The Unraveling of Lady Fury

by Shehanne Moore

  “I’d like a bath.”

  She blinked. “A bath?”

  The first time he’d called her to his cabin on board the Calypso and explained that he knew she wasn’t Lady Celia, he outlaid what he was going to do about it—now, a bath was nothing. Certainly she’d misheard. “A bath?”

  “I like to be clean.”

  “I see.” She recollected herself.

  If Flint was only going to ask for that—a bath—she could oblige. Although it was ridiculous she was at his mercy like this. Why should she? She wasn’t buying his freedom for him to have a bath. But if she didn’t let him, what else might he demand?

  She walked to the door to call Susan to fill the copper tub. As she did, it occurred to her she had no other servants and just maybe he knew that. A bath? Odd, when he was so keen to get to it. He’d offered her the heir right there on the staircase, and now he procrastinated. Was that to pay her back? File her nerve endings to tiny heaps? Or was it something more?

  What if he didn’t mean to help her at all? What if he intended to escape? She’d have to fall back on Malmesbury or worse. A bad idea now that they knew she had a past and she would have to face them with the shaming knowledge she’d allowed Flint Blackmoore to escape. No. The tub must come in here.

  “I’ll call Susan and we’ll bring the tub in here.”

  “That’s very nice of you, putting yourself about like this.” He walked to the chair and eased down.

  “It’s no trouble.”

  How deeply did she regret saying that? By the time the tub had been lugged up the stairs and maneuvered through the door, which she felt she daren’t take her eyes off for a second, by the time her back felt broken—and her arms—the answer to that was to the bone. Look at him sitting there. Like a king. Not even his boots off. And the tub still needed to be filled.

  It took some effort.

  “Madam, are you sure about this?” Susan and Fury were on their tenth trip up the stairs with the copper kettle and the bucket. She wouldn’t ask Susan to do anything she wouldn’t do herself.

  “I have no choice.” Fury had scarcely any breath left to speak. Thank God Malmesbury and the others had gone. She would die if they saw her like this, with her hair askew and her dress falling off her shoulders. “He’s all I’ve got. Now stand at that door. Make sure he doesn’t leave the room. Do you hear me?”

  Susan smiled knowingly. How dare she imagine Fury was so desperate to keep him for his sexual charms that she didn’t want to let him out of her sight? Or maybe Susan was silly enough to imagine his lazy smile was for her alone? A dumpy middle-aged servant? Couldn’t she see how dangerous the man was?

  “I think you’re doing very nicely.” Flint eased his long legs out. “I never took you for the athletic type.”

  He didn’t deign to help in any way. Why should he, now he’d made his first demand? If he met her with that lazy, insinuating stare once more, she would tip the boiling contents of the kettle over him. In his lap would be preferable. But that might affect his chances of fathering the heir. She’d have to settle for his head.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  It took some effort not to gasp, but she managed. When he’d had his bath and he’d obliged her, it would be over for tonight. She could lie down and forget this horrible nightmare.

  He pulled off his boots—at least he didn’t expect her to do that for him—and set them to the side of the chair. Then he tore off his stockings.

  “You don’t have to stay.” He raised his head. “Seeing as you have all these fancy rules. I wouldn’t want for you to break them so soon.”

  As ever his unbridled impertinence knew no bounds. She bit her lip. She’d sooner not stay. But it might be another mistake to leave him alone.

  “It’s fine.”

  He stood, his long mouth carving tiny grooves in his tanned cheeks—and Fury was back on the deck of the Calypso again. He peeled off his shirt.

  His body—he knew his body looked every bit as good as when he had stridden that same deck, stripped to the waist, for all he was seven years older. And he was, as usual, not the least embarrassed about himself. No. As the deceptively lazy grin said, if ever a man wanted a woman to look at him, if ever a man thought he should be looked at it, it was Flint.

  His deft fingers dropped to the buttons of his breeches. Her glance became a stare before she could stop it. Embarrassed, she turned away.

