How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) (9 page)

“Well, that’s .
. . Wait.” Holly almost toppled from her chair. “
All
of your brothers?
You mean . . . ?”

“Yes, even
Quincy.”

“My husband is a
pirate?”

“A former
pirate,” reiterated Amy. “We’re all married—or soon-to-be married—to one.”

“I am the only
exception,” from Mirabelle. “I married the reformed ‘Duke of Rogues.’
He
is the one married to a former pirate.”

“
You
are
a pirate!”

“Shhh,” hissed
the duchess. “Not so loud, Holly. I don’t want my children to hear the truth.
They’re troublesome sprites, as is. Imagine if they caught word their mother
was once a pirate? They’d turn into veritable hobgoblins.”

Holly heaved a
deep breath. Her head was spinning with too many sensational tales. The family
had accepted her into the fold
because
of her scandalous past, not in
spite of it? Pirates attended high society balls, masquerading as gentlemen?

But one
pertinent question remained after all the shocking confessions.

“Who am I,
then?” asked Holly.

“A woman with a
past?” suggested Amy.

“Just like one
of us,” offered Sophia.

“Family,” said
Mirabelle with a soft smile. “So don’t think for one moment Quincy is looking
for a ‘better’ lady. If he wants to be with the same sort of woman as one of his
brothers, he’s already with her.”

Holly sighed.
She even simpered. For the first time in many black days, hope sprouted in her
heart. Her husband might be furious with her for the way in which they had
married, madcap and under duress, but in time, might he really grow to care for
her?

CHAPTER
13

“You look like
hell,” said James, straddling a chair.

Captain James
Hawkins was the last of the brothers to arrive at the pub. Not since their
bachelors days, when they’d all sailed aboard the
Bonny Meg
, had the
four found time to spend together and get pissed.

“I feel like
hell,” growled Quincy. He sensed a familiar, uncomfortable pressure on his
chest as he remembered his wife’s impudent condemnation. A disgusting offer,
was it? Fine. If she wanted to be a martyr and remain celibate, she could go
right ahead. He sure as hell wasn’t going to maintain a monastic life. And he
would
not
feel guilty about avoiding his “husbandly” duty.

“I was talking
to Will, pup.”

“Oh.” Quincy
rolled his eyes toward William. “He’s looked like that for months.”

James shouted
for ale, then, “What’s the matter, Will?”

After downing a
pint, William wiped his mouth. “Nothing’s the matter.” He slammed the empty
glass on the table and belched.

The brothers
exchanged bewildered glances, for William
never
imbued.

James shrugged,
taking a swig of malt. There was a time when he would’ve beat the confessions
out of them. But he’d considerably mellowed since his marriage to Sophia.

He turned toward
Quincy next. “So what the devil’s wrong with you?”

“Forget I said
anything.” Quincy raised his mug. “We’re here for a toast. To Eddie and Amy.”

The others
lifted their hands. “Eddie and Amy.”

A cacophony of
striking glass filled the already noisy pub.

“Any word on
Gravenhurst?” asked James.

“No.” Edmund
squeezed his tankard. “The bastard’s still at large.”

“I don’t want to
dampen your good fortune, but have you considered he might try to ruin the
wedding? Or come back to hurt Amy?”

“Consider it?
It’s all I bloody think about, protecting Amy. If I can’t stand outside her
parent’s house, I send patrols to guard her.”

“And the wedding
day?”

“I’ll have
runners at the church and during the ball, looking out for him.”

“We’ll keep watch,
too,” said James, his voice lethal.

Whatever their
differences or disputes, the brothers always protected their family.

A sardonic grin soon
crossed the pirate captain’s face as he turned his attention back toward his
youngest brother. “How’s married life, pup?”

“Fine,” gritted
Quincy.

“Trouble in
paradise already?”

“Whoever said it
was paradise?”

Edmund snorted.
“Can’t keep the wife happy? And you, the charmer in the family?”

“Piss off. All
of you.”

James and Edmund
sniggered. William called for another round.

