Adele Ashworth (7 page)

“Then we will have to be extremely careful,” she whispered dryly, cutting into his thoughts. “Someone of your reputation . . .”

Her voice trailed off into the clear night sky, as if it gradually occurred to her that she wasn’t with her brother, but a man who might very well want her for more than companionship.

“And what do you know of my reputation, Miss Haislett?” he inquired soberly, inching closer to her even as she gripped the railing to her side for additional support.

As nonchalantly as she could, she acknowledged what to her was the obvious. “I know you adore women, and they generally adore you in return. I know you change mistresses as casually as you change your boots. I know you think no woman alive can resist you.” She smiled impishly. “I, however, am the exception, and will be for the remainder of our trip. I know you’re a trader of fine goods, whatever that means, and that it’s made you a wealthy man—honestly wealthy, which is good. I know you enjoy lavishing that wealth on the women you . . . entertain. I know you come from a respectable family and that they enjoy you and discussing your escapades very much.”

He blinked, suppressing the urge to laugh at her absurd generalizations, but feeling a stirring heat within of something akin to triumph as she openly admitted her knowledge about him and his personal affairs.

“You’ve apparently studied me to some depth,” he responded with charming smoothness.

She looked out over the horizon, as if taking a sudden great interest in the near-black, lightly swirling ocean. “Not purposely, I assure you, although you as well as other unattached gentlemen come up in social conversation from time to time. Naturally such conversation can’t be avoided easily.”

“Naturally,” he agreed.

“Your brother’s wife is also my closest friend,” she amended for additional escape. “It would be impossible for me not to hear at least some things.”

A most contrived answer, and they both knew it.

“Ahh . . . ,” was his only reply.

Seconds ticked by in uncomfortable silence. Then, with keen anticipation of the line he was about to cross, he reached up and cupped her cheek with his palm, turning her face back to his, gazing into wide eyes of instant uneasiness.

“But there’s one inaccuracy I must correct,” he said softly.

She didn’t pull away but batted her lashes in feigned innocence. “An inaccuracy? Which part?”

“The resisting part.”

She frowned delicately, as if trying to remember exactly what she’d said. “That no woman can resist you? I hardly think—”

“
You
cannot resist me, Natalie, sweet.”

And then he was kissing her, smothering any hint of denial with his lips, pressing tenderly at first, with no real trace of movement, just a touch. He didn’t pull her into him, but stood there in the shadow of dusk, the faint sound of waves splashing against the ship beneath them, his palm softly caressing her cheek as his body came eagerly alive from nothing but the penetrating heat of her mouth.

Natalie was so thoroughly stunned she could not immediately react. They’d only been teasing each other companionably, like old friends, and without provocation he’d done the unthinkable.

Instinctively, after several seconds of shock at his daring, she tried to pull away. That’s when he grabbed her around the waist and drew her against him, embracing her completely with an arm of solid strength. Her first rational thought was how this wasn’t a kiss like the one in his town house only a few days ago—just a delicate brush of his warm lips. No, this was sweet desire, controlling and intense, the sudden taste of him so powerful she was flooded with the memory of their first intimate encounter five years earlier, of what he’d done to her then, both physically and emotionally. And passionately.

Trembling, Natalie reached up and weakly pushed against his shoulders, wanting desperately to break free because she knew she would soon succumb. And she was right. No longer could she think straight as he held to her tightly, caressing her back with one hand, her cheek with the other, as he played perfect music of beauty against her mouth.

Gradually she leaned into him, gliding her fingertips up along his shirt, relishing in the feel of hot skin beneath cool linen, of the hard, flawless muscle mass against her palms. She squeezed her eyes shut, shoving all from her mind but his powerful embrace, parting her lips a little at his insistence. She was breathing hard, her heart pounding in her breast, blood rushing through her veins, echoing in her ears as she tried to get more of him, as she clutched his neck and ran her fingers through the silky hair at his nape.

