by C. J. Archer
All protest died on his lips. She was right. He'd warned her using those exact words.
Her mouth formed an 'oh' as if she would say something but the only thing that came from her lips was the release of a long breath. "I don't know you, Blake. I only learned you were a pirate two days ago."
He didn't bother to correct her. It seemed she'd already made up her mind about his profession, and therefore his heart and soul were placed into the box marked 'pirate' too.
"I've learned my lesson," she went on, the gray of her eyes turning the shade of flint. "You were right. I shouldn't trust you. So now I don't."
"Did it mean nothing when I said I wouldn't hurt you?" It was a final, pathetic attempt to save something of whatever it was they'd experienced. But he knew from the unyielding set of her jaw and the straight, forbidding line of her brows that she would not give in.
"Sweet words," she whispered, as if it hurt her throat to speak them. "But they are just words." She closed her eyes. As with his sister, he could see her eyeballs moving beneath the lids, as if she were reading the insides of them. He waited for what felt like an age until she finally opened them again. Tears puddled and her lower lip wobbled.
She was going to cry. The only way he knew how to stop a woman from crying was to kiss her.
So he did.
She tasted of salty tears and...Min. He brought his other hand up to the back of her head and tangled his fingers in the stray wisps at the nape of her neck. Her mouth opened and her tongue explored. His groin grew heavy. He wanted her.
Min wanted him. Wanted to feel his thumb brush across her cheek, taste her own tears on his lips and feel the very solidness of him. Everything inside her melted with that kiss—her anger and hurt—and yet she knew it was beyond foolish to release those emotions. They were what kept her safe and sane. This was craziness—the kiss, the thudding of her heart, the desperate desire for him to hold her. And yet she couldn't end it.
God help her, she was clutching the man who'd used her and betrayed her. And she never wanted to let him go.
But a strangled gasp sent them springing apart. Blake's steward, hovering in the doorway with a tray of sweetmeats and a reddening face, quickly recalled his duty and placed the tray on the small side table. Thankfully his gaze didn't meet Min's so she didn't have to hide her own blush.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" the steward said.
Blake shook his head. He didn't look the least concerned that they'd been caught by his man. "Thank you, Greeves," he said, "that will be all. Please ensure we're not disturbed again." The steward backed out with his head bowed low.
Blake took a very long time to turn around. Perhaps he too had a blush to hide. Or he was considering his next words. An apology? A confession? A declaration? Any would be a perfectly acceptable start.
When he finally turned, she was disappointed. There wasn't a hint of pink cheeks and the only thing he said was, "Sweetmeat?"
She had to leave. Now. Before he kissed her again and she found herself forgiving the unforgivable. "I must go." She moved towards the door.
He blocked her exit. "Not yet." His body filled the doorway, a solid, scowling presence among the cheerful roses covering the parlor's walls and ceiling. It was a remarkably feminine room for a pirate. "Tell me how it all unraveled."
She thought about refusing but where would be the sense in that? It was in her best interests to tell him about her miserable day. So she took a deep breath and told him about the rumor Jane had passed on, and about her visit to Style and Style's ban on her plays. She told it matter-of-factly, as if narrating the beginning of her play as Edward did, only with much less exaggeration. All the while her stomach tied itself into knots, waiting for his interruption, for him to say something or even show guilt or remorse or at least a little regret over his actions. But he said and did nothing, just watched her passively beneath half-lowered lids as if he were bored.
"I'll kill him."
She blinked. "Pardon?" He'd said it as if it were as inconsequential as choosing which pair of gloves to wear. She swallowed. He wouldn't. Would he? "You can't kill everyone." She rubbed her arms against the sudden chill in the room.
"Don't do that." His hand closed over hers and she felt a responding jolt inside her. The one that always occurred when he touched her. The one that frightened her now as much as thrilled her. "Your cloak sleeves are wearing thin from all the rubbing. You should buy a new one."
