The Unraveling of Lady Fury

by Shehanne Moore

  Flint didn’t know what to think. Fury’s behavior in the last few seconds was very different from several moments ago. As if there were still, after all, something between them. Something only evidenced when they were being circled there as if by sharks. He didn’t understand it. Her taking his side? Not after the way she’d fought him.

  All the same he wasn’t going to argue when she glided up the marble stairs in a cool swish of indigo skirts. Even if his heart had begun to thud with dread at the awful prospect of what was probably coming next.

  “Now, come, James.”

  Chapter Three

  “Pen and paper, Susan.” Striding into the chamber she seemed to have left so short a time, yet a whole world ago, Fury wanted to shriek and scream. She had no fears about Susan falling beneath Flint’s spell. At least, she corrected herself, she had no worries about Flint going beyond that lazy grin with her. Susan was old enough to be his mother. Plump enough too. And Fury would remind her of that later. She gazed into the gilt-framed dressing table mirror.

  No. She had confused this. Confused herself. The question was not whether to let him win or lose. The question was whether she won or lost. Certainly it had been until his tricorne thudded into the ring. Then she had reacted in a stupid and bizarre fashion. How much simpler to have said, Yes James, let me think it over, wasn’t it?

  There would be no repeat now that she was going to have to suffer him here.

  “And ink.” Fury added to her request after seeing Susan make no effort to obey. Yes, whether he went beyond it or not, Flint’s lazy grin was devastating. Here Susan was straightening her cap like a moonstruck girl.

  “Yes, madam.”

  Fury’s eyes narrowed in the mirror. “When it is convenient to you.” Was there no end to the man’s lazy appeal?

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tearing her gaze away from Flint, Susan fumbled in the bedside table drawer. “I was just…the ink’s there. Here, I mean.”

  “James, sit down.” Fury took the ink bottle before the contents spilt on the floor. “There is a chair there. Susan, this…” She hesitated over the word gentleman. There were other, more suitable words. Even to think them would be a further distraction in a very distracted situation. “This is James by the way. You will see a lot of him over the coming weeks. I advise you to get used to that fact.”

  “You mean? But—”

  Give Susan her dues; her jaw might have dropped open, but she knew better than to let anything away. Later Susan would likely ask where she got him. And Fury would not tell her. There were some things that were made to be kept secret. That was certainly one.

  “Oh, James and I are old friends. James, have you sat down yet?”

  “Hmm?” Flint ceased his contemplation of the hanging of Messalina adorning the wall behind the bed. Of course he would have ambled there already.

  “What me?” He smiled, removing his coat. “What do you want me to do that for? This is a nice bed you’ve got here. Don’t you just want to spread out and get to it?”

  “No. Susan, leave us.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  The door clicked shut. Fury could see what a mistake this was. But there was no way out. That was why, in determining the necessity of governing her hatred, she had equally determined what was going to happen would be no pleasure for her.

  As for him, well, unfortunately there was going to have to be pleasure for him—whoever made that rule had made it one way for men—but she would ensure it was of the most stringent sort.

  If she could not keep Captain Flint out her bed, she would certainly keep him out her heart.

  The man—the man was perhaps not entirely as she had first imagined him downstairs. Indeed, the scholarly look she had noticed before had slipped from his features as he had stood, persecuting her on that landing. But a weariness was still there. She saw it in the way he’d stared at that hanging.

  He had forced her into a corner. But the worst of it was the indignation that had torn her heart when Malmesbury laughed, and she could imagine the life he’d been leading. Flint, the great and mighty, wasn’t made to polish shoe buckles. As for him being beaten all Malmesbury liked? Something in her had revolted at the thought, something she was not responsible for. Some latent form of idiocy that must run in her family, which unfortunately no one had thought to mention she might one day inherit.

  Because, of course, he was made to polish shoe buckles, to do whatever he was told. Damn him. And if he had been beaten, then it hadn’t been hard enough. A man like him. That weariness was something she must exploit. He would do what he was told. Exactly what he was told.

  “What was that about weeks, Fury?”

  She sat down and dipped the quill into the ink. She detected the faintest trace of nerves. It must have been the fact Thomas lay in the cellar. Why else would a man, so great, so stalwart, so worldly as Captain Flint be nervous of her?

  “Well, yes.” She listened to the pleasing scratch of the nib on the soft paper. “Babies are not always made in a night. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, being you. It will take time.”

  “All the more reason then to just get going. After all this time, sweetheart, you don’t know how eager I am.”

  He strode across the tiled floor. The ink trailed a long, dark path across the paper as he dragged her to her feet. Had it blobbed it might have been something to worry about. But she was very set on this. And calm. As calm as one could be having this man in her bedroom, knowing what was coming next out of dire necessity, her husband in a box in the cellar and her cast-off potential lovers on their way out the door.

  “No.” She held a hand up between their lips. “There will be no kissing.”

  “No kissing? Why in hell not?”

  It displaced her calm to see him grin. She would have preferred that he was indignant. Especially as he was a man who thought he could settle all his arguments—with women anyway—with a kiss. But she kept her face cold, blank.

  “Because.” In some ways she was cold. Cold with rage.

