Your Wicked Heart (4 page)

“Of course,” she said, and lay back.

“‘Of course,
my lord
.’”

But all she said was “Pleasant dreams to you.”

He bit his cheek against the damnedest urge to laugh.
Bloody cheek.

Well. There was a quality one most definitely did
not
look for in a wife.

CHAPTER THREE

The scrape of the door startled her. Looking up from her book, Amanda winced at the bright light flooding the cabin. “Have you brought food?” she asked. The breakfast her captor had fetched earlier had been a very sorry affair—a hunk of waxen cheese and stale rolls of bread.

“Another hour yet,” he said as he ducked into the cabin. He looked windswept and aggravatingly virile, his golden skin glowing against his pale linen suit.

His dark eyes moved pointedly down her figure. “Is there no other gown in that valise of yours?” he asked. “One would think you’d want out of that one.”

She pretended not to hear this question, though she had spent a good hour after breakfast struggling to free herself from said gown—which, alas, buttoned up the back.

He prowled past her to take a seat on the stool. She tried to concentrate again on the book, but this miserable cabin was too small to allow blithe ignorance.
Go away,
she thought.

He shifted audibly, cloth rustling. She stole a glance at him. His adventures on deck had caused his color to darken by a degree.

He lifted a brow, as though challenging her to speak.

She turned back to her book. He had the air of a man who was bored and looking for entertainment. But he would not find it here. She would be glad to help him identify her former fiancé—indeed, she had passed happy minutes today imagining the satisfaction she would achieve by slapping that scoundrel’s face, once she located it. But that did not mean she felt any measure of kindness for
this
one.

“Stony silence,” he said. “Preferable to tears, at least.”

Yes, she felt quite pleased with herself on that account! Biting back a smile, she flipped to the next page.

“Though not nearly as persuasive when it comes to performing your innocence.”

She glared at the print. “Too much sun
will
addle the brain.”

“Too much reading
will
ruin the eyes,” he said, in a perfect parody of her tone.

She cast down the book and twisted to face him. “I thought you didn’t care for my protests. You must make up your mind.”

His black gaze lit on the books stacked by the bunk, then rose to the pile that rested beside her atop the mattress. “
Mining in South America
—that’s an ambitious choice.”

She hesitated. This seemed a more courteous tack for a conversation.

She decided to reward him with a nod. “The captain has curious taste in literature.” Mr. Papadopoulos was teaching himself English with the aid of books abandoned by his erstwhile passengers—among them a handbook of gambling strategies, a lurid tract about opium addiction, and two novels that Amanda felt certain would have been banned in Britain, had any company dared to print them. “I must say, if these books are representative, it’s a very shady lot that travels on this boat.”

“Ship,” he corrected. “Tell me, then: Do you mean to wear that gown the whole way to England?”

She realized she was scratching at the lace that trimmed her neckline. Snatching her hand back to her lap, she said, “Somebody left a guidebook to Italy. Malta sounds most picturesque! Listen here: ‘The isle of Malta rises precipitously from the sea in the form of a sterile rock . . . ’ All right, not that part, but a bit ahead . . . ‘The fields and gardens being enclosed by lofty walls and terraces of stone . . .’ ” She skipped onward. “‘Fruit is very abundant, especially oranges, lemons, and figs.’ I adore figs. So difficult to find a nice fig in London!”

He made a dismissive noise. “Did you not stop in La Valletta on the voyage out? Squalid little town.”

She cast down the book. “I begin to wonder if any locale on earth meets your high standards. Perhaps even Eden would disappoint you!”

He smiled at her. “Of course it would. All those animals would make for a great deal of muck. So much vegetation? The most dreadful humidity.”

“Blasphemy,” she said. But she found herself fighting down a grin. His humor was wickedly dry.

And he knew it. His own smile invited her to admire him. He was clearly accustomed to ladies’ admiration. Lord Arrogant!

