"Nathan?" she murmured, questioning, perhaps even pleading. "We shouldn't."
"We should," he answered, kissing her again just above the neckline, wishing he could remove the dress. Instead he trailed his lips across the fabric as if it were her flesh, nibbling, then lightly biting.
"Oh, Nathan. That feels. . .that feels."
"Good?" he supplied.
Wrong, Ariel thought. It felt wrong. And right. And so tempting she didn't know what to think. So she decided not to think at all, just closed her eyes, knowing she should push him away for her past's sake if for nothing else, yet wanting him to continue kissing her until he could kiss her no more. His lips moved lower, moved then sucked. She gasped, clutching his head to her breasts, telling him without words that she didn't want him to stop making her feel so—so wonderful.
No, she thought. Beautiful. He made her feel beautiful. Wanted. Desired. For the first time in years she didn't feel the pain of being an outcast, she didn't feel disliked. She felt needed.
And she needed him back.
She let out a moan, opening her eyes, staring at him, at his raven-black hair, at the scar on his face, at his lips as they kissed her. He must have felt her gaze, for he peeked up at her, his mouth still working the burgundy fabric turned almost black from the moisture of his mouth. Their eyes met. A need rose within Ariel to touch his face as he always did hers, to run her fingers down that scar or perhaps through his hair. She lifted a hand, watching his eyes narrow as she touched his cheek. The scar felt rough. And soft. She whimpered, a soft whimper, one born of sympathy at how much the wound must have hurt at one time. Tears rose in her eyes, too. Not tears of pity. Tears of pleasure when he lightly bit her again. Tears of wonder that he could do this to her with merely a touch. Tears of regret that he was Nathan Trevain and a spy, a man who might well be playing on her sympathy now to gain her support.
"Don't," she found the willpower to say. "Please don't."
He drew back, blinked, his gaze as cloudy as her own. And perhaps it was the sight of her staring up at him so plaintively. Perhaps it was the pleading tone of her voice. But he did stop. And then slowly he straightened, pulling away from her.
"I'm sorry," she said, even though she didn't know what it was she was sorry for.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then turned away from her, lifting himself off the bed to stare out the window of her father's room. "No, I am sorry. I shouldn't have kissed you."
She straightened her dress, thankful that he'd been willing to stop. And yet chasing the tail of that thought came the realization that had he truly meant to use her he would not have stopped. He would have seduced her, bound her to him in a way only a man could do. Goodness knows he could have done it.
"Nathan, I—"
"No," he interrupted, holding up a hand. He had a wide scar on his palm, she noted. "Do not say a word." He dropped into silence, Ariel realizing he gathered his thoughts before he spoke. "I should never have kidnapped you," he said at last, rubbing his chin. "I should not have involved you in all this. It was wrong of me. I hope you understand why I did it."
"I do," she said. And she did. She would have done the same if she had been in his shoes. She might even have stooped to the same tactics of subterfuge.
"But that does not change the fact that I have and that I need your help more than I've ever needed a person's help in my life."
She didn't say anything, knew he meant to say more.
She was right, for he turned to her, his eyes pleading. "I need your help, Ariel D'Archer. I beg you for it. Help me find my brother."
She felt a lump build in her throat. For the first time since meeting him she knew he was one-hundred-percent honest. It shone from his eyes, called to her.
At that precise moment Ariel knew she stood at a crossroads in her life. She could pretend to go along, have him taken captive at the first opportunity—and never be able to look in a mirror again—or she could help him to find his brother. The choice was hers to make.
But really, suddenly she knew it was no choice at all.
"I'll help you find him, Nathan Trevain. God help me, I'll help you."
PARTFOUR
Better an open enemy than a false friend.
17TH CENTURY PROVERB
14
It was dark in the hold of the ship, the air so chill it ate at Wess's wounds like sand mites. Almost he was glad for that darkness, for Wess didn't want to see what he'd become. He knew just by the effort it took to sit on the floor, his back screeching in agony, that he'd be lucky to stave off infection another day.
"You alright, Cap'n?"
It took him a moment to gather himself from the pain, to realize someone had spoken, and even then Wess could barely utter one word, "Aye."
It was Jaime in the hold with him. Jamie with his bright green Irish eyes and equally bright red hair. Jamie, who'd gone to his aid when they'd started to drag him below. Jaime, who'd been dragged into the hold with him as a result.
God, how had he gotten them all in such a mess? He should never have gone after that frigate. But he'd thought the accompanying ship of the line had been sunk—why else would the frigate be floating in the Atlantic alone? Too late he'd realized why. A trap, one he'd sailed right into. The realization still filled him with rage, the same rage that had propelled him to escape, no matter how ill thought out the scheme.
"Word is that they expect to be in port soon." And Wess could hear the fear in his former lieutenant's voice. "Heard one of the crew members talking. Seems they think the court-martial will take place on land."
Soon, Wess thought. And how soon was that? Days? A week? Could he survive that long?
He didn't know. Infections were rampant aboard a ship. If you didn't catch one from a fellow crewmember, than you caught it from the vermin.
"Jaime," he managed to rasp out, his voice raw from his cries of pain. "If I don't make it, find my brother for me."