  All right, fair enough. Flint’s well-sculpted body still had the power to fill her with longing. But only if she allowed it.

  After a few seconds she heard him amble toward the copper tub, toward her, at an even slower pace than usual. Daring her to turn her head. Never mind rot, first she would fry in hell.

  “Is—is the water fine? To your liking?” Somehow she found her voice, although it came out slightly raised, as if his naked proximity sucked all the air from her.

  “I’ve not stepped in yet. I just want to make sure there’s not a shoal of piranhas swimming about beneath these waves. A man never knows with you.”

  “Why would I do that? I want to ensure the conception of the Beaumont heir. Not have anything gnaw the one thing that might give me it.”

  “How come Thomas ended up in the cellar if you wanted to do that?”

  Give Flint the chance to sneer by telling him everything that had happened? “None of your business.”

  She wished to God she would hear the splash of water that meant he’d stepped into the tub. He was so beautiful, lean, golden, sculpted…even the silly male pride she knew she’d see on his face affected her. It always had.

  They said one man was very much like another. But Thomas had never had a body like Flint Blackmoore, which was also why he’d never have stood naked in the middle of her floor like this.

  “If you don’t want the bath…”

  “No, it’s fine. You’ve no idea how a simple thing can make a man feel good about himself, so long as the water’s not burning.”

  “It’s not.”

  Dragging a breath, she crossed to the fireplace. It was such an odd confession for him. But if he had been beaten, of course he’d feel that way.

  It was another reason not to look at him. She stared at the mantelshelf. The ormolu clock said midnight. Midnight? Time hadn’t just gone, it had been wasted. Squandered, while he splashed about in a bath.

  “You think you can get my back?”

  “No, I don’t. I think we agreed that I will not touch you.”

  “Then why don’t I just lie here? Water’s nice and warm. I could stay all night.”

  Damn him. He would too. Till icicles formed. Touching him, washing his back, was an intimacy she couldn’t allow. If she touched him, she risked exposing herself to shameful thoughts, to a resurgence of things that were dead.

  The aim of this was to father the heir. So far, although James Flint Blackmoore had been in this bedroom a total of two hours, she was no closer to being pregnant than a day, a week, or a month ago. Lady Margaret might be in England, but Thomas lay in the cellar.

  Setting her jaw, she swept across the floor. “The sponge, if you please.”

  It would not do, after all, to put her hand in that tub and grasp something other than that. That would give him ideas. Although the sight of him, slippery with suds, the corn-husk hair clinging to the sides of his face, the blue eyes so dazzling it hurt her to look at them, made it hard not to have some ideas of her own. How easy it would be with his face as close as this, when their fingertips brushed, to reach into that tub. To touch him. To have all this as it once was.

  “Just my shoulders, will you?”

  She swallowed and took the sponge.

  He sat back, flinching as his back brushed the curve of the tub. “The rest is fine.”

  She didn’t doubt it and she refused to question the flinch. There was something too intimate about this. The sponge separated her fingers from his skin, but her detachment was starting to crumble.

  He would never, eve
r, have let her drip water on him like this on the Calypso. There he’d been master of everything. Including her.

  “So.” She dusted the nape of his neck. “What happened to your arm?”

  “My arm?”

  “Yes.” She applied the sponge to his shoulder. “That mark. Were you shot?”

  He turned his head, his lazy gaze colliding with hers. “Looking are you?”

  She dipped the sponge back in the water. “Not especially. But it would be hard not to see when you’re sitting beneath my nose.”

  “It’s the same as you said to me.” His gaze iced. “None of your damn business.”

  The mercurial change—now that was more like Flint.

  She lowered her head. “So? Is this one of your terms?” She strove to sound forbidding. In truth it was far harder than she’d thought.

  Flint had this way, this horrible, flirtatious way. She hesitated to consider him a moth to a flame, when, in fact, he was the flame. However she’d no doubt he still considered it the way to bring her to her knees. He was close enough for his breath to brush her face, so she kept it averted.

