The Marriage Bargain

by Michelle McMaster

  She looked back at Beckett who was now pulling off his shirt. Though she tried to tear her gaze away, she couldn’t help but stare as he pulled the white shirt up over his head. The lamplight gave his skin a golden glow, and accentuated the powerful muscles of his arms and stomach. The sight of his body astounded her, sent waves of heat washing through her in a most distracting fashion.

  “Come here,” he said.

  Unable or unwilling to refuse, Isobel obeyed. He raised his hands toward her slowly, cupping her shoulders in a warm, solid grip. What was he doing? Their agreement was one of conven—

  He turned her around, sliding his hands slowly down to the little cluster of buttons that fastened the upper part of her dress. He began to undo them.

  “I thought you might need help, without a maid to undress you.” He eased the garment apart and slid his hands in, easing the dress down just over her chemise. Then he twisted her around again, and after an excruciatingly long moment, released her. “I think you can manage the rest.”

  Confused, Isobel searched his eyes. He seemed to be holding something back, just behind the impenetrable walls of his stormy-blue eyes.

  What did he want from her?

  She turned around and searched for her nightdress, and finally found it. She hesitated for a long moment, but there was nowhere to hide in such limited space. Reluctantly, Isobel faced the fact that she would have to disrobe in front of her husband. As she squirmed out of her clothes, she felt her face flush with heat.

  As fast as she could, Isobel shimmied out of her dress and chemise and threw the night rail over her head. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Beckett had climbed into bed. At least he’d had the decency to face the wall as she approached. Gingerly, she turned down the lamp. Feeling much braver in the dark, Isobel pulled back the covers and slipped between them as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Then she lay on her back near the edge of the bed and waited.

  And waited.

  She listened to Beckett breathing.

  Her whole body seemed to be acutely aware of the hard warm masculine presence next to her. It was to be expected, she thought, having never slept next to a man before. But she would not let him know. Not after he’d made this whole business so embarrassing for her….

  She heard her husband’s breathing take on a new tone. It was lower, deeper, and calmer.

  Devil take him, he was snoring! Her husband, whose very presence made her tingle with awareness of this, their first night together in bed, was snoring.

  Well, if that didn’t just take the flip. The lumping dandy-prat was asleep!

  Chapter Twelve

  Beckett looked out over the railing, marvelling at the beauty of the ever-changing sea. It calmed him to watch the movement of the gray-blue water, whose only constant was its never-ceasing movement. Like life itself, it made no promises to anyone.

  He turned his head and saw Isobel approaching. The sight of her, as ethereal as an angel, sent a wash of heat through his body.

  Damn and blast!

  She was his wife, a complete mystery who had been implicated in horrible goings-on, yet here he was mooning over her as if he were a youth and she a beautiful chorus girl.

  She came to stand close by, favoring him with a smile and the sparkle of her warm brown eyes. Then she looked out over the beckoning sea, and let her arm brush against his as she leaned on the railing.

  Beckett regarded her, so calm and composed beside him. At first glance she would seem the embodiment of innocence and purity, but was she indeed the innocent victim she appeared to be? There were certainly some claims that should make him question such a notion.

  And yet, Beckett felt his gut tighten at even the notion of abandoning her. He could never fully dampen the flame of passion that she stirred in him, or fight the powerful conviction that because he had found her, she now belonged totally to him.

  He would protect her.

  Or die trying.

  “There is something you never told me, Beckett.” Isobel’s voice came softly as the breeze itself.

  He looked down at her. Against his will he reached for a golden tendril that floated in the wind. Then his hand cupped her face, and he brushed his thumb against her delicate skin.

  “Told you what, Isobel?” he whispered.

  “Why?” She looked up at him beseechingly, searching his face for the answer she sought. “Why did you bring me home that night?”

  He saw something in her eyes that made a knot form in his heart.

