Too Wicked to Wed

by Cheryl Holt

  “We can’t do this,” she contended.

  “We have to.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Hush.”

  She didn’t actually want him to cease, but she was terrified of progressing. There was a raging beast inside her that was urging her to commit any depraved deed he suggested. Nothing could dissuade her, not worries about her reputation, or about the stories that might spread, or about the consequences later on. She had to revel in the moment, and the future be damned.

  The spiral of pleasure had commenced, and it was heaven to dally with him, to have lust roaring in her ears and pounding through her veins. He was whispering endearments in an exotic language she didn’t understand, and she held him tighter, needing him nearer, and she wished she could draw him into herself and keep him there forever.

  His crafty fingers stroked her breasts, kneading the pliant mounds through the bodice of her dress. Each caress was like a bolt of lightning, and she hissed in agony as he slipped under corset and chemise to fondle her nipple. When he finally clasped one, when he pinched and squeezed, she moaned with relief.

  “Stop, stop,” she pleaded. “I can’t bear it.”

  “You have to let me.”

  “It’s too much.”

  “No, it’s not. With you, it’s never enough.”

  He tugged at fabric, exposing her bosom, her nipples pouting in the cool afternoon air. He gazed at them and preened with his possession.

  “So very pretty,” he murmured, “and all mine.”

  He bent down to nip and lick, to nudge and play; then he sucked the taut nub into his mouth. His dastardly seduction was driving her insane with need. He was flexing his hips in a fascinating way that had her trembling with a craving she couldn’t describe. Her anatomy recognized the movement and exulted in it, her own hips meeting his thrust for thrust.

  He was easing up her skirt, massaging her thigh. With each swipe, she shivered in anticipation of an exquisite apex that would either bring her reprieve from misery or kill her with its power.

  “Have you any idea,” he asked, “how a man and woman join together?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  His fingers glided into her drawers, traveling down to tangle through her womanly hair; then he slid them into her. He was probing, searching, and she definitely hoped he found whatever he was seeking.

  She arched up. “Captain! Please!”

  “This is how I want you, Helen: wet and eager and begging me.”

  The sensation was riveting, her heart hammering so violently that she was afraid it might simply quit beating. She needed him to halt, but at the same juncture, she was desperate for him to keep on until . . . until . . .

  Oh . . . she didn’t know till when! There had to be an end point. A person couldn’t continue through such tumult without conclusion.

  “Captain! Lucas! Luke!”

  “Yes?” He grinned. “Call me Luke, and I am putty in your hands.”

  “I can’t go on. It’s too . . . too . . .”

  “Wonderful?”

  “Yes.”

  He paused, reining in his baser inclinations. She felt as if she were balanced on a cliff, as if she were about to leap over, but it was obvious he was finished. Was he mad? He couldn’t leave her in such a disordered state!

  He released her and sat up, and he pulled her up, too. Without comment, he arranged her clothes as he silently evaluated her. His desire was blatant and discernible, but there was something else in his look—an almost tender affection—that had her pulse fluttering.

  “Are we done?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I feel all ragged inside.”

  “I expect you do.”

  “You can’t stop!” she complained.

  “I have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you always push me farther than I intend to go,” he confessed.

  “I do?” A vain, feminine part of her was tickled.

  “And, while I admit to being a terrible cad, I’m not about to deflower you on the sofa in the front salon.”

  “What does deflowering require?”

  He snuggled himself to her and whispered, “I’ll show you later.”

  “Why wait? Show me now.”

  “No. I’ll come to your bedchamber after dark.”

  “You’ll do no such a thing,” she protested. “We’ve aroused too much speculation as it is. I’m not about to fuel more gossip.”

  As if she hadn’t spoken, he advised, “About eleven o’clock. Don’t lock your door.”

  “Captain—”

  “Luke,” he insisted.

  “Luke, you can’t.”

  “I can. I won’t let you tell me no.”

  “I don’t want you there. It’s wrong.”

