Your Wicked Heart (11 page)

Perhaps he did not mean to assault her pride, but it stung, regardless. “I competed against thirty or more well-qualified women for that post. I will thank you not to diminish my accomplishment in securing it. Why, if I’d managed a letter of reference from her . . .”

The thought was too ludicrous, too sad. She swallowed her next words.

“Then what?” His voice was gentle. She dared to look up and saw nothing but compassion in his face. “What would you have done with it?”

She shrugged. “Found another position, I suppose.”

“Is that what you hope for?” His gaze was steady and kind. “Adventure, you told me—a chance to see the world. But what else? What do you want for yourself after the adventure is over?”

A wave of shyness fell over her. Nobody had ever asked such a question of her. But he seemed earnestly interested. “I . . . don’t know, exactly. I never thought that far. A solid living, I suppose? A permanent place in a respectable household.” No, that didn’t sound quite right, either. “A place where I belong,” she said quietly.

“Not a husband?”

She bit her lip. This conversation was growing too intimate. With a nod toward the compress, she said, “Here, you can take hold of it yourself.”

His hand closed over hers before she could pull away. And then his fingers tightened, holding hers in place.

His grip was strong, his palm callused. One did not expect an aristocrat to work with his hands. If she had had any remaining doubts about his claim to the viscountcy, she might have clung to this detail as proof that he lied.

Instead, the sensation riveted her, becoming proof of mysteries, secrets, she could only begin to guess at. Mysteries that she desperately craved to know.

God save her from her own foolishness! She tried to pull back, but his hold did not loosen.

“I imagine you married,” he said softly. “That is why I ask.”

She raised her eyes. The look on his face swam through her like a strong wine. How intently his dark eyes held hers.

“With children,” he said. “Children with eyes as blue as yours. I see you laughing in a garden. Full of roses, and sunlit. Always sunlit. Those golden curls spilling to your waist, gleaming in the sunlight . . .”

A sigh slipped from her. His lashes lowering, he took a deep breath, as though—strangest thought—to inhale the breath that had escaped her.

“Miss Thomas,” he said very quietly. “You were right, of course.” His gaze rose to hers. “You told me a man would find much to value in you. I tell you now . . . I agree.”

He lifted her hand then, raising it until she felt the heat of his breath on her knuckles. Slowly, softly, he kissed her palm.

“Thank you,” he said into her skin, “for coming to look for me.”

She could not catch her breath. He had such beautiful eyes. If she ever had children, she would wish them to have
his
eyes—eyes just like his, rather—

He pulled her the last inch toward him. “Amanda,” he murmured. His lips brushed over hers, as light as a breath. A soothing touch, a kiss as soft as a whisper and as sweet as a lullaby. A kiss as quiet as the world around them, the silence so immense in the wake of the roaring wind.

Her body relaxed. His broad hand slid up her back slowly, firmly, until the flat of his palm rested between her shoulder blades. Silently he urged her to lean into him as his tongue slipped into her mouth.

He was built so broadly, his chest so easily cradling her weight. Her arms wound around his shoulders as the kiss deepened. Sparks began to light deep in her belly. This kiss was different than the one they had shared in Malta. In his lips, on his tongue, she tasted something richer, deeper, more lasting than mere hunger. He was making a promise to her with his mouth. And she was drinking it in, desperate for it, desperate for more . . .

Desire was heavy and light all at once. She was floating, weightless, but her body grew fuller, heavier with need. Her palm found his cheek, the prickle of new beard, and she moved into him, wanting him to take . . . something. His hand skated down her shoulder and glanced against her breast, and she gasped, twisting toward it, a silent encouragement. His hand obeyed; his thumb found her nipple through the thin cloth of her dress, stroking lightly, and a cry tangled in her throat, a single syllable of triumph.
Yes. Take everything; take all of me.

The thought echoed. Grew louder, emerging distinctly from the haze of pleasure.

What was she doing? She was nobody; he was a
viscount
. What madness would bid her to give to him what little still remained of her own?

She yanked free and stepped back.

The compress fell to the deck with a wet, smacking sound. They stared at each other.

Say something.

“You’ll . . . want to hold that a bit longer,” she said. “The compress, I mean. I’ll just—”

“Wait,” he said, starting to rise, but this time she was prepared for him. Spinning on her heel, she dashed out.

CHAPTER NINE

Spence no longer understood himself in the least. And he was a man who needed to understand himself.

His life had been defined by his difference from his family.
A St. John only in name,
people whispered—meaning it as a slur upon his joyless temperament in a family known for charm and whimsy, for even Uncle Richard had been a smiling, well-loved figure outside the house.

But Spence had always taken the slur as a backhanded compliment. He was, indeed, nothing like his family. And it profited the rest of them to have his steady hand guiding their fortunes. He was resolute where they were fickle, steadfast where they were buffeted by whims and tempers. They relied on him for his cool head, his enterprise, and his discipline.

Yet where was that discipline now? Although he had sworn not to touch her, he had done so. And if he was honest with himself—and he always was; one did not profit by self-deception—then he knew he could no longer trust himself around her.