  Why had he helped her? He had asked himself the same question as he’d undressed and bathed her that night, and as he’d ducked from the clock she’d thrown at him, as he’d stood next to her at the altar and taken her as his wife.

  And still the answer eluded him.

  Was it her beauty that had captured him and taken him prisoner? It was more than his habit of helping strays, he knew.

  He curved his arm around her narrow waist and pulled her close. He felt his passion flare as their bodies touched, and fought to control it. “Do I have to give you a reason?”

  She nodded.

  “Then perhaps it was because I wanted to hold you in my arms and do this.” He covered her mouth with his own, and felt her lips tremble as he kissed her. He felt his own desire building, and imagined what would happen if he let it run unchecked. He could take her down to their cabin right now. She was his wife. He had every right. And somehow he knew she would not protest.

  He kissed her hungrily, as if she were the only nourishment his body would ever, could ever need.

  Oh, how he wanted her beneath him, naked and open and weak with desire—desire for him.

  It frightened him how much he wanted it.

  She stirred dangerous feelings in him, powerful feelings—and if he fed them with the taste of her in his arms, shaking with desire as he loved her, he might lose himself.

  He broke the kiss, but still held her close.

  “There, Isobel.” He brushed away a silken curl from her cheek. “That is the only answer I can give you.”

  She studied him for a moment with eyes that seemed to see far too much for his liking.

  “Your answer only raises more questions, Beckett. For both of us.”

  An uneasy silence remained between Beckett and Isobel for the remainder of the voyage.

  As husband and wife, they maintained a cordial atmosphere that Isobel considered might be quite common to any marriage. But beneath that calm veneer lurked the shadows of the past, like a great sea-monster that swims below a ship—far too deep to be seen—and yet still posing a dangerous threat.

  Every night Isobel found herself hoping that Beckett would reach out and pull her close, kiss her as he had on the deck, and touch her in a way she could only imagine.

  But he didn’t.

  He only snored loudly enough to wake the whole ship, and probably most of London, though they were halfway to Barbados. Beckett’s snoring only served to keep Isobel awake and thinking. And her thoughts were always of him.

  To keep her mind off her husband during the day, Isobel observed ship-board life on deck, recording all she saw in her sketch-book.

  She drew everyone—including Captain Mayfield and the large sailor with the black-and-white cat she’d seen curled on top of his shoulders. She’d had to make her observations from afar, as the beast seemed always to disappear when she approached.

  On a particularly breezy afternoon, while she was drawing a sailor who worked up in the rigging, the cat appeared beside her and sat still. It seemed to study what she was doing as it sat there, silent yet imposing.

  Isobel reached out to stroke his soft, furry head in greeting. The cat’s green eyes narrowed to slits, and he purred in pleasure. Reluctantly taking her hand away, Isobel flipped to the next blank sheet of paper and began to render the feline’s image.

  The cat was huge—not fat by any means, but with muscular shoulders and haunches. No doubt, he was well fed by keeping rats and mice ou
t of the galley.

  Isobel noticed that one of his black patches covered the side of his head and his left eye, looking remarkably like a pirate’s lopsided kerchief and eye patch.

  As she drew, Captain Mayfield came to stand in front of her, but at his approach, the cat rose, stretched, and walked away.

  “Oh, but I wasn’t finished,” Isobel called out, but the cat simply walked haughtily across the deck and disappeared from sight.

  Mayfield chuckled. “I suppose I didn’t mention that this ship has two captains, did I?”

  Isobel shook her head. “Two captains? I’ve never heard of that. Who is the other?”

  “You just met him.”

  Isobel put her pencil down and paused. “Just met…?”

  “That cat is more than he seems, my lady. He’s Captain Black.” Mayfield sat down beside her, resting his elbows on his knees, and gazing at her slyly. “I first met him on one of my journeys in the Caribbean, which is swamped with pirates, as you must well know.”

