Seduced by the Scoundrel (3 page)

‘When we are done here.’ Luke pushed himself upright and went to the door. ‘I will leave you before the men eat all of my dinner. I’ll see you at supper time.’

His hand was on the latch when Averil realised she couldn’t deal with the uncertainty any longer. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

Luke turned. ‘If I wanted you dead all I had to do was throw you back or leave you here to die. I don’t kill women.’

‘You rape them, though. You are going to make me share your bed tonight, aren’t you?’ she flung back and then quailed at the anger that showed in every taut line of his face, his clenched fist as it rested on the door jamb.
He is going to hit me.

‘You have shared my bed for three nights. Rest,’ he said, his even tone at variance with his expression. ‘And stop panicking.’ The door slammed behind him.

* * * 

Luc stalked back to the fire. He wouldn’t be on this damn island with this crew of criminal rabble in the first place if it was not for the attempted rape of a woman. Averil Heydon was frightened and that showed sense: she’d had every reason to be terrified until he took her away from the men. He could admire the fierce way she had stood up to him, but it only made her more of a damn nuisance and a dangerous liability. Thank God he no longer had to nurse her; intimacy with her body was disturbing and he had felt himself becoming interested in her more than was safe or comfortable. Now she was no longer sick and needing him, that weakness would vanish. He did not want to care for anyone ever again.

The crew looked up with wary interest from their food as he approached. Luc dropped down on to the flat rock they had accepted as the captain’s chair and took a platter from the cook’s hand. ‘Good stew, Potts. You all bored?’ They looked it: bored and dangerous. On a ship he would exercise them too hard for them to even think about getting into trouble: gun drill, small arms drill, repairs, sail drill—anything to tire them out. Here they could do nothing that would make a noise and nothing that could be seen from the south or east.

Luc lifted his face to the breeze. ‘Still blowing from the nor’west. That was a rich East Indiaman by all accounts—it’ll be worth beachcombing.’ They watched him sideways, shifting uneasily at the amiable tone of voice, like dogs who expect a kick and get their ears scratched instead. ‘And you get to keep anything you find, so long as you don’t fight over it and you bring me any mermaids.’

Greed and a joke—simple tools, but they worked. The mood lifted and the men began to brag of past finds and speculate on what could be washed up.

‘Ferret, have you got any spare trousers?’

Ferris—known to all as Ferret from his remarkable resemblance to the animal—hoisted his skinny frame up from the horizontal. ‘I ‘ave, Cap’n. Me Sunday best, they are. Brought ‘em along in case we went to church.’

‘Where you would steal the communion plate, no doubt. Are they clean?’

‘They are,’ he said, affronted, his nose twitching. And it might be the truth—there was a rumour that Ferret had been known to take a bath on occasion.

‘Then you’ll lend them to Miss Heydon.’

That provoked a chorus of whistles and guffaws. ‘Miss Heydon, eh! Cor, a mermaid with a name!’

‘Wot she want trousers for, Cap’n?’ Ferret demanded. ‘Don’t need trousers in bed.’

‘When I don’t want her in bed she can get up and make herself useful. She’s had enough time lying about getting over her ducking,’ Luc said. He had not given the men any reason to suppose Averil was unconscious and vulnerable. They had believed he was spending time in her bed, not that he was nursing her. His frequent absences seemed to have increased their admiration for him—or for his stamina. ‘I’ll have that leather waistcoat of yours while you’re at it.’

Ferret got to his feet and scurried off to the motley collection of canvas shelters under the lea of the hill that filled the centre of the island. St Helen’s was less than three-quarters of a mile across at its widest and rough stone structures littered the north-western slopes. Luc supposed they must have been the habitations of some
ancient peoples, but he was no antiquarian. Now he was just glad of the shelter they gave to the men on the only flank of St Helen’s that could not be overlooked from Tresco or St Martin’s.

Stew finished, Luc got to his feet, took a small telescope from the pocket of his coat and turned to climb the hill. It took little effort, and he reckoned it was only about a hundred and thirty feet above the sea, but from here he commanded a wide panorama of the waters around the Scillies as well as being able to watch the men without them being aware of it. Beachcombing would keep them busy, but he did not want a knifing over some disputed treasure.

He put his notebook on a flat rock and set himself to log the patterns of movement between the islands, particularly the location of the brigs and the pilot gigs, the thirty-two-foot rowing boats that cut through the water at a speed that left the navy jolly-boat crews gasping. The calculations kept his mind off the woman in the hut below.

