She wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Her lack of virginity might prove an issue in the impressive marriage she was determined to make, but there were ways around that particular problem. Tarkington had hurt her, but according to her outspoken married friends the amount of pain had more to do with the skill of the lover. Not that she’d told anyone about her fall from grace, not even her sisters, but she’d quietly gathered information. It would be easy enough to pretend discomfort and then leave behind a bit of chicken’s blood on the linen sheets. And if worse came to worst, Eastham was so determined he probably wouldn’t mind.
And why was she thinking of Tarkington again? Was it something about the captain that reminded her of those unpleasant hours in Tarkington’s bed? And would it be the same with someone like the captain? No, she wasn’t going to think of him in those terms.
He was so unlike the other captains she had met—gruff, bluff men who strode through life as if the entire world was their ship and under their command. They were like English bulldogs—straightforward and forceful.
This man was more like a cat, some great jungle cat, sleek and graceful, secretive and prowling. He unnerved her, made her think of things she shouldn’t be thinking of…
She had to stop that right now, she thought, hefting the racket in her hand. It could be used to fight off libidinous desires as easily as winged rodents… She shuddered, amending her term. Bats.
It was a good thing he didn’t even remember her. Apart from the moment when he kissed her all his attention had been on the three sailors. And he’d finally walked away from her without a glance back.
She wanted to laugh at herself. She was so used to being the toast, the exquisite heiress, Miss Madeleine Russell. Men would fight to dance with her. She had dismissed half a dozen suitors for Jasper Tarkington, tall and blond and arrogant. Would any of them have stayed the course after the scandal broke? If she’d already been engaged, any one of them would have had a hard time crying off without looking like a total cad. With Tarkington it had been an understanding, not an actual engagement, making it easy for him to disappear. Damn him to hell, she thought, savoring the curses. Her father had always deplored her language, but right now she was glad of it. Tarkington deserved her most profane sentiments.
How much of that devotion had been the result of her father’s money? She had a mirror and clear vision—she knew what she saw in her reflection: a perfect oval face, the dark blue eyes of her father, rich, wavy hair. Nose—small. Mouth—generous. Skin and teeth—tediously perfect. It was a fact, not vanity, to say she was a beauty, and that was more of a liability than a gift in this particular endeavor. Surely there must be less attractive things to do with her hair. Even braiding it tightly and poking it into the cap Mrs. Crozier insisted she wear didn’t do much to dampen her appearance.
She tried to remember her and her sisters’ amateur theatricals. She had played Richard the Third once, with her sisters taking the other roles, and Richard was certainly heinous, though Maddy had always had her doubts about the real man. He probably wasn’t any worse than the rest of them, he just ended up on the losing side, and winners were the ones who wrote the history.
Perhaps she could use some of her Richard traits. Hunch one shoulder, squint, or develop a useful limp. Mrs. Crozier already thought of her as half mad because of her habit of getting lost in her thoughts—if she could use that, it might make people steer clear of her. She’d played ghosts as well—she could try a breathy, eerie voice.
She closed the door to her room, still clutching the tennis racket in one hand. She swung it back and forth tentatively—she’d played tennis with Bryony in the court at Somerset, back when life was simpler. She swung it through the air again, trying to imagine whom she wanted to smack with it. For some reason the captain’s exotic, wicked face came into view.
Clearly she wasn’t made for being in service—she didn’t take orders well, either from Mrs. Crozier or the captain. Something inside her wanted to rebel, and she wanted to charge downstairs, go into his office, and toss his precious papers all over the place.
If this didn’t work out she’d best not seek work as a governess but rather find the rich, titled husband immediately. They grew on trees in London, didn’t they?
And imagine that Bryony had ended up with one. Beautiful Bryony with her scarred face and her determined soul was now a countess. Granted, she was a countess in exile, but still and all, she’d done what neither of her conventionally beautiful younger sisters had managed.
In fact, it had been Bryony’s idea to go into service in the first place, though she hadn’t imagined Maddy would go
haring off on her own. Bryony had gone after their first and most-likely suspect, their father’s business partner and the one man who’d emerged unscathed from the collapse of the company, the notorious Earl of Kilmartyn, and instead of proving him guilty of their father’s destruction she’d gone and married him, despite rumors that he murdered his first wife. Right now they were on the continent, well out of the way of the law while Kilmartyn’s men tried to prove his innocence.
Apparently the Earl of Kilmartyn had enough money to support them all, a lovely thought, but Maddy intended to take care of herself, and Sophie besides. Maddy had no intention of going into exile, despite her longing to travel. She wanted the truth, she wanted justice, and she’d do just about anything to get them.
Including being a maid in the household of the most disturbing man she ever met. He made her feel strange, uneasy, with a clawing feeling inside that wasn’t completely unpleasant. It wasn’t just because he kissed her. She’d been kissed before, but never like that. But he was unlike anyone she’d ever known, he was a conundrum, and at another time, in another life, she’d be fascinated, even tempted. She couldn’t afford to let that happen.
No, she’d stay the course. He didn’t even remember her, and no one ever looked at maids. She could ferret her way around things and find the truth. And maybe, in the end, if he turned out to be innocent and she was ready to leave, she might just grab him by his open white shirt and kiss him good-bye.
She laughed, sliding under the threadbare covers again, the racket still tight in one hand. She could just imagine the expression on his face. It would make all the hard work worth it.
But in the meantime she needed to concentrate on the job at hand, not Captain Morgan. His guilt or innocence would come to light soon enough. She just couldn’t afford to get distracted.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LUCA HADN’T BEEN PLANNING to leave for London the next morning. He usually slept well, deep and undisturbed by dreams or any of the things that should plague his nonexistent conscience unless there was some emergency on board ship.
Last night had been different. Last night he’d woken over and over again, the taste of the girl on his tongue. She’d looked so delicious, sitting there in bed, pulling the covers up to her chin like a terrified virgin. Terrified by the bats, not by him.
Hell, he was a lot more terrifying than a few harmless bats, and he was offended that she considered him the least of her worries, particularly since she remembered the one time she’d seen him before. She knew as well as he did that he was twice as strong as she was, and she didn’t know that he wouldn’t use that superior strength to hurt her.
It was the unsolved mystery that was plaguing him, he told himself, not the girl herself. That elusive, hidden memory that was driving him mad and yet no matter how hard he tried to remember, the answer remained out of reach.
He hadn’t spoken to her that long ago time—he knew that much. They’d been separated and he’d seen her from a distance. But where and when? In which lifetime? His time on the streets of London had been so long ago that it could scarcely be then. She was young; she probably hadn’t even been born by the time he went to sea.
Russell’s ships had never carried many passengers, though there’d always been a few, and Luca had made it his practice to keep the hell away from them. His job was running the boat, not flattering the upper crust. Besides, they were much happier with Lindholm, his bland and charming first officer, than a raffish former pirate who didn’t have time for polite chitchat.
But still, nothing came to mind. He couldn’t picture her anywhere near the ocean, and his life was the water.
He had no intention of spending another sleepless night. There was one person he could count on for information, even the most impossible to find, and once he got to London he would be easy enough to locate. Even the endless train ride would be worth it, much as he hated the things. Travel should be on the ocean, not trapped in a steel cage with smoke and soot belching all around him.