The Unraveling of Lady Fury

by Shehanne Moore

  “You mean yourself or Lady Margaret here?”

  “A boy would, of course, guarantee things.” She paused. “You know about such things do you?”

  The glance she slanted him from beneath her sooty lashes said as much as he needed to know about her thoughts.

  He rose to his feet. “What things, sweetheart?”

  “You know. How to conceive a boy.”

  He shrugged, helping himself to a piece of bread. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He paused. His boat wasn’t even a speck on the horizon. He didn’t have a thread in his pocket. Never mind a lire. If he was going to stay, maybe it wasn’t so bad revealing what he just had. “I’m sure Ma told me a thing or two. Provided I can remember it all.”

  A strange sound emanated from her throat. He considered he’d risen a notch. Now she might elevate him to the Blue Chamber. Or maybe even a renegotiation of that ball-breaking contract of hers.

  As he wiped crumbs off his mouth, he swore he could even hear her mind whirring.

  “Can I trust you?”

  “Trust me?” What a stupid question. Of course she couldn’t. He stuffed the remains of the hunk of bread in his mouth.

  “Not to run away.”

  “Me?” He tried to sound surprised. Despite all the surprises he’d had since he pried the lid off that box in her cellar, it was actually far harder than he imagined. “And leave you?”

  If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear she’d made up that contract on the spot without the least thought about the realities of its execution. Simple things like where he was going to go between their sessions. His gaze skirted her face.

  She had, hadn’t she?

  After all, he hadn’t imagined the business of her staring at the nymphs frolicking on the ceiling half the night.

  “Hmm. I do, of course, want to be fair to you when you are doing so much to oblige me.” Her soft red lips, which he found he could not take his eyes off, parted before he could even start protesting. “But I don’t want you making off with the candlesticks. Because Signor Santa-Rosa would be most displeased.”

  “That would make two of us.” If she explained Captain Flint had stolen them, certainly. “What kind of person do you think I am?”

  “A pirate.”

  He bit off another mouthful of bread. He’d passed himself off as the cabin boy when he had been captured. A trifle fanciful for a man of thirty, but there it was. To save his skin he’d have passed himself off as the Queen of Sheba. Or one of her fancy wall hangings there. Anything.

  But now, if it came out he wasn’t a cabin boy, he’d hang. And despite finding life impossible and degrading in the months since his capture, he wasn’t ready to leave it yet.

  “If I can trust you, and it is very much an if—” She took on that refined voice she’d somehow cultivated. “Then you may have the Blue Chamber.”

  “I may? The Blue Chamber?”

  “It’s a nice room, as you will have seen. You may use it freely.”

  Rules thirteen and fourteen, no doubt. Amazing what the assumption of a little knowledge did for people. He swallowed the hunk of bread in his mouth. “That’s mighty nice of you.”

  “Yes. Susan will serve you your meals.”

  “I look forward to it. I’m ’specially fond of callaloo and goat.”

  “Goat?”

  “Plenty of them running about the hillsides. You just get Susan or some of your men up there to catch them.”

  “Susan? Or—” She tightened her dropping jaw. “If you want a goat you must catch it and kill it yourself.”

  Right.

  “Any steak will do. I’m not fussy. Chicken too. Oh, and rum. Heaps of it. Tell you what, why don’t I give her a list?”

  Why the hell had her jaw dropped like that? So far, a bread roll and a handful of grapes was a starvation diet for a man being asked to do what she expected of him. Twice a day was nothing. But to order? When she didn’t even want him?

  He’d thought Ma’s knowledge would guarantee more than the Blue Chamber.

  “It’s up to you. Chicken and rum are good for a man, an awful lot better than bread and coffee when he’s—well, you know—got to get with his lady twice a day, to become a daddy.”

  Her face turned green as though she were in the throes of morning sickness already. A daddy. His heart gave a thump. He supposed he hadn’t thought about it himself. But if his seed took he would be. And she…she would be the mother. God help the Sheltons.

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I will speak to Susan about that. Although rum, in Genoa, might prove a little difficult to come by.”

  He stared, his gaze impassive. The more he thought about this, it was a battle he would win. She was rich, right? “Seaport, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me speak to her. Save you getting up.”

  “I—”

  What? Did she think he wasn’t to be trusted with Susan? Or was it the candlesticks, the silver, all the other articles of finery she’d got stashed around here?

  “No, no, Fury. You lie here. You’re going to be the mother of the heir. I can’t have you running around after me.”

  “Fine.” She clenched her fists.

  Giving into him nearly killed her. But that was all right. Because she had given in. Although, for such an intelligent woman, he wondered at her believing him. Especially the stuff about the chicken and the rum.

  “When do you want me back here?”

  “This evening. I’ll send Susan.”

  * * *

  Fury waited till she heard what she hoped was the Blue Chamber door shut before rising from the bed. The last thing she wanted was Flint prowling the villa. The second last actually. The last was Flint handing Susan a list of all his requirements.

