How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) (5 page)

CHAPTER
7

Holly sat beside
her sister in the carriage, rattling along the pebbled road. From under her
lowered lashes, she peeked at her strapping husband, sitting in the opposite
squab. He gazed out the window, impervious. He hadn’t said a word during their
journey to her cottage. Emma had prattled about the day, how pretty everyone
had looked, how delicious the food, but even she had grown reticent. And now
the small party of three travelled in total silence.

Holly wasn’t
sure what to make of the lull. Was her husband fatigued? Angry? Anxious about
their wedding night?

Her fists
scrunched, Holly unfurled her stiff fingers and released a tense breath. She
was certainly nervous about the wedding night. She had never been with a man.
And to be with
this
man? She had already seen him naked—every part of
him—and her heart sounded like heavy bell tolls at the intimate thought of
being with him . . . being one with him.

She removed her
gloves, her fingers moist beneath the fabric. Her lungs cramped and she seemed
starved for air, panting. She tried to hide her unraveling disposition, but her
sister sensed her distress and rubbed her arm.

“Are you well,
Holly?”

“I’m fine,” she
whispered, her voice strained.

Her husband
turned toward her at the remark, his eyes inscrutable under the growing
darkness. But she felt his sharp focus on her. He remained quiet, though, and
soon returned his attention to the bucolic landscape.

The drive from
London had taken over an hour, and it was dusk by the time they reached the
little house in the country.

Quincy stepped
out of the vehicle first and extended his hand, supporting the ladies as they
descended the carriage.

The maid and
gardener, a married, childless pair, emerged from the house and greeted the
newlyweds. The young farm hand, Robert, was also there and quickly assisted the
driver with the luggage.

Holly glanced at
her husband. “Are you hungry? I had a light supper prepared for our return.”

“No,” he said softly.
“It’s been a long journey. I’d rather stretch my legs in the garden.”

He offered her a
curt bow before disappearing between the neatly trimmed hedges and rose bushes.

She tensed at
his abrupt departure. Why hadn’t he offered her guidance? A simple hint as to
what she should do next?

After an
indecisive moment, Holly entered the house. She instructed the maid to put away
supper, then directed her husband’s belongings to her bedroom. Emma and Robert
exchanged blushing glances. The maid and gardener exchanged knowing ones.

Holly’s own
cheeks warmed as she hurried up the crooked stairs to her chamber, unwilling to
endure their ribbing humor. She slipped inside her room, and after the baggage
had been delivered, closed the door, releasing another buried breath.

The duchess had
offered her and Quincy quarters for the night, but her husband had declined the
invitation, perhaps uncomfortable at the thought of spending his wedding night
under his sister’s roof. He could not return with her to his bachelor residence
in St. James’s. It was wholly improper. And so they’d travelled back to her
cottage, a consequence of their madcap marriage. There had been no time to
prepare new living arrangements in the city, a wedding tour or even a
trousseau. In the coming weeks, there was much to plan and organize.

But first, the
wedding night.

The bedroom had
been carefully readied: fresh linens, a warm fire, burning lamps. Holly inhaled
the soothing fragrance of jasmine, the yellow flowers cut fresh from the garden
and sitting in a vase on the window sill.

Right, she
thought. It’s time.

Gathering her
nerves, she sidestepped the luggage and entered the adjoining bathing room. A
small tin tub had been filled with water, now lukewarm, but Holly was too
frazzled to care about the temperature. She divested her garments and quickly
washed. She then slipped into a white night rail and covered herself with a
wrapper. She loosed her hair, removed the tiny flowers and combed the curls.
Finally, she sat on the edge of the bed. And waited. And waited.

After several
more fruitless minutes, she approached the window and gazed into the dark
garden, illuminated by soft moonlight. It was hard to tell between the trees
and shrubs if a figure stood amidst the bramble. As she scouted the terrain,
her eyes soon spotted a man’s tall build. He remained fixed beside the garden
gate, his hands at his backside, wanting to escape?

Holly settled on
the window sill next to the vase and watched him. Her husband. She had a sacred
place in his life now, that of wife. And he equally shared a sacred place in
hers, that of husband. But she had done him great harm, forcing him into
wedlock. And she vowed to be a good wife, a pleasing wife. She would make
amends to him—somehow.

His shadow
shifted and he turned toward the house, his eyes lifting to her. Her breath
trapped in her throat as he studied her with unwavering intent. At last he ambled
across the lawn toward the house.