The thought made her frown. She was inventing ever so many names for him . . .
cad, blackguard, captor
 . . . largely because she could not quite bring herself to acknowledge his claim to be Viscount Ripton. But she could not deny that even the way he now lifted a brow smacked of privilege from the cradle.

“Never fear,” he said. “We’ll get you something new to wear in Malta. It’s only two days away, and you can . . .”

His sentence trailed off. He had glanced over at her valise, which—drat it—she had not bothered to close after her desperate struggle with the gown.

She did not lack for clothing: that was obvious.

His gaze swung back to her. “Or perhaps you linger in that dress for a reason?”

She felt herself flush. “I like it. No harm in that.”

“Naturally.” His head tipped as he studied her. Then comprehension broke over his face. “Ah. Buttons up the back, does it?”

A strangled noise escaped her. “Nonsense. As I said, I think it
beautiful
.”

He grinned, flashing improbably white teeth. “May I be of assistance?”

“No!” Alarmed now, she sprang to her feet. “I’m quite fine, I assure you!”

He made a visible attempt to look serious. “I’ll close my eyes, if you like.”

“You think me a base criminal! Why should I trust you to do the honorable thing?”

“No reason to trust me,” he agreed. He looked to be enjoying himself
hugely
. “Of course, were I an honorable man, that would not change no matter your occupation.”

“Says the man who threatened to drown me!”

“And still might,” he said. “But perhaps one of your other dresses would make for better swimming.”

She opened her mouth, then thought better of her retort. The longing to be in some fresh, clean gown overwhelmed her. This one itched terribly. Her calves still ached from the impressions made by the seed pearls, which had dug into her skin as she’d slept, and felt not much better when she sat.

She took a long breath. “You may not have this gown.” It was valuable. “I mean to keep it.”

“What a pity,” he said. “It would look so well on me, too.”

Her giggle escaped without permission. She remedied the slip by scowling at him.

He looked unfazed. “Have some sentimental value, does it? A beautiful reminder of the man who abandoned you.”

His mockery was salt in the wound. “No. I mean to sell it. It will fund me for a few weeks while I look for employment.”

He made a chiding noise, a click of his tongue. “Recall your role. You’re meant to be heartbroken.”

“No, I never pretended that. And while I would very much like the leisure to be shattered by my fiancé’s betrayal, what I would like even
more
would be to avoid starvation once I arrive in London.”

For a brief space of silence, he frowned at her. And then, with a shrug, he said, “Then you’d certainly best remove the gown. Further wear will only damage its value.”

He had an inarguable point. And the gown itched too badly for her to continue to deny his logic. “Very well. But you must blindfold yourself,” she added quickly. “Otherwise I won’t trust you not to look.”

He rolled his eyes. “You have a very high opinion of your own charms, Miss . . .”

Surprise flickered across his face—and hers, too, probably. After their conversation last night, it felt strange to realize that he did not know her name.

“Miss Amanda Thomas.” Sheer habit made her offer her hand. “How do you do.”

He laughed. “How ludicrously formal.
Miss Thomas
.”

She withdrew her hand. “Very true. Far more fitting if I were to
throw
something at you!”

“Still playing the innocent,” he observed. “Mind you, I laugh because I’m quite certain that your name is neither Amanda nor Thomas.”

“Oh, is that so?” She gave vent to her own sarcasm now, for it irked her to be continually accused of wrongdoing when she was, in fact, the victim. “Pray tell, what
do
you think my name might be?”

“Something absurd,” he said. “Clementine, perhaps.”

“Clementine!” She gaped at him. “Do I
look
like a Clementine to you?”

He shrugged. “Frilly, feminine, too pretty for your own good—yes, indeed; I think the name fits perfectly.”

Too pretty for her own good? Despite herself, she felt a stir of gratification.

