by Lenora Bell
Her finger moved faster now, splashing across the hard button of flesh where all the sensation concentrated. She wanted to discover more on the ship to Ireland tonight, while waves rocked beneath them.
Talking. Laughing. And then . . . not talking.
She wanted to know what happened next.
She’d never considered the possibility of this much pleasure.
The waves undulating between her thighs, spreading into the center of her body. Tensing. Flicking faster with her fingers. Harder.
Belly tightening. The wave cresting, spilling pleasure through her body.
She moaned softly, her head falling over the rim of the tub.
This could become habit forming.
It was too short. It didn’t last long enough and it created a need for more.
Like eating sugary trifle. Or drinking hot chocolate. Explosive spice and sweetness in her mouth. The distant cousin to these hot, melting waves of pleasure still crashing through her body.
A lady never eats more than one biscuit. A lady denies herself pleasure.
But Thea was most definitely no longer a lady.
There was a knock at the door. Her heart beat faster.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Jenkins, ma’am,” a female voice answered.
The maid. Not Dalton.
“Enter,” Thea replied.
“Is this your only gown, ma’am?” the sturdy maid with rosy cheeks asked, shaking out the patterned blue-and-gray silk.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, never you mind, I’ll brush it good as new. And these handsome boots.” She lifted the red leather boots. “Once I’ve got the mud off they’ll glow again, red as rubies.”
Thea thanked the maid and she left.
Thea felt newly polished. She’d discovered quite a few things about herself already on this journey.
Hidden reserves of strength she hadn’t known she possessed.
She’d severed ties with her mother. Faced a pistol. Defused a duel.
Driven an arrogant duke to distraction.
Her perspective had shifted, as if an artist had decided the pose she was in at the beginning of the journey wasn’t right and had painted over her, a new, bolder outline, the ghost of her former self only barely discernible beneath layers of fresh paint.
Chapter 16
Dalton pushed open the door of the Anchor Tavern, and the stale smell of spilled gin and refuse rotting in the back alley assaulted his senses.
He chose a corner table where his back would be against the wall and the entranceway in his line of vision, and ordered a pint of double stout porter from a buxom barmaid with flaming copper hair and a flirtatious smile, to while away the time until Con joined him here.
He’d hired a merchant brigantine with the poetic name of the Truth and Daylight, whose dockers had been offloading wooden barrels bearing the Cork Butter Exchange stamp, negotiating terms with the ship’s master to turn around immediately and sail back to Cork on the next tide.
He’d also purchased Thea and Molly first-class passage on Bristol’s most luxurious steam packet. Con could meet them at the docks in Cork Harbor and provide them an escort to their families.
Dalton was a greater danger to Thea than anyone she’d meet in a respectable dining room on a steam packet.
What was Thea doing right now? Most likely having a bath. Submerged in steam with one shapely, elegant leg poking out of the tub, her hair wet and coiling around her shoulders.
Or she could be curled up in a soft bed taking a nap.
And now he needed to quench his thirst. Where was his beer?
Dalton looked up in time to see an unusually large man hoist a full keg effortlessly to the bar.
The barmaid tapped his pint and brought it to his table. “Name’s Pearl,” she announced with an appreciative glance at his arms. “Care for some company?”
Dalton shook his head. “Not today. Thanks all the same.”
The barmaid leant over his table so his gaze was drawn to the curving expanse of her bosom. “Sure now?”
“Sure,” Dalton said firmly.
He gulped the dark brown porter, thick and hearty as a slice of bread, as he thought back on the news he’d learned after he finished with the ship.
O’Roarke’s ship, the Rambler, sailed back to New York from Cork Harbor in two days.
The large man from the bar approached Dalton’s table. There was something familiar about his crooked nose, thick neck, and deeply inset blue eyes. “Do I know you?” Dalton asked.
“By reputation, I’ve no doubt.” The man straightened his cravat. “Albertson, though most know me as the Bristol Basher.” His fists were enormous and covered with purplish bruises. “You’re in my establishment.”
Dalton had seen the Basher fight once, many years ago. “And a fine place it is.” He’d wanted to sit here and drink his pint in peace while he waited for Con, not talk to the proprietor. Dalton gave him a forbidding look.
Undeterred, Albertson leaned his elbows on the table. “What brings you to Bristol, Mr. . . . ?”
“Jones.” Dalton said shortly. “Here on business.”
“What kind of business?”
“Not yours.”
“Oh, well now.” Albertson backed away, huge hands raised. “Just a friendly question. Enjoy your pint.”
Dalton watched Albertson closely as he lumbered away. Nothing unusual for a prizefighter to own a tavern. The dank courts and blind alleys of the rookeries surrounding the docks were full of quay rangers and prizefighters and other desperate characters.
But Dalton hadn’t liked his questions.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was probably nothing. He was rattled. He wasn’t himself.
Con arrived and Dalton waved Pearl over for another pint.
“They’re settled at the inn,” Con said, taking a seat. “Lady Dorothea blushed five shades of crimson when I mentioned you. Something I should know about last night?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Dalton swallowed the rest of his porter in one gulp and gestured for another.