Jonathan erupted with a nearly uncontrollable inner fire when he felt her relax and mold herself against him, responding so quickly, so anxiously. He’d really expected her to turn rigid with indignation, even slap him—the standard reaction from someone of her upbringing. But he should have known. Their desire for each other was numbing, indescribable, and had been since the moment they’d first come together on the dance floor years ago.

But it wasn’t the passion that so startled him. It was the realization that he’d never felt this strongly attracted to a female in his life—to her softness, her smile and eyes, her delicate curves, her scent of soap and flowers and woman. And this seemingly innocent kiss on the deck of the
Redding
, under sprinkled stars and soft moonglow, was the beginning of something he was afraid to acknowledge. He’d hoped that a shared kiss would put an end to his need, but it didn’t, it wouldn’t, and he was in trouble.

He ran the tip of his tongue along her parted lips, the fingers of his right hand gingerly massaging her neck, his left splayed across her lower back, holding her firmly against his rigid body. She moaned softly in his arms, and as impatient as he was to deepen the magic, to touch her more completely, more possessively, somewhere within he became painfully aware that he needed to stop the encounter before it was carried too far. This wasn’t the time or place for this, and she would never end the kiss herself. He knew that now.

With immoderate difficulty, breathing rapidly, attempting to clear his mind from the urgency pervading it, Jonathan did what he’d never done in his life—quelled the passion first.

“Natalie . . . ,” he whispered against her mouth, drawing his hands forward to place both palms on her cheeks.

She didn’t hear him, didn’t respond immediately, and with great reluctance he pulled his lips from hers.

“Natalie,” he repeated in a gravelly rasp, lifting his face away. He placed a kiss or two on her brow before he dropped his forehead to rest against hers, firmly cupping her cheeks, holding her to keep her from running, inhaling deeply to subdue his fired nerves.

He didn’t want to say anything until she calmed, until her breathing slowed and she regained control. She was probably embarrassed, and he wasn’t exactly sure how to handle it, how to explain his actions, to keep her from feeling rejected.

Suddenly she was shaking. She pulled her arms down from around his neck and pushed against his chest.

“Natalie—”

“Stop saying my name like that,” she whispered.

He frowned. Like what?

Slowly he released her, waiting, and she stood back, hugging herself, head lowered so moonlight reflected off her hair in shimmering streaks. Even in the darkness he could feel the tenseness emanating from her body. He just didn’t know if she was angry at him for initiating the kiss or at herself for showing such reckless desire.

She drew a long, unsteady breath. “Don’t ever confuse me like that again,” she warned in a murmured rage.

What the hell did that mean? Only a woman would say things that stumped him. “Confuse you?”

“I am promised to someone else,” she explained as if he were stupid, seething from every pore.

Enlightenment doused him with pleasure. Now he understood, and in the dimness he allowed himself to smile broadly with satisfaction. Expressing her confusion was completely different from expressing repulsion or shock, or from slapping his face.

He lifted his finger to caress her jaw. “You are not promised to anyone,” he corrected in a deep whisper.

Her head jerked up, and she glared at him through furious eyes. “Good night, Jonathan.”

She lifted her skirts with dignity and walked past him.

H
e gave her nearly twenty minutes to compose herself and get ready for bed. Then, with a somewhat guilty rush of anticipation, he knocked on the cabin door twice and opened it without waiting for a reply.

But she wasn’t in bed or doing whatever it was women do to ready themselves for it. She was sitting on the edge of it, engrossed in thought, fully clothed, although her cloak was now unbuttoned.

She turned when she heard him enter, staring at him vacantly at first, then with what he could only describe as growing horror.

“How did you—”

“I have a key, remember?” he answered before she could finish.

He shut the door, bolting it, enclosing them tightly inside the small, cramped cabin now filled with her presence, her intimate belongings, the alluring scent of lavender and lilies in creams and powders and perfumes. After only a few hours together he’d come to the uncomfortable conclusion that the most difficult task he’d ever undertaken in his life lay just ahead—not in stealing precious emeralds from dangerous French Legitimists, but in keeping Natalie Haislett’s virginity intact.

He heard her stand behind him as he unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt.