His intentions made no difference: he
would
touch her again before this voyage was over.

But to what end? For while he had done dishonorable things in his time—kidnapping her among them—they had always been with a view to serving those he loved. To finding Charles, in this case.

But if he touched her again . . . if he took her to his bed . . . it would not be for honorable ends. It would be only for himself.

That night of the storm, he lay awake for long hours with these thoughts, his only company the sounds of the ship: the dull roar of the engine, and beneath it, the creaks and groans of the hull as it pushed through deep water. And he argued with himself, argued against the selfish course that seemed so inevitable. For he had
seen
her face before she had fled this room. She was not hardened, not practiced. The simplest touch had caused something tender and shockingly vulnerable to come into her face. She would not rise from his bed unharmed. She would not walk away from an affair unbroken.

Nor, perhaps, would he.

The next morning he sat down across from her in the dining room, and when she finally brought herself to meet his eyes, her face scarlet, he knew he could not do it. Perhaps for his own sake he would have seduced her, and to hell with the risk—would have seized for himself a few hours of unrivaled sweetness, the sound of his name on her lips as he brought her to pleasure. But at the sight of her, he realized that somehow she had come into his circle all unwittingly, without his permission. Somehow she had become someone he needed to protect.

So he would protect her from himself. For her sake he would refrain from touching her, even if it killed him.

Ludicrous thought! Such melodrama was beneath him. Yet the possibility felt very real to him as he watched her lift her teacup. Even the graceful bend of her wrist, the dimple of her elbow, were enough to cause his belly to tighten and his blood to surge with need.

But his voice revealed none of this as he pleasantly inquired after her sleep. And he pretended not to notice the surprise in her face when he continued the conversation in this neutral, courteous vein—or how her breath caught when their hands brushed, much later, on the promenade as they strolled side by side in the morning light.

She was under his protection, he reminded himself that afternoon when he stopped by her cabin to ask her if she had interest in high tea. And it became easier, as the hours passed and she relaxed again, to control his need. For his reward came in how she began to speak more freely, and to laugh, and to reply without hesitations, only occasionally casting him veiled, puzzled looks. Those looks asked a question—
What has changed?
—that he would never answer.

This voyage would benefit her, in the end. He would see to her situation once he arrived back in London. Whether or not Charles had deceived her made no difference now. He, Spencer, owed her a debt—for forcibly removing her from Syra; from wresting her course out of her hands. In doing so, he had assumed the responsibility of ensuring that her course steered true.

So he would find her a position. Well paid. A gentle employer. Certainly no one who would ever lift a hand to the staff.

And he would take care of Pennypacker for her.
That
he would enjoy.

At supper, she finally found the courage to ask him outright, “Is anything . . . wrong?”

The soup course had just been laid. He took a sip of the bisque before replying. “I don’t follow you. To what do you refer?”

“Oh, it’s just . . .” She looked down into her bowl. “Perhaps ‘wrong’
is not the word for it. It’s only that . . . you seem very
calm
today, I suppose.”

As he formulated his reply, he allowed himself a brief, hungry study of her. It seemed she owned no dinner gowns, but she required none of the flounces or lace that ornamented the other women in the room. Her simple woolen dress, a rich azure, set off the rosy hue of her skin, the brilliance of her eyes, the sunny brightness of her hair. Her own natural features were her ornaments, which any other woman in the room might have rightly coveted.

She deserved an artist’s attention, he thought. She deserved to be a muse, the object of endless tributes in watercolors as soft as her lips and skin, or in rich oils that would capture all her jeweled tones. She belonged in silks, in a house filled with flowers. She was the very essence of English beauty; home as the weary traveler imagined it—but never as he actually found it. Yet somehow she was real, a piece of sunlight sitting across from him.

Her brows lifted in a silent prompt. He cleared his throat. “I am generally calm,” he said. True enough. But not since he’d met her.

He’d supposed that to be a product of the circumstances. Now it came to him to wonder if she had not been the main cause of his disorientation. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her . . . perhaps some part of him had known.

Focus.
“Of course,” he continued, “this past fortnight has not been typical.”

“Of course not.” She tried a smile, which did not linger. “You’re sure you’re well, though? Your knee does not pain you?”

“It’s much better. Your compress worked wonders.” And then, because he sensed from her the slightest disappointment, he endeavored to be less formal. A tricky business, that: formality made a handy defense against his own urges. “Did the books suit you?” He had borrowed several volumes from the ship’s library for her.

She brightened. “Oh, yes. There was a guidebook to Spain that I found marvelously engaging . . .”

And off she went, chattering about Seville and Madrid, Cordova and San Sebastián—all places he had been, but which, in her telling, became strange and wondrous, full of amazements he did not recall noticing.

Did he know that in medieval times, the lion statues in the Alhambra’s courtyards had spat water at the top of the hour as an ingenious timekeeping device?

No, he had not known.

And what of the aqueducts in Segovia? Over a thousand years old, yet still carrying water to the populace!