Con leaned back in his seat and hooked one boot over his knee. “I like that lady. She’s got spirit and heart. And I won’t see her hurt by you. If something happened—”
“She’s still a maid.”
Con stared challengingly for a few more beats and then relaxed. “And there’s still time,” he smirked. “She’ll conquer you yet.”
Ignoring that, Dalton accepted another pint. “We sail tonight. Found a brigantine unloading from Cork. The shipmaster said his crew would balk at turning straight back around but I offered him twenty percent over his usual profit to sail on the evening tide.”
“Twenty percent over his normal voyage profit could be a tidy sum. Not worth that,” Con groused. “Even with four extra passengers.”
“Two.”
Con’s eyebrows spiked. “Two?”
“I booked separate passage for the ladies on a steam packet leaving tomorrow morning. They’ve no place on a merchant brig.”
Con gave him a sharp look and set down his mug. “What are you so afraid of, then?”
“Nothing,” Dalton scoffed.
Thea, he amended silently. He’d faced men who wanted to kill him but he was far more terrified of a slip of a thing with eyes the color of rainy skies and a smile like the first faint promise of a rainbow after it rained.
Con folded his arms across his chest. “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“Your point?”
“You should marry. Sire a brat.”
“You know that’s impossible.”
“Man goes to his grave lonely. Man might have regrets.”
“I’m not lonely. I’ve plenty of female companionship.”
“Quit acting the maggot. That’s not what I mean.”
“You know I can never marry. Besides, you’re one to talk. I don’t hear you planning to visit Bronagh.”
> Con stared into his pint glass. “I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve a mind to maybe go and see her.”
Dalton stopped with his pint glass half-raised.
“Least I can do is give her a chance to yell at me,” Con said. “Might do her some good.”
Was that a note of hope in his voice? “Might do you some good as well.”
“I don’t like Molly and the lady traveling alone.”
“They won’t be alone. I asked the ship’s master to ensure they were under his personal protection, and the steam packet will be teeming with respectable matrons. You can meet them at the docks with a hired carriage and convey them to their destinations.”
“About Molly’s destination.” Con swirled the dark brown liquid in his glass. “She’s Bronagh’s daughter.”
“What?” Dalton thumped his glass against the table and porter sloshed over his knuckles. “How do you know that?”
“I stayed with her last night, after she fainted, and we talked of her family.” Con’s eyes filled with a wondering light. “She’s Seamus and Bronagh’s daughter. My niece.”
“Truly?”
Con nodded.
“That settles it, then. You’re going to see Bronagh whether you want to or not. Here’s to Uncle Con.” Dalton raised his glass in a toast.
Con snorted. “Now don’t be thinking I’m suddenly going soft and turning into a family man. Bronagh hates me for leaving. She’ll probably chase me away with a rusty pistol. Like mother like daughter.”
“Or she could welcome you with twenty years’ worth of stored kisses.”
“Ha.”
Something about that slightly wavering ha spoke volumes. It said that maybe Con was hoping for kisses. That maybe he really would consider retiring and becoming an honest farmer. Settling down. Finding love.
Dalton glanced sideways at his old friend and conspirator, trying to imagine babes dandling on his knees. Little ones tugging at that long, gray-threaded beard and riding upon his boots.
And . . . no. Couldn’t picture it.
The Con he knew avoided most human interaction, preferring solitude and shadows.
They sat in their customary silence for a few minutes, drinking their porter. Dalton thinking how strange it was to picture Con plowing a field or milking a cow.
“Any news of O’Roarke?” Con asked.
Dalton leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “His ship’s the Rambler, out of New York. Set to sail two days from now from Cork.”
Con gripped his glass. “We’ve time to catch him.”
“I think he’s the one, Con. I can feel it.” He’d been searching for so long. Consumed by the need for revenge.
Con grunted. “We’ll see. But right now you have to go tell the lady why she won’t be traveling with us.” He smirked. “Give her a chance to yell at you.”
Dalton rapped on Thea’s chamber door.
He was here to inform her of his decision and nothing would cause him to waver. He was here to say goodbye.
At her command he entered, preparing himself for that first glimpse of lively blue-gray eyes and curved strawberry lips.
“Dalton.” She stayed seated, but one of her hands rose and stretched toward him.
She smiled and he actually had to turn his face away, pretend a sudden interest in the carpeting. “Hello, Lady Dorothea.”
“Lady?” she teased softly. “My, how formal we are today.”
Her hair was still damp from a bath, and whatever she’d used to wash it smelled different. Sharper. Like roses that only bloomed at night.
He had to stop himself from leaning over and inhaling the scent.
There would be no easy way to do this.
He was a danger to her. Best to end this swiftly.
He cleared his throat and lifted his head. “I’m leaving.”
“But you only just arrived,” she laughed. “Sit down. Have some tea.”
“No time. I’m off to Cork tonight.”
Her brow creased. “Yes. I know that.”
He still wanted her. Of course he did. That would never go away. Not today. Not until the day he died. But he could never have her.
