The Smuggler's Captive Bride (5 page)

The cool air of the room struck her overheated skin above her chemise and sanity struck her at the same time. She’d never even been alone with a fully clothed man before, much less one who’d shed his boots and coat, whose scarf had been discarded over the edge of the bed, and whose shirt had miraculously opened all the way to his waistband. “My lord,” she whispered.

“My lady.” He mocked her.

“This is not proper.”

“Most certainly not!” He reared back as if offended. “If it were proper, I would be doing it incorrectly.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, but when he stripped off his shirt she said, “I will not be a nobleman’s toy.”

“I have never played with toys. I was always too responsible for that.” He touched his finger to her bare chest. “But I think I could learn to play with you.”

She stopped breathing. How could she allow her chest to rise and fall when his palm hovered just above, waiting to encourage her.

“We are not married. We cannot share this bed.”

His mouth curved in a tender smile. “We will be married.”

“Do you think I’m bird-witted?” She laughed shortly, bitterly. “I’m far too poor and you’re far too noble.”

“Darling, didn’t you know? I’m rich enough for the both of us.” She didn’t believe that for an instant, and he seemed to realize it, for he said, “Look at it from a smuggler’s point of view. When we’re married you won’t be able to testify against me. A wife can’t testify against her husband.”

She didn’t know what shocked her more, his blatant assurance or the speed at which he untied her chemise.

“You are the first woman ever to doubt my integrity,” he said.

Hopefully, she inquired, “Does that inhibit you?”

Pausing in his assault on her virtue, he thought, then answered, “Not at all. It liberates me.”

She held herself stiff as he stripped her chemise down to her waist and looked on her.

His lips opened slightly as he viewed her.

Totally without her volition, she imagined his mouth there, and her nipples tightened sharply.

He didn’t take his gaze away from her breasts. If anything, she more clearly saw the tiger that lurked behind his facade. But he said, “However, I would not like to think you’ll put barriers up against me, not even in your mind.” In a tone that disguised the significance of his pronouncement, he said, “I’m the Seamaster.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

LAURA JUMPED as if Hamilton announced Napoleon fought for England — and indeed, that seemed more likely. Ronald had mentioned the Seamaster over and over again in his diary. The Seamaster directed all the operations in which Ronald had participated. The Seamaster had been bold and daring, intelligent and canny. He was the man Ronald had emulated, the man Ronald had worshipped, and Laura could not imagine that Hamilton, with his conservative manner, could possibly be so dashing a figure as the Seamaster.

Then she looked at the man before her. He hadn’t been conservative tonight. He’d been as bold as a smuggler, or as the Seamaster himself. The Hamilton she’d met in London had been subdued, at least for tonight, by
this
Hamilton. This man who used any weapon to get his way.

Yes, this Hamilton could be the Seamaster.

Or he could be Jean.

As she finished her contemplations, she realized he now viewed her face with all the interest he had shown her bosom. “You know who the Seamaster is. Your brother wouldn’t have told you, so how
do
you know?”

“I’m an eavesdropper.” She lied without a hitch, and she was proud of her smooth delivery.

But he wouldn’t stop staring, using his gaze to scour her mind for guilt.

He found it, of course, and she blushed from her waist to the hairs on her head.

Instead of interrogating her, though, he shook his head admiringly. “An eavesdropper. I should have guessed.”

“What do you mean by that?” she demanded indignantly. Then she could have groaned. Of course she didn’t want him to think her dishonorable, but better he should think that than realize Ronald’s diary rested in her pocket close to his hand.

“I mean” — he pressed a kiss on her mouth — “that you’re an incredible woman.”

“Please.” She pushed at him. “I don’t want this.”

“Don’t you?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“As you wish.”

He moved off of her and she covered herself with her hands, watching him warily. He’d given up too easily, this man who claimed to be the Seamaster. The Seamaster, according to Ronald’s diary, had much in common with his namesake. Once he sank his teeth into a situation, he never let go.

Ronald’s diary. She glanced down at her skirt and saw the red leather peeking out of her dark blue skirt.

He saw it, too. His eyes widened and he lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “What is that?”

His hand reached for it, and she caught his wrist. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? It’s a book.” He pulled a long face. “Laura, what are you hiding from me?”

“What do you mean?”

“That book will tell me all your secrets, won’t it?”

“No!”

“Everything I desire to know is there.” His fingers twitched closer. “It’s a novel, isn’t it?”

She was so stunned, she could only parrot his words. “A novel?”

“One of those wicked romances.” She couldn’t restrain him, and he laid his palm on it, preparing to draw it out. “Let me read it, and perhaps next time I’ll learn enough to seduce you successfully.”

If he read it, he’d learn enough that he wouldn’t have to seduce her ever again. If he read it, he’d have all his questions answered, and she still didn’t dare trust him. Not with Ronald’s diary, nor with the information inside.

He brushed off her effort to restrain him like a bear brushing away flies, and pulled it out.

In desperation she gambled, using her virtue as the stakes.

She laid her hand flat on his bare chest.

He paused in the process of opening the diary. His eyes closed, and her hand rose and fell as he took a hard breath.

