Seduced by the Scoundrel (7 page)

‘Yes, I do. And it is
wrong.’

‘It is perfectly right,’ he countered and reached out to turn her face to look at him. ‘Natural.’

‘I am betrothed,’ she said, shocking herself with the way she had lost sight of why she had ended up here. ‘I have hardly given that fact a thought since we hit the rocks. I have not thought of Viscount Bradon himself
once
until just now. The reason I was coming back from India was to marry him and I just did not think of him, even when you kissed me.’ How on earth could she have ignored something as important as that? How on earth could she have enjoyed another man’s caresses as she had? She stared at Luc, appalled at herself. ‘That is the most shocking thing of all.’

* * * 

Luc dropped his hand from where it cupped her cheek. Averil was betrothed? That should change nothing—and yet, subtly, it did. It made him want her more. He had never been competitive with Englishmen for their women. When he married it would be to a French
émigrée,
one of good birth and title. He would not ask for money—he had invested his prize money with care and had few expenses—nor for land—he would be the one providing that once Bonaparte was defeated and he could reclaim what was rightfully his. What he wanted was good French blood to breed back into the d’Aunay line.

Once this episode was over he would either be dead or in a position to court a bride seriously. Bonaparte could not hold out much longer, he felt it in his bones; in three or four years he must be ready to return to France and fight to regain what was his by right.

The woman in front of him knotted her hands into that ridiculous blanket, her face a picture of guilt and confusion. ‘Shocking that you should forget?’ Given the natural sensuality of her responses he found Averil’s expression amusing. ‘I do not think so. Surprising, perhaps. I suppose I could find it flattering.’ She sent him a withering look. ‘But I fancy that being caught up in a shipwreck and almost drowned may account for a little forgetfulness. Do you love him?’ Surely not, if she could forget, even when she was being kissed by another man—she might be sensual, but she was not wanton. But then, she had never been kissed before, he remembered.

‘Love? Why, no, but then I would not expect to. Love
has nothing to do with marriage in aristocratic families, of course.’

‘Ah, so you think as I do. Marriage is a matter of dynasty and land. Your father has found you a good match?’ It must be if the girl had been sent all the way from India.

‘I have never met him, nor had a letter from him, but Papa arranged it all, so there was no need. It is an excellent match,’ she added.
‘Everyone
says so.’

There was defiance in that statement and under it he sensed doubts. Any woman would have them, he supposed, sent so far from home and family to an unknown husband.

‘His father is the Earl of Kingsbury,’ Averil added as though playing a trump card.

Yes, on paper a very good match indeed. Luc nodded.

‘You know him?’

‘I have come across him.’ Luc kept his voice carefully neutral. ‘I do not know the son.’ If Bradon was a spendthrift gamester like his father, then Miss Heydon was in for a most unpleasant shock. What was her own father thinking of? ‘Your family are distant relatives of Kingsbury, perhaps?’

‘Oh, no.’ She smiled brightly.
On the defensive,
Luc thought, wondering what was coming next. ‘My father, Sir Joshua Heydon, is a merchant.’

So this was becoming clearer. Kingsbury was doubtless securing a substantial dowry with his new daughter-in-law, money he could well do with. What, he wondered, was Sir Joshua gaining? Influence at court, perhaps, for the earl was one of Prinny’s cronies. It was a trade deal, in effect. Luc revised his prejudices
a trifle. He had not admired those daughters of cits he had come across so far, not that he had paid them any attention. A d’Aunay did not marry trade. Averil, however, seemed mercifully free of vulgarity.

‘Lord Bradon will be anxious when the news reaches him that the ship has gone down,’ she said with a frown. It did not seem to occur to her that he was going to be more than
anxious
when he got her back and discovered that his betrothed had been missing, unchaperoned, for several days. Miss Heydon could well have made a long sea voyage, survived a shipwreck and yet find herself rejected and unwed.

But that was not his problem.
She
was not his problem. He had to capture two brigs, against unknown odds, with the crew from hell, and then pray that with the ships he secured the evidence to expose a traitor and to restore his own career.