“Con and I are continuing on alone and you and Molly will take a steam packet tomorrow morning.”
She stretched out her hand again and he fought the urge to back away. If she touched him, he’d be lost.
“You promised to escort me to Ireland, if I remember correctly.” Her eyes sparked. “That was the bargain. And you’re a man of your word. Just read the betting book at White’s, remember?”
Dalton clenched his jaw. “Remember what I told you? Never trust a man, Thea. We say we’ll do one thing and then do another. I purchased you first-class passage on the finest steam packet to Cork. You’ll have a luxurious dining saloon. A chamber music band for entertainment.”
“You know I don’t care about any of that.”
“It will be more comfortable.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you doing this? Is it because of last night?”
Of course it was because of last night. “What happened between us last evening was—”
“Not something you need to apologize for.” She tossed her unbound hair and the seductive scent filled the air. “I’m perfectly fine. More than fine.”
He’d been prepared for tears, recriminations, at the very least bleary eyes and a whiskey headache. Not bright eyes and a seductive smile.
“You’re far too good for this treatment, Thea. Too good for one night. Too good for me.”
“You’re afraid,” she accused. “You think I’ll use what happened between us last night to make demands.”
That wasn’t it at all. He was afraid of himself, of this ocean of longing that had opened in his chest, crashing down the walls he’d built, sweeping away anything but the tidal pull of Thea’s arms.
“You think I don’t know my own mind, but I do.” Her hands gripped the chair arms. “I’ve always been on the edges of things. Schoolrooms. Ballrooms. I was never in the center, unless Mama pushed me there, and then I was apt to trip and fall. I find I want to be right in the heart of things. I want to know what life’s all about. Can you trust me, Dalton?”
He couldn’t trust himself.
“Thea, you’re forcing me to speak very plainly.” He reached over and caught her chin in his hand, turning her to face him. “I can never marry you.”
She pulled her chin away from his grip. “I’m well aware you’re off to seek your Irish bride, with statuesque curves, flaming hair, and emerald eyes.”
Damn. He’d completely forgotten about the fictitious wife search. He cleared his throat. “I never told you what she looked like.”
“Oh.” She waved her hand through the air. “You have a type. Tall. Fashionable. Showy. Abundant of bosom. Meager of mind.”
Except that he had a new type now.
Petite, persistent, contrary . . . and smoldering with awakening sensuality.
“You picture me as some lonely, defenseless spinster in Ireland,” she chided, “when that’s simply not going to be the way of it at all.” She gave a carefree laugh. “I’ll be a scandalous spinster. I’ll take a lover in Ireland. Maybe more than one.”
Challenged flared in her eyes. “Handsome fellows in Ireland. Rather like your friend the Duke of Harland. Dark hair and green eyes. Well muscled.” She glanced at his arms. “But not ostentatiously so.”
Was she insulting his physique?
This conversation was going all wrong.
It didn’t feel right telling her even one more lie. But he’d been lying so long that it was second nature. “I should leave now. I’ve a call to make on a”—the word stuck in his throat—“a widow I know in Bristol. Before my ship sails.”
Thea’s eyes darkened to stormy gray, just as he’d expected. “A widow?”
Blotches of color appeared on her cheeks, and the dangerous streaks of lightning in her eyes intensified. “You don’t need any more widows.”
“All they understand is the size of your fortune.”
“Are you moralizing, Thea? I thought you were adventurous and unconventional.”
She tossed her head. “I am.”
“The first rule of adventure is variety. When one path becomes restrictive you choose another. I understand the allure of thinking one path might be the answer.” Dalton stared past her, his gaze finding the window, the brick building across the street. “But I’m nobody’s answer.”
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
Because it was better to make her hate him. Easier for her that way, in the long run.
“I thought you might need more proof that I’m a heartless rake. In the event that it hadn’t been thoroughly established last night.”
“What do you believe in, Dalton? Do you care about anything? Or is life just a game to you?”
“I believe the sun will set tonight and rise again tomorrow.” He set his hat back on his head. “I believe that men chase sensation to stave off the knowledge that every breath brings us closer to death. That the devil lives in empty pockets and greed seduces men to sin. I believe that love is an illusion people invent to cheat the fear of death.”
“I mean nothing to you,” she said dully, all the laughter gone from her voice.
He couldn’t answer that truthfully, so he remained silent.
The truth was she meant everything to him. And that’s why he had to leave.
She deserved so much more from life.
Quiet nights reading together by a roaring fire. Uncorking a new French wine. The clink and covenant of glass against glass.
New paint for the nursery.
Everything tender and warm.
Everything he could never give her.
“Very well, seek your empty pleasures. Drown in a sea of accommodating widows.” She pushed a still-damp lock of hair away from her eyes.
There. His job was done. She hated him, and that was for the best.
He turned to leave but the door swung open and Con strode into the room. “Where’s Miss Molly? Can’t find her anywhere.”
“Having a rest,” Thea said. “She slept the whole way in the carriage. Still a little ill, I believe.”