Desire and Deception (22 page)

Lauren had a momentary impression of gleaming mahogany and brass fixtures, and also noted a massive desk on one side of the cabin and an even larger bunk on the other, but her attention remained on Jason as he shut the door and hung the lantern on a peg, then strode to the porthole and flung open the casement.

"Thank you," she murmured, grateful for his consideration. He appeared not to have heard. Lauren watched uneasily as he went to the liquor cabinet near the desk and lifted down a decanter. She was puzzled by the smoldering tension she sensed in him. Of course, she had expected him to be angry for drugging him and taking his money, but not
this
angry. She could feel his rage coiled within him, tangible and explosive.

He paused in the act of reaching for the glasses,
then
turned, his blue eyes searing her, compelling her to return his gaze. "But perhaps you don't care for brandy. Would you prefer a glass of sherry? It isn't drugged."

Lauren took a deep breath, steeling herself for a battle. So he had recognized her. But of course he thought she was Andrea Carlin. George Burroughs would never have revealed her true identity, not as long as Regina could inherit the Carlin ships. "No, thank you, Captain," she replied in a small voice.

"I no longer captain a ship. Kyle Ramsey commands the
Siren,
while I'm merely the owner.
But what of you?
Marguerite is not the name you use regularly, is it?"

"No." Lauren watched him place the crystal snifter on the desk and pour out a measure of liquor. He seemed calm enough, in complete control of his emotions, and there was none of the harshness in his voice she had heard before. But he still looked powerful and commanding, even in his shirtsleeves and silk-flowered waistcoat. His leonine head had the sculptured look of marble, while in contrast to the gleaming white cravat, his features appeared molded from bronze.

When he glanced up at her, one brow raised quizzically, she recognized
a hardness
in his eyes that dared her to lie. He was waiting, obviously expecting more from her answer. "Lauren," she said quietly, "Lauren
DeVries
."

Jason exhaled his breath softly. "I wondered for a very long time if you had made it to safety."

She was the first to drop her eyes. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Why else but to avail myself of the wares you are displaying so . . . charmingly? You didn't seem inclined to break your other engagement."

Lauren didn't quite know how to respond. "I . . . I expect you would like your money back. It was wrong of me to take it. I should be able to bring it to you first thing—"

"Keep it. I would rather have what I bargained for that night in London."

The reminder brought a flush to Lauren's cheeks, and she pulled his coat more closely about her. "I'm sorry if I inconvenienced you—"

"Inconvenienced?"
Jason's lips twisted as he remembered the anguish he had suffered, imagining her dead or worse, at the mercy of the scum that roamed the London streets. Then he thought of the gaming house, of the men who must have enjoyed her charms, Duval in particular, and jealousy ran rampant through him. He raised his glass to his lips, tossing off the contents with complete disregard for the quality of the wine. "Is that what you think? I beg to differ, Cat-eyes. Inconvenienced is far too mild a term for the torment you put me through."

Lifting her chin, Lauren gave him her coolest frown. "I said I was sorry."

"So you did."

"I came here to apologize."

His eyebrows shot up.
"How remarkable.
And I was under the impression I had to use force in order to bring you here."

Lauren felt her own temper flaring, realizing that he was deliberately trying to provoke her. "I truly am sorry for what I did to you, but
I . . .
I didn't have a choice."

She could see Jason's eyes blaze, could feel his anger leap across the distance between them. Nearly flinching at the impact of that molten gaze, she continued hesitantly. "I tell you I didn't have a choice. I had to leave England, and at once. My guardian . . . his men had already tried to kill Matthew. If you had become involved, they might have killed you as well."

His blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "Try again, sweetheart. I was your betrothed, remember? I had nothing to fear from Burroughs."

"You . . . you don't understand."

Jason swept her a regal, mocking bow. "Then perhaps you should explain it to me. In truth, I've been waiting an age for an explanation."

Lauren stood staring at him, quelling the urge to run. She had told the truth about not having a choice; she had almost gotten Matthew killed by dragging him into her affairs, and even if Jason Stuart had been willing to help her, she could not have involved him in such danger, nor let him risk his life for her as Matthew had done. She could never have repaid such a debt. But neither could she tell Jason the truth about her impersonation.
Only some version of it.

"Perhaps Burroughs would not have harmed you," she murmured, "but that wasn't true of my aunt. Regina Carlin wanted me dead, and she would not have let anyone stand in her way."

"Why?"

The harshly voiced question nearly made her jump.
"What
. . .
do you mean?"

"Why did she want you dead?"

"Because . . . she would inherit the Carlin ships if anything happened to me."

Jason's blue gaze bored into her for such a long moment that Lauren wondered if he could read her thoughts just by staring at her. But then he forcefully set down his glass and stepped behind the desk. "How much do you earn in an evening,
Miss
Carlin?" he asked, jerking open a drawer. "Or should I say
Mademoiselle Marguerite?"