He wasn’t as controlled as she had thought; he still wanted her. It was obvious from the tight set of his mouth and the unmoving stoicism with which he awaited her next move.

Inching her palm down his breastbone, she lingered on a ragged white scar right over his ribs. “How did this happen?”

“Occasionally, someone believes he has reason to resent the Seamaster, and he tries to do him in.” Placing his hand over hers, he stopped her restless movement. “The one who cut me there was luckier than most.” Plucking her hand off his chest, he examined it, then folded it within his own. “You are, I believe, inexperienced in these matters, so I will tell you — if you wish for us to remain upright, you should keep your hands to yourself.” He put her hand back into her lap and patted it, then advised, “It would be wise to pull your bodice up, also.”

His focus went back to the book. Again he began to open it — and she returned her hand to his tanned forearm.

He froze. Nothing moved in his face, nothing moved on his body. As she wished, he wasn’t opening the diary, but she couldn’t depend on such inactivity, so she slid her palm up over his biceps. The skin there was lighter, with a finer texture, and she rubbed him with her fingertips. The muscles flexed beneath her palm, and fascinated, she walked her hand up to his shoulder.

With slow deliberation, he put the book down on the mattress. When he looked at her, she clearly saw the hunger of the tiger. Imitating her, he placed his hand on her shoulder, then slowly, slowly he pushed her down until she rested against the pillows. “I gave you a chance to think,” he said. “Now think no more while I take my pleasure.”

His tiger breath brushed her cheek. A slow pounding began in her veins. Her fingertips tingled with it. Her nose, her ears, her toes, every extremity experienced the force of his influence — and he still touched only her shoulder. It frightened her, his power, and she reconsidered her plan of action. After all, he’d put down the diary … “Hamilton?”

“Keefe,” he corrected.

“I don’t think we should —”

“No, no.” He pressed his finger to her lips. “You aren’t allowed to think. You should only feel.” Gathering her into his arms, he pressed their bodies together. “Feel this.”

Her curves melted onto the firm structure of his chest, and she trembled. Already he was forming her to his desire, taking her sense of individuality and creating a new creature, one composed of man and woman together.

Yet she couldn’t allow that. Not yet. She had a mission. She had a duty, and she couldn’t allow him to distract her so completely that she failed. She fought to retain her reason and, moving with a care she hoped would fail to alert him, she knocked Ronald’s diary off the bed.

It landed with a muffled thump.

CHAPTER NINE

HAMILTON STOPPED, suddenly alert.

Laura’s voice quavered, but she said bravely, “I think I would like you to kiss me.”

He returned his attention to her as suddenly as he had removed it. “Really?” He almost purred with anticipation, and thrusting his hand into her hair, he held her still. And he kissed her.

After that kiss, he no longer had to hold her.

For the luxury of his kisses, she would do anything, be anything he wanted.

But her compliance didn’t seem to satisfy him. If anything, it drove him to a frenzy of touching. He stroked her jaw to the point of her chin, her neck and her collarbones. He caressed her arms, then linked their hands and brought them up. “Look,” he urged. “See the way our fingers entwine. That’s how our bodies will be soon.”

As he commanded, she looked. Her fingers rested between each of his, spread wide by the width of his knuckles. Clearly she saw his superior strength, his size, the mastery with which he handled her. The precariousness of her plight broke over her. If she allow this to happen, would she ever recover herself? If she melded with Hamilton, could she return to her former shape, or would she always contain a little bit of Hamilton in her soul?

Besides — she looked again at the size of his hand, at the size of hers — this would likely hurt. Physically and mentally, this would change her.

She writhed in belated panic. “We can’t do this. It won’t work.”

“It will. I promise it will.”

She became aware of something else. His palm cradled hers. His hand was moving, pressing and caressing the places where the nerves lay close under the skin. He knew how to make her like his touch; at the same time, he alarmed her and made her want more.

The man was an expert at whatever he did. If he were the smuggler, he would be the best.

If he were the Seamaster, he would catch his man.

If he were her lover, she would be satiated when they finished.

“Trust in me,” he crooned.

“You’ll stop if I tell you?”

“I’ll do whatever you wish.”

After making her wish for him. Slowly, she agreed, “I will trust you — for now.”

“That’s a start.” Loosening his hands, he used them to strip the gown off her hips. Her white pantalettes tied at her waist, reached below her knees and were so sheer he could see the color between her thighs. She burned when he gazed at her. She tried to cover herself with her hands.

“Don’t.” He took her wrists. “I’ve fantasized about your body, and it’s better even than I’ve dreamed.”

Astonished and vaguely offended, she asked, “You thought about this?”

“Of course.” He looked right into her eyes. “Didn’t you?”

She wanted to refute it. She hadn’t thought about it … had she? She’d never imagined what it would feel like if he kissed her. She hadn’t thrilled to the thought of his body against hers.

Yet she couldn’t speak the words to tell him so.

His eyes grew brilliant and his nostrils flared like a great cat detecting the eminent collapse of its prey.

The scent of the savage filled her nostrils, and she declared, “I don’t think I like you.”

“I don’t want you to
like
me. I want no part of such a paltry emotion from you.” Her pantalettes loosened under his hands. He stripped them and her stockings from her in one efficient motion.