Chaperoning an innocent young lady under those circumstances was impossible—from the moment that he had made the decision to take her into the hut and not signal for a navy boat she was as near ruined as made no difference. Averil Heydon was no longer an innocent in the eyes of the world and, if he did not keep a tight rein on his desires and instincts, she would not be one in fact either for much longer. After all, once she was ruined in theory, that was it. She might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

He looked at her, thinking about it, his body becoming hard and heavy. She was temptation personified and he was in no mood for self-sacrifice.

‘W
hat are you frowning about?’ Averil asked. Lord, but he had to get her dressed again—that blanket was driving him insane. Last night he had been too tired and too distracted to take much notice, although his body had been sending him frantic signals. Now, with it sliding off one shoulder and her hair clean and dry and waving from its tight braid and her face flushed with colour, she was beginning to exude a powerful femininity that he was convinced she had no conscious control over.

‘Frowning about? Life,’ he said, with perfect honesty. He wondered how much of a bastard he was. Enough of one to ruin this girl in reality? ‘And, yes, I have no doubt that your betrothed will be anxious. He will doubtless give you up for dead. Managing your resurrection is going to need some care.’ Her expression changed, lost some of its determination, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth as though to force some
control over her emotions. Perhaps she could sense his desires—his thoughts were clamorous enough.

‘What is it?’ He knew he spoke abruptly, and disregarded it; he could not afford to involve himself too deeply with the problems of a young woman who had nothing at all to do with his mission, he told himself. If she thought she had been rescued by a man who was forming some sort of attachment to her, she was mistaken. He had learned not to care the hard way. Averil was a casualty of war and lucky to be alive. ‘This can all get sorted out later,’ he added. ‘A few days is not going to make any difference now.’

‘It isn’t that. I try not to think about my friends on the
Bengal Queen,
’ Averil said. ‘But you speaking of resurrection made me think of the burial service at sea. A sailor died during the voyage and the words are different from the words they say on land. But of course you know that …’ Her voice trailed away and he saw she was looking back into nightmare.

‘When the sea shall give up her dead,’ Luc quoted. He had said it more times than he cared to remember as the weighted canvas shrouds were tipped overboard.

‘Yes, that is it. And I wonder how many from the
Bengal Queen
died, and how many of those the sea will give up so that families will have the comfort of being able to bury their loved ones.’

‘Thinking about it cannot help,’ Luc said. ‘It will only weaken you. Time enough to mourn when you are safe.’

‘And I am not safe now. I understand that,’ she said, her voice cool. ‘I will try not to bother you with my inconvenient emotions.’

Luc experienced a sudden and quite inexplicable
urge to put his arms around her and hold her. Just hold her tenderly to give her comfort. He tried to recall the last time he had comforted a woman and realised it must have been when he had come home on leave after his father had been executed and his mother had finally given up the battle to be strong and had wept in his arms.

Maman
had not lived long after that and so he had lost everyone who had mattered: his father, his mother, the loyal servants—they had all died because, in their way, they had done their duty. It was safer not to care, not to form new attachments because they would only lead to pain and distract him from his own duty, to the navy, to his inheritance. Sometimes he thought that if he had allowed himself to form new attachments he would at least have some anchor, some sense of where he truly belonged.

Averil shifted uneasily and he was pulled back to the present. This was not his mother and he had no idea how to console Averil. He did not get involved with women who needed comforting or hugging or cheering up. His relationships were functional and businesslike and, he hoped, involved a degree of mutual pleasure. The women who had been his mistresses had not sat in front of him bravely biting on a trembling lip and making him feel their distress was all his fault.

Damn it, he had not conjured up the storm that sank the East Indiaman and she was not going to make him feel guilty about it. Miss Heydon would have to take him as she found him. He damn well wanted to take her.

‘Good,’ he retorted. ‘Emotions are dangerously distracting under these circumstances.’ He got up and
felt the clothes hanging in front of the fire. ‘These are definitely dry enough now. Get dressed, the men will be wondering why we have not turned up for dinner.’

‘I should think their dirty little minds will supply them with an explanation.’ Averil did not stir from her chair. ‘I am not getting dressed with you here.’

Luc shrugged and got to his feet. It was a reasonable request and he had no need to heat his blood any more than it already was by being in the same room with Averil naked. Even with his eyes closed his recollection was too vivid. ‘Try to see, a trifle more affectionate when you appear,’ he said over his shoulder, halfway to the door.