“It’s a strange
time, indeed,” said James, still chuckling, “when
mine
is the only
uncomplicated life.”

“Perhaps it’s
the full moon,” grumbled Quincy.

“A word of
advice to you all.”

“Oh, crikey,” groaned
Edmund.

But James
ignored the protest and lifted his mug once more. “Whatever your troubles, men,
heed the wise words of our forerunner Blackbeard, ‘damnation seize my soul if I
give you quarters, or take any from you’.”

The brothers
knocked glasses again. But Quincy considered James’s counsel
the
worst
he had ever heard.
He imagined the position he was in and what it would
mean to take up such advice—both refusing to surrender
and
refusing to
accept surrender from Holly. A fight to the death, in other words. Gads! Was
his brother mad or foxed? Quincy
wanted
his wife’s capitulation. He’d
remain miserable until then.

The brothers
quit the pub after some more ribald talk. William was so thoroughly drunk by
the end of the night, James and Edmund had to carry him home. Quincy also treaded
home on foot, though his gait slowed as he stepped onto Park Street and stalled
altogether when he reached his house.

Was he going to
pussyfoot every time he arrived home? Like hell! He’d set his wife straight on
the matter of their marriage once and for all: that they would lead separate,
private lives. He with his lovers. And she with hers—or not. He didn’t much
care at that point. He just wanted peace between them.

Quincy pounded
on the front door until his disapproving butler opened the barrier.

“Where’s my
wife?” he demanded, his words slightly slurred.

The old man
frowned before announcing, “In the studio, sir.”

Quincy dismissed
the disagreeable servant and climbed the stairs, heading for the studio. At the
door, he paused and inhaled a fortifying breath. He then entered the room without
making a sound.

Inside, Holly
was seated on a stool, covered in a body apron, her luscious locks pinned in an
untidy bun, loose wisps sweeping across her temple and neck. He watched her
furious fingers, stained with charcoal, gouge the canvas with a flurry of black
marks, and for a moment he remained enthralled. Again, she didn’t notice his
appearance. Again, he had the opportunity to study her in surreptitious
solitude.

He considered
interrupting her work, to resolve the tense matter between them, but instead he
found himself seated in an armchair in the corner of the room. And again, he
leaned his head against the backrest, observing her as she brought to life another
piece of art.

It had startled
him, the depth of her talent. He had thought her work limited to tawdry nudes,
but since retiring as Lord H, Holly had unleashed an otherworldly ability.

He shifted his
gaze to her previous work, the oil drying on an easel, swirling with abundant color.
He was lost in the never-ending whirlpool of brilliant strokes. He captured
splatters of blue and red and yellow paint: colors of passionate emotions.
Anger. Hurt. Lust. Hope. All screamed at him. And he grimaced in pain.

Quincy shut his
eyes and envisioned her slender fingers smoothing the conflicting hues, digging
through them, blending them together, then slashing them apart. More paint.
Heavy, thick, emotive color. Soon peace emerged as the fractious pigments
joined in harmony.

At last.

He sighed. He
needed those slender fingers to do the same to him, to smooth and dig and blend
and slash until his shattered soul was remade in unified fragments.

Quincy opened
his eyes, the world still spinning like the artwork. What rot! He was sloshed.
And he tended to make an ass of himself whenever he was drunk. Perhaps now
wasn’t the right time to talk with his wife.

He was about to
leave the room when Holly sniffed the air. Her concentration shattered, she
looked over her shoulder and her flushed features and breathless beauty punched
him straight in the gut. She had a smudge of charcoal across her fine jaw, and
he had an insatiable desire to wipe away the soot with his thumb.

He really was an
ass. He shouldn’t have entered the room when he hadn’t full control of his senses.
He barely made it through one of their encounters when he
had
his wits
together.

“I smell
liquor.” She made a moue. “Were you at a gentlemen’s club?”

He snorted. “A
pub. I don’t play the bleedin’ nob when there’s no lady fussing about.”