Holly quickly
returned to the bedside, her heart booming like canon blasts. She had already
kissed him once, a fiery explosion of feeling. She wanted to taste him again.
To touch him. And as she heard his heavy steps ascend the creaking stairs, she
gasped for air.

He stopped at
the door. She noticed his shoes under the crack. After a brief pause, he rapped
on the wood.

“Come in,” she
all but croaked.

 He opened the
barrier. His sensual blue eyes settled on her as his robust frame filled the
small space. He had loosened his cravat and waistcoat, his cuff links, too. His
informal attire suggested more was to be removed, and she pinched the fabric of
her wrapper in anticipation.

He was
beautiful, she thought. And she had a deep yearning to explore his beauty. She
wondered if he found her as attractive. Would he kiss her with the same
spirited hunger as he had on the night of the ball? Or had their unexpected
marriage hardened his desire for her? She hoped not. They were virtual
strangers. But they shared a mutual heat. From the night they’d first met at
the gaming hell that fire had burned between them. It wasn’t the strongest
foundation to build a marriage upon, for a fire, if unattended, could burn out.
But it was a foundation.

A beginning.

He reached for
his luggage. “I’ve come to collect my belongings.”

Her heart
dropped. “I-I don’t understand.”

“I’ll be leaving
in a few hours, and I don’t want to disturb you at dawn. The maid tells me
there’s a third bedroom around the corner. I will take that chamber.”

Her mother’s old
room. But why? “Where are you going in the morning?”

“To sea.”

She gaped,
stunned. “You are a sailor?”

“I am.”

She couldn’t
believe her ears. He
was
a sailor. Her clandestine source had been right
about his identity. But why had Quincy withheld the truth from her until now?

“But . . . I . .
.” She fumbled, confused. “How long will you be away?”

“Three months,
at least.”

“I see.” She twined
her fingers. “Are you an officer?”

“A privateer. I
serve alongside my brother, William, in the Royal Navy’s African Squadron. I’m
the ship’s surgeon.”

“A doctor?”

He shook his
head. “I’ve no formal training. I studied under the previous surgeon.”

Holly sensed a
tightness in her throat. He would be absent much of the time. “What will become
of Emma and I? Where will we live?”

In the rickety
cottage? On the fringe of society?

“Choose whatever
house you’d like in Town,” he said, indifferent. “I have a few furloughs each
year and spend little time on land, so I’m not particular about our abode. I’m
sure my sister will help you find an appropriate dwelling. She’s rather fond of
you, I’m told.”

Of course the
duchess was fond of her, compassionate toward her, even commiserating. The
woman believed her an innocent damsel seduce by her rakish brother.

Holly winced at
the grisly falsehood.

Quincy headed
toward the door.

“Wait!”

He stilled.
“What is it?”

She lifted from
the bedside, her legs shaking. “What about tonight? Our wedding night?”

He turned toward
her again, his eyes charged with fierce resistance. “Do not assume our marriage
is real,
wife
. It is in name alone. What you took of my body and put in
that infernal painting is all you will
ever
take of me.”

He stalked from
the room, leaving the door ajar.

Holly blanched.
She dropped backward, plopping onto the bed. She would
never
be with her
husband? She would never run her fingers across his rolling muscles or feel the
heat of his flesh beneath her hands? She would never taste his sensuous lips
again or hear his seductive voice in her ear, arousing her senses? She would
never know the intimate feel of him inside her? Or have children? Ever?

Her heart
ballooned. Her lungs expanded like storm clouds. To be leg shackled in matrimony
without any of the sensual benefits was unrighteous. And Holly wouldn’t stand
for it. Her husband desired her, she knew it. He’d revealed a fervent passion for
her on the eve he’d ravaged her with his covetous lips. And she
would
have
him again. All of him. Even if she had to seduce the stubborn rake.

CHAPTER
8

Quincy leaned
against the starboard rail, watching the
Nemesis
navigate through the
Thames. As the schooner neared port, the noise, bustle and stench of sewage
bombarded his senses, and he slowly adjusted to the turbulence of city life.

His disorderly thoughts
drifted with the current toward the bright lights of Town, and he wondered
about his wife. During a sea voyage, he usually refrained from opium. His mind
tended to clear amid the waves and stars, and he needn’t the drug’s amnesic
effect. But Holly had followed him aboard ship, the wench. He had sensed her
presence throughout the journey, heard her silky voice, tasted her wanton lips.
And he had searched for respite in opium paste. Instead, he had found only more
hellish suffering. She had breached the foggy barrier in his mind and had
teased him in his dreams with her promises of a sensual wedding night.

