The CEO's Accidental Bride

“Ha!” She knocked her head sideways against his shoulder, her teeth chattering around her words. “Nice try, Harper. First you’d command I stop blackmailing you. Then you’d make me divorce you. Then you’d fire me and kick me out of your life.”

Zach didn’t respond. That wasn’t even close to what he’d had in mind.

Eight

In Kaitlin’s guest bathroom, the claw-footed bathtub and homemade lilac candles were completely nineteenth century. While the limitless hot water and thick terry robe were pure twenty-first.

She was finally warm again.

Zach had brought Kaitlin straight to her room in the castle, where someone had laid out a tray of fruit and scones. He’d called Dylan on the way to let them know everything was fine. Half a scone and a few grapes were all she could manage before climbing directly into the tub, while Zach had disappeared into some other part of the castle.

Now the second floor was shrouded in silence. One of the staff members had obviously been in her room while she bathed, because the bed was turned down, her nightgown laid out and the heavy, ornate drapes were drawn across the boxed windows. She guessed they expected her to sleep, but Kaitlin was more curious than tired.

On her initial tour of the castle, she’d discovered the family portrait gallery that ran between the guest bedrooms and the main staircase on the second floor. She’d glanced briefly this morning at the paintings hanging there. But now that she’d read the family tombstones, she couldn’t wait to put faces to the names of Zach’s ancestors.

She opened her bedroom door a crack, peeping into the high-ceilinged, rectangular room. There was no one around, so she retightened the belt on the thick, white robe and tiptoed barefoot over the richly patterned carpet.

Chandeliers shone brightly, suspended from the arched, stone ceiling at intervals along the gallery. Smaller lights illuminated individual paintings, beginning with Lyndall Harper himself at one end. He looked maybe forty-five, a jeweled sword hilt in his hand, blade pointing to the floor. She couldn’t help but wonder how many battles the sword had seen. Had he used it to vanquish enemies, maybe kill innocent people before stealing their treasure and taking their ships?

Of course he had.

He was a pirate.

She returned her attention to his face, shocked when she realized how much he looked like Zach. A few years older, a few pounds heavier, and there were a few more scars to his name. But the family resemblance was strong, eerily strong.

She left the painting and moved along the wall, counting down the generations to the portrait of Zach’s father at the opposite end. She guessed Zach had yet to be immortalized. Maybe he’d refused to sit still long enough for his image to be painted.

She smiled at the thought.

She’d counted twelve generations between Lyndall and Zach. The paintings on this wall were all men. But she’d noticed the ladies’ portraits were hung on the opposite side of the room.

She walked her way back, studying Lyndall all over again. The main staircase of the grand hall was behind him in the painting, so he’d definitely been the one to build the castle. It was strange to stand on a spot in a room, then see that same place depicted nearly three hundred years earlier. She shivered at the notion of the pirate Lyndall walking this same floor.

“Scary, isn’t it?” came Zach’s voice, his footfalls muted against the carpet.

For some reason, his voice didn’t startle her.

“He looks just like you.” She twisted, squinting from one man to the other.

“Want to see something even stranger?” He cocked his head and moved toward the wall of ladies’ portraits.

Kaitlin followed him across the room.

“Emma Cinder.” He nodded to the painting. “She was Lyndall’s wife.”

The woman sat prim and straight at a scarred wooden table, her long red hair twisted into a crown of braids. She was sewing a sampler, wearing green robes over a thin, champagne-colored, low-cut blouse with a lace fringe that barely covered her nipples. Her red lips were pursed above a delicate chin. Her cheeks were flushed. And her deep green eyes were surrounded by thick, dark lashes.

“Wow,” said Kaitlin. “You don’t think ten-times great-grandma when you see her.”

Zach chuckled. “Look closer.”

Kaitlin squinted. “What am I looking for?”

“The auburn hair, the green eyes, those full, bow-shaped lips, the curve of her chin.”

Kaitlin glanced up at him in confusion.

He smoothed his hand over her damp hair. “She looks a lot like you.”

“She does not.” But Kaitlin’s gaze moved back to the painting, peering closer.