  “Yes, it is, but we’re going to do it anyway.”

  “You are so stubborn! Will you listen to me?”

  “The house will be quiet,” he claimed. “No one will know.”

  “Lucas Westmoreland, you—”

  “Wear something sexy. Better yet, don’t wear anything, at all.”

  He stood and strolled out, leaving her to brood and stew.

  8

  Pat Reilly dawdled, quietly and unobtrusively, in the corner of the frilly salon, observing Miss Mansfield as she stitched on a sampler. With her stylish hair and pretty dress she was an elegant woman, worth watching, worth emulating.

  She was distraught, though, brooding and so agitated that she hadn’t noticed Pat, so Pat continued to spy. It was soothing, being in the fancy house, studying how Miss Mansfield lived, and Pat couldn’t help but ponder what it must have been like to grow up in the beautiful, serene spot.

  Did Miss Mansfield realize how lucky she was?

  Captain Westmoreland was an admirable skipper, but life with him was grueling, and wearisome circumstances the norm. Pat had never known a different existence. From the earliest memories of childhood, it had been struggle and privation, work and more work. This period at Mansfield Abbey was a marvelous respite, a boon beyond any imaginable.

  What would it be like to stay on? To stay forever? To never return to the ship and the rough, brutal sea?

  Pat tried to envision asking Miss Mansfield’s permission to remain, but it was unlikely she’d heed the plea of a common sailor. The Captain would have to concur, too, but even if he agreed, it would be impossible for Pat to leave him. Captain Westmoreland had sworn that he’d always protect Pat, and after all his kindnesses over the years, loyalty was the least of the gifts Pat owed.

  Miss Mansfield jumped and muttered, “Drat it.”

  “Are you all right, miss?” Pat inquired.

  At the sound of Pat’s voice, Miss Mansfield whipped around. “I didn’t know you were there, Sergeant. It’s nothing. I’m a tad distracted, so I’m having trouble concentrating. I poked myself with the needle.”

  There was blood oozing from her fingertip, and as she dabbed at it with a kerchief, Pat dared to sidle closer. “Would you like me to fetch somebody? I could bring the Captain. He’s a genius with—”

  “No, I don’t need any assistance,” she quickly interrupted. “Especially not from Captain Westmoreland.”

  She smiled, but it was a trifle strained, and Pat yearned to lean over and give her a consoling squeeze on the shoulder. It was hell, falling for the Captain. No female was immune, and if Miss Mansfield hadn’t already landed in his bed, she’d find herself there soon enough.

  For a woman with her lofty morals the plunge had to be dreadful, and the ending would be even worse. They all loved him, but the sentiment was never reciprocated. The longest Pat had seen the Captain revel with the same partner was three weeks, and that was because they’d been stranded by storms in an isolated harbor and he’d had no choice.

  Poor Miss Mansfield. Pat wouldn’t change places with her for all the gold in the King’s palace.

  “Would you like me to finish the stitching for you?” Pat uttered the s
uggestion without considering.

  “You?” Miss Mansfield replied, but she hastily covered her rude implication. “I . . . I . . . that is . . . do you sew?”

  “Of course. I’m a sailor. I sew all the time.”

  Miss Mansfield’s disbelief was obvious, an indication that she wasn’t aware of how much effort it took to make a sail flutter in the wind. Pat was the most skilled of the crew at the tiny repairs the other men hated. Miss Mansfield’s sampler was a delicate embroidery of some bluebirds, and Pat would give anything to labor over so fine a piece.

  “It’s very sweet of you to offer,” Miss Mansfield said, “but I’ll fuss with it later. I can’t settle down. I guess I’ll walk in the garden.”

  Pat nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

  Miss Mansfield headed for the French windows that led onto the verandah, and as she passed, Pat was fascinated by how petite she was, by how clean and flowery she smelled. More words popped out where they oughtn’t.

  “Don’t do it.”

  “Don’t do what?” Miss Mansfield queried.