By the time dinner concluded, he found himself tempted to plan a trip to Spain, simply to discover how blind he had been during his previous visits.

And that night he once again lay awake after retiring, dwelling on a broader question: How blind had he become, all around?

He had grown so accustomed to the comfort of rules and routines. When had he forgotten to look for the beauty in the world?

The next morning, when he went to fetch her for breakfast, she was waiting, a new guidebook in hand. “France,” she announced. “I suppose you’ve been to Arles, but if you haven’t . . .”

He shook his head. “No. What have you discovered?”

He had been to Arles a dozen times, but he lied simply for the pleasure of hearing her educate him. And also for the simple pleasure of her smile.

*   *   *

On boarding the
Augusta,
Amanda had been piqued by Ripton’s icy reserve. The memory amazed her now. As Gibraltar rose on the horizon, a spiny rock starkly outlined against the burning sky, she only wished that it would retreat, recede, and give her another day or two to puzzle out Ripton’s alteration.

For a sea change in truth had overcome him. Overnight, he had transformed into the most attentive and pleasant companion imaginable—and yet more reserved, somehow, than he had ever been before. And that reserve left her puzzled and increasingly frustrated. She wanted . . . she
longed
for . . . something else.

She wanted what she saw on his face when he thought she was not looking. It was raw and hot and nothing a wise woman would desire. But each time she caught him watching her, she forgot to be wise. Her mouth went dry and she craved . . . oh, the smell of his skin, and the warmth of his body. She found herself riveted by his hands, the fingers long and elegant, the palms broad and strong. Once, she caught a glimpse of the muscles of his thighs through the thin cloth of his trousers when he knelt to retrieve her dropped glove, and her pulse pounded, and her head began to spin.

When he stepped too near, she felt sick as though with a fever. It was his fault—the fault of his mouth and his eyelashes, which were as long as a woman’s, dark as soot. His fault for the way a crease appeared, bracketing his mouth, when he gave her a one-sided smile.

He was charming. She did not want his
charm
. The more charming he grew, the more frustrated she became. And the more daring with her accidental touches.

He was a man of control, and she wanted his control to snap.

She was not a wanton. She only wanted his mouth on hers again.
Once
more. She had been so good, so virtuous. Surely she deserved just one more brush with temptation. She was strong. She would not let it go beyond that.

She stole a glance at him now from the corner of her eye. He stood beside her at the rail, gazing out at the island. His profile looked stern, the faint shadow of an oncoming beard emphasizing the full, stern line of his lips. A fresh breeze ruffled his hair. It looked so soft. She curled her fingers into her palm so tightly that her knuckles hurt, but the urge remained to reach up and discover that softness. The urge made her
ache
.

“We’ll be docking within the hour,” he said.

“Yes.”
Look at me,
she thought.

“The governor of Gibraltar is an old friend of the family. I expect I’ll have to attend a very tedious dinner tonight.”

The notion briefly startled her. To dine with the governor! How grand!

And then it left her strangely flat. For she was not invited, of course. Their proper worlds were very different, and now that they were back on British territory, his world would have no room for secretaries.

“Of course.” She tried for a bright voice. “Take heart, sir! Gibraltar is an island. I very much doubt I could escape it on my own.”

Frowning, he turned toward her. “You mustn’t think you need to . . . escape, Miss Thomas. If you wished to go on separately, I would book a passage for you.”

Was she not even his captive anymore?

She dug her nails harder into her palms. This news should
cheer
her. But clearly she was losing her mind. “Of course. Yes, now I think on it, I was not locked into the hotel room in La Valletta, either.”

His frown deepened; abruptly he turned back toward the water. “You were right to call me a villain,” he said. “No doubt I will look back on all of this and be appalled by my behavior.”

“But it was for a good cause,” she said. “You only did it to find your cousin.”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

A small vessel was coming out of port toward their ship—dispatched, no doubt, to confirm the health of all onboard. Gibraltar was famously strict about such things.

“Perhaps that boat carries news of him,” she said brightly.

His smile looked strained. “You have been very good company, Miss Thomas. If your optimism is catching, this journey will have been to my benefit.”

Why did that remark make her heart turn over?

Perhaps because he spoke of the journey ending.

How odd! This voyage, which had started in true terror, had come to seem to her like the grandest adventure she would ever have. No doubt when she was eighty she would still think back with amazement on the strange events of the autumn of 1885.

A strange prickle passed down her spine, almost like a premonition. She reached out to touch his wrist, her fingers coming to rest on the bare patch of skin revealed between cuff and glove.

His body jerked at the contact, but his expression did not change. He remained facing the island, his look stony.

“I know your cousin is well.” His skin was so warm. The sensation riveted her. “I feel it, deep inside me. And you should know that until we reach England, I will remain your . . . partner in the search. I will not leave without you.”

He straightened and pushed away from the rail—and from her touch as well. He wore a smile as he faced her, but it looked false somehow. “And if any of me might prove catching, I would hope, for your sake, it might be my cynicism,” he said. “For you should not be so willing to forgive me, Miss Thomas.”