  Maybe she was playing this all wrong. Maybe she should have chosen Signor Santa-Rosa to father the Beaumont heir. He was pushing sixty but it would take more than the pawning of a pair of his candlesticks to keep Flint in sustenance, now he’d regained his taste for the high life. And had her just where he wanted her.

  She swallowed a mouthful of stone-cold coffee. A little knowledge was a dangerous thing. She wanted to believe otherwise, but would even he stoop so low as to make up that story about his mother?

  No, in that second she had seen a different Flint. The boy, not the man. Vulnerable. Uncertain. And that was the most frightening thing about the encounter, when she needed to face him again and the tightrope she walked, so high, so dazzling, had just become even more precarious.

  She would need to plan their next encounter very, very carefully, if she did not want to plummet to earth.

  Chapter Five

  Fury dabbed another blotch of perfume on her wrists as someone knocked on her chamber door. She turned her head over her shoulder. “Come in.”

  Susan entered, but not before Fury heard her low chuckle and the rumble of a male voice.

  “Madam, it’s James.”

  Fury could see that. Her most loyal servant. A woman of fifty. Two seconds in this man’s company and look at her. Demolished. Not once, in all the years they’d known each other, had Fury ever seen Susan’s eyes shine like that. Or seen her unable to take them off a man. Fury was willing to bet that cap was freshly laundered. The apron too. And since when did Susan tong her hair? Where had she even gotten the tongs?

  Flint was a sexual tease, a flirt. He knew it too. A smile, a joke, a glance even, made women behave like dolts. Walking along a quayside with him was like ambling through a well-stocked brothel. How could she ever forget the looks, the suggestions from the dockside whores?

  Had he ignored them? No. That would have been an ungallant thing for Flint, the great and inveterate womanizer, to do. He’d always tipped his hat and grinned. Even called them Ladies.

  Fury had hoped to take Susan aside about Thomas. The cellar was the coolest place in the house, but in this hot weather decomposition would be rapid. To be truthful she began to think it might be better to bury him somewhere.
A deserted hillside perhaps. She had already said he was visiting his father.

  But now Susan had fallen victim to the Flint curse, and Fury could forget all that.

  “Fury.”

  How could he make her name sound the same as when he had addressed those dockside whores? Why, he even had the temerity to grin. If he had a hat, she believed he’d tip it.

  She tilted her chin and glared, the temperature of her voice sinking several notches. “James.”

  She set the bottle of perfume back on the dressing table. At least he hadn’t bolted and she wasn’t required to dig him out of some harbor-front drinking den. It was something, she supposed. It would be terrible to be left alone here with only Thomas in the cellar for company. Artificial insemination with a corpse was something even she had never considered.

  A pity. Moreover the child would be Thomas’s. It might even resemble him instead of…

  “Will you be requiring anything, madam?” Susan’s voice jerked Fury from her unwelcome thoughts.

  Fury shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  “All right, then.”

  Susan glanced sideways at Flint as she headed out of the room. Maybe Fury had this wrong. Maybe she should just have let Susan conceive the heir. Except Susan was too old.

  Besides Fury intended to present herself at Ravenhurst while pregnant. Lady Margaret would of course demand confirmation. Something to prove Fury hadn’t stuffed a cushion up her skirt. Otherwise Fury would have done so and borrowed a foundling.

  “So, James.” The sharp ache in her wrists made her aware of how tightly she clenched her fists. “Susan fetched you all your requirements? The callaloo would prove a little difficult.”

  His eyes glinted as if the callaloo wasn’t the only thing. Fury felt her hackles rise. In planning this second encounter she had wracked her already beaten brain. How could she make it more uninspiring than she already had, when, despite the conditions she’d set and the awfulness of the encounter itself, he had almost moved her to ecstasy?

  Of course, he had taken her somewhat by surprise.

  She unclenched her fists and folded her hands together. The pose looked cool, sophisticated, but she knew that most of all, when she had practiced in the mirror earlier, it had looked controlled.

  “We must get you something better to wear. Your clothes are so shabby.” This next encounter might go more smoothly, but a little denigration, when he hated to be denigrated, was no bad thing.

  “Is this since I’m going to be wearing them a lot?”

  He may have ambled into the room, but he’d taken up an unwilling stance between the bed and the fireplace since. Perhaps he was waiting to be told to take a chair? Only with Flint, if she said that, the chances were he’d be straight out the front door after it.

  Better to let him stand there, although it was quite unlike him not to make himself at home.

  She sighed. “Wearing them a lot? It has nothing to do with that, James.”

  “You know my name is Flint.”

  “Of course I do. But whether I can call you by it is another matter.”

  She swept across the floor and sat down on the bed. As with the business of the pose, the movement had been rehearsed several times.

  Flint may have blackmailed her, he may have protested about the terms she had set, but what had he done really? The old Flint would never have stood for her tossing her head at him like this. He would have seized her and he’d have kissed her. Then he’d have gotten to it.

  This new Flint, although not as docile as she’d have liked, at least created spaces. He knew something of distance. Why fear a man she could dominate? No. What she feared here was herself.

  She reached down and removed her slippers. She had dressed for the encounter in a simple cotton nightdress and velvet robe. No jewels. No encumbrances. Not even her wedding band. No stockings. Everything plain. A little perfume to cool her wrists and forehead. No more.