  “Is what one of my terms?”

  “Me servicing you.”

  She heard the faint huff of his breath and cursed herself for using that word.

  “I’d hate to think if you were. Your touch isn’t exactly soft.” Without warning, he rose, water cascading from his sculpted body. “But I am ready for my next term.”

  She almost dropped the sponge. “Term?” Ready? She was ashamed to find herself staring at the sleek line of his buttocks. “And what—what is that going to be?” Good lord, the water was a mess on the floor. There would be the devil to pay with Susan, having to mop this. “Time…time is going on. I don’t like to say, but we don’t have all night.”

  “Then pass me that towel. So my butt nakedness doesn’t offend you.”

  “Yes.” She groped without looking and passed it above her head. “J-just tell me w-what it is and I—” Did she stammer this much as a rule? She began mopping in earnest.

  “Something to eat, I think.” He stepped out of the tub.

  She jerked to her feet. “Something—something to eat?”

  “Anything will do.” He wrapped the towel around himself and padded across the floor. “I’m not fussy. Just whatever you have in your kitchen.”

  That would be a scrap of bread and some moldy cheese. There were some tomatoes on the plant in the garden. Some being the operative word. At the last count it was three. If she gave him one that would be two.

  “I’ll get dressed while you fix it.”

  Precisely. Then what? All he had to do was slip down the stairs while she was doing that. She considered waking Susan, then she considered against it. Susan may have rescued her from Fishside Wharf, but there were aspects of her life she discussed with no one. Flint Blackmoore was one, because he hadn’t just left her on Fishside Wharf.

  “There’s some fruit there in the bowl. It would save me waking the kitchen staff at this hour.”

  Flint sank his teeth into an apple. The crisp, clean bite cut the air.

  “You got anything to wash it down with?” His rudeness was preferable to him discovering she’d no kitchen staff—at least it meant he’d not poked his nose in there. “Some rum?”

  “Why would I keep rum? What do you think I am? Next you’ll be expecting me to call you ‘me hearty.’”

  He grinned. “It’s preferable to some of the things you have called me.”

  She swallowed her ire as he strolled toward his clothes. Food. Drink. She must keep him happy. No matter whether or not it killed her. Then he’d…well, the list couldn’t be endless, could it?

  “I have some brandy and some claret. Which would you prefer?”

  “Either. Long as it’s good.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him wedge the apple between his teeth, then tug his shirt over his head.

  “Long as you don’t go putting any arsenic in it.”

  “No, and I won’t spit in it either.” She edged the top off the crystal decanter. At least the wine cellar was stocked. That would keep Flint happy enough, so long as it did not detract from his ability to perform. “Here.”

  “Set it down, will you?”

  She wanted to set it down his throat. But he was in the process of thrusting his leg into his breeches and she feared she might spill it. Already she had a floor to mop.

  “Certainly. Where would you like me to put it?”

  “I’ll just spread out over there.”

  “Where?”

  “The bed. Just let me get dressed, like you said.”

  She tightened her throat. She hadn’t made any stipulation about the bed. She suspected the beautiful silk damask bedcover would soon be ruined by the intrusion of his boots. He must keep them off. She didn’t want an argument with Signor Santa-Rosa that she had left his villa in a worse state than she had found it.

  “Fine.” The bed. It wasn’t just Signor Santa-Rosa was it? The thing—the awful thing was she had nothing on Flint Blackmoore he hadn’t already paid for. Nothing she could use against him. Not a bill, not a jotting, not a witnessed statement. Not even the pretense of one. So all she could do was walk to the bed.

  Raising her chin, she proceeded. Why wait? So far the evening had been a complete disaster. Well, maybe not quite a disaster. At least she had procured a contender. Even if it was the last man in the world she’d thought it would be.

  She set the glass of claret down on the scrolled bedside cabinet. Then she walked around the bed and sat down.

