by Brenda Joyce
He lifted his glass and regarded her over the rim, leaning back in his chair again. “And then? Will you tell me all of your secrets?”
“You know most of my secrets,” she said, suddenly realizing that was true. He knew more about her than anyone, other than her deceased husband.
His stare was piercing.
She found it hard to breathe. Slowly she said, “And you? If you become foxed—will you tell me your secrets?”
“No.” And then his hard expression softened. “I have no secrets. I am an open book.”
* * *
THE TABLE WAS BEING cleared; supper was over. Evelyn looked down at her place mat, her heart skidding. It was getting late. The evening was about to end. They were going to leave the table, go upstairs and say good-night. But then what would happen?
She slowly looked up. Her heart was racing, as it had throughout the evening, and her cheeks felt hot.
Jack said softly, “I do not think I have ever passed such an enjoyable evening.”
She met his probing regard. She realized she felt the same way. Jack had asked her more questions about her childhood. She hadn’t minded sharing her memories with him of life at Faraday Hall. She had then learned a bit about his boyhood. Somehow, she had not been surprised to find out that he had been fascinated with smugglers from a very young age, especially in their battles with the revenue men. She had been surprised, though, to learn that he had helped unload cargoes and keep watch from the time he was a small boy of five; he had been a first mate when he was a boy of thirteen. No wonder he was so skilled and successful now.
“I am so glad you asked me to supper,” she said.
Jack lounged in his chair, his stare unrelenting. Its intensity was at odds with his posture, which was entirely relaxed now. But then, he had had a great many glasses of wine; she had had one. He did not seem inebriated, but one could not consume as much wine as he had and remain sober.
“I suppose there is no getting past the fact that supper is over,” he said. “Thank you for joining me, Evelyn.” He stood up, his actions unrushed, and slowly came around to the back of her chair. Briefly, she felt his hands brush her as she stood, but he then stepped back from her. “Can you find your way back to your chamber?” he asked, his gray gaze intent.
She was adamant. “Of course I can. It is at the end of the hall on the second floor.”
He gestured, and she preceded him from the room. “Good,” he said.
Evelyn was disbelieving. Did his question mean that he would not see her to her bedroom? They passed the salon, the stairs ahead. She suddenly realized that she expected a kiss good-night—and not a formal one.
Surely his heart was hammering as incessantly as hers was. Surely he was as stiff with the same tension.
She started up the stairs, holding the banister, Jack behind her. Her heart was now thundering, with both alarm and anticipation. They reached his suite of rooms and she turned abruptly. He sidestepped her, avoiding a collision. He did not reach out to steady her, as he had done earlier in the evening.
She wet her lips and smiled. “I suppose this is good-night, then.”
“I suppose so.” His gray gaze skidded past her shoulder. “Thank you again, Evelyn, and good night.”
Had he just bid her good-night? Why wasn’t he looking at her intently, as he had done all evening? She breathed and said, “I would not mind an escort down the hallway.” Had she really just said such a thing? “It is rather dark.”
He glanced at her once, and then glanced away. “There are sconces…you will be fine. Good night.”
Was his tone firm? Had he just dismissed her?
He stepped into his suite. She stared after him, glimpsing a large sitting room with red walls and burgundy appointments, accented with gold. He left the door ajar, crossing it and disappearing into what must be his bedchamber.
Jack had not tried to take her into his arms. He had not tried to kiss her.
And she was beyond disappointment.
She hurried down the hall and into her own bedchamber. Alice was waiting for her there, and a fire was roaring in her hearth.
What had just happened? she wondered.
“Can I help you disrobe, madame?” The maid smiled.
As she changed into her cotton-and-lace nightgown, took her hair down and braided it into a single tail, Evelyn reminded herself that he was exhausted, probably far more so than she was. And he had drunk a great deal of wine.
But he had decided to become the perfect gentleman, and she simply could not understand why!