  “If you don’t want him in your bed, tell him no and mean it. Deep down, he’s a gentleman. He’ll quit pestering you.”

  Miss Mansfield blushed a bright scarlet. “Sergeant Reilly, as we’re scarcely acquainted, I can’t fathom why you’d make such an indiscreet comment to me.”

  “I can see how distressed you are. Don’t fret over him. He’s not worth it.”

  “I have no notion of whom you’re speaking,” she fibbed.

  She stomped out, and for a few minutes Pat tarried to be sure she’d truly gone. The embroidery on the sofa invited idle hands to pick it up and indulge, but the moment was lost as noises down the hall revealed that the Captain had arrived. Pat met him at the door to the salon.

  “Afternoon, Captain.”

  “Pat, where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere.”

  “I was chatting with Miss Mansfield.”

  “Were you now? Did Her Majesty deign to be civil to your lowly self?”

  The Captain teased about Miss Mansfield, but it was plain that he’d taken a shine to her. Pat had witnessed enough of his romantic escapades to recognize the signs. “She was very pleasant.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I must be rubbing off on her.”

  “You must be.”

  Pat grinned. The Captain was irresistible, so Miss Mansfield didn’t stand a chance. Oh well, the excitement might be beneficial, might loosen her up a bit.

  Pat had stepped aside to allow the Captain to enter when Robert Smith rushed to catch up with him, and at the abrupt and unanticipated reunion Pat couldn’t stifle a gasp of surprise. Since their peculiar encounter in the library Pat hadn’t seen him. They were both hiding. Not that Pat had necessarily wanted to evade him, but Smith rattled free too many emotions and memories that were best left undisturbed. He tapped a fount of longing and discontentment that Pat was desperate to ignore.

  As unprepared as Pat for them to be thrust together, Smith flushed with mortification, the color heightening the blue of his eyes, the black of his hair. With the same perfect manners and snooty schooling as Miss Mansfield, he was such an attractive man. He knew how to dress, how to talk, how to carry himself, and Pat was fixated on him in a fashion that was dangerous and crazed.

  He hemmed and hawed, then cleared his throat. “Ah . . . Captain . . . ?”

  The Captain whirled around and studied him carefully. “What is it, Mr. Smith?”

  “I forgot my ledger. It’s out in the stable.”

  “Why can’t you use the one you’re holding in your hand?”

  “I need the other one. I’ll go get it, and I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t disappear on me as you did yesterday.”

  The previous morning, the three of them were to have had breakfast, but Smith had failed to show, and though the Captain had searched and searched, he couldn’t locate Smith anywhere. Pat was impressed that Smith had dared to disobey a direct order.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Smith vowed, and he scurried away.

  With blatant interest, Pat evaluated Smith’s retreating bottom, and the Captain couldn’t help but notice.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Determined not to gape, Pat jerked away, but the Captain was too astute to be fooled.

  “You’re completely infatuated,” he correctly charged.

  “With Mr. Smith? Are you mad?”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  Pat shifted with discomfort, then admitted, “It’s a passing fancy. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Does he know?”

  “No, and I don’t need you telling him, either.”

  “But he’s smitten by you.”

  The prospect was absurdly thrilling. It had been an eternity since anyone had been. “You think he likes me?”

  “It’s so bloody obvious. He’s miserable, which must be why he’s vanishing every other second. You’re being cruel to keep it a secret.”

  “I am not.”

  “Maybe I’ll have a chat with him,” the Captain threatened. “Man-to-man. I’ll explain the facts of life.”

  Pat’s heart pounded. “What good would it do?”

  “Well, that would be up to you, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Why don’t you reflect on it?”

  His words were perplexing. What was he saying? Was he claiming that he wouldn’t mind if Pat sought a path that didn’t include him? Suddenly it seemed as if the Earth had tipped off its axis, as if the stars had altered their positions and it had become impossible to chart a course.