  Her other necessary precaution had been taken. This afternoon she had even rehearsed the removal of the robe and the arrangement of the nightdress. Never again would she be at his mercy, wondering what to do with such a simple thing as her hands. After setting her slippers to the side, she reached for the hooks of her gown.

  Without looking, she sensed him shift around the room.

  He cleared his throat. “Same terms apply, do they?”

  She raised her chin. “I think we dealt with your half of the bargain adequately. Should you desire another bath, there is already plenty of water in the kitchen. And as you’ve already eaten, you can’t be hungry.” She peeled off her robe. “Unless, of course, you have some new conditions? Although I’m sure you know yourself, being a privateer, these should have been agreed last time around. Now…”

  Swiveling, she raised her legs onto the bed. Earlier, when she had rehearsed it, this was the bit that had caused her knees to shake and her legs to falter. Now she did it without a hitch.

  “Glad I taught you something, sweetheart.”

  “You taught me lots.” She was even able to adjust the pillow height without fumbling, so often had she done it this afternoon. After punching it to make sure it was comfortable, she lay down. “Now, if you’d like to come over here.”

  “That’s one hell of an offer. The trouble is I’m not sure I do.”

  She should have known he would take that as an entendre. But, unlike this morning, unlike last night, she’d had the opportunity to don her armor.

  She had two ways of dealing with a threat. She could cower in fear of what it might do to her, or she could step out and face it. She had chosen the latter.

  “When you are ready, that is. Your comment last night was probably entirely justified.”

  “What comment was this?”

  “I realize, after some consideration, that no man is a performing seal. Not even one like you. If I was peremptory, forgive me. But, I was surprised and overwhelmed by your offer, to say the least. Now…”

  Drawing a breath she placed her hands by her sides. Then she closed her eyes. When she thought about this morning, when she thought about how nervous she had been, this was altogether different. She would not even blanch when she felt him raise her nightdress.

  “Any reason you’re lying there like that?”

  As if he didn’t know. Fortunately she was even prepared for him to try and undermine her.

  “What do you think? For you to fulfill your part of the bargain.”

  “Hang on.”

  He ambled across the floor in the direction of—the lacquered cabinet? It was hard to tell when she refused to open an eye. But what she could tell was that it was away from her.

  So she did open an eye and saw him examining the contents of the fruit bowl. She resisted saying a word. Even when he dusted an apple on his shirt. Instead she closed her eyes and listened to him making an incision.

  It would be a lie to say she was pleased. However, if for some strange reason, he required to eat an apple to get himself aroused, was it any concern of hers? She thought not. So long as he did not expect her to arouse him.

  “You want me over there?” He spoke with his mouth full.

  “When you are ready. Obviously the readier you are, the sooner the encounter can begin. The sooner it begins, the sooner it will end. I’m not a complete fool. I realize a simple in and out is not always possible.”

  “That depends. See, for some men that’s as much as they’re capable of. While some men got a lady who gets them so fired—”

  “James.”

  “Fine. But you want me over there you’re going to have to do something.”

  “We agreed. I have made my conditions plain. I am doing nothing.”

  “Maybe that’s so, but you want the heir, you’re going to have to get on top.”

  “What?”

  Although she believed she’d misheard, she still thanked God she was lying down.

  “You’re going to have to get on top.”

  It wasn�
��t the response she expected. Shocked disbelief juddered through her. She fought to keep her voice calm.

  “Me?”

  “What’s the problem with it?” He stood chewing. “There was nothing in that contract of yours specifying anything about that. Not far as I remember anyway. But maybe I’m wrong. Now, shove over.”

  She jerked upright. “Just so you know, I am not getting on top.”

  He took a step toward her and she almost leaped off the bed. It took every shred of her self-control to remain where she sat. He looked so much taller all of a sudden, and the power he exuded made her aware of her own lack. He curled his mouth into a sardonic smile.

  “You want that heir, you will.”

  Her throat dried. She had misjudged him. “Whether it was specified or not, you cannot expect me…” She cursed, but then rallied. “I said I would not touch you.”

  “I’m not asking you to touch me. I’m asking you to get on top.”

  “But if I get on top, I will be… You know what that will be like.”

  His expression didn’t change, but a man of his experience must know she was appealing to him. What he meant was unmistakable—for her to do all the work. And she couldn’t do all the work. It was too intimate. But she hadn’t specified, because she hadn’t expected him to find such a vile loophole. After the afternoon she’d spent planning every single aspect of this encounter to protect her inner core from further intrusion, it didn’t seem possible.

  It was difficult, the horror his words engendered, to speak through her frozen lips. “Whether it was in the agreement or not—”

  “Yeah, yeah. So you’ve said already.” Ignoring her protestations, he dragged his shirt free of his breeches. “Excuse me while I just make myself comfortable.”

  “I am not doing it.”

  “That’s a pity.” He assessed her in that deceptively lazy fashion, as if he were really sorry about all this. “You don’t have a lot of choice, you want that heir.”