Now she realized that she had been expecting his advances all along, and that she had probably decided to stay on the island that evening because she wanted to be in his arms. She sat down on the sofa and stared unseeingly at the hearth. She should not be so disappointed, she decided. Jack respected her now. He was treating her the way she should be treated—as a lady in mourning.
But she was not calmed or convinced. Henri had never made her feel so tense and so desperate, so explosive. But Henri wasn’t young and handsome, and he could not outrace a navy, and he would never wish to engage in a gun battle with his enemies! Her heart turned over hard, Jack’s golden, handsome image filling her mind. Maybe it was time to admit that she was entirely infatuated with him, and the attraction was far greater than a physical one.
But why not? He had saved her life, and her daughter’s, and he wasn’t just a handsome and intelligent man, he was skilled and courageous, and he even came from a good family. Was she falling in love? That would be so dangerous, wouldn’t it? Even though he thought her beautiful, and they were becoming friends, he was a smuggler and an outlaw. Men like that did not court and marry women like her.
Did she want him to court her? And if he did, what would she do? Wasn’t she in mourning? Evelyn was amazed at her train of thoughts. This was the second time in as many days that she had considered his character in relationship to the prospect of a courtship.
She suddenly realized that she didn’t care about mourning Henri. She had nursed him for almost eight years—she had done enough! If Jack became serious about her, she would welcome his suit. And he was becoming interested in her. Why else would they have shared that supper, and so much conversation? She had not mistaken all of those heavy, lingering looks!
She sat very still, breathing hard. She had never been interested in any man as she was in Jack. She had never been attracted to any man the way she was to him. And she had never admired anyone as much.
If she was falling in love, as dangerous as it was, she had to do something about it.
After all, there were no rules on Looe Island.
She stood up. She had spent eight years nursing an old man. Now, she wanted to live her own life.
Evelyn began taking out her braid, her hands shaking in some shock over what she meant to do—uncertain whether she merely meant to seek Jack out for his kisses or for far more. It just didn’t matter. Suddenly she felt as if she were escaping prison. Evelyn shook out her waist-length hair and stared at her flushed reflection in the mirror. Her eyes glittered almost wildly. She did not recognize herself.
She had been following rules her entire life. Yet she was a grown woman, a mother and a widow. If she wanted to be in Jack’s arms, she had every right.
Evelyn fanned out her hair, donned her cotton wrapper and hurried from her room.
His door remained entirely open. She looked across the gold-and-red sitting room, and into his bedchamber, for that door was also wide-open. However, it was barely lit and cast in shadow. She could not see anyone.
“What are you doing?”
She started, and realized Jack stood in the sitting room after all, but by the hearth—he had one hand on the marble mantel. And he wore only his pale wool, knee-length knickers.
“What are you doing?” he demanded again as harshly as the first time. His expression was hard but incredulous.
She had not expected him to be undressed, and she had never seen s
uch a man in a naked state before. She stared. His hair was unbound. It brushed his broad shoulders. His chest was wide and hard, two massive slabs of muscle. His nipples were erect. His abdomen was tight and flat. She did not dare look lower, although she wanted to. She slowly lifted her gaze up to his.
His eyes widened.
“May I come in?” She smiled, even though her mouth was entirely dry.
“No.”
She swallowed. “There are no rules on Looe Island.”
His eyes widened even more. He stepped toward the sofa, but not past it, his face hard, his eyes smoldering. He did not seem inebriated now. “What is wrong with you?”
“I am tired of living like a widow.”
He began shaking his head, incredulously. “Go back to your bedchamber—if you know what is good for you.”
“I can’t,” she whispered, starting forward.
“If you come in here, you will not be leaving.”
“Good,” she said. She halted, two steps within his room, barely able to breathe. “That is what I want!”
“You are a moral woman. I am not a moral man. Go back to your room—before I show my true colors.”
She inhaled. “You have shown, and are showing, your true colors. You are a very moral man—and you are proving it, right now. Meanwhile, I have decided to be the amoral one.”