With six men on the oars the pilot gigs were said to venture as far afield as Roscoff smuggling, although the Revenue cutters did their best to stop them. They got their name from their legitimate purpose, to row out to incoming ships and drop off the pilots who were essential in this nightmare of rocks and reefs.

The gig he’d been given for this mission lay on the beach below, waiting for the word to launch with six men on the oars and the other seven of them crammed into the remaining space as best they could. Beside it was his own small skiff that he used to give verisimilitude to the story of his lone existence here.

For the men hunting amongst the rocks below him
what happened next would bring either death or a pardon for their crimes. For him, if he survived and succeeded in carrying out his orders, it might restore the honour he had lost in following his conscience. Luc shied a pebble down the slope, sending a stonechat fluttering away with a furious alarm call.

Scolding loudly, the little bird resumed its perch on top of a gorse bush. ‘Easy for you to say,
mon cher,’
Luc told it, as he narrowed his eyes against the sunlight on the waves. ‘All you have to worry about is the kestrel and his claws.’ Life and death—that was easy. Right and wrong, honour and expediency—now those were harder choices.

A
veril sat by the window with the old sack hooked back and studied what she could see through the thick, salt-stained glass. Sloping grass, a band of large pebbles that would be impossible to run on—or even cross quietly—then a fringe of sand that was disappearing under the rising tide.

Beyond, out in the sheltered sound, ships bobbed at anchor. Navy ships. Rescue, if only they were not too far away to hail. She could light a fire—but they knew Luke was here, so they would see nothing out of the ordinary in that. Set fire to the hut? But it was a sturdy stone building, so that wouldn’t work. Signal from the window with a sheet? But first she would have to break the thick glass, then think of something that would attract their attention without alerting her captors.

With a sigh she went back to searching the room. Luke had left his razor on a high shelf, but after the episode with the knife she did not think he would give her a chance to use it and she was beginning to doubt
whether she had it in her to kill a man. That was her conscience, she told herself, distracted for a moment by wondering why. It was nothing to do with the fact that she kept wondering if he could really be as bad as he appeared.

Intense grey eyes mean nothing, you fool,
she chided herself. When darkness came he would come back here and then he would ravish her. His protestations about not taking an unconscious woman surely meant nothing, not now she was awake.

Averil thought about the ‘little talk’ her aunt had had with her just before she sailed for England and an arranged marriage. There would be no female relative there to explain things to her before her marriage to the man she had never met, so the process had been outlined in all its embarrassing improbability, leaving her far too much time, in her opinion, to think about it on the three-month voyage.

Her friend Lady Perdita Brooke, who had been sent to India in disgrace after an unwise elopement, had intimated that it was rather a pleasurable experience with the right man. Dita had not considered what it would be like being forced by some ruffian in a stone hut on an island, surrounded by a pack of even worse villains. But then, Dita would have had no qualms about using that knife.

The light began to fail. Soon he would be here and she had no plan. To fight, or not to fight? He could overpower her easily, she realised that. She knew a few simple tricks to repel importunate males, thanks to her brothers, but none of them would be much use in a situation like this where there was no one to hear her screams and nowhere to run to.

If she fought him, he would probably hurt her even more badly than she feared. Best to simply lie there like a corpse, to treat him with disdain and show no fear, only that she despised him.

That was more easily resolved than done she found when the door opened again and Luke came in followed by two of the men. One carried what looked like a bundle of clothes, the other balanced platters and had a bottle stuck under his arm.

Averil turned her head away, chin up, so that she did not have to look at them and read the avid imaginings in their eyes. She was not the only one thinking about what would happen here tonight.

‘Come and eat.’ Luke pushed the key into his pocket and moved away from the door when they had gone. ‘I have found clothes for you. They will be too large, but they are clean.’ He watched her as she trailed her sheet skirts to the chair. ‘I’ll light the fire, you are shivering.’

‘I am not cold.’ She was, but she did not want to turn this into a travesty of cosy domesticity, with a fire crackling in the grate, candles set around and food and wine.

‘Of course you are. Don’t try to lie to me. You are cold and frightened.’ He stated it as a fact, not with any sympathy or compassion in his voice that she could detect. Perhaps he knew that kind words might make her cry and that this brisk practicality would brace her. He lit a candle, then knelt and built the fire with a practised economy of movement.

