eyes. “I’m not.”
“Is it worth all this agony to see a snob of a woman who has never given you a moment’s consideration before?”
“Is it worth all this trouble to follow me about and ask me irritating questions?”
“Yes it is, love.”
Rocks—black and slick with sea spray—suddenly loomed on her right, whichever side that was in ship’s parlance. “Look—” She pointed. “They look like fingers of an enormous monster waiting to pull a ship to the depths.”
The ship pointed at their glistening, cruel edges and raced toward them. Grace held her breath, forgot all but survival, and clung to Devlin’s arms.
“It only looks as though we’re to be dashed on the rocks,” he reassured and, of course, it was true, for the ship turned again and swept safely past the rocks.
A glimmer of light caught her eye and she turned to it.
Slivers of golden light—windows reflecting the sunlight—winked between a stand of trees. A house stood near a sheer bluff, sheltered by thick green woods. The lights seemed to stretch endlessly, and the waters calmed as they passed by the shadowed house. The glow at the windows threw some light across the house’s façade, but she was too far away to see clearly.
She shivered as they rounded a narrow peninsula, into the shadow of the cliffs, guided by lamps burning at a small quay.
Devlin slid off his coat as the anchor hit the rippling water with a splash and drew it on around her shoulders.
“Cold?”
The silk lining of his coat carried his warmth but couldn’t ward away her nerves.
“Starting to doubt.” What was she thinking, admitting the truth, especially as he had doubted all along? Tears burned in her eyes. Her grandmother wanted to see her and it had been enough to bring her on this mission. Now that she was no longer on the mainland and about to step on an isolated island, she truly did wonder what she was doing.
Nerves were threatening to take command of her.
“I’ll take care of you,” he answered simply.
She touched her stomach. “Let’s just leave this godforsaken ship first.”
“The Countess of Warren,” Grace repeated. “I wish to let her know I’ve arrived.”
Devlin lounged in the background of the foyer, an unlit cheroot clamped between finger and thumb. Behind him, servants fussed over Lady Horton, who described the experience of seasickness with gut-churning bluntness. He had to smother a laugh.
The bald butler regarded Grace without emotion. “I beg your pardon, Miss,” he intoned, as though he couldn’t care less about her pardon, “but her ladyship has asked that she not be disturbed. By anyone.”
Devlin watched Grace’s face fall, her cheeks whiten. “I do not understand. She asked me to meet her here.”
Damn. He’d feared this. Another capricious witch of the ton.
“And I am afraid I was not made aware that you would be joining the party,” the servant added coldly. “You shall have to take the yellow room. It is the most modest room and the only one unoccupied.”
The most modest room. The snooty bugger had laid emphasis on those words.
“Then where will that leave me?” Devlin strode forward, his arms across his chest, wearing intimidation like a mantle. The butler blanched and stepped back. As Devlin glowered, the butler was able to quickly produce another bedroom for him and then he re
treated in a hurry.
Grace quickly masked her pain behind a polite mask, but he felt it. And he saw it in the hesitant way she reached out, as though to ask the departing servant more. But she stopped. As though she felt the weight of his gaze, she turned.
He bowed over Grace’s hand. “Allow me to assist you to your room,” he murmured.
“You shouldn’t.”
“No lock would keep me out.”
But his teasing produced no smile. “She might be ill,” he said.
It was also possible the countess had sent the note, then changed her mind. He knew what many titled women were like. Hell, he’d bedded enough of them. A bit of gossip, the opportunity for a new lover, and they cast aside all other thought.
Not that his mother, who had been the daughter of country gentry—the daughter of an unlucky and unskilled gambler—had been any different. He’d grown accustomed to sleeping outside, for she had often locked him out of the small cottage. Even then, a lock couldn’t keep him out—but he hadn’t wanted to be inside where he would hear her moans. She’d always screamed and moaned for the men who’d fucked her, in the hopes they might enjoy her enough to stay.
They never did.
“What if she is not going to see me at all?” Grace asked.
He admired her for having the courage to voice her fears. He offered his arm. “That’s something we don’t need to worry about yet.”
“Thank you.”
She spoke it so softly he wasn’t certain he heard it, but he did hear her mutter, “Oh! Blast!” as she stopped abruptly. Devlin had to tear his gaze from her wide green eyes to see what had shocked her.
“Blast is damned right,” he groaned. His half brother, Lord Wesley, was walking down the corridor with Lady Prudence at his side. What in blazes were his half siblings doing here? The hairs stood up on the nape of his neck. Damnation, probably Wynsome was here to attend to his relative, Lady Warren, and had invited bloody Wesley.
Prudence gasped and stopped, which forced Wesley to pause, to notice Devlin and Grace. Prudence’s mouth hardened into a cold line; then she tipped up her chin, and her eyes took on a blank, icy haughtiness. She wheeled about on her heel and sniffed to Wesley. “Let us go this way.”