Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (16 page)

Under different circumstances Jack might well have desired to
hear just such a phrase from Francesca Linden’s lips. But not here, not like
this. ‘Give me your cloak.’

He noticed the slight tremble in her fingers as they fumbled with
the ties of her cloak. The drab cloth was soon in his hands. He folded it to
form a pillow and laid it down on the floor on top of his own shabby coat.
‘Now, turn around,’ he said, ‘that I might unhook your dress.’

‘My dress?’

‘Your dress, Miss Linden.’

There was a hesitation, and he thought for a moment that she
would refuse him. But then she did as he asked. His fingers worked their way
down, separating each hook from its corresponding eye, and her dress opened
like a fan in their wake, gaping to reveal the layers of material that made up
her petticoats, her stays and her shift…and the soft skin at the nape of her
neck.

‘Can you slip your arms free?’

She shook her head. ‘It does not unfasten far enough to allow
that.’

Jack soon remedied that problem. The material tore easily beneath
his hands, opening the garment right down to the small of her back. The dress
was falling from her shoulders before he had even finished.

He could see the slight rise and fall of her shoulders with each
breath. She did not look round. ‘Free yourself from the bodice and arms only.
It will serve us better if you keep your skirts in place.’ He was standing
directly behind her, so close that he could smell the faint perfumed aroma from
her. ‘Your stays will also have to be removed.’

She craned around and peered at him with a scowl. ‘Is this really
necessary?’

‘I would not ask were it not so.’

Her gaze held his for a few seconds longer before she faced ahead
once more, presenting him with her back, standing still, waiting patiently.
When his fingers touched to the top fastening of her stays he felt her jump. He
worked quickly, steadily unfastening the ties until the stays lay abandoned on
the floor beside the cloak and coat. ‘You can turn around now.’

She hesitated, then with her head up slowly turned to face him,
gritty control upon her face. From the waist down she was still fully dressed.
From the waist up only the thin gauze of her shift covered her nudity—that and
the strategic positioning of her arms.

He did not stare, but quickly pulled the pins from her chignon,
unwinding the roll of hair, loosening it, so that it tumbled long and free in a
curtain of curls down her back. He resisted the urge to tangle his fingers
within it and rapidly averted his gaze.

‘Take off your boots and lie down on my coat.’

He turned away and began to untie his tatty neckcloth, dispensing
with it on top of her stays. He pulled his shirt off over his head. From the
corner of his eye he could see that Miss Linden was sitting down upon his coat.
Her boots sat in a neat pair next to the pile of clothing. He unfastened the
fall on his breeches and moved to where she was sitting like a mermaid with her
flowing hair and her skirts wrapped around her legs. He knelt down on the edge
of the coat.

‘Lie down.’

She stayed sitting, her forearm shielding her breasts, her hair
spilling over her shoulders.

‘If White comes in again I will have to lie on top of you.’

‘You will squash me, sir.’ She was finding it harder to disguise
her uneasiness now.

‘Rest assured, I shall not.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘Now, lie
down.’

She looked up at him with quiet defiance.

‘Miss Linden?’ he prompted.

The sound of laughter drifted through from beyond the door.

Mr White laughed again. ‘Such a feisty little thing. It’s little
wonder that she’s keeping Mr Black occupied for so long.’

The men grinned at White’s crudity.

Tom gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the lecherous smirks of
the men around him, knowing full well that it was his sister of whom White was
speaking.

‘Lucky bugger,’ said one.

‘Can we have her when you’re finished?’ said another.

‘If the job goes well you can have what you like,’ said White.

‘I’d like to get my hands around her bubbies,’ said Weasel. ‘What
about it, Tom? You up for a bit?’

Tom dug his nails hard into his palms and squeezed, trying to
force some measure of a smile, but his lips would not form the curve.

‘Or maybe Tommy boy’s got other preferences. Is that why you’re
lookin’ so pale about the gills?’

Tom’s body was rigid with anger and fear and worry for Francesca.
The sound of his sister’s shouts had rattled him, and he had the urge to run
back there, but that, he knew, would ruin everything.

‘Eh, Tommy boy, is that it?’ Weasel thumped him on the shoulder.