  “Aw, come on, Fury, didn’t you like my kissing? Hmm?” His breath, hot and male, brushed her fingertips. He wrapped his arms around her, splaying his hands across her back, so her hand might as well not have been there for all the protection it was.

  But she was calm. Didn’t she have to get into bed with him after all? Even the impulse to squirm was one she would squash. When she thought of all he had done to her, she would give him nothing. Not even the knowledge she found his proximity so unsettling that she sought to pull away.

  “Your kissing was fine, in its way, I suppose. But kissing is a sign of affection.”

  “How do you make that out?”

  She knew exactly why he scratched his head. Their lovemaking had been torrid. It had been sensual. It had been shaming. And it had been absent of any affection. Certainly on his part. Why would a kiss be a sign of anything? To him anyway. She was the damn fool who had thought it had. Who even now was forced to concede the pleasure it would be to take her hand across his face to assist his understanding of her feelings. The impertinence of the damn man, the stinging ignorance.

  “It just is.” She eased the distance between them a whisper. “So there will be none. Not now. Not at all.”

  “All right then. Saves time. It means—”

  “Rule two.” She saw his eyes freeze as he readied himself to yank off his shirt. She persisted anyway. Why not? In many ways she walked a tightrope here. If she paused it might be to her detriment. “You will be fully dressed at all times.”

  “What? How the hell am I meant to—”

  “I am sure you will manage. You managed plenty before. But I do not desire to look at your body before, during, or after. Nor in any shape or form wandering about this house in just your breeches. Is that understood?”

  His dropped his hands from his shirt and glared, so he must have. “You wanted to look at it plenty before. In fact, it makes my head spin, just how often you—”

  True. But t
hat was then. “Rule three.” Clasping her fingers around the cool edge of the dressing table to create another inch of distance, she continued.

  “Rule three? You mean there’s more?”

  “I will not touch you in any place, intimate or otherwise. I will lie. You will perform.”

  Oh, this new Flint—this new Flint couldn’t make sense of what he heard. Because of course, the old Flint had hands of velvet and a body of silk. He knew how to please and he enjoyed being pleased. He should, the lovers he’d had. That damned bed of his had already been warm when he had blackmailed her into it.

  The new Flint could only stand there breathing heavily, looking as if he wanted to strike her. Something the old Flint had looked too on occasion, although he had never done it.

  “I realize that, of course, you may have to touch me. But—rule four—you will do so as little as humanly possible.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, offering no pleasure. This is a business arrangement. A simple in and out will suffice, with no talking, no exclaiming, no use of any obscene language—rule five.”

  “I never used any obscene language.”

  She raised her chin. “Endearments to you would be obscene, should you think of uttering any. Not that you ever did, mind.”

  “Hell, I was a pirate captain, not some fancy, dressed-up buffoon with pompoms on his shoes.”

  “Afterward—rule six—you will remove yourself in all respects and wait until, rule seven, you are summoned again. I trust I am making myself clear. But in case there is something in what I have said that is hard to understand, I have set the terms down here in black and white for you to read—rule eight—and sign—rule nine—so there can be no misunderstanding, resulting in a breach of this agreement—rule ten.”

  After his performance on the staircase when he had pushed her against the banister and the way he loomed now, she braced as she squeezed around for the paper. Although, really, the man was at a disadvantage. No matter how he had strode across the floor and tried to impose himself like before, he fooled nobody.

  “This is going to be so much fun. I confess I can hardly wait.” She picked up the pen. “We will start as soon as you have signed it. And it has been witnessed—rule eleven.”

  He shifted his lips into a sardonic twist. “So, what’s rule twelve? You going to call the household in to witness this simple in and out.”

  Of course he’d be difficult. “What a ghastly proposition. No. I’ve not thought of that yet, but it will be something to mull over when we’re—I think you’ve described it rather well. I have to say you’re learning fast. I’m impressed.”

  His hand descended on the paper, and she thought he would crush it. Indeed she waited with unashamed longing for him to do so. She wanted to think she’d needled him, although the fuse with Flint always burnt slower than a fire in the Arctic wastes.

  “Very generous.” His blue gaze burned as he studied her. “You think I don’t know what your little game is here, sweetheart? If it had been Malmesbury or what’s his name—”

  She faced him. “If you mean Vellaggio or Southey, not at all. There would be rules for anyone doing this. Some a little different, it is true. The siring of the Beaumont heir is not to be taken lightly. May I remind you, you asked.”

  “Hmm.” His gaze dropped to the paper, and he squared his jaw. “What’s this rule four, a simple in and out? How am I meant to do that if you’re not—”

  “I will use a cream.” A faint blush crept over her cheekbones. Trust Flint to think of something so basic. It did, however, please her to see him so docile. Almost as much as it would have pleased her to see him needled. Slow to burn or not, he would accept this even if he seethed.

  “After all, I wouldn’t like to make it difficult for you or suffer more in your embrace than necessary.” She smiled and tilted her jaw. “Why don’t you just make your mark on the paper so we can—how was it you put it again—get to it?” She tossed him the pen.