‘I don’t think so.’ Averil stood up in a swirl of blanket that somehow managed to be simultaneously provoking and haughty. It was made worse by the fact that he was certain she had no idea of the effect she was creating. ‘I think a lovers’ quarrel will be far easier to sustain.’

Luc did not bother to answer her. He closed the door behind him, taking care not to slam it, then leaned back against the wind-weathered planks while he got his temper under control. One belligerent, emotional, virginal young lady was not going to get the better of him, he resolved. The trouble was, she had disregarded just about everything he had told her to do, or not to do, and he could not help a sneaking admiration for her courage.

Even if she could swim, to launch herself into the sea, so soon after being almost drowned, took guts and she hadn’t complained about the bruise on her back from the stone he had thrown either. It was the first time in his life he had raised his hand to a woman, let
alone used a weapon against one, and it had made his stomach churn to do it. Which was another thing not helping his temper, he supposed.

Luc gazed at the horizon and focused his mind on the job in hand. He was a professional naval officer, despite everything, and he was going to overcome this, all of it, just as he had overcome the prejudice and the suspicion and the jibes that had followed him since he had come to England. The
émigré
community was wary because of his father’s political views, the English saw him as French and he had a suspicion that his father’s marriage had contributed to his troubles in France.

He was a half-breed and he was not going to tolerate it any longer. He would force the damn English navy to exonerate him, he would find a wife befitting a d’Aunay from the
émigré
community and when this war was over, he was going to take back what was his.

A flicker of movement broke his concentration. A brown sail on a small boat that tacked across the Pool as it headed for the narrows between St Helen’s and Teän. Now why, with the prevailing wind, was the skipper taking it that way to get to the open sea when the passage to the south, between St Helen’s and Tresco, would be so much easier?

Because it was coming to call on him, he realised. It was the expected messenger and that way round took it as far as possible from the navy ships. He felt his mood lift with the prospect of action at last as he strode away from the hut and up the slope, Averil forgotten.

Averil hardly waited for the door to close before she scrambled into the slightly damp, salt-sticky, breeches and shirt. Her shoulder protested with twinges before
it settled down to a throbbing ache around the bruise, but she ignored it as she ignored her painful bare feet. She felt strong, she realised, despite the battering her body had taken over the past few days and the misery at the back of her mind that threatened to creep out and ambush her, as it had just now with Luc.

He thought her an emotional female. Well, there was nothing to be ashamed of in that. But she felt resilient and independent as well, and that was new. Always she had had people to tell her what to do: her father, her aunt, her governess, her chaperones. She had been good and obedient and she had been rewarded by the opportunity to become a countess and to advance her family’s fortunes.

And now, through no fault of her own, she was in the power of another man who expected her to do what she as told, and this time she was not inclined to obey him, not in everything—and that was liberating. In some things—kissing, for example—she was far too ready to give in to him and, of course, it was her patriotic duty to comply with Luc’s orders in everything relating to the reason he and his men were on the island.

But all in all, Averil thought as she whipped her hair into a firm braid, she was coping. And changing. Whatever happened, the Averil Heydon who left this island was not going to be the same woman who had been washed up on its sands.

She took care to slip out of the door and round to the back of the hut when she left, but there was no sign of interest from the ships riding at anchor in the sunshine. Her frantic dash for freedom and Luc’s swift recapture of her must have gone unnoticed.

But there was a strange boat drawn up on the beach
below the camp and a stranger stood by the fire, a steaming mug in his hand as he talked. The men were clustered round and they were listening intently, but they were watching their captain. For all their apparent hostility it was clear they looked to him to deal with whatever was happening now. Averil felt an unexpected warmth, almost pride, as though he really was her lover.

She gave herself a brisk mental shake as she walked towards them. Luc d’Aunay was neither her lover nor her love, he was merely doing his job and if he happened to look confident and commanding and intelligent while he was about it, so much the better for the Royal Navy. There was no excuse for her to get in a flutter.

‘Who’s this? No one said anything about women.’ The stranger spoke with an accent that she guessed must be local. He looked like a fisherman, there were nets and crab pots in the stern of his little boat, and he seemed uneasy with her presence.