"I, uh..." His thumb caressed her knuckles and something flared in his eyes. A responding heat pooled in her lower belly. The air was thick with her awareness of him. All she could think about was what he could do to her—make her want him, make her forgive him.
She pulled away. If she hadn't...she didn't want to contemplate what might have happened.
"As far as I can see," she said, re-arming herself with her wits and her anger, "there's only one way to decrease the damage that's been caused by my exposure and that is for you to tell Style there's been a mistake. That the rumors are wrong and that you really are the one who wrote Marius and Livia."
"Agreed." His voice rumbled low in his chest like ominous thunder. She was reminded of when they first met and the danger she'd felt within him then.
First impressions are often correct.
She pressed on, down the path she had carefully thought through on her way to Blake's house. "And then we must find someone else to act as the author of my next plays. You can't continue to do it from the other side of the world."
"Aye," he said quietly. "I'll ask Shakespeare if he knows anyone or wishes to do it himself."
She nodded, knowing she should feel relieved that he readily agreed with her and yet not feeling relieved at all. Her reaction was rather vexing and quite overwhelming. "I thought of him too. He seems like a decent fellow."
"You thought I was a decent fellow."
"Did I?"
"Enough to relieve you of something precious."
Her knees went weak at the memory. "As I said at the time, it wasn't such a precious thing to me. Not as much as everyone thinks." She swallowed hard and concentrated on not blinking, not giving away her lie.
"Wasn't it?"
The room grew hot and she felt a little dizzy. All those pink petals. It was enough to make one's head spin. "I... I was taken in by your good looks and..." She was going to say charm but he'd know she was lying. "...and your sense of fashion."
He bent down to her level. "Liar." He said it softly, a smile teasing his lips. "You liked me, despite every piece of common sense warning you otherwise. Your instincts told you I could be trusted, Min." He tapped her forehead with his finger. She swatted it away. "You should stop listening to this..." His finger tapped her just above her left breast. "...and start listening to this more. Like you did when you gave yourself to me."
She went to grab his finger with the idea of snapping it but he was too quick and she caught nothing but air. "You are arrogant in the extreme, Blake, and a black-hearted cur." She prodded him in the chest. He bore it with a raised eyebrow. "I do not like you and never have. I used you to get my play performed and to improve my...understanding of carnal matters. And you used me which is only fair. What is not fair is that you betrayed me to get what you wanted."
"That is your head speaking again—."
"No, it's my tongue."
"And a very loud one it is too," said a woman entering the room with an expression as dark and forbidding as her clothing. Of middling age, she was covered in black from her cap to her rich velvet gown embroidered in a lighter shade of the same color, and on to her delicate buckled house shoes. The only color breaking up the severity of her clothing came from her fingers, every one adorned with a ring set with an exquisite emerald that caught the light as her hands moved. She inclined her head and looked down her straight nose at Min.
Blake stiffened. He didn't look in the least happy to see the newcomer.
Min bit back any retorts she was about to let loose at him. The
woman must be his mother. She certainly had walked in as if she owned the house and everything in it. In truth it all belonged to Blake, but as he was unwed, his widowed mother would manage the household for her son.
"Robert, who is this?"
Blake cleared his throat and shot a warning glance at Min. Clearly he didn't want her to cause a scene. She wouldn't but she had no inclination to relieve him of the suspense. "Mother, this is Minerva Peabody, daughter of Sir George Peabody."
"Sir George Peabody?" His mother's eyebrow rose in a direct replica of her son's. "The daughter of a knight?" She turned her enquiring eyebrow on Blake.
"Min," he said, sounding irritable, "this is my mother, Lady Warhurst. Mother, Min and I are having an important discussion."
"About what?"
"Business."
Lady Warhurst turned back to Min and openly scanned her from head to foot. No doubt she saw the threadbare cloak, the worn boots, the coarse fabric of her skirt. Min resisted the urge to run when every instinct was screaming at her to get away from both mother and son. Instead, she curled her toes inside her boots in an effort to root herself to the spot.