‘Leave the lad alone,’ said Ginger. ‘He’s just green. Probably
never had a lass. Ain’t that right, lad?’

Tom nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

White laughed. ‘Well, you’re in the right company, Linden. You
can have the girl last. There’ll be no fight left in her by then. She’ll take
you meekly enough. And if you ask nicely Mr Black might give you some advice.
He’s considered something of an expert in such matters.’

Tom knew precisely Jack Holberton’s reputation up in London. It
was not a thought on which he wished to dwell, given that his sister was alone
in there with the man.

‘You feelin’ all right?’ asked Ginger.

‘Looks a bit strange to me,’ said Weasel.

Tom gave another nod, but did not meet their eyes for fear that
they would guess the truth.

‘What the hell’s the matter with you tonight?’ Weasel stared at
him.

‘Nothing.’ Tom pulled himself together.

‘Lad’s just nervous with all that talk of shaggin’,’ said Ginger.
‘Leave him be.’

‘Nervous or not, he had best be ready when we meet the contact. I
won’t tolerate any mistakes,’ said White. ‘Do you understand?’

The men nodded.

No sound came from the cabin. Tom was careful not to look in that
direction. He pushed his mind to think of the real reason he had joined the
Swift
’s
crew. Francesca would be safe with Lord Holberton. Tom had to trust in that.

There was the scrape of boxes being pushed back, and the sound of
men moving, of voices that sounded too close. In an instant Francesca found
herself lying flat on her back with Mr Black stretched out by her side.
Protected only by the thin material of her shift, her breasts were precariously
close to the bare skin of his chest, and he had bundled her skirts in an indecent
fashion somewhere up around her thighs. His face was hovering close to hers.

He spoke quietly. ‘When he enters you must protest—although with
perhaps not quite as much fervour as you did the last time.’

She gave the smallest of nods, trying not to move, or even to
breathe. She was excruciatingly conscious of the overwhelming proximity of the
man and his masculinity.

‘You shall expire if you hold your breath much longer.’

She looked at him; his face was barely a few inches away from
hers. The light of the lantern served only to emphasise its shadows and planes,
and set soft hues in the darkness of his eyes. She released her breath and
inhaled another. Her cheeks grew uncomfortably warm. She averted her gaze. ‘How
long must we stay like this?’

‘You wound me with your impatience. Surely you cannot find me so
very unpleasant?’

‘On the contrary, sir, you greatly overestimate your appeal. And
you have not answered my question.’

His smile was one of resignation. ‘For as long as it takes to
reach our rendezvous point, Miss Linden.’

‘The rendezvous where you pick up the goods to be smuggled?’

He made a gesture of agreement.

‘And after we reach the rendezvous point?’ she demanded.

‘You will be safe.’

‘But what of Mr White? You heard what he said.’

‘He’ll not touch you, none of them will.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

He just looked at her, the certainty in his eyes more convincing
than any words.

‘Then what do we do in the meantime?’

He crooked an eyebrow suggestively.

She glared at him fiercely.

He gave a soft laugh. ‘My dear girl, you need not look at me so.
I merely meant that we shall converse.’

She relaxed a little, but still watched him with wary eyes.

‘Tell me something of yourself, Miss Linden.’

They might have been standing in an assembly room, such was Mr
Black’s polite tone. It was ridiculous when they were lying practically naked
beside each other. Her heart was beating too fast, and she could feel the throb
of her pulse in her throat. She took a deep breath, and was immediately
reminded of how very close Mr Black’s chest was to hers. She felt embarrassment
flood her cheeks, and kept her eyes carefully averted from his so that he would
not see the measure of her vulnerability. Francesca was used to being strong
and unfazed—or at least pretending to be. It was she, after all, who had held
her family together since her mama’s illness. And if ever Francesca had needed
to appear strong it was now.

‘Miss Linden?’ Mr Black’s voice had gentled.

She struggled to contain her emotions, determined not to show any
weakness. When at last she looked at him again, she was certain that her
expression was nothing but composed.

‘Were you born in Lannacombe?’ he asked, as if they were just
making small talk in the most respectable of places

‘No, Salisbury. My father’s family are from that city. We moved
to Looe in Cornwall, where Papa had the living. We did not come to Lannacombe
until I was eighteen.’