Who is he?
His accent was impeccable, his hands, although scarred and calloused, were clean with carefully trimmed nails. Half an hour with a barber, then
put him in evening clothes and he could stroll into any society gathering without attracting a glance.

No, that was not true. He would attract the glances of any woman there. It made her angrier with him, the fact that she found him physically attractive even as he repelled her for what he was, what he intended to do. How could she? It was humiliating and baffling. She had not even the excuse of being dazzled by a classically handsome face or charm or skilful flirtation. What she felt was a very basic feminine desire. Lust, she told herself, was a sin.

‘Eat.’ The fire blazed up, shadows flickered in the corners and the room became instantly warmer, more intimate, just as she had feared. Luke poured wine and pushed the beaker towards her. ‘And drink. It will make things easier.’

‘For whom?’ Averil enquired and the corner of his mouth moved in what might have been a half smile. But she drank and felt the insidious warmth relax her. Weaken her, just as he intended, she was sure. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

‘Writing bad poetry, beachcombing.’ He shrugged and cut a hunk of cheese.

‘Don’t play with me,’ she snapped. ‘Are you wreckers? Smugglers?’

‘Neither.’ He spared the cheese a disapproving frown, but ate it anyway.

‘You were Navy once, weren’t you?’ she asked, on sudden impulse. ‘Are you deserters?’

‘We were Navy,’ he agreed and cut her a slice of bread as though they were discussing the weather. ‘And if we were to return now I dare say most of us would hang.’

Averil made herself eat while she digested that. They must be deserters, then. It took a lot of thinking about and she drank a full beaker of wine before she realised it had gone. Perhaps it would help with what was to come … She pushed the thought into a dark cupboard in the back of her mind and tried to eat. She needed her strength to endure, if not to fight.

Luke meanwhile ate solidly, like a man without a care in the world. ‘Are you running to the French?’ she asked when the cheese and the cold boiled bacon were all gone.

‘The French would kill us as readily as the British,’ he said, with a thin smile for a joke she did not understand.

The meal was finished at last. Luke pushed back his chair and sat, long legs out in front of him, as relaxed as a big cat. Averil contemplated the table with its empty platters, bread crumbs and the heel of the loaf. ‘Do you expect me to act as your housemaid as well as your whore?’ she asked.

The response was immediate, lightning-swift. The man who had seemed so relaxed was on his feet and brought her with him with one hand tight around her wrist. Luke held her there so they stood toe to toe, breast to breast. His eyes were iron-dark and intense on her face; there was no ice there now and she shivered at the anger in them.

‘Listen to me and think,’ he said, his voice soft in chilling contrast to the violence of his reaction. ‘Those men out there are a wolf pack, with as much conscience and mercy as wolves. I lead them, not because they are sworn to me or like me, not because we share a cause
we believe in, but because, just now, they fear me more than they fear the alternatives.

‘If I show them any weakness—anything at all—they will turn on me. And while I can fight, I cannot defeat twelve men. You are like a lighted match in a powder store. They want you—all of them do—and they have no scruples about sharing, so they’ll operate as a gang. If they believe you are my woman and that I will kill for you, then that gives them pause—do they want you so much they will risk death? They know I would kill at least half of them before they got to you.’

He released her and Averil stumbled back against the table. Her nostrils were full of the scent of angry male and her heart was pattering out of rhythm with fear and a primitive reaction to his strength. ‘They won’t know if I am your woman or not,’ she stammered.

‘You really are a little innocent.’ His smile was grim and she thought distractedly that although he seemed to smile readily enough she had never seen any true amusement on his face. ‘What do they think we’ve been doing every time I come down here? And they will know when they see you, just as wolves would know. You will share my bed again tonight and you will come out of this place in the morning with my scent on your body, as yours has been on mine these past days. Or would you like to shorten things by walking out there now and getting us both killed?’

‘I would prefer to live,’ Averil said and closed her fingers tight on the edge of the table to hold herself up. ‘And I have no doubt that you are the lesser of the two evils.’ She was proud of the way she kept her chin up and that there was hardly a quiver in her voice.
‘Doubtless a fate worse than death is an exaggeration. You intend to let me out of here tomorrow, then?’

‘They need to get used to you being around. Locked up in here you are an interesting mystery, out there, dressed like a boy, working, you will be less of a provocation.’