"Please. . . . I would prefer that you call me Lauren."

"Very well—Lauren."
He rummaged till he found what he was searching for, then lifted a leather pouch and tossed it at her feet. The clink of the coins seemed to echo about the cabin. "I'll add that to sweeten the pot, Lauren. Is it not enough? It should keep you in satins and jewels for some time."

She stood dumbly gazing down at the bag, realizing he was offering to buy her services. That he should think such a thing of her . . .

Without lifting her head, she said in a breathless voice, "You . . . you think me a whore."

"Do you deny it? I'll admit," he said with mock gallantry when she was silent, "that you're far above the common class."

Slowly, Lauren raised her gaze to meet his. "Should I be flattered? I would think any woman could service your needs just as well."

"Perhaps, but I've already paid for you. You'll recall that you left before fulfilling the terms of our bargain—one night in my bed."

Lauren winced at his words, at the pain that twisted inside her. Jason Stuart didn't want
her.
He wanted what any woman could give. "I said I would return your money."

"And I said I didn't want it. I won't even charge you interest for the period. What has it been, nearly four years?"

"I'm not for sale!" Lauren snapped.

His hand swung out in an impatient arc. "Come now. Someone must pay for the sort of gown you're wearing. Or do you earn enough to pick and choose your lovers?"

"I shall not"—her chin lifted—"dignify that remark with an answer. I think it is time for me to leave." She turned and took a step toward the door and then halted. Jason had moved swiftly across the cabin and was blocking her way.

Lauren regarded him warily. Not knowing what else to do, she shrugged off his coat and held it out to him. "Thank you for the loan." When Jason made no move to take it, she laid the coat over one of the barrel-backed chairs in front of the desk.

Jason watched her nervously smoothing out the folds of the garment, and knew a gathering sense of frustration. He was already hard with wanting her, and if that weren't torment enough, she tantalized him by stripping off his coat. Those ripe, voluptuous breasts begged to be bared to his touch. . . . "So now you intend to walk the streets?" he asked thickly, his eyes dropping to the brazenly displayed curves.

Somehow Lauren managed to maintain her composure, even though the heat of his gaze singed her. "I do not. I will hail a hackney."

"And how do you expect to pay? I doubt you have the fare hidden in your bodice. That gown couldn't conceal a penny."

"I will manage."

"How—by services rendered?" Seeing anger flash in her eyes, Jason gave her a tight smile. "How far do you think you'll get in that gown? There isn't a man alive who could see you and not have ravishment on his mind."

"Not all men are as base as you are, Mr. Stuart."

"Oh, no?
Show me one who isn't."

Lauren made no reply, feeling tension vibrating like a live thing between them as he fixed her with his unwavering stare. But she was determined not to show her trepidation. She stared coolly back at him, with her head held high, her shoulders held proudly erect.

Jason's anger flamed higher. She looked as regal as a queen, standing there in that superbly, indecently tailored gown, with those expensive gems sparkling at her throat. She was every inch Jonathan Carlin's daughter and heiress to a fortune. Surely she couldn't have thrown away her future to become a high-class strumpet.

Assuming
a casualness
he didn't feel, Jason leaned back against the door and crossed his arms across his wide chest. "I take it Lila was willing to brave this danger with you," he said levelly.

Lauren realized he wouldn't let her go until she explained. "
Not . . . not
at first," she replied. "But then I told her about Burroughs . . . and about Matthew. Lila felt responsible for me, whether I wanted her to or not, and she wouldn't let me search for Matthew alone. When we found him, she helped us book passage on a ship, then decided to come with us. She had no family in England, no reason to stay. And I think Matthew told her I was too young to be going to America with only him to care for me."

"She's here in New Orleans, I presume?"

"Yes, but she's married now, to a very kind man, Jean-Paul Beauvais. It . . . would be better if you didn't see her, I expect. She doesn't need to be reminded of her past, and Jean-Paul has a jealous temperament."

"I'll consider your advice," Jason returned sarcastically. He stood considering her across the small distance that separated them, an ominous glint in his eye. "I'll wager you never told Lila about our arranged marriage."

"Not . . . until later."

"I can just imagine her reaction. She would have been horrified to think that she had allowed your seduction in her own bedroom. I suppose," he ground out slowly as Lauren bowed her head, "that you wept copious tears, pleading with Lila to save you from the debauched villain who had stolen your virginity."

When she didn't answer but stood twisting her fingers together, Jason clenched his fists, almost choking on the rage that boiled inside him. Abruptly, he strode over to the desk and poured more brandy in his glass, eyeing his own unsteady hand with something akin to disgust. "That is, if I were the first," he said after a time.

"Of course you were the first," Lauren whispered.

His eyes burned darkly with suppressed fury as he shot her an impaling glance. "Then why did you agree to give yourself to me, if you don't mind my asking? You could have waited a while longer for your drug to take effect."