She humphed and
returned to her sketch, but her shoulders soon slumped. “I shall have to finish
it another time.” She looked back at him, piqued. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my house,”
he growled at her audacious reproach. “I can sit in any damn room that pleases
me.”

Her brows
arched. “It pleases you to sit in here? With that?” She pointed toward a draped
canvas, his nude. “And me?”

 Quincy scowled.
He hadn’t meant to suggest he enjoyed her company, that he was looking for more
than an orderly, unfeeling marriage.

“Shit,” he
hissed, reproaching himself for his folly. He pushed out of the chair and
headed for the door. “I think I’ll go to that gentlemen’s club, after all. I
need a good bedding.”

“I suppose I
shouldn’t expect more from a pirate.”

He hardened.
Every bone in his body. Stone. Cold. Dead.

“What?” he rasped.

“Isn’t that all
pirates do? Pillage and whore?”

Slowly he turned
around, blood throbbing through his veins, and met her bold stare. “What the
devil did you call me?”

She quirked
another brow. “A pirate. Or do you prefer cutthroat? Blackguard? What is the
most appropriate term?”

Quincy couldn’t
believe his ears. How the hell had she discovered his past identity? His heart
hammered, and he sensed himself being pushed into a corner. But he quickly remembered
he was privy to
her
secret identity. She wouldn’t dare breathe a word
about his piracy and hurt his family, not when he could destroy her. So what
was she doing taunting him?

Holly hopped off
the stool and reached for a rag, wiping her grimy fingers. “Well, I shan’t keep
you from your whore.”

She strutted
toward the door, and as she passed him, he grabbed a hold of her arm. Slowly he
pulled her across the breadth of his chest until she was positioned in front of
him. He glared at her. She lifted her chin, undaunted, and returned his stare.
Something kindled in her bright green eyes. Humor? Anger? Hope?  What the
deuces was she thinking?

“How?” he
growled.

“How do I know
you’re a pirate? I have my source.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

Her flat refusal
disarmed him. Damn her!
Who
had told her about his past? He had to plug
the leak before others discovered the truth, as well.

“You
will
tell me,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

“I don’t see
how,” she quipped. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”
he snapped.

“I propose a
trade.”

“I won’t bed
you.”

His swift
refusal turned her delicate features into ominous storm clouds. “I wasn’t going
to ask you to ‘bed’ me.”

His heartbeat
steadied at the assertion. “Then what do you want, wench?”

“A kiss.”

“No.”

“And not a peck
on the cheek,” she resumed as if he hadn’t just denied the request. “You once
welcomed my artistic study.” Her voice dropped to a seductive octave. “You once
offered me the opportunity to take my hands and lips and study you until I was
satisfied. Well, I’m accepting the invitation. And
then
I will tell you
my source.”

He stiffened at
her proposed “trade.” His blood burned in anticipation of her downright
extortion—and the pleasure he would feel in giving her what she demanded: a
bloody kiss that could ruin him.

 Quincy girded
his muscles as his brain flooded with memories of that night in his coach, and
he knew, he just knew he wasn’t strong enough to resist her, not when he was
drunk
and
in need of a woman’s touch.

He shut his
eyes, about to refuse her again, when she offered:

“I want just a
kiss, I promise.” She whispered, “I won’t take more than that.”

He had to be a
bloody fool to trust
her
with keeping the kiss from becoming a thorough
bedding, but what other choice did he have? He wasn’t going to lock her in the
studio and starve her until she confessed her source. He even shuddered at the
violent image. He would never hurt a woman, much less Holly. It seemed there
was no other way to get what he wanted except to charm his conniving wife.

He said not a
word. Instead, he lifted his thumb to her jaw line and smoothed away the
charcoal smudge. At first, she appeared confused. But as the silence stretched
between them and he stroked her soft skin more and more, her eyes widened in
understanding.

A glow spread
across her cheeks. Her breathing slowed, deepened.

“Sit,” she bade
him.

A tremor wracked
him before he dropped back into the armchair and waited.