‘Why not simply let me go? Why not signal a boat and say you have found me on the beach?’

‘Because you have seen the men. You know too much,’ he said and reached for the open clasp knife that lay on the table. Averil watched as the heavy blade clicked back into place.

‘I could promise not to tell anyone,’ she ventured. ‘Yes?’ Again that cold smile. ‘You would connive at whatever you suspect we are about for the sake of your own safety?’

‘I …’ No, she could not and she knew it showed on her face.

‘No, I thought not.’ Luke pocketed the knife and turned from the table. ‘I will be back in half an hour—be in bed.’

Averil stacked the plates, swept the crumbs up, wrapped the heel of the loaf in a cloth and stoppered the wine flask. She supposed it would be a gesture if she refused to clean and tidy, but it gave her something to do; if she was going to be a prisoner here, she would not live in a slum.

It was cool now. That was why she was shivering, of course, she told herself as she swept the hearth with the crude brush made of twigs and added driftwood to the embers. The salty wood flared up, blue and gold, as she fiddled with the sacking over the window. What
was going to happen was going to be private, at least. She wiped away one tear with the back of her hand.

I am a Heydon. I will not show fear, I will not beg and plead and weep,
she vowed as she turned to face the crude bed. Nor would she be tumbled in a rats’ nest. Averil shook out the blankets, batted at the lumpy mattress until it lay smooth, spread the sheet that had been tied around her waist and plumped up the pillow as best she could.

She stood there in Luke’s shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders, and looked at the bed for a long moment. Then she threw back the blanket and climbed in, lay down, pulled it back over her and waited.

Luke spent some time by the shielded camp fire listening to the game of dice in one tent, the snores from another, and adding the odd comment to the discussion Harris and Ferret were having about the best wine shops in Lisbon. Some of the tension had ebbed out of the men with their efforts all day hunting along the shoreline for wreckage from the ship. Nothing of any great value had been found, but a small cask of spirits had contained just enough to mellow their mood.

He was putting off going back down to the little hospital, he was aware of that, just as he was aware of trying not to think too closely about Averil. He wanted her to stay an abstraction, a problem to be dealt with, not become a person. None of them wanted to be there, most of them were probably going to die; he had no emotion to spare to feel pity for some chit of a girl who, with any luck, was going to come out of this alive, although rather less innocent than she had begun.

‘Good night,’ he said without preamble and strode
off down towards the hut. Ferret and Harris were on guard for the first two hours; they were reliable enough and had no need of him reminding them what they were looking out for or what to do under every possible circumstance. There was a lewd chuckle behind him, but he chose to ignore it; he could hardly control their thoughts.

The hut was tidy when he unlocked the door and stepped inside. There was a lamp still alight and the fire had been made up; Luc inhaled the tang of wood smoke and thought the place was as nearly cosy as it would ever be. But one look at the bed dispelled any thought that Averil had decided to welcome him and had set out to create an appropriate ambiance. She was lying under the blanket as stiff and straight as a corpse, her toes making a hillock at one end, her nose just visible above the edge of the covering at the other. He did not look at the swells and dips in between.

‘Averil?’ He moved soft-footed to the middle of the room and sat down to pull off his shoes.

‘I am awake.’ Her voice was as rigid as her body and he saw the reflected light glint on her eyes as she turned her head to watch him.

Luc dropped his coat and shirt over the back of the chair. As his hands went to the buckle of his belt he heard her draw a deep, shuddering breath. Well, he wasn’t going to undress in the dark; she was going to have to get used to him—or close her eyes.

‘Have you never seen a naked man before?’ he asked, slipping the leather from the clasp.

‘No. I mean, yes.’ Averil found it was difficult to articulate. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I was
brought up in India—
saddhus
and other holy men often go naked.’ And there were carvings in the temples, although she had always assumed they were wildly exaggerated. ‘They smear themselves with ash,’ she added. Now she had started talking it was hard to stop.

Luke said nothing, simply turned towards the chair, stepped out of his trousers and draped them over the back with his other clothes. Averil shut her mouth with a snap, but her eyes would not close. This was not an ash-smeared emaciated holy man sitting under a peepul tree with his begging bowl, watching the world with wild, dark eyes. Luke was … She searched for a word and came up with
impressive,
which seemed inadequate for golden skin and long muscles and broad shoulders tapering into a strong back, down to narrow hips and—