Seduced by the Scoundrel (Danger and Desire 2)

‘Exactly.’ Luke breathed out like a man who had been braced for a long argument. ‘Now—’ He bent his head.

This was not how it was supposed to be, the first time. This was the antithesis of romance. And I wanted romance, tenderness …

‘You don’t have to kiss me. I can pretend,’ Averil said as she tried to move her head away. She only succeeded in clashing noses. Luke had a lot of nose to clash with. But she did not want to pretend. She realised that it was herself and her own desires that were the danger, not him.

‘You are an innocent, aren’t you?’ That was not a compliment. ‘Never been thoroughly kissed?’

‘Certainly not!’ She had never been kissed at all, but she was not going to tell him that.

‘You’ll see,’ Luke said, releasing her wrists and capturing her mouth.

It was outrageous! He opened his mouth over hers, pushed his tongue inside and … and … Averil gave up trying to think about what was going on so she could fight him. But she did not seem to have any strength; her muscles wouldn’t obey her and the rest of her body was in outright mutiny.

Her arms were round his neck, her fingers were raking through his hair, her breasts were pushing against his chest—which had to be why they ached so—and her lips …

Her lips moved against Luke’s, answering his caress, and it was, some stunned part of her mind that was still working realised, a caress and not an assault. His mouth was firm and dominant, but that dominance was curiously arousing. The heat and the moistness were arousing too and the thrust of his tongue was so indecent … and yet she wanted to echo it, move her own tongue, although she did not dare.

Against her stomach she felt his flesh pulsing and lengthening and sensed the restraint he was imposing on himself. Her legs wa

nted to open, to cradle him, and her aunt’s words came back and made sense now of what had seemed embarrassingly ludicrous before. He only had to move a little, to thrust. Suddenly she was frightened again and he sensed it.

‘Averil?’ They looked at each other, noses almost touching. ‘Have you ever been kissed before?’ Mute, she shook her head.

‘I thought not.’ He threw back the covers and got out of bed, the sudden cool rush of air as effective in cutting through her sensual daze as his abrupt words had been. This time she had the sense to turn her head away from his nudity and to stare at the wall. After a few minutes he came back. ‘Averil?’

‘Yes?’ She kept her head averted.

‘Look.’ She risked a quick look. He was holding out a small mirror. ‘You see?’

A wanton creature stared back at her in the scrap of glass. Its hair was a wild tangle, its eyes were wide and dark and its mouth—her mouth—was swollen and pouting.

‘Oh,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, my. Does it last?’

Luke had moved away and was lifting some things down off the shelf, but at that he turned his head and studied her. ‘For a bit. Then I have to do it again.’ She felt the crimson flood up from breast to forehead and his lips quirked. He looked thoughtful. He had, thank goodness, put on his clothes. ‘I’ll get you some hot water. When you come out don’t forget that you have been conscious these past four days.’

Averil sat up as the door banged behind Luke. One kiss and she felt like this—and she didn’t even like the man, or want him. He thought it was amusing, the wretch. It was not amusing, it was outrageous and shameful, those were the only possible words for it. Her breasts still tingled, her stomach felt very strange—almost as though she was apprehensive, but not quite the same—and lower down there was the most embarrassing awareness and that strange little pulse stirring. He had made her feel like this—and he must have realised—and then he had stopped.

The door opened, Luc dumped a bucket inside and then closed it again. Whatever his morning toilette consisted of, he was performing it elsewhere. Averil climbed out of the tangled bedding and went to fetch the hot water. Then I have to do it again, Luke had said.

‘Oh, my heavens,’ she murmured. ‘I had no idea.’

Luc stood on the shore, pocket watch in hand, as half-a-dozen of the crew fitted the oars in the rowlocks and pulled away towards the bulk of Round Island to the north. There were no other ships or boats out in the area and it seemed a good opportunity to work the excess energy out of the men.

Behind him the others lounged on the short grass, jeering at the rowers. ‘You reckon you’ll do better?’ Luc asked. ‘You drew the short straw—you’ll be rowing with breakfast in your bellies to weigh you down and they’re pushing to get back to eat.’

‘Wot about the mermaid—Miss Heydon, I mean, Cap’n? I’ll take her breakfast down to her, shall I?’ Harris’s tone could have served as a definition of the verb to leer.

‘I—’ Luc broke off as a figure walked over the shoulder of the hill. ‘No need, Harris, Miss Heydon has come to eat with us.’

He had to admire her. From the set of her shoulders and the frown between her brows she was as tense as any sensible woman would be under the circumstances, but her back was straight, her chin was up and she had scraped back her hair into a plait down her back in a way that must have been intended to diminish her attractiveness. The fact that it simply showed off her bruised cheekbones and her wide hazel eyes was not her fault, Luc pondered appreciatively as she got closer.

He saw with satisfaction and a sharp pang of arousal that her mouth was still lush and swollen from his kisses. He had never kissed a complete innocent before and it had been … interesting. He wanted her. Was he going to have her? It was a stimulating fantasy, that and the thought that by the time he took her she would want it just as much as he did.

‘Good morning,’ she said, her voice as coolly polite as if they were all in a drawing room. ‘Is that breakfast? You are Mr Potts—the one who cooks?’

Potts gawped, displaying his few remaining teeth, then, to Luc’s amazement, touched a finger to his forehead. Goodness knew how long it had been since someone had addressed him as Mister, if they ever had. ‘Aye, er … ma’am, I am and ‘tis that. Got mackerel or bacon, unless you fancy porridge, but it’s wot you might call lumpy.’

‘I would like bacon and some bread please, Mr Potts.’ Averil sat down on the flat rock Luc usually took for himself. He wondered if anyone else noticed the automatic gesture to sweep her non-existent skirts out of the way. ‘And is there tea?’