  He caught it and stared, for a long brittle moment. Then with an abrupt movement he tossed it on the floor, where it clattered and rolled, blobbing ink across the tiles. Wordless, he walked to the end of the dressing table and held the paper in the candle flame. A blaze came from it, and she watched as black cinders showered, like so many dead moths, onto the marble surface of the table.

  “What…what do you think you’re doing?”

  “What you said. Making my mark. Now, that’s your terms. Here’s mine.”

  Dread held her immobile. She quaked a little. She had gone a little far with the business of the mark—she was the first to admit it. Flint was the most intelligent man she’d ever met. He could read and write perfectly. But she felt trapped and confined by this. Now she shuddered to think what terms he’d insist on. She ran her tongue around her lips to moisten them. “And what are they?”

  His gaze swept the room as it had the hanging of Messalina earlier, as if she were very comfortable here, as if she had everything, when in fact none of it belonged to her and there were bills, certain bills in her possession only Susan knew about. Bills from just about everyone in Genoa it was possible to have bills from. Then his gaze swept her. Making her wait. Tweaking her nerve endings. Heightening her anticipation. The old Flint was always a master at doing that.

  This was the new Fury, and she had neither nerve endings nor anything left to heighten. She was sorry, yes, that she had insulted him, because of course, he would wreak his revenge and he was in a strong bargaining position. But nerve endings? Oh, dear Lord, no. The thought almost made her laugh out loud. She could not afford nerve endings in this situation.

  He ambled across to the fireplace. The irritating little smile, which had come and gone with alarming ease, touched his lips as he paused. “What do you think?” He surveyed her.

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” She lied. Of course.

  Silence, broken only by the ticking of the mantelshelf clock, cloaked the room.

  “An imaginative woman like you? Are you joking?”

  Her stomach churned. All right, perhaps she was a little edgy. There were things to be edgy about. Only a fool would have failed to see, when the inevitable was upon her, that delay was a bad thing. And the little heap of cinders on the dressing table was a glaring reminder of her folly.

  “Isn’t it obvious what I’d like? How can a woman have forgotten so much?”

  A stutter would look too much like defeat. She braced herself. “Imagination is a luxury I am afraid I have not been able to afford in my position.” More lies. But she would die before she said because it pains me to remember.

  Her mind raced. Oh, God. What would it be? Sex, obviously. Which she shouldn’t be too upset about, given the Beaumont heir couldn’t be conceived without it. She wasn’t the Virgin Mary after all. But sex—sex on his terms, what she remembered of those. She tried not to clench her fists. Was the Beaumont heir worth that? Would it not be better to beg on the streets? Do as Susan suggested and find a protector? One who would pay for herself, Susan, and…

  “You, sweetheart? Unimaginative? With what’s in your cellar? And that little plan you made over the head of it?”

  He tossed his hair back from his face. Something burned very close to the surface in his eyes, in the tilt of his head. Was it slow burning enough to fizzle out? To see what was at stake for him? Or had she made him angry enough to demand anything?

  “Go on. Insult me. You think I care? Or that you have terms? Just—just tell me what they are. As I said before, if it’s money, if it’s jewels, you’ll have to wait. I can’t give you what I don’t have. Unless you want me to write you a debtor’s note?”

  “Hmm.” He drummed his long fingers on the mantelshelf. “Money? Sweetheart, is that as much as you think of me?”

  “I don’t think of you.” She straightened her spine. “You flatter yourself. But money was always something dear to your heart. Perhaps not quite so dear as the Calypso, which was your heart.”

  His expres
sion changed at that. It was what he wanted. And no doubt it killed him not to be standing on the deck, the wind ruffling his hair, bossing every member of his crew senseless.

  It gave her a bargaining counter. This would be worse, a hundred times worse, if he actually wanted her. If he’d pined and rotted in the same hell she had found herself in. If he had any feeling in his heart at all, if the blackguard even had a heart. She wasn’t going to fool herself on that score.

  Again he twisted his lips into the little sardonic smile. “Here was me thinking you liked me.”

  “I don’t like you any more than you like me.” She lifted her chin. “I would like to say I wish I’d never met you. As I said already, this arrangement isn’t about like. So, why even say—”

  “Because you put down an ultimatum, sweetheart.”

  “Me?”

  “Which I burnt in that candle flame, same as I’m going to do with any debtor’s note you write me.”

  She might have guessed, although what he did with the note was the least of her troubles standing there. “I’m sure you did, which is why I’m asking for your terms. What do you want?”

  “All right then, if it’s no trouble to you. That little rule you have…”

  She swallowed. Her hands were beginning to sweat, but she didn’t want to wipe them on her gown. “What rule?”

  “The one about being fully clothed.”

  “What about it?”

  “It could be difficult, you see, with what I’d like right now.”

  Her mouth dried. “And how do you make that out?”

  “Because I need to take my breeches off, sweetheart.”

  As if he needed to, from what she remembered of him. She fought a blush. “Well, I—I—”

  “And that little rule.”

  “I’m afraid it would be…that is…if you wish to undress, so long as you do not expect…me…”

  “Why should I expect you, unless you want to join me?”

  “I will be joining you.”

  “You got a big enough tub?”

  “A tub?”