  “But I have to stay with you,” Pat said. “It’s my destiny. And what about you? What would you do without me? We swore an oath.”

  “Sure we did, and I’ll always need you. But having Mr. Smith and serving me don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

  “They don’t?”

  “Mr. Smith is a fine man,” the Captain pronounced. “He’s a tad fussy, at times, but he’s honest and decent. You could do a whole lot worse.”

  He strolled out and, more confused than ever, Pat traipsed after him.

  “Miss Mansfield was kissing him? You’re positive?”

  “I saw it with my own two eyes. I couldn’t believe it.”

  Adrian scrutinized the maid Peg, and he forced a smile that she would assume was sincere. She was a moonfaced, chubby girl whom he detested, but from his first meeting her, he’d identified her as an easy mark. Nearly everyone had a price by which they could be bought or blackmailed, and she was such a modest creature, with such minor expectations, that hers had been much lower than most.

  Her dominant trait was her laziness, but she was brilliant at pretending to be busy. As a consequence, she was forever flitting about but doing nothing, so she was often at the center of the action and thus an excellent spy.

  “You’ve done well.”

  At the praise, she preened. “Thank you, Mr. Bennett.”

  He and Archie had been fretting in London, dying to learn what was occurring at Mansfield, so Adrian had visited the estate. He’d spent the afternoon with Helen, while taking great pains not to cross paths with Captain Westmoreland. The shrewd pirate had guessed at Adrian’s perverted relationship with Archie, and Adrian had no desire to fuel Westmoreland’s temper or give him further reason to question Adrian’s conduct.

  Adrian wasn’t finished with the Mansfield siblings—there was still a gold mine to be culled—and he couldn’t have Westmoreland whispering suspicions to Helen. Helen thought Adrian was wonderful, and Adrian intended to keep it that way.

  He turned to go and had reached the carriage when a nervous Peg called, “Mr. Bennett!”

  “What is it, Peg?”

  “What about . . . the . . . the . . .”

  He leveled a glare that was so malevolent, she shrank back. They were out in the woods, far from
the house, the sun setting, and she was scared of the dark. It was a weakness she never should have mentioned.

  “I’m off to London, Peg, and I can’t dawdle. Spit it out.”

  “What about my money?”

  He usually paid her a few coins, but never enough for her to be satisfied. “You know that you have to earn it with special favors.”

  “But . . . but . . . in the beginning you said I only had to notify you of what I saw.”

  “Yes, but you provide such paltry information that it’s not worth the effort of speaking with you.” The comment was a lie. She had a genuine knack for eavesdropping. Such a sneaky individual, working for the wrong person, could be dangerous.

  “I told you everything.”

  “And it was so insignificant that I’m not certain why you bothered.” He jangled his purse, the coins clinking together. “Do you want your reward or not?”

  She gazed hungrily. “Yes, I want it.”

  “Then climb in the carriage.”

  He spun away and clambered in himself, not pausing to worry if she’d follow, for he knew she would. She was imprudent and greedy, which was a bad combination, and she’d been courted with such expertise that she didn’t realize she was being manipulated. As the sole gentleman who’d ever glanced in her direction, he brought excitement and intrigue to her dreary world, and she actually presumed he’d been captivated by her homely, dull self.

  She was such an idiot.

  Momentarily, she lumbered in, and she perched on the opposite seat, fiddling with her skirt and staring at her feet. The silence grew oppressive, his anticipation spiraling. He relished the power he had over her, how he could control and frighten, could coax and coerce.

  “Well,” he started, “for what are you waiting?”

  “It’s . . . it’s difficult for me.”

  “I don’t care.” He gestured to her bosom. “Bare yourself.”

  She dithered, but couldn’t commence, so he yanked at her bodice, exposing her huge, saggy breasts.

  Another man, a different man, might have found them appealing, but he wasn’t one of them. He was sickened by the sight and unaccountably furious, which increased his loathing for her.

  “Stroke them,” he commanded.