“You are not amoral…. You could not be amoral.” And he shuddered. “I am an instant from seizing you and taking you to bed,” he warned. “But I am trying to play the gentleman.”
“You can play the gentleman tomorrow—and tomorrow, I can play the widow.” She bit her lip, so hard, she tasted blood. Very aware of what she was doing, she unbelted the wrapper and slid it from her shoulders. It fell onto the floor by her feet.
He breathed hard—she saw his muscular chest rising and falling. “I am not going to allow you to turn tail on me this time,” he ground out.
“I won’t,” she managed, feeling faint with need. “I won’t, Jack. I love you.”
He began shaking his head. “This isn’t love, Evelyn, this is lust.”
“No. I am falling in love with you.”
“Then I will break your heart, sooner or later, because this is not about love, not for me.” His eyes did not meet hers as he said this, and his expression was fierce.
She did not believe him. No two people could feel such desire and not be falling in love. Evelyn turned and shut his bedroom door. Then she faced him and shrugged off her nightgown. She was naked beneath.
His eyes blazed. He strode to her. Before she could think or react, Evelyn was swept into his arms, and up his body. Somehow she was astride his waist, her legs around his hips, clutching his shoulders, and he was pressing her into the door. And his mouth was on hers, in a frenzy.
Evelyn kissed him back, clawing his shoulders, thrusting her tongue past his teeth. She heard him gasp. Their tongues mated. His palm grasped one buttock, shifting her. Something massive and hard pushed up against her sex. She cried out, thrilled, beyond excitement.
He pressed her harder against the wall, and without breaking the kiss, he reached down and pulled at the drawstring of his knickers. The undergarment slid down and he kicked it aside. “Evelyn.”
Evelyn could not think. He was throbbing dangerously against her and desire consumed her.
He caught her face with both hands, framing it. She met his blazing regard. “Last chance. I will let you go if you tell me now that you have changed your mind.”
“Make love to me,” she gasped, clawing his shoulders and wriggling lower.
He groaned, lifting her into his arms and carrying her into the bedroom. He laid her down on the bed, and for one instant they stared at one another.
“I have never had a lover,” she said softly.
His eyes widened. “You were married to an old man!”
She could not smile. “But I have never wanted anyone before. I never considered an affair—until I met you.”
He stared, his eyes blazing. “You are an extraordinary woman,” he said roughly. “And I do not want to hurt you.”
And just when she thought he meant that he did not want to break her heart, she glimpsed his entire muscular, hard, proud body, hovering over hers. She had become so hollow, so faint, that she went still. She could not bear the anticipation any longer. “Hurry,” she whispered. “Make love to me.”
He moved over her, smiling. And in moments, Evelyn was weeping in ecstasy and pleasure.
CHAPTER TEN
EVELYN AWOKE IN Jack Greystone’s bed.
She grinned, stretching like a cat, recalling bits and pieces of his lovemaking last night. She had never felt so wonderful, so delicious, so replete and so loved. And she was shameless, wasn’t she? For she was stark naked beneath his sheets, relishing it!
She wondered where he was as she sat up. His half of the bed was cold, indicating he had arisen some time ago. She slid her hand over the silky sheets where he had slept, her heart turning over hard. If she hadn’t been falling in love with him before, she was most certainly falling in love now.
She wished he hadn’t gotten up! So easily she could slip into his arms another time.
Evelyn rose from the bed, pleased to see that he had left her nightgown and wrapper draped over a big burgundy chair, and she donned both. Then she opened the heavy damask draperies, allowing bright sunlight to fill the room.
Outside, the sun was high—it was close to noon. The sky was a bright blue, filled with puffy white cumulus clouds—it was a beautiful spring day. She glimpsed the gardens below, and just past the hedges, the blue-gray sea. White horses frothed merrily upon it.