After three celibate
months at sea, Quincy ached for a woman, for the warmth of a supple body in his
arms and the taste of sweetly perfumed skin. He remembered his wife’s wild
strawberry tresses and slender figure under a slim white wrapper. His blood
heated and his muscles hardened as he heard her inviting voice calling him to
bed.

But he would not
bed her.

Ever.

His lust for her
would burn out in time. Then, he would be free of her. He would always provide her
protection from gossip and the security of a house. But he would never offer
her a part of himself. She had his money, his name. And no more. She had already
stolen too much from him . . . like a bloody pirate.

A figure
approached Quincy in the dusky light. He recognized his brother’s build.
William had been unusually thoughtful throughout the voyage. On several
occasions, Quincy had found him reflective, staring out at sea, instead of
patrolling the decks or scouring the waters with his spyglass or journaling in
his captain’s log. He wondered what had captivated his brother’s mind.

William settled
beside him. “We’re third in the queue. It should be another hour or so before
we dock.”

Quincy had
reconciled with his brother, not in words, but the men had grown comfortable
eating together at the same table in the mess hall or sharing sea shanties with
the crew.

In truth, there
was no cause to resent his sibling for his unfortunate marriage. That honor
belonged to Holly.
She
had painted him without his permission and
released the work into society.
She
had recklessly followed him to his
carriage in public view.
She
, and she alone, had trapped him in wedlock,
intentionally or not.

“Care for a pint
after we dock?” asked Quincy, hoping to avoid his wife for as long as possible.

“I have to
prepare my final report. I meet with the Admiralty in the morning.”

Quincy sensed
something was amiss in his brother’s stiff voice. “Is there trouble with the
Admiralty?”

Their tour had
been routine. The only real threats had been the merciless heat and heavy rains
off Africa’s west coast. Regrettably, most British slavers sailed with foreign
flags and papers, preventing the
Nemesis
from legally apprehending the
ships. But a few brazen captains still sailed under the Union Jack, and it was
those brash ships the
Nemesis
hunted and battled.

“No, no
trouble,” returned William.

It was still
there in his voice, that reflective, almost absentminded tone. What had distracted
the otherwise highly focused captain?

Quincy thought
of asking him outright. He never withheld his opinions or queries and that penchant
sometimes—always—got him into trouble. But he sensed it wasn’t the right moment
to invade his brother’s pensiveness.

“I suppose I
should go home then.” Quincy heaved a deep breath. He would rather rove the
high seas until he’d strangled every carnal impulse he had for his wife. “I
wonder where I live?”

A rare chuckle
from William. “Head back to St. James’s. I’m sure Eddie knows your new address.
And send word to Belle that we’re safe. You know how she worries while we’re at
sea.”

“Aye, Captain.”

After more than
an hour, the
Nemesis
finally docked in the Thames. A rugged Quincy with
his bushy beard and tousled curls disembarked the ship. Slinging his pack of
possessions over his shoulder, he wended through the blusterous throng, heading
for his old bachelor abode.

By the time he
reached the townhouse, it was dark. The butler greeted him at the door and
informed him Edmund was not at home.

“Where is he?”

“With Her Grace,
the Duchess of Wembury.”

At such a late
hour? An unbidden memory invaded his mind—his sister’s ashen face, her hopeless
sobs of grief. He shut his eyes against the tortuous images, his chest
tightening. He had yet to harden his soul against the nightmarish visions. And
he wondered . . . he wondered if they would haunt him forever.

“What’s
happened, Benson? Is she unwell?”

“Her Grace is in
excellent health, sir.”

Quincy released
the breath trapped in his throat.

“She is hosting
the engagement ball for Mr. Hawkins and Lady Amy.”

“The annulment
between Lady Amy and Gravenhurst is final?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Ha! That’s
wonderful news. I have to change.”

Quincy dashed into
the house and pounded the stairs.

“Your belongings
are not here, sir.”

He stilled. Of
course not. Damn! “Where are they?”

“Mrs. Hawkins
had them moved to your new residence in Grosvenor Square.”

“That’s on the
other side of Mayfair.”

“Indeed, sir.”

There wasn’t
time to travel to Grosvenor Square, change his attire and shave. He’d miss the
ball!

Quincy looked up
the stairs. “I’ll have to burrow Eddie’s togs. Send up hot water, Benson. I
stink like the Thames. And fetch me a runner!”

In less than an
hour, Quincy had shaved his whiskers, bathed and donned his brother’s fancy
duds. He’d also penned a note about the ball and paid a runner a full pound to
deliver the message to William in all haste aboard the
Nemesis
.

