Читать книгу Seduced by the Scoundrel - Louise Allen - Страница 14

Luc saw Averil’s eyes dart from one man to the other and the almost imperceptible relaxation when she realised that Tubbs and Dawkins, the two who had found her, were not there. He had sent them off with the first crew so they would be too winded for an immediate reaction when they encountered Averil again. In their turn the men stared at her with interest, but the mood was different from when they had found her on the beach. He took his hand from his knife and shifted his weight off the balls of his feet.

Time to mark his territory. Luc took two platters from Potts and went to the rock where Averil sat, legs primly together, hands clasped in her lap. ‘You’re in my seat,’ he said and got a cool stare in return. In the depth of her hazel eyes fear flickered, but she tipped up her chin and stared him out. ‘We’re lovers, remember, ‘he mouthed and she blushed harder and shifted to make room for him next to her, hip to hip.

Luc handed her a plate and touched her cheek with the back of his free hand. ‘Hungry, sweetheart?’

‘Ravenous,’ she admitted dulcetly, her eyes darting daggers at him. She folded the bread around the slices of bacon and bit into it. ‘This is good, Mr Potts.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ the cook said, then spoiled it by adding slyly, ‘nothing like a bit of exercise to give you an appetite, I always say.’

‘Quite,’ Averil retorted. ‘That hut was in a shocking state—it took a lot of work to tidy it up.’

Thwarted, Potts returned to his frying pan, glowering at the grins of the other men. They were good-humoured smiles, Luc noticed, neither jeering nor directed at the young woman on the rock. ‘Well done,’ he murmured. She narrowed her eyes at him, so he added more loudly, ‘I’ve a pile of washing needs doing.’

‘I am sure you have, Luke darling,’ Averil said, then softened her tone with an effort he could see. ‘I will need hot water, please.’

‘See to it after breakfast, Potts.’

‘Is she doing all our washing, Cap’n?’ Ferret asked through a mouthful of herring.

‘Miss Heydon is not doing anything for you, Ferret.’

‘Are you the man who lent me these clothes?’ Averil asked as Potts handed her a mug of black tea.

‘Aye, ma’m.’

‘Is Ferret your real name? Surely not.’ She took a sip of tea and gasped audibly at the strength of it.

‘Er … it’s Ferris, ma’am.’ ‘Thank you, Mr Ferris.’

The man grinned. ‘Pleasure to help the Cap’n’s lady, ma’am.’

The others said nothing, but Luc sensed, with the acute awareness of his men any captain learns to acquire, that something in their mood had changed. They had stopped thinking of Averil as a nameless creature for their careless pleasure and started regarding her, not just as his property, but as a person. She was frightened of them still, wisely so—they had not forgotten that she was a woman and they had been celibate for weeks. He could feel the apprehension coming off her like heat from a fire, but she had the intelligence and the guts to engage with them.

Miss Averil Heydon was a darned nuisance and enough to keep any man awake half the night with lustful thoughts and an aching groin, but he was beginning to admire the chit. Admiration did nothing to dampen desire, he discovered.

‘They’re coming,’ Tom the Patch said, his one eye screwed up against the sun dazzle on the waves.

Luc pulled out his watch. ‘They need to do better than that.’

‘Nasty cross-current just there,’ Sam Bull observed with the air of a man determined to be fair at all costs.

‘These waters are one big cross-current,’ Luc said. ‘You reckon you can do better?’

‘Yeah,’ Bull said, and nodded his curly head. ‘Easy.’

They are training for something, Averil thought, watching the men as she sipped the disgusting tea. Her teeth, if they had any enamel left, would be black, she was sure.

The men were a crew, a real ship’s crew, not a motley group of fugitives. They weren’t hiding here because they were deserters, or waiting for someone to come and take them off. It was incredible how much more she was noticing now her terror had abated a little. Instinct had told her to try to treat the men as individuals and, strangely, that had been easier to do over the shared food than it had been to pretend an intimacy with Luke that she did not feel.