"No. Don't talk like that, Cap'n. We haven't lasted this long to have you die on us now. The war's over. We won. They can't hold us fer much longer."
Jaime, young, impetuous Jaime. The boy didn't understand that they would never let them go. The captain's bitterness at losing the war was a palpable thing. No doubt he would take out his anger on him. 'Twas the reason Wess had tried to desert. He knew they would kill him shortly. And though desertion was not a hanging offense in and of itself, they would hang him because a British officer had died trying to stop him from escaping. No matter that it wasn't Wess's fault that the man had died due to his own folly. He was dead. That was all the bloody Brits needed to know.
"Jaime," Wess tried again. "Tell my brother Nathan—"
But Wess's words were cut off abruptly by the sound of a door opening. A click and a snick later and their own door opened. Lantern light illuminated the gloomy inside of their makeshift cell. Wess caught a glimpse of Jaime's pale face before he turned to greet Captain Pike's stare.
"You're still conscious?" the man asked. "I must say I am surprised."
No matter that it caused excruciating pain to expand his rib cage, then release it to form words, Wess would rather have been pitched overboard than let the bastard see what he'd done to him. "Come here and give me your blade," he growled, "and I'll surprise you with the cold feel of it between your ribs."
Captain Pike's aristocratic face did not look well with a sneer. "I see your flogging has not improved your attitude."
"About as much as your good breeding has helped your manners."
The captain's eyes narrowed. He waved a man forward, the motion sharp, giving away his anger. Wess felt satisfaction surge through him, satisfaction that faded as a sailor came forward and grabbed Jaime by the arms.
"Cap'n?" his friend asked.
"Where are you taking him?"
"To be flogged. The young man will learn that his loyalty to you is severely misplaced. While he is aboard my ship, he will serve me. No other."
Wess wanted to shove himsel
f to his feet, to wrap his hands around the insolent pig's throat. God, how he wanted to, but he could barely find the strength to sit there. To breathe in and out. To keep conscious.
"The boy was trying to protect me."
"He would do well to protect himself."
"Cap'n?" Jaime asked again,
Pike turned on him. "I'm your captain now, boy."
In response young Jaime straightened, drawing his shoulders back. "You'll never be half the man Captain Trevain is."
Wess thought Pike would hit him, but to his surprise, he didn't. Instead, he waved the boy away. Wess watched him go, never having felt so much pride in one of his crew. He looked at Pike, his fingers automatically flexing, then relaxing, then flexing again. He would kill the man one day. That he vowed. The bastard represented everything Wess hated about the British: power given by birth, not merit. Authority given by noble blood, not noble character. And with Captain Pike, that control was grossly misused.
When Jaime was gone, Pike turned to him. Wess straightened up, though the motion brought fresh waves of fire into his mind.
"I thought you should hear at first hand that we should hit land soon."
Wess didn't let on that he already knew that.
"I've sent word out that a court-martial will need to be convened. Three days at most and you shall be hanged from the gallows."
"I look forward to it," he rasped, his strength fading quickly now, unconsciousness hovering nearby like a dark specter.
Captain Pike must have seen it, because his expression turned gloating. "Oh, no. I would never go against the Articles of War, much as it would please me to do so. No, I will adhere to the letter of the law, and the law states we must have five men ranked captain or higher to rule on your fate, no matter that the outcome is a foregone conclusion."
Wess didn't have the energy to answer, but Pike must have thought his silence deliberate.
"I should have let you sink along with your ship, Wess Trevain. And your men with you. You're a disgrace to the noble blood that runs through your veins."
Wess started, the motion causing him to gasp in pain, not that Pike noticed.
"Oh, yes. I know who you are. Your resemblance to your uncle is quite remarkable, and it is an unusual name." He took a step forward. "You disgust me with your patriot beliefs. And if I had my druthers, every member of your crew would be hanged. Instead I'll take great satisfaction in seeing you dangle from the end of the rope."
And with that, the bastard turned. Wess watched him go, vowing that it would not be he who dangled from the rope. No indeed.
15
Once Ariel had settled on helping Mr. Trevain, she would not rest until they'd arrived at a plan. Unfortunately, her newfound accomplice had a hard time agreeing to any plan she conceived. Bother.
"I've already broken into the Admiralty," he said. "No, there must be another way to find the information I need."
"But the information must be there, Mr. Trevain. It must."
Nathan shrugged. "No doubt it is, but we have no way of searching the place adequately." He paced to the end of her father's room, turned and paced back. Ariel watched him, feeling his kiss still burn upon her lips. But she tried not to think about that as she stared at him, tried not to feel a combination of both wonder and fear at her reaction to his touch.
"Perhaps there is a way," she forced herself to say.
He turned to face her suddenly.
"How?"
"Reggie."
"Reggie?" he asked.
"Phoebe's husband, my cousin. He is one of the secretaries at the Admiralty. 'Tis how they met, through my father."
He appeared to consider the notion, then shook his head. "No, I do not like it. We would have to trust this Reggie, and I do not trust British officers."