Quincy then took
to the congested roads by horseback, sidestepping the blockade of carriages,
and reaching his sister’s swanky townhouse just before eleven in the evening.

The crush indoors
was unmaneuverable, worse than the choked Thames. Flowers filled the ballroom,
hanging in swags from windows, pouring from urns on pedestals, and reaching
toward ceilings in tall ceramic vases. Brilliant candlelight burned the eyes.
And melted wax filled the lungs with its scorching thickness.

After several
minutes, Quincy spotted the engaged couple performing a waltz. Without
misgiving, he crossed the floor, weaving between the other spinning dancers,
and elbowed his way between the twosome.

“Quincy!” Amy
threw her arms around his neck, and he crushed her in a tight hold, twirling
her in the air. She gasped when he set her back on her feet. “I’m so glad
you’ve returned in time to be Edmund’s groom’s man.”

“When is the
wedding?”

“In a month’s
time.”

“In the heat of
summer? You won’t wait until the spring?”

“I’ve waited
almost a
year
to marry your brother. I’ll not wait another, no matter
how unfashionable.”

He grinned. “I
couldn’t be happier for you, Amy.” He next turned toward his brother and extended
his hand. “Congratulations, Eddie.”

Edmund pushed aside
the offered hand and embraced him. “Thank you.”

Quincy laughed.
His surly brother wasn’t the sort to express affection. The man’s inspiring
fiancée had spurred the uncharacteristic sentiment, Quincy was sure.

“I sent word to
William aboard the
Nemesis
. He should be here soon.”

“I’m glad to
hear it,” said Edmund. “Welcome home, Quincy. And look out. James is heading straight
for you.”

Edmund then swooped
his intended bride away.

Quincy groaned.
He turned and witnessed his eldest brother cutting a line through the dance
floor, intimidated couples whisking out of his path. The generational gap
between him and James, almost forty-two years of antiquity, placed them in the
more contentious positions of father and son, rather than siblings. Quincy was
closer with Edmund in more ways than age, though. They had both endured “the
rules” of their controlling older brother.

“Hullo, James.”

James was taller
than him by two scant inches but brandished the most formidable features, his
long black hair tied in a queue, his blue eyes always hinting of violence. He of
all his brethren had endured the most difficult transition from pirate to
gentleman. His gruff ways and inhospitable manner had made him an outcast,
earning him the reputation of “barbarian” in high society—until he’d “killed”
the pirate Black Hawk.

James had staged
his own death to protect their pasts and secure their futures, and he’d become
the nation’s hero for ridding the waves of the infamous rogue. There was irony
there, somewhere, thought Quincy, that to live, one first had to die.

Quincy wondered
if his own death was looming, his brother’s gaze inscrutable.

“I understand
you’re married,” said James.

 Quincy waited
for the rest of the sentence, the inevitable reproach, the thrashing, and when
all failed to follow, he frowned. “And?”

His expression
stony, James reached out his hand. “And congratulations.”

In a wary move,
Quincy returned the handshake. “Thank you.”

“I admire your
wife. She’s a spirited lass.”

And with that
unexpected compliment, James sauntered off, leaving Quincy bewildered in the
middle of the dance floor. Where was the tirade? The broken legs?

He stared after
his brother, who joined his wife near an alcove beside the musicians stand.
Sophia lifted a glass and smiled at Quincy. He returned the salutation, still
stumped.

Quincy hadn’t a
moment more to mull over the inexplicable exchange with his brother when his
sassy sister scooped him in her arms and whirled him across the dance floor.  

“You’ve returned,”
she said with a mumpish frown. “Good. I’ve a bone to pick with you.”

As he waltzed
with her, his ill humor darkened. First, he had to contend with his brother’s
queer behavior. And now Mirabelle was making an unjustified fuss. He had been
at sea for three bloody months! How could he have made a blunder and grieved
her?

“What bone?” he
demanded.

“Why didn’t you
tell me Holly was Lord H?”

Quincy missed a
step. “How did you find out?”

“She told me, of
course.”

“The devil she
did!”

What was the
wench doing, confessing her notorious identity as the erotic artist? To his
sister, no less?

Quincy scanned
the ballroom, peering over winding couples, searching for his wayward wife. Soon
he spotted her across the room, radiant in a bronze satin gown, her strawberry
locks appearing more golden under the burnished candlelight. He also noticed
she was surrounded by mooning, winking, lustful men.

Quincy saw red.