Which she quashed
immediately
. “You’re a rogue,” she said, stomping over to her valise. “I’m sure you’ve charmed countless women in your time—”

“Countless?” His amused voice came from behind her as she rummaged through her clothing in search of a serviceable blindfold. “You’ll be glad to know that I was educated at Cambridge. I can count very high indeed.”

Braggart. She yanked out a black stocking. Something went flying, landing with a clatter on the deck behind her.

Amanda turned at the same time that he came off his stool, and they collided. “Oof !” Rubbing the crown of her head, she glared up at him. “I take it back—if you’re as clumsy in a ballroom, the number might be within the grasp of a toddler.”

“Your wit,” he said, “cuts so deeply. Behold me bleeding . . .”

A curious change came over his face—a hardening of his expression. She followed his eyes and spotted the object that had shot across the room.

She sprang for it a second before he did, her hand closing over the ring.

“Hand that over,” he snapped.

“You can’t have it!” She meant to sell this, too. It was solid gold, and nearly too heavy to wear.

“
Give
it to me.”

His voice had dropped to a murderous growl. He had his own routines, too—charm evidently being the most fleeting and shallow of them.

Loathing him but unwilling to ignore the warning in his voice, she opened her palm.

He plucked up the ring. One glance at the inscription inside the band and his face darkened further. “How did you get this?”

“My fiancé gave it to me.”

His gaze raked up her, spearing her in place. “Liar.”

“I’m no liar! It was to be my wedding ring—that is the truth!”

He held her in that dreadful gaze an unbearable moment longer, as though weighing all the awful things he might do to her. “And the inscription? Did he explain that to you?”

The inscription was a date. She had not thought to ask about it. She shook her head.

Slowly he exhaled. Then he pocketed the ring.

“Give that back!” she cried. “That is—”

“Hand me the stocking so we can finish this farce.”

“No!” She was not letting him anywhere near her now! “I’m fine as I am. I want my—”

“Christ!” He yanked the ring from his pocket and thrust it back toward her. “Keep it, then! I can have it back from you in a moment. You do realize that, yes? When it comes to you, I could do
anything
I pleased. It isn’t as though a foot of space would stop me, or a blindfold, or any of the men on this ship—so leave off this sham and turn around!”

This sound and very unwelcome logic froze her in place. He had laid it out plainly: she must trust him, for she had no choice to do otherwise.

Whether she trusted him or not made no difference to her safety with him.

“I take it back,” she said faintly. “I think ladies must not like you after all.”

His smile was grim. “No, you were right before. They like me very well. Even blindfolded, I’ll have your gown unbuttoned in a minute.”

That was not . . . reassuring.

He held out his hand, flicking his fingers impatiently, imperiously.
Hand it over.

Taking a deep breath, she thrust the stocking at him. He tied it around his eyes twice, knotted it firmly, and then held out his hand again, gesturing now for her to approach.

She presented her back to him and focused very hard on a knot in the grain of the wooden bulkhead. But he was as good as his promise, his fingers moving over the buttons quickly and cleverly. The gown sagged a little as it parted. She clutched the neckline and turned back around.

He had not removed his blindfold.

“Now you will leave,” she said, “so I may change.”

He sighed. “Your corset,” he said. “It requires my aid as well.”

She flushed. Curse her for not choosing more practical undergarments in which to be wed!

But he was right. She did require his help to unlace. And . . . there was no mockery in his voice, no sign that he was enjoying her predicament. That was . . .
mildly
comforting.

“Very well,” she said on a breath. “Go to it.”

The laces, too, he undid with speed and ease. As his fingers brushed her back, their warmth translating clearly through the thin lawn of her chemise, it came to her that he was not lying. He’d had a great deal of practice in undressing women.

His hands were . . . gentler than they needed to be. Mrs. Pennypacker’s maid sometimes did this service for her, and the girl seemed to take pleasure in making the process as uncomfortable as possible. But this man, who professed to think her a criminal, took great care with his movements.