“She sure does.”

“Okay, maybe a little bit,” she admitted. Their eyes were approximately the same shape, and the hair color was the same. But there were probably thousands of women in New York with green eyes and long, auburn hair.

“Maybe a lot,” said Zach.

“Where was she from?” Kaitlin’s curiosity was even stronger now than it had been in the cemetery. What could have brought Emma to Serenity Island with Lyndall?

“She was from London,” said Zach. “A seamstress I was told. The daughter of a tavern owner.”

“And she married a pirate?” Kaitlin had to admit, Lyndall was a pretty good-looking pirate. But still…

“He kidnapped her.”

“No way.”

Zach leaned down to Kaitlin’s ear, lowering his voice to an ominous tone. “Tossed her on board his ship and, I’m assuming, had his way with her all the way across the Atlantic.”

Kaitlin itched to reach up and touch the portrait. “And then they got married?”

“Then they got married.”

“Do you think she was happy here? With him?” For some reason, it was important to Kaitlin to believe Emma had been happy.

“It’s hard to say. I’ve read a few letters that she got from her family back in England. They’re chatty, newsy, but they’re not offering to come rescue her. So I guess she must have been okay.”

“Poor thing,” said Kaitlin.

“He built her a castle. And they had four children. Look here.” Zach gently grasped Kaitlin’s shoulders and turned her to guide her back to the men’s portrait wall.

She liked it that he was touching her. There was something comforting about his broad hands firmly holding her shoulders. He’d kept his arm around her the whole ride back from the cemetery, his body offering what warmth he could in the whipping wind. And that had been comforting, too.

“Their eldest son, Nelson,” said Zach, gesturing to the portrait with one hand, leaving the other gently resting on her shoulder.

“What about the rest of the children?”

“Sadie has their portraits scattered in different rooms. The other two sons died while they were still children, and the daughter went back to a convent in London.”

“I saw the boys’ tombstones,” said Kaitlin. “Harold and William?”

“Good memory.” Zach brushed her damp hair back from her face, and for some reason, she was suddenly reminded of what she was wearing.

She was naked under the white robe, her skin glowing warm, getting warmer by the minute. She realized the lapels had gaped open, and she realized the opening had Zach’s attention.

Their silence charged itself with electricity.

She knew she should pull the robe closed again, but her hands stayed fast by her sides.

Zach made a half turn toward her.

His hand slowly moved from her shoulder to her neck, his fingertips brushing against her sensitive skin.

“Sometimes I think they had it easy.” Zach’s voice was a deep, powerful hum.

“Who?” she managed to breathe. Every fiber of her attention was on the insubstantial brush of his hand.

His other hand came up to close on the lapel of her robe. “The pirates,” he answered. “They ravage first, and ask questions later.”

He tugged on the robe, pulling her to him, and his mouth came down on hers. It was hot, firm, open and determined.

She swayed from the intense sensation, but his arm went around her waist to hold her steady as the kiss went on and on.

He tugged the sash of the robe, releasing the knot, so it fell open. His free hand slipped inside, encircling her waist again, pulling her bare breasts against the texture of his shirt.

Her arms were lost in the big sleeves, too tangled to be of any use. But she breathed his name, parted her lips, welcomed his tongue into the depths of her mouth.

His wide hand braced her rib cage, thumb brushing the tender skin beneath her breast. Her nipples peaked, a tingle rushing to their delicate skin. Her thighs relaxed, reflexively easing apart, and he moved between them, the denim of his pants sending shock waves through her body.

He deftly avoided the portrait as he pressed her against the smooth stone of the wall. His hand cupped her breast. His lips found her ear, her neck, the tip of her shoulder, as he pushed the robe off. It pooled at her feet, and she was completely naked.

He drew back for a split second, gazing down, drinking in the picture of her body.

“Gorgeous,” he breathed, lips back to hers, hands stroking her spine, down over her buttocks, to the back of her thighs. Then up over her hips, her belly, her breasts. She gasped as he stroked his fingertips across her nipples, the sensation near painful, yet exquisite.