Or, at least, she corrected herself as she felt the warmth of his thigh through the thickness of their trousers, she felt an intimacy, just not one involving any sort of affection or trust.

He was a good officer though, albeit a rogue commanding rogues. She had seen enough army officers in her time in India, and she had watched how the Bengal Queen was run; she could recognise authority when she saw it.

The men were focused on the approaching boat while Luke ate his bacon, his eyes on the pilot gig, too. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked, low voiced.

He shook his head without looking at her.

‘Deserters have no need to train for speed,’ she carried on, speculating. ‘And why steal one of those big rowing boats, why not a sailing ship? A brig—you have enough men to crew a brig, haven’t you?’

‘You ask too many questions,’ Luke said, his eyes still trained on the sea. ‘That is dangerous, be quiet.’

A threat—or a warning? Averil put down her empty plate and mug and studied his profile. She could believe he was a man of violence, one who would kill if he had to and do it with trained efficiency, but she could not believe now that he would kill her. If he had been capable of that, he would have been capable of raping her last night.

‘It is less dangerous to tell me the truth.’

‘For whom?’ he asked. But there was the slightest curve to the corner of his mouth and Averil relaxed a little. ‘Perhaps later.’

The rowers were close now and she could see Tubbs at the tiller and Hawkins heaving on an oar. Some sound must have escaped her lips for Luke turned towards her. ‘They won’t hurt you—you are mine now.’ He dipped his head and the shock of his mouth on hers, here, where the men could see them, froze her into immobility. It was a rapid, hard kiss on the lips, nothing more, but it felt startlingly possessive and so did the way his hand stayed on her shoulder when he stood to watch the men land, his pocket watch in the other palm. That big hand would curl into a formidable fist in her defence. She could feel the pressure of each finger and shivered—how would it feel if he caressed her?

‘Not bad,’ he called down to the rowers as they splashed through the shallow surf and up the beach. ‘You could do better. The rest of you, get going. On my mark—now!’

There was a scramble as the others heaved themselves aboard and began to back-water away from the shore. The first crew, without a backward glance, made for the fire and the food Potts had left for them. Then they saw Averil on her rock and they slowed like a pack of dogs sighting a cat, their eyes narrowing.

Luke left his hand where it was for a moment longer, then strolled down to meet them. ‘Close your mouth, Tubbs, or something will fly in,’ he said mildly. The man muttered and a snigger went round the group as their eyes shifted between Luke and Averil.

She wanted to run. Instead she got to her feet, picked up Luke’s plate and walked down to the fire. ‘More bacon, darling?’ Somehow she produced the purr that her friend Dita had managed to get into the most innocuous sentence when she wanted to flirt. Dita, who was probably drowned. Averil blinked back the prickle of tears: Dita would have both charmed and intimidated this rabble.

Close now, they gawped at her and Averil remembered what Luke had said about the wolf pack. These men eyed Luke as much as they ogled her, on the watch for his reaction, edgy as if they waited for him to snarl and lash out if they encroached on his property.

‘Will the others beat your time, do you think?’ she asked, direct to Tubbs.

He blinked, startled, as if the frying pan had addressed him. ‘I reckon we’re better by a length,’ he said when Luke did not react.

‘The boat looks very manoeuvrable. At least it seems so to me. I have been on an East Indiaman for three months, so any small boat looks fast.’ She sat on the grass by Luke who had hunkered down, apparently intent on the gig. Without looking at her he put out his arm and tugged her closer and the men’s eyes shifted uneasily. Now what? Instinct told her to keep talking to them, make them acknowledge her as a person, not a commodity, but she dared say nothing that would seem as if she was probing into their purpose here.

‘Had a lot of treasure on it, did it?’ Dawkins said.

‘Not bullion, I’m sure. But there would have been silks, spices, gem stones, ivory, rare woods—those sorts of things.’ There could be no harm in telling them; the cargo would have gone down or been ruined by the water.