"What sort of business could you possibly have with this girl?" Lady Warhurst said.
"That is not your concern," he said.
"It can't possibly have anything to do with your adventuring."
He sighed heavily. "Mother. Is there something you wanted?"
"Yes." She drew her gaze up, off Min's clothes and to her face. Lady Warhurst's lips pursed and twisted, as if she were considering something. Finally, she gave a humph and turned back to Blake.
Min began to breathe again.
"It's Lilly. She wants you."
Blake, who'd also been watching Min uncomfortably closely, snapped his entire focus onto his mother. "She's awake?" The urgent hope in his voice told Min he'd lied to her earlier. His sister wasn't well at all.
And Min had intruded, perhaps during a time of utmost peril for the girl and her family.
Shocked at her own selfishness, she hastily bowed her head at Lady Warhurst. "Excuse me, I must leave." She dared not look at Blake. She wanted to reproach him for lying to her about his sister but she still couldn't forgive him for what he'd done to her.
"No," he said, blocking her path once more. "Not yet. We haven't finished—."
"Lilly's waiting," Lady Warhurst said with all the authority of a woman not used to being dismissed.
"Good bye, Blake," Min said. She side-stepped around him and this time he let her go. She hurried out of the parlor and was met near the front door by the steward who let her out. No one came after her.
***
His mother's grip on Blake's arm would probably leave a mark. She didn't let go even after Min left.
"Mother," he said with exaggerated politeness, "I'm not going after her, I'm going to see Lilly."
Her grip finally loosened enough so he could pry her fingers off his doublet sleeve. "You can't," she said, walking to the window. "She's still in the grip of the fever and the doctor is with her."
"But you said she was awake!"
She lifted one shoulder.
"You lied? Why?"
"I was rescuing you." She turned and fixed him with one of her glares. The sort that saw deep into his soul and was capable of sniffing out his innermost thoughts.
He braced himself for what was to come. "Rescuing me?"
"It seemed like you needed it."
"What do you mean?" A sense of foreboding crawled beneath his skin like an itch.
"That girl...she's pretty in her way. And the daughter of a knight would make an acceptable match."
The itch intensified. "But?"
"But she's not for you."
He shouldn't be having this discussion with her. Although as a mother she had an understandable interest in the matrimonial future of her son, he wasn't the sort of son to share his feelings on the matter with her. His feelings for Min were decidedly his own affair. And therein lay the crux of the problem. He had feelings for Min. Awkward, uncontrollable, urgent feelings.
"Why?" he said, taking the bait even though he knew a trap lurked just ahead.
She stood behind the chair Min had vacated and rested her hands on the back. The gems in her rings flashed in the sunlight like a warning signal. "I don't know why." She shook her head and looked down at the chair as if she could see Min sitting there. "It's a feeling I have. A sense that there's something about her that sets her apart from more eligible women. Something...different and not in an altogether good way."
"It's her poverty, isn't it? Mother, I'll have you know her lack of fortune—."
"No." She silenced him with a raised hand. "It's not that." She shook her head and sighed. "Whatever it is, listen to your mother when I tell you to leave that girl be. She'll cause you trouble."
That was the first thing of sense his mother had said since she walked in.
CHAPTER 22
On the walk back to Knightridge Street, Min came to two conclusions—Blake was ruining her life, and that he was quite possibly the devil himself. It was the only way to explain how she could hate him on the one hand and yet desire him with every fiber of her being on the other.
For both those reasons, she vowed never to see him again. She repeated the declaration over and over all the way home but was still unconvinced by the time she reached the house. He could break her heart a thousand times and she would still want to see his face on her pillow, brush a kiss across his eyelids, feel him move inside her.
"Ned Taylor's here," Jane said when Min opened the door. "He's in the parlor with Sir George."
