Seduced by the Scoundrel (Danger and Desire 2)

‘I am betrothed,’ she said, shocking herself with the way she had lost sight of why she had ended up here. ‘I have hardly given that fact a thought since we hit the rocks. I have not thought of Viscount Bradon himself once until just now. The reason I was coming back from India was to marry him and I just did not think of him, even when you kissed me.’ How on earth could she have ignored something as important as that? How on earth could she have enjoyed another man’s caresses as she had? She stared at Luc, appalled at herself. ‘That is the most shocking thing of all.’

*

Luc dropped his hand from where it cupped her cheek. Averil was betrothed? That should change nothing—and yet, subtly, it did. It made him want her more. He had never been competitive with Englishmen for their women. When he married it would be to a French émigrée, one of good birth and title. He would not ask for money—he had invested his prize money with care and had few expenses—nor for land—he would be the one providing that once Bonaparte was defeated and he could reclaim what was rightfully his. What he wanted was good French blood to breed back into the d’Aunay line.

Once this episode was over he would either be dead or in a position to court a bride seriously. Bonaparte could not hold out much longer, he felt it in his bones; in three or four years he must be ready to return to France and fight to regain what was his by right.

The woman in front of him knotted her hands into that ridiculous blanket, her face a picture of guilt and confusion. ‘Shocking that you should forget?’ Given the natural sensuality of her responses he found Averil’s expression amusing. ‘I do not think so. Surprising, perhaps. I suppose I could find it flattering.’ She sent him a withering look. ‘But I fancy that being caught up in a shipwreck and almost drowned may account for a little forgetfulness. Do you love him?’ Surely not, if she could forget, even when she was being kissed by another man—she might be sensual, but she was not wanton. But then, she had never been kissed before, he remembered.

‘Love? Why, no, but then I would not expect to. Love has nothing to do with marriage in aristocratic families, of course.’

‘Ah, so you think as I do. Marriage is a matter of dynasty and land. Your father has found you a good match?’ It must be if the girl had been sent all the way from India.

‘I have never met him, nor had a letter from him, but Papa arranged it all, so there was no need. It is an excellent match,’ she added. ‘Everyone says so.’

There was defiance in that statement and under it he sensed doubts. Any woman would have them, he supposed, sent so far from home and family to an unknown husband.

‘His father is the Earl of Kingsbury,’ Averil added as though playing a trump card.

Yes, on paper a very good match indeed. Luc nodded.

‘You know him?’

‘I have come across him.’ Luc kept his voice carefully neutral. ‘I do not know the son.’ If Bradon was a spendthrift gamester like his father, then Miss Heydon was in for a most unpleasant shock. What was her own father thinking of? ‘Your family are distant relatives of Kingsbury, perhaps?’

‘Oh, no.’ S

he smiled brightly. On the defensive, Luc thought, wondering what was coming next. ‘My father, Sir Joshua Heydon, is a merchant.’

So this was becoming clearer. Kingsbury was doubtless securing a substantial dowry with his new daughter-in-law, money he could well do with. What, he wondered, was Sir Joshua gaining? Influence at court, perhaps, for the earl was one of Prinny’s cronies. It was a trade deal, in effect. Luc revised his prejudices a trifle. He had not admired those daughters of cits he had come across so far, not that he had paid them any attention. A d’Aunay did not marry trade. Averil, however, seemed mercifully free of vulgarity.

‘Lord Bradon will be anxious when the news reaches him that the ship has gone down,’ she said with a frown. It did not seem to occur to her that he was going to be more than anxious when he got her back and discovered that his betrothed had been missing, unchaperoned, for several days. Miss Heydon could well have made a long sea voyage, survived a shipwreck and yet find herself rejected and unwed.

But that was not his problem. She was not his problem. He had to capture two brigs, against unknown odds, with the crew from hell, and then pray that with the ships he secured the evidence to expose a traitor and to restore his own career.

Chaperoning an innocent young lady under those circumstances was impossible—from the moment that he had made the decision to take her into the hut and not signal for a navy boat she was as near ruined as made no difference. Averil Heydon was no longer an innocent in the eyes of the world and, if he did not keep a tight rein on his desires and instincts, she would not be one in fact either for much longer. After all, once she was ruined in theory, that was it. She might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

He looked at her, thinking about it, his body becoming hard and heavy. She was temptation personified and he was in no mood for self-sacrifice.

Chapter Seven

‘What are you frowning about?’ Averil asked. Lord, but he had to get her dressed again—that blanket was driving him insane. Last night he had been too tired and too distracted to take much notice, although his body had been sending him frantic signals. Now, with it sliding off one shoulder and her hair clean and dry and waving from its tight braid and her face flushed with colour, she was beginning to exude a powerful femininity that he was convinced she had no conscious control over.

‘Frowning about? Life,’ he said, with perfect honesty. He wondered how much of a bastard he was. Enough of one to ruin this girl in reality? ‘And, yes, I have no doubt that your betrothed will be anxious. He will doubtless give you up for dead. Managing your resurrection is going to need some care.’ Her expression changed, lost some of its determination, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth as though to force some control over her emotions. Perhaps she could sense his desires—his thoughts were clamorous enough.

‘What is it?’ He knew he spoke abruptly, and disregarded it; he could not afford to involve himself too deeply with the problems of a young woman who had nothing at all to do with his mission, he told himself. If she thought she had been rescued by a man who was forming some sort of attachment to her, she was mistaken. He had learned not to care the hard way. Averil was a casualty of war and lucky to be alive. ‘This can all get sorted out later,’ he added. ‘A few days is not going to make any difference now.’

‘It isn’t that. I try not to think about my friends on the Bengal Queen,’ Averil said. ‘But you speaking of resurrection made me think of the burial service at sea. A sailor died during the voyage and the words are different from the words they say on land. But of course you know that …’ Her voice trailed away and he saw she was looking back into nightmare.

‘When the sea shall give up her dead,’ Luc quoted. He had said it more times than he cared to remember as the weighted canvas shrouds were tipped overboard.

‘Yes, that is it. And I wonder how many from the Bengal Queen died, and how many of those the sea will give up so that families will have the comfort of being able to bury their loved ones.’

‘Thinking about it cannot help,’ Luc said. ‘It will only weaken you. Time enough to mourn when you are safe.’

‘And I am not safe now. I understand that,’ she said, her voice cool. ‘I will try not to bother you with my inconvenient emotions.’

Luc experienced a sudden and quite inexplicable urge to put his arms around her and hold her. Just hold her tenderly to give her comfort. He tried to recall the last time he had comforted a woman and realised it must have been when he had come home on leave after his father had been executed and his mother had finally given up the battle to be strong and had wept in his arms.