  Isobel smiled at the gray-haired man beside her. He was going to tell her a sea-faring yarn, she supposed. He was just having fun with a land-lubber. She would play along with the old soul.

  “We were off the coast of Jamaica,” the captain began, “carrying a heavy cargo of coffee beans, when we were attacked by a rather notorious pirate ship, the ‘Midnight Star.’ Its captain was named Worthington, a shrewd but fair man who was more famous for his cat companion. Legend has it that the beast was the ship’s previous master, a man named Black, who had been transformed into the guise of a cat during an obeah ceremony in Jamaica.”

  Isobel was delighted. This was just the thing to get her mind off her woes. “Obeah? What on earth is that?”

  “The religion of the Haitians. It’s also known as voodoo,” Captain Mayfield explained. “Their ceremonies are filled with chanting, wild dancing, and other practices that are too indelicate to mention.”

  “And they used it to put a spell on Captain Black? But how?”

  “Apparently this man Worthington had planned to mutiny against his captain and take over the ship himself. While in Jamaica, he discovered the powers of obeah and arranged to do away with his rival.”

  Silly or not, the tale was suitably unnerving. Isobel admired the old captain’s story-telling ability.

  “And there were witnesses, members of the pirate crew that saw their captain changed into a cat during one of those frightening ceremonies.”

  “But how did Captain Black arrive on board your ship?”

  “It was during the battle with the ‘Midnight Star,’ when the pirate ship caught fire. We searched for survivors after she sank, but found no one. Except for a mysterious cat who appeared on our ship, as if out of thin air. The crew was naturally suspicious, but unwilling to dispose of the creature—they believe that he possesses mystical powers.”

  The cat suddenly appeared again, as if he’d heard them talking. He leaped up onto the railing and landed solidly, turning to arrange himself into a comfortable position.

  Captain Mayfield smiled and regarded the cat, who looked back at him through half-lidded eyes.

  “Though we found no other survivors, there are rumors that Worthington is still alive, and even now searches the seas for his cat companion. As you can see, we gave Captain Black a position on our ship as chief mouse-catcher, one that he performs exceedingly well.”

  Isobel giggled and regarded him with a wary smile. He’d almost had her believing the incredible tale.

  “Hmm… you wouldn’t be teasing me now, would you, Captain Mayfield?”

  “That is Captain Black before you, Madam! In flesh and blood. He tries to steer the ship, you know—among other things.”

  Isobel laughed, and Captain Mayfield leaned toward her in a conspiratorial way.

  “And sometimes, I let him,” he whispered, then turned and walked back to his post.

  Isobel smiled and looked at the cat, still sitting on the narrow railing in front of her. “So, are you really a pirate, then?”

  The cat returned her gaze, then answered with a long “meow.”

  “Perhaps you are,” Isobel mused. She watched Captain Black walk down the long railing and leap to the deck. He strolled away from her, doubtless to resume his mouse-catching duties below.

  An eerie moan broke the dark silence of the cabin. Beckett jumped up and hit his head on the low ceiling above him. He was momentarily stunned, but quickly became alert as another hair-raising wail cut through the darkness from beside him.

  Isobel.

  He could hear and feel her thrashing around on the bed next to him, her breathing shallow and strained.

  He reached out to touch her and heard her whimpering.

  “Isobel, you’re dreaming.” He managed to grab hold of her and pull her into his arms, stroking her damp forehead as she struggled in her sleep. He touched her face and felt her cheek hot and damp with tears.

  Her whole body was covered in perspiration, soaking her linen nightdress.

  She stiffened and seemed to awaken. Beckett loosened his hold on her, suddenly aware of how intimately he held her.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Isobel whispered, her voice slightly shaky.

  “You were having a bad dream. Lie down and try to go back to sleep.” He tried to settle her back under the covers.

  “No—” She sprang up and clutched at his hand. “I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want to have that dream again.”