It seemed Fate was out to take its pound of her flesh too. With heavy feet, she trudged to the parlor and tried to put thoughts of Blake to the back of her mind. Now was not the time to be distracted by him.
Her father and Ned stood when she entered. Both had faces as forbidding as thunder clouds. She turned her sweetest smile on them.
"Where have you been?" her father demanded. She stopped smiling.
Ned, standing by the unlit fireplace, folded his arms. "Yes, where have you been, Minerva? We've been waiting for you."
She ignored him and turned to her father. "I had some errands to run. How was your lecture today?"
But she didn't need to hear his answer. She could see it in his manner, how he held himself. The stoop had returned, his cheeks were gray and his eyes hollow and ringed with deep wrinkles. He'd aged ten years since Min last saw him. Her throat closed and she moved towards him.
He held up his hand to halt her. "How was it?" There was nothing of the old man in his voice, not a hint of frailty. "Minerva, I have never been so disappointed! Does that answer your question?"
She recoiled as his words whipped her, and glanced at Ned. He shouldn't be here, hearing a conversation that didn't involve him. But he made no move to leave. In fact, he looked like he had a right to be precisely there—leaning against her father's fireplace as if he owned it.
"Oh, Father, I'm so sorry," she said, doing her best to ignore Ned. "But I tried to warn you. Your paper needed much more than one lecture to—."
"I'm not talking about my paper or the lecture! I'm talking about your betrayal."
"My—." Oh. Oh no. The gossip really had reached everywhere. She clenched her fists about the same time her heart constricted. "I suppose you are talking about my play?"
"Is it true?"
She tilted her chin. One could not outrun a storm and the best way to weather a storm was to face it head on. "It's true. I wrote the play and found a company to perform it."
"Oh, Minerva." Her father sat heavily on a chair by the window and pulled off his cap. His freed hair floated up as if it wished to fly away. "I had hoped it wasn't true." His voice faded to a thin, weak whine. It was a dramatic and disconcerting change. She almost wished for his ferocity again.
She knelt at his side but didn't dare touch his arm. The simple gesture could fan the flames of his ire. She knew from experienc
e it only took a mere breath. "Tell me what happened, Father."
But it was Ned who spoke. "Willingly perform it?" Ned said. "You found a theatre manager who wanted to perform your play, knowing it was written by a woman."
Min gave him a tight smile. "Ned, why are you still here? This is a private family matter and as such, Father and I would appreciate a little time to ourselves. Perhaps you can return later—."
"He can stay," her father said wearily. "It concerns him too."
"In what way?" Min looked from one to the other. Her father avoided her gaze but Ned's fox-like smile made her uneasy. No—made her decidedly anxious. "What's happened?"
"As you say," Ned said, "this is a family matter. And since we are about to become family, it is only appropriate—."
"What!" She looked from one to the other but neither spoke so she gripped her father's hands. "What have you done?" she said, shaking him.
"I have saved us from poverty." Sir George removed his hands from hers. "It was the only way."
"What your father is trying to say," Ned said, "is that he has given his permission for us to marry."
Min's first instinct was to fly at him and knock that triumphant smirk from his face. Then disbelief and disillusionment chased away her anger. This was too much. After her horrible day, she could not endure this too. Would not endure it.
"I'll not marry him," she said to her father.
He blinked slowly at her and she was afraid he hadn't heard her. That he couldn't hear her. That something in his head had melted or rotted away from age or overuse. She squeezed his fingers again, more reassuring this time.
He gasped in a breath, as if he had forgotten to breathe for several moments and then suddenly remembered. "You have to. I have given permission. There is no more to be said."
"There is! Father, why the change of heart? You said you were happy for me to remain here with you. I don't understand. Is it because of my play? Do you...do you want to be rid of me?" Tears welled as the depth of her problems became clear. The no-longer dutiful daughter had gone from troublesome to embarrassing. It was too much for him and so he wanted her gone.