‘You come from India, then?’ one of the men asked. Luke began to stroke the side of her neck languidly, as a man pulls the ears of his gun dog while they sit and wait for the ducks to rise to the guns.

Averil found she was leaning in to him, her lids were drooping … She made herself focus. ‘Yes, India. I lived there almost all my life.’

‘Ever see a tiger?’

‘Lots of them. And elephants and huge snakes and crocodiles and monkeys.’

‘Cor. I’d like to see those. Did you ride on the elephants?’

They asked questions, and she answered, for almost twenty minutes. She felt better, safer in their presence now. Almost safe enough to be alone with them, she thought and then caught Dawkins’s eye and almost recoiled. What the big man was thinking about was plain to see and her whole body cringed against Luke.

His hand stilled. ‘What?’ he murmured.

‘Nothing.’

He stood, pulling her to her feet. ‘Just time to show you that washing I want doing. Timmins, bring a bucket of hot water and one of cold from the well.’

‘I suppose you realise I have never washed a garment in my life, let alone a male one,’ Averil said as they walked back to the old hospital.

‘Men’s clothing ought to be easier,’ Luke said. ‘No frills, no lace, stronger fabric.’

‘Sweatier, dirtier, larger,’ Averil retorted. She lifted one hand and touched her neck where he had been stroking it. The skin felt warm and soft, and her own touch sent a shiver of awareness through her that was disconcerting. She had not wanted him to stop, she realised, shamed by her reaction. What was the matter with her? Was she naturally a complete wanton, or was it shock, or perhaps simply instinct to try to please the man who could protect her?

‘You are a belligerent little thing, aren’t you?’ Luke said as they stepped into the hut.

‘You would be belligerent under the circumstances,’ she snapped. ‘And I am not little. I am more than medium height.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, and turned, trapping her between the wall and his body. ‘No, not little at all.’

‘Take your hands off my … my breasts.’

‘But they are so delightful.’ He was cupping them in his big hands, the slight movement of his thumbs perceptible through the linen of the shirt.

‘Don’t,’ she pleaded, as much to her own treacherous body as to him.

‘But you like it. Look.’

Shamed, she looked down. Her nipples thrust against the fabric, aching, tight little points, demanding attention.

‘I cannot help that reaction, any more than you can help that, apparently.’ The bulge straining against his breeches was very obvious. Luke moved back a little and she remembered another of her brothers’ lessons. But his reactions were faster than hers. No sooner had she begun to raise her knee that she was flat against the stones, his weight pinning her.

‘Little witch,’ he said and bent his head.

The kiss was different standing up. Even though she was trapped Averil felt she had more control, or perhaps she was just more used to the sensations now. She found she no longer wanted to fight him, which was disconcerting. She moved her head to the side and licked into the corner of Luke’s mouth, then nipped at his lower lip, almost, but not quite hard enough to draw blood. He growled and thrust his pelvis against her, blatantly making her feel what she was doing to him.

Averil let him take her mouth again, aching, wanting, despite the part of her mind that was screaming Stop! She was going to have to sleep with this man again tonight—was he going to be able to control himself after this?

‘Damn it,’ Luke said. He lifted his head and looked down at her, his eyes dark, his breath short. ‘I think you’ve been sent to try my will-power to the limit—’

The door banged open behind them, and he turned away so abruptly that she almost fell. ‘Over there by the table, Timmins.’

The man put down the buckets and walked out while Averil hung back in the shadows behind the door. He must have guessed what they had been doing, she thought, her face aflame.

‘I can’t do this any more,’ she said the moment they were alone. ‘I cannot. I don’t understand how it makes me feel. I am not wanton, I am not a flirt. I don’t even like you! You are big and ugly and violent and—’

‘Ugly?’ Luke stopped sorting through the heap of linen in the corner and raised an eyebrow. Nothing else she had said appeared to have made the slightest impression on him.

‘Your nose is too big.’

‘It balances my jaw. I inherited it from my father.’ He tossed the tangle of clothing on to the table. ‘There is some soap on the shelf.’