"He is not an officer, and really, we have no choice. As you said, every day you delay in finding your brother is a day he could die. Frankly, there is no other way to discover the information you need, short of waiting for my father to return. My father would tell us."
"So you think."
"No, he would. He may not like me much, but he is honorable. But ‘tis neither here nor there. Reggie must be the one to help us. No one will question his presence at the Admiralty."
But Nathan Trevain did not seem impressed by her idea. He paced the length of the room again, his hands clasped behind his back, queue swishing back and forth like the tail of an irate horse. He looked dangerous in a sinister, darkly handsome sort of way. She found herself thinking things she oughtn't to think, given their circumstances, and forced herself instead to concentrate on the problem at hand.
"Come, now," she reiterated. "The idea is sound."
"Sound?" He whirled to face her, his queue all but hitting him in the face. "You believe it sound to ask Lord Sarrington to help me? Me, a man who's kidnapped his cousin?"
Ariel dismissed his argument with a wave of her hand. Men. Sometimes they did not see the logic of something if it hit them square in the face. "Reggie will do as I ask. That is all you need know." Especially once Ariel reminded him of the favor he owed her.
He paused in his pacing, arms crossed. "It's a ridiculous idea."
"No, it is not. All we need do is send him a note."
"A note? Asking what? For him to come rescue you?"
She got up from the trunk, placing her hands on her hips. "No. Explaining the situation."
He stared at her unblinkingly.
She turned away, feeling much better once she took her eyes off him. He didn't seem so. . .disturbing.
"Where are you going?"
"I am going below stairs to alert the staff, then send Reggie the note. We do not have time to argue."
"Since when did you and I become a ‘we'?" she heard him mumble.
That, Ariel admitted, was a very good question.
John must have spread word of her sudden appearance, for the rest of the staff did not bat an eyelash when she appeared. Oh, perhaps they wiggled one or two. After all, she was a single female cavorting about the countryside with a man she was not married to. But they were well trained. And while Ariel was sure they clucked about it behind her back, they would never show their disapproval to her face, especially since she let drop the hint that she and Nathan had been trying to elope. No doubt they hoped this fiancé actually married her.
So now they stood in her favorite sitting room, Nathan by the fire, one arm resting upon the mantel in a typical male pose. They must teach them that at their clubs, Ariel thought. How to Look Studious and Masculine While in the Presence of Female Company. And he did look masculine, she admitted. He'd cleaned up after they'd shared an evening meal. So had Ariel, her full wardrobe still in the family quarters. She'd changed into a light green dress, but whereas she knew her hair looked to be in total disarray—after all, it always looked in total disarray—Mr. Trevain's hair was newly slicked back into its queue. His coat looked cleaner than before, though still a bit worn. She admired the way it hung across his shoulders.
Gracious, but his kiss had disturbed her, though she was hard pressed to understand why. Certainly he'd kissed her before, but never with such complete and utter. . .what?
Kindness, she realized. He'd kissed her with kindness and genuine desire.
Heaven help her.
He began pacing again. "Will you stop that?" she asked. "You are making me nervous." Actually it brought attention to his masculine physique, something she didn't need to be reminded of right now.
"He should have been here by now."
"I know."
"No doubt he's been delayed fetching the magistrate," he offered, stroking his chin.
She shook her head. "No. He will not bring the magistrate."
"I wish I had your confidence."
"Nor will he bring a pistol to shoot you with."
"That remains to be seen."
Yes, it did, Ariel admitted, not sure if her reminder of a promised favor would sway Reggie into doing as she asked. Wor
se, with each passing moment, she grew more and more nervous. Gracious, what if Reggie really did arm himself? What if right at this moment a group of men bent on taking Nathan captive headed toward the estate?
Almost as if her mind conjured the sound to go along with the mental images, Ariel heard hoofbeats on the drive.
She stiffened.
So did Nathan.
They nearly collided as they headed toward the window and peered out at a moon-soaked drive. A lone horseman rode hell-for-leather toward them, the white flecks of foam on the horse's chest visible against its black coat.
"'Tis Reggie."
"How do you know?"
"The horse. ‘Tis his gelding." She turned toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"Why, to greet him."
A hand on her arm stopped her, although his touch was truly gentle for the first time. "Stay," he ordered.
She swung toward him. "Why, I—oh," she gasped, the pistol in his hand catching the glow of the fire. "Where did you get that?"
"From a servant," he answered.
"What are you doing with it?"
"While I seem to be temporarily cursed with trusting you, my lady, I have no such affection for your cousin by marriage. He might have a similar pistol or a group of armed men waiting down the drive to take me hostage."
"So you propose to hold me hostage whilst you wait to find out? That will go over well with him."
"I am not a fool, my lady. I will not jeopardize my freedom or risk your being taken away from me."
Oddly enough, the words made her feel needed. His eyes did, too. She warmed up in the oddest way, but then all thoughts vanished as the door suddenly burst open.
Reggie's small form stood in the doorway, his body illuminated by candlelight, brown hair swept to one side. His traveling cape swirled around him like waves around a pier. His familiar brown eyes instantly spied her from behind his small spectacles.
Enchanted by Your Kisses Page 16