  Beckett propped himself up on one elbow and turned the covers back gently. “Come, now. Lie down here with me. There’s no one to trouble you here.”

  She remained where she was. While he waited for her to make up her mind, Beckett lay back down, and soon began drifting toward sleep.

  It was with a bit of shock that he felt her snuggling up against him. For a moment, half-asleep, he forgot entirely where he was, why he was there, and who the lovely creature beside him could be. He simply enjoyed it.

  She exhaled slowly, then moved closer to him. Her rose-water scent reached out to him, teasing his senses.

  “Thank you, Beckett,” she whispered.

  Then it came back to him. He was Beckett. The earl of Ravenwood. And the woman beside him in bed was his wife.

  Beckett watched the moonlight that spilled through the window play on Isobel’s hair, like silvery fingers dancing across a river of gold. Before he knew what he was about, he stroked it. He felt Isobel go still in his arms at his touch, but he continued caressing her soft curls. The texture of the silken strands running through his fingers sent a shock of heat through him.

  He thought of Cordelia then. Of how he’d never done anything like this to her, and even if they had married, probably never would have. This was too affectionate, too warm. He saw now that she’d borne his touch as a means to an ends—to acquiring his title and fortune. She would surely have done the same with any prospective husband.

  But he had fancied himself in love with Cordelia. And it had all been an illusion. Hadn’t it?

  The Whitcomb ball had seen his new wife in a battle royale with his former intended. Why would Cordelia have bothered to challenge Isobel if she’d indeed felt nothing for him? He’d always found it difficult to understand her. Now that he had some distance, Cordelia was no easier to comprehend.

  But still, he couldn’t imagine his previous fiancée curled up in his arms as Isobel was now. Seeking solace from her nightmares in the safety of his arms. Letting him stroke her hair. Again, he basked in the warmth of his desire for the woman whose body curled next to his.

  A surge of gratitude and something else unfamiliar welled up inside his chest, and he hugged Isobel closer.

  Isobel opened her eyes slowly, peering at the dim morning light through squinting eyes. She had done it.

  She had fallen asleep and not dreamt the awful nightmare again. As she became more fully awake, she remembered what had made her tranquil sleep possible.

  Becke
tt’s arm lay curled around her waist, a bit of her nightdress bunched loosely in his fist. A breath caught in her throat at the sweet heaviness of the embrace that surrounded her so possessively.

  It was unusual for married couples to sleep together in the same bed, she knew. Civilized society insisted on separate chambers for husband and wife. But, oh, how wonderful it would be to wake like this every morning.

  Her eyes opened wide and her breathing quickened as the arm around her waist tightened and drew her closer.

  Beckett’s deep, steady breathing told her that he was still asleep. Her back was pressed against the hard wall of his chest as he held her firmly to him.

  Then Isobel felt something else hard, pressing gently against her buttocks. It couldn’t be his knee….

  It was… it was… Good Lord, it was his—

  She knew she should try to get up, but it clearly seemed impossible without waking him. And surely this situation would embarrass him as much as her. No, she would have to endure this wicked intimacy until she could unlock his arm from her waist and move safely across the bed.

  Gingerly, Isobel closed her hand around Beckett’s wrist and tried to lift his arm. This was going to be more difficult than she’d thought. Although he was asleep, Beckett’s muscles were anything but relaxed.

  The arm around her waist hugged her to him as if she were a doll.

  Isobel closed her eyes as his hips pressed against her bottom. She clamped her lips together to keep from making a sound as he ground himself against her.

  Exquisite sensations swept through her body, making the tips of her breasts hard and sensitive. Heat seared between her legs, unnerving her with its intensity.

  This was dreadful. Wasn’t it?

  Abruptly, Beckett released his hold on her waist and turned over. The continuous sound of his rhythmic breathing, deep and even, travelled through the cabin.

  Isobel lay in stunned silence, feeling an absurd sense of disappointment. He was still asleep. Thank the Lord.