‘Did you not hear a word I said just now?’ Averil demanded, standing in his path, hands on hips.

‘I heard,’ Luke said as he dragged her back into his arms and kissed her with such ruthless efficiency that she tottered backwards and sat down on the bed with a thump when he released her. ‘I just do not intend to take any notice of you losing your nerve.

‘You’ll get over it. Make sure the collars and cuffs are well scrubbed. You can dry them on the bushes on the far side of the rise. Just make certain you keep the hut between you and the line of sight from the sea.’

Averil stared at the unresponsive door as it closed behind him and wished she had listened and taken note when she had overheard the sailors swearing on board the Bengal Queen. It would be very satisfying to let rip with a stream of oaths, she was quite certain.

Castration, disembowelling and the application of hot tar to parts of a certain gentleman—if he deserved the name—would be even more satisfying. She visualised it for a moment. Then, seized with the need to do something physical, if throttling Luke was not an option, Averil shrugged out of the leather waistcoat, rolled up her sleeves and went to find the soap. It was just a pity there was no starch or she would make sure he couldn’t sit down for a week, his drawers would be so rigid.

She began to sort the clothing, muttering vengefully as she did so. None of it was very dirty—the captain was obviously fastidious about his linen. It also smelled of him, which was disconcerting. Was it normal to feel so flustered by a man that even his shirts made one think of the body that had worn them?

Averil searched for marks, rubbed them with the soap, then dropped those garments in the hot water. How long did they have to soak? She wished she had paid more attention to the women doing their washing in the rivers in India; they seemed to get everything spotless even when the water was muddy. And it was cold, of course.

She was scrubbing briskly at the wristbands of one shirt before she caught herself. What was she doing, offering comfort to the enemy like this? Let him launder his own linen—or do whatever he would have done if she hadn’t been conveniently washed up to do it for him. But then, she was clad in his shirt and he said he had no clean ones, so if she did not do it, goodness knew when she would get a change of linen herself.

Her fingers were as wrinkled as they had been when she had come out of the sea, and she had rubbed a sore spot on two knuckles, but the clothes were clean and rinsed at last. Wringing them dry was a task beyond her strength, she found, so she dumped the dirty water outside on the shingle, filled the buckets with the wet clothes and trudged up the slope towards the camp fire.

The buckets were heavy and she was panting by the time she could put them down. ‘Would someone who has clean hands help me to—?’ Luke was nowhere in sight and she was facing eight men, with Dawkins in the middle.

‘Aye, darlin’, I can help you,’ he drawled, getting to his feet.

‘Leave it out, Harry.’ Potts looked up from a half-skinned rabbit. ‘She’s the Cap’n’s woman and we can do without you getting the man riled up. He’s got a nasty temper when he’s not happy and then he’ll shoot you and then we’ll have more work to do with one man less. Besides …’ he winked at Averil who was measuring the distance to his cooking knives and trying not to panic ‘.the lady likes my cooking.’ He lifted one knife, the long blade sharpened to a lethal degree, and examined it with studious care.

‘Just joking, Potts.’ Dawkins sat down again, his brown eyes sliding round to the knife. The cook stuck it into the turf close to his hand and went back to pulling the skin off the rabbit as the whole group relaxed. Averil began to breathe again.

‘I’ll wring ‘em, ma’m.’ A big man with an eyepatch got to his feet and shambled over. ‘I’m Tom the Patch, ma’am, and me ‘ands are clean.’ He held up his great calloused paws for inspection like a child. ‘Where do you want ‘em?’

‘I’ll drape them over those bushes.’ Averil let out the breath she had been holding and pointed halfway up the slope.

‘Not there,’ Potts said. ‘They’ll see you.’

‘Who will?’

‘Anyone in a ship looking this way. Or on Tresco. Put ‘em there.’ He waved a bloody hand at the thinner bushes close to the fire. Potts, she was beginning to realise, had either more intelligence, or more sense of responsibility, than the other men. Perhaps he had been a petty officer of some kind once.