‘My woman,’ Luc said, with a glance in her direction. ‘Never mind her—are you certain of the times?’

‘I am.’ The man grinned. ‘Stupid beggar didn’t check the sail loft. Still can’t work out who he is, mind you. I can’t find out where he’s coming from and he wears a cloak and his hat pulled tugged low. He keeps his voice low, too—a gentleman, I can hear that much, but if it wasn’t for Trethowan not keeping
his
voice down I wouldn’t have worked it out.

‘He looked to see if he was being followed all right, but it didn’t occur to him that someone knew where he was going from last time and got up there first. It’s the same brig as before—the
Gannet
—but they’ve changed
the sails, so someone’s had some sense. The patch has gone and they’ve a new set of brown canvas.’

He took a gulp from the mug. ‘They’ll be slipping anchor at eleven tonight so you’ll need to be in position off Annet. The tide’ll be right for you to get in behind the Haycocks rocks. I’ll signal from the Garrison when I see them leave. It’ll be clear tonight.’

‘How do we know we can trust ‘im?’ Harris said and the other men shifted uneasily.

‘Because I say so,’ Luc replied. ‘I know him and he’s good reason to hate the French.’

‘Aye.’ The man scowled at Harris. ‘Killed my brother Johnnie they did. And I don’t hold with them that’ll sell out their country to foreigners.’

‘Foreigners like Frenchy here?’ a voice from the back mut tered.

‘Don’t be more of a bloody fool than you can help, Bull,’ Luc said.

‘Sorry, Cap’n, I was only—’

‘Don’t you go insulting the captain.’ The fisherman turned, furious. ‘My Johnnie was serving with him when he was killed and he wouldn’t have a word said against him. He’d come home and he’d say—’

‘Yes, well, spare my blushes, Yestin. You get out fishing now. We’ll look out for your lights, six bells on the first watch.’

The man grunted. ‘You navy men and your bells. It’ll be eleven by the clock on Garrison Gate.’ He put down his mug, gave Averil another long stare, then marched down the beach and pushed off his boat. ‘You kill the lot of them,’ he called back as the wind caught the sail. ‘And I’ll have lobsters for all of you.’

‘Good news,’ Luc remarked. ‘After dinner, Tom
Patch, I want all the dirks and the cutlasses sharpened. Harris, double check the boat. Timmins, come with me and we’ll sort out the ammunition and the handguns. The rest of you can take it easy—I need everyone alert and ready to go at two bells on the first watch.’

‘Two hours to do that distance?’ one of the men queried.

‘I want you in good condition when we get there,’ Luc said with a grin. ‘You’ll have some fast rowing and then some brisk fighting—no need to be blown before you start.’

They ate, all of them more cheerful than Averil had seen before. Even Dawkins found discussing the best way to cut a French throat more interesting that ogling her. When they had finished the men with tasks to do went off, leaving nine of them fidgeting around the fire.

‘Oh, get away and look for wreckage,’ Potts said, exasperated. ‘I’m trying to clear up and cook supper and you lot are under my feet. Unless you want to help?’

That sent them off down to the shoreline. Averil watched who went where and then followed, taking the opposite end to Dawkins and Tubbs. There were splintered timbers and cask staves sticking up between ridges of rock, some torn canvas, tangled ropes. Averil picked her way along the shore, gripped by a horrid fascination, half dreading seeing something that she recognised, half as infected by the same treasure-hunting enthusiasm as the men.

Time passed; the sand was warm under her bare feet and the foam at the water’s edge tickled her toes. If the
cause was not so grim, this would be a delightful way to spend a spring day.

‘You found anything?’ It was Tubbs.

She straightened up, wary. ‘Only shells and rubbish.’

‘Aye,’ he agreed, sounding almost amiable. ‘You found anything, ‘Arry?’

‘Nah.’ The big man was balanced precariously on a low ridge of rock sticking up a couple of feet from the sand. ‘I’m for a kip in the tent.’ He turned, awkward on the sharp edge. ‘Wot’s that?’

Tubbs darted forwards and picked something up. Averil saw it as it lay in his calloused palm, a dark oval, smooth and polished, a hinge on one side. ‘I know what that is. Give it to me, please—’