‘Your father was a parson?’

‘He was. He died four years ago.’

‘I know, and I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Linden.’

‘You know?’

‘I know something of your brother.’

She nodded. ‘I had forgotten.’

‘So you live with your mother and your brother?’

‘And my three younger sisters.’

‘Three!’ He smiled. ‘Young Tom must be thoroughly hen-pecked by a
household of females.’

Francesca smiled at his words. ‘Hardly. Tom is rather a
headstrong young man, as you may have noticed.’ She smiled, and then the smile
faded. ‘I’ve known that there’s been something going on for weeks. He’s been
going off at night, supposedly fishing. But he’s never fished so late before,
and I sensed that he was hiding something. When I tried to speak to him he
would have none of it. I knew that something was wrong—that’s why I followed
him tonight.’

‘What were you planning to do? Force him from the boat?’

She shook her head. ‘If I could not prevent him boarding then I
would have confronted him tomorrow and put an end to this.’ She sighed.
‘Christmas is coming, Mr Black, and so I can understand Tom’s temptation to
make some extra money. But this is too dangerous. Were anyone in the village to
find out that Tom was working for the Buckleys…’ She looked away, suddenly
afraid that she had revealed too much.

‘It seems to me that you care a great deal for your family,’ he
said.

She took a deep breath, and this time she did not notice how very
close her body was to Mr Black’s. ‘Yes, I do. And tonight I seem to have made
things worse for them.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’ He looked directly into her eyes. ‘After
tonight I’ll warrant that Tom will have no more dealings with the Buckleys.’ In
the warm light of the lantern his eyes were kind and slightly teasing.

Francesca could feel the hardness of the deck beneath pressing
into her back, and the dampness from the wood stiffening her bones. Her fingers
were cold, her toes were cold, even her nose was cold. But it was not the chill
winter temperatures that caused Francesca to shiver.

‘Are you cold?’ He touched his hand to her wrist.

The heat from his fingers seemed to scorch her bare skin.

He shifted closer until their bodies were just touching.

‘Mr Black!’ exclaimed Francesca in a scandalised tone, and pulled
back.

‘Miss Linden,’ he said, with the patient tone of someone talking
to a child, ‘I am sharing my warmth with you, nothing else.’

She had to admit that he had felt gloriously warm, but even
so…‘It is not seemly,’ she muttered in protest. The absurdity of her words
struck her. She was lying half-naked next to a strange man aboard a smugglers’
boat in the middle of the night. Lord, as if there were a shred of decency
about any of it!

He gave a droll laugh as if his thoughts had followed the same
path. ‘Why not?’

She stared at him as if he had lost his mind. ‘I am an unmarried
lady, and you are…’

‘Yes?’ The word resonated with expectation.

‘You are a stranger and a smuggler and a
man
, for goodness’
sake!’ And all that separated their naked skins was the fine lawn of her shift
and the barricade of her forearm. But she did not give words to that thought.

He smiled.

‘I don’t even know you!’

‘My name is Jack, and I am six and twenty years old. You know me
now.’

‘You are incorrigible.’

His smile deepened. ‘So I have been told.’

She tilted her face and looked up at him. ‘You are still a
stranger.’

‘I may not be from Lannacombe, but I’m a Devon man all the same.’

She felt surprised at that. ‘And you’re working with the Buckley
gang?’

‘I am.’

A dangerous criminal—yet here she was, lying half-clothed by his
side, conversing with him. It was preposterous, worse than ridiculous. Her
mother would have a blue fit if she knew. But what she saw in his face made her
think that he was a different man altogether. Against all rhyme and all reason
she trusted him, this stranger, this smuggler.

‘Still not enough for you?’ he asked.

She levelled her gaze to his and said nothing.

A minute passed before he spoke again. ‘I am the worst son that a
man might have. I’ve dishonoured my family name, I’ve made my father curse, my
mother weep and my brothers rue the fact I was ever born. I am a womaniser, a
drunkard and a gambler. I do not know the meaning of honour. And if that were
not enough I came damn near close to killing my brother. In short, Miss Linden,
I am the proverbial blackest of sheep. That is all there is to know of me. Have
I shocked you?’