‘Why don’t you want anyone to know you are here?’ Averil asked as Tom twisted the shirts and the water poured out.

‘Hasn’t the Cap’n said?’ He dropped one shirt into the bucket and picked up another.

‘We haven’t had much time to talk,’ she said and then blushed as the whole group burst into guffaws of laughter.

‘Why not share the joke?’ Luke strolled out from behind one of the tumbledown stone walls. He had his coat hooked over one finger and hanging down his back, his shirt collar was open, his neckcloth was loose and he gave every indication of just coming back from a relaxing stroll around the island. Averil suspected that he had been behind the wall ever since she had approached the men, waiting to see what happened, testing their mood.

‘I said that we had not talked much.’ She hefted the bucket with the wrung linen and walked towards the bushes. Any gentleman would have taken the heavy pail from her, but Luke let her walk right past him.

‘No, we have not,’ he said to her back as she shook out each item with a snap and spread it on the prickly gorse. ‘I’ll tell you over dinner.’

‘Tell ‘er all about it, will you, Frenchy?’ Dawkins said and the whole group went quiet.

Frenchy? Averil spun round. He was French? And that made the men … what? Not just deserters—turncoats and traitors.

‘You call me Captain, Dawkins,’ Luke said and she saw he had the pistol in his hand, loose by his side. ‘Or the next time I will shoot your bloody ear off. Nothing to stop you rowing, you understand, just enough to make sure you spend what is left of your miserable life maimed. Comprends-tu?’

The man might not have understood the insult in the way he had just been addressed, but Averil did. And her French was good enough to recognise in those two words not the pure accent of someone carefully taught as she had been, but a touch of originality, a hint of a regional inflection. The man was French. But we are at war with France, she thought, stupid with shock.

‘Aye, Cap’n,’ Dawkins said, his face sullen. ‘Just me little joke.’

‘Go back to the hut, Miss Heydon,’ Luke said over his shoulder. ‘I will join you at dinner time.’

‘I do not want to go to the hut. I want an explanation. Now.’ It was madness to challenge him in front of the men; she realised it as soon as she spoke. If he would not take insubordination from Dawkins, he was most certainly not going to tolerate it from a woman.

‘You get what I choose to give you, when I choose,’ Luke said, his back still turned. ‘Go, now, unless you wish to be turned over my knee and taught to obey orders in front of the men.’

Her dignity was all she had left. Somehow she kept her chin up and her lips tight on the angry words as she walked past him, past the silent sailors and down the slope towards the hut. Bastard. Beast. Traitor …

No, she realised as she got into the hut and flung herself down on a chair, Luke was not a traitor. If he was French, he was an enemy. The enemy. And she was sitting here, an obedient little captive who shuddered under his hands and wanted his kisses and washed his shirts and trailed back here when she was told. She was an Englishwoman—she had a duty to fight as much as any man had.

Averil jumped to her feet, sending the chair crashing to the floor, and twitched back the crude curtain. There was a navy ship at anchor out there—too far to hail, and probably, unless someone had a glass trained on the island, too far to signal with anything she had to hand. But she could swim. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? If she ran down to the sea, plunged in and swam, surely they would see her? And if Luke gave chase then that would create even more of a stir. Someone would come to investigate and, even if he shot her, he would have to explain the commotion.

She was out of the door and running before she could think of any objections, any qualms to slow her with fear. The big pebbles hindered her, but she was clear of them, up to her knees in the water, before she heard anything behind her.

‘Get back here!’

Luke! She did not turn or reply, only ploughed doggedly on, fighting through the thigh-high waves. ‘Stop or I will shoot!’

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t shoot a woman in the back. Even a French agent wouldn’t—

She didn’t hear the shot, only felt the impact, a thumping blow below her left shoulder, behind her heart. It pitched her forwards into the sea and everything clouded and went dark. Her last thought as she felt the water closing over her head was of shocked anger. He said he would not kill me. Liar.