“I—I suppose you’ll be sleeping in the next room, Jonathan?” she stammered in a soft, shaky voice.

He turned back to her and was nearly brought to his knees by the vivid pleading in her eyes of the hope that he would just go away, from the swell of her full breasts as her opened cloak exposed her form-fitting, tightly waisted gown, from her long, thick hair now free from pins to tumble down the front of her in a luxurious wave of softness.

So innocent and untouchable.

He sighed and confessed the inevitable. “I’ll be sleeping on your left, Natalie.”

“Oh.” The relief outlined on her face was immeasurable. “Then why are you here?”

He placed both hands on his hips, not at all certain how much he would enjoy this explanation, but ready to get it said. Baldly, without expression, he maintained, “I don’t mean in the cabin to the left of us. I mean on your left in this bed.”

Natalie’s first thought was that he wasn’t making an ounce of sense. Then the picture struck her graphically, and for the first time in her life that she could recall, she nearly succumbed to a burst of hysteria. Her eyes grew to enormous saucers of disbelief, astonishment. He couldn’t possibly be serious.

“You can’t sleep . . .” She swallowed, unable even to say it. He was observing her reaction closely as he stood in front of the door, blocking it from her with his large, imposing frame, waiting for the shock to be absorbed.

He
was
serious. And still he didn’t say a word.

Her pulse quickened in panic. “You can’t stay here, Jonathan.”

“I have to stay here, Natalie,” he insisted evenly, and very slowly.

Seconds ticked by in deathly stillness before she managed to find enough of her voice to whisper, “Why?”

He reached for the lamp bolted to the small stand to his right, turning it up for brighter light. Then he leaned back against the door, folding his arms across his chest.

“For two reasons, really,” he replied contemplatively. “The first is that you have placed yourself in my care, my protection—”

“Protection?” she interjected in wonder, growing more apprehensive by the second. “You’re going to protect me after accosting me only hours out of port?”

“I didn’t accost you, Natalie, I kissed you,” he asserted with a dash of annoyance. “There’s a world of difference.”

She glared at him. “And who is now to protect me from you, sir?”

“The second reason,” he continued, ignoring her question, “is that
my
reputation matters, too. I have serious business in France that will place me in elite circles. If you wish to go with me you must be willing to pose as my wife. Nobody can ever begin to assume I travel with my mistress, and that’s the only conclusion people will draw if they know I brought you with me.”

“We could pose as—as cousins,” she blurted in near desperation, thoroughly appalled at his nerve.

He shook his head. “That would never work, and you know it. We look nothing alike, and the attraction between us will be obvious to everyone. Better to act on it than try to hide it.” With a smirk, he added, “It’s a challenge, a game to be played, Natalie, and we must start playing it now.”

She gaped at him, finding it truly unbelievable that he would talk about them as if they were lovers, that he would want to pose as such to strangers. He was so matter-of-fact, so blatantly devious! He’d planned this from the start, had known about it all day, and had left her to learn of his intentions when she couldn’t do anything, least of all run. Where would she go on a ship in the dead of night? Her only option appeared to be overboard.

“Why did you wait until now to tell me we’d be sharing a . . .” She gestured with a flick of her wrist. “A . . .”

He leaned toward her. “A bed?”

She huffed. “Why?”

He reached up and rubbed his jaw with his palm. “I didn’t want you to change your mind and walk off the ship,” he admitted prosaically.

“You . . .” She faltered at his honest response, flushing ever so softly, closing her arms in front of her protectively and running her fingertips along the lace on her sleeve. “You . . .”

“. . . need you, Natalie,” he finished for her again. After a moment’s hesitation, he amended, “To pose as my wife.”

“You planned this,” she charged vehemently.

He slowly shook his head, his eyes narrowing to sly, gray-blue slits of conquest. “I believe it was you who walked into my home six days ago in search of help. I’m merely taking advantage of the situation.”

Oh, he was a devil! If he wanted to play games, fine with her. She could act any part magnificently. But woe was him. He couldn’t possibly know she was one of the best.