  Desire had played such a small role in her life for the last seven years, and perhaps that was why her heart hammered now. But she would control it.

  “Thanks, Fury.”

  Bending down she eased off her shoes. “You’re welcome.”

  Anyway, after the way Thomas had behaved, she wasn’t likely…all right, never mind Thomas, after seven years, she still knew what this man was capable of. She cleared her throat. If only she could clear her mind as easily.

  “You mind if I have some grapes?”

  She straightened. Mind? She endeavored not to bore a mental hole in his head. It was tomorrow’s breakfast after all. But she needed him so she couldn’t afford to mind. She was also more than a little preoccupied, a little harried by this. It outweighed the desire to mind.

  “Not at all. Just you make yourself at home.”

  “I will.” He reached into the brass fruit bowl. Then he picked it up by the pedestal stem.

  “Have the whole bowl.” She gestured graciously.

  “All right.”

  Although it infuriated her, if these were his terms, she could meet them. So long as he just did this. She huffed out a breath. After the first time, it would be all right. She reached into the drawer on her side of the bed.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “The—the cream.”

  God, how humiliating. If he refused, if he said something about it… He surveyed her with a narrowed gaze. Was it indignant? To her shame she couldn’t tell. She hoped not. She needed to get this over with quickly.

  “Just let me get something to eat first. These are mighty fine grapes.” He tossed one into his mouth. “Then I still got my brandy to get.”

  “Claret.”

  “Hmm?” He ambled toward the bed and took a sip. “It’s nice.” It must have been because then he took a gulp. He sat down on the edge of the bed and drained the glass. “You got any more?”

  “The decanter is over there.”

  “You don’t mind me helping myself?”

  “Not at all, please.” She held out a hand.

  “That’s mighty kind of you. I’ll just bring it over here. Then I can get comfortable.”

  He did, with a deep sigh. The mattress sank as he stretched his long legs out, making himself at home as Captain Flint always did on such a piece of furniture. “Food. Drink. What more can a man want? And, like I said, this is a ni
ce bed you’ve got here.”

  It should be. It cost a maharajah’s fortune to rent.

  “I forgot.” His lazy gaze studied her. “You want me to put my boots back on?”

  What she wanted was to get this over with. He sprawled so close, his back against the pillows, and he smelled so heady, her heart raced. But she was—she was going to do this. Every stretched nerve ending in her body said she was going to do this. Because she had no choice.

  “I don’t think that is necessary. Please, just give me a minute.” She rose and walked to the screen. It was one preparation she couldn’t bear to make before him. God knows how she even managed the lid off the jar, the way her hands shook. But it would be worse to think herself aroused or let him think she was.

  Smothering the little shiver of apprehension his warmth aroused, she bent her head. She’d be in trouble if she started thinking this way. Or about how lethal he looked sprawled there in the soft candlelight. When she’d applied a smooth dollop of cream, she would walk back to the bed and lie down, showing no trace of vulnerability. The inevitable was now upon her. Why delay?

  She lowered her skirt and wiped her fingers dry on a lace handkerchief. Now that was dealt with, she reminded herself of all her reasons to hate him. His indifference, his arrogance, his obstinacy, his callous abandonment of her on that wharf. She walked back to the bed. Her heart racing harder, she spread herself out on the mattress.

  “If you have no more demands…”

  He removed the apple from between his teeth and looked at her. Suddenly even the simple action of what to do with her hands was a problem. On her chest, as if in prayer? Above her head? Absolutely not. By her sides? Possibly.

  She tried each in turn, while he continued to stare, as only he could, turning a chunk of apple over and over on his tongue, as if he were going to spit it out.

  Except he had never stared like that in bed. On deck maybe, when presented with some situation he didn’t like. Or on the quay when he wrangled over some chiseling supplier. But he never stared like this when confronted with the possibility of boarding a woman.

  “I’m just…just…” She cleared her throat. “Getting comfortable.” Heavens, what next? Should she raise her skirts? Or should he?