Evelyn turned, crossed the room and carefully opened the door to his sitting room. It was empty she saw with relief. She hurried through it and then peeked into the hall. When she did not see anyone, she ran up the corridor to her room, and slammed that door closed.
Panting, she laughed. Hopefully no one knew she had spent the night in Jack’s bed, but if they did, who cared? She wondered if she had ever felt as buoyant, as happy, as carefree and as young. Now she truly felt like a debutante, and she did not care if she was being foolish. Except no debutante would have taken a lover last night. And she was thrilled she had decided to break the rules!
Suddenly she thought of Henri and she sobered. How had she ever endured his touch? She had never allowed herself to fault him at the time, but now she knew the difference between tolerating a man and wildly wanting someone.
She felt sorry for the child bride she had once been, but she hadn’t known better, and Henri had given her Aimee. For that, she would always be grateful. However, gratitude was not love.
A knock sounded on her door. Jack. Evelyn whirled, thrilled and opened it. Her smile vanished as she faced Alice, carrying a breakfast tray.
“Good morning,” Alice said cheerfully, walking past her and placing the tray on the small dining table beside one window. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes.” Evelyn wondered if Alice knew about her affair, but could see no sign that she did. “I slept wonderfully—it is so late!”
“It is half past eleven, my lady. Can I help you dress?”
“That would be wonderful.” She stared, smiling fixedly now. Where was Jack? Was he in as good spirits as she was?
She felt her smile falter.
This is not about love, not for me. This is about lust.
Why had she recalled that terrible statement? She rubbed her arms, suddenly worried. But he had subsequently called her an extraordinary woman, and he had made love to her many, many times.
Alice handed her a cup of hot chocolate. Evelyn thanked her. “Is Mr. Greystone up? I cannot imagine him sleeping in.”
Alice looked away. “He is walking on the beach.”
Evelyn set her cup down, surprised.
“He walks this entire island every morning when he is at home. He never sleeps past six or so.”
She could not wait to encounter him now. She wante
d to rush back into his arms, have him hold her—and reassure her. Surely, he was as thrilled with their affair as she was—and surely, he had some affection for her now. She could not simply be just one of his many lovers! “Alice, help me dress. I am going to join the captain.”
* * *
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL DAY, bright and sunny, but with a strong breeze, and Evelyn left the house, inhaling the salt tang in the air. Her heart was racing with anticipation as she glanced at the fork in the road just ahead. The island had two beaches, and the servants hadn’t known which beach Jack was on, so her guess was as good as any. She decided to head toward the cove where his ship was anchored, and she turned left, taking the same road as when she had first arrived.
Although rocky, the road leaving the house was well used, and Evelyn hurried down it, in spite of her small heels. She imagined Jack’s surprise when he saw her, and then she imagined a lover’s warm embrace. She smiled. Suddenly she wondered if she had ever been this happy. The only instance that could compare was her joy when Aimee was born.
She slowed, the end of the road ahead. She had been so intent on getting dressed as rapidly as possible that she hadn’t paused to consider the fact that she was supposed to return to Roselynd that afternoon. And she had to return—she was a mother, with a mother’s duties and responsibilities, and she missed Aimee. Still, she didn’t want to leave, not just yet. She wondered if she could rationalize staying for another day or two.
She had reached the sandy path that led to the beach and she lifted her skirts, trudging through the deep white sand now. The island’s central ridge was on her left, and ahead she saw the small, pale beach and the cove where they had disembarked yesterday. Jack’s black ship floated at anchor. In the distance, she could just glimpse the hazy British shore. But no one was on the beach, and she halted abruptly, disappointment claiming her.
He had to be on the island’s only other beach, which was on the south side of the house—facing the open waters of the Channel. She sighed, lifted her skirts and began trudging back the way she had come. She was now warm, and she took off her cloak, sliding it over her arm. Her shoes were not meant for walking on sandy paths and rocky roads. Her feet were starting to hurt.