Never Trust a Pirate (Scandal at the House of Russell 2)

In fact, her presence in his house was the most interesting thing that had happened in a long time. He knew little about her except that she was beautiful, angry, and afraid of bats. And her name, of course. Madeleine Rose, Maddy Rose, the name of the ship she’d christened. The woman who needed to sign off before he could claim ownership of the ship he loved.

He stopped outside his door, glancing toward the end of the dark hallway and the door to the attics. It was open a crack, but there was no shaft of light coming down. She must be asleep. The bats would be less likely to bother her if she kept the gaslight going. Though come to think of it, the gas hadn’t been piped up to the attics—she must have had to make do with oil lamps or candles, both a great deal more dangerous than the gaslight. Miss Madeleine Rose Russell had had to come down quite a bit to effect this particular masquerade. He felt a renewed trace of annoyance, and then forced it back. She deserved everything Mrs. Crozier heaped on her. If it were bad enough, maybe she’d decide to make a clean breast of it. God, he didn’t want to be thinking about her breasts.

He moved to the end of the hallway, silently, opening the attic’s door and glancing upward. He’d been gone for three days—had she had any more screaming bat encounters, or had she made her peace with them? He ought to go up and check on her.

No, he most certainly shouldn’t. Because the taste of her mouth had haunte

d him, the feel of her body against his, rigid with fury and then softening. Gwendolyn hadn’t allowed him much in the way of kisses, and when she did she always had her hands up between them, as if to ward him off. This girl had done the same thing, but the second time he kissed her mouth, her body had begun to shape to his and her hands to cling, and he knew her experience in kissing had been limited to closed-mouth pecks, the kind that his fiancée allowed. By the third, most dangerous kiss, he’d known he could have her. Would have her, sooner or later.

And if he went up there he wouldn’t simply check on her, and he wasn’t about to confront her with the truth. Once he did, she’d leave, and he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. He could tell himself that he wanted to wait until he received more information from Wart, made sure there wasn’t something unpleasant that might trap him. He’d had a life full of adventures, most of them illegal, and there was always the chance something might come back to haunt him. It was a convincing argument, but his prodigious skill at lying didn’t extend to lying to himself.

As tempting as it would be to go up there and confront her with the truth, it was more interesting to see what lengths she might go to keep her place here. To accomplish whatever it was she was hoping to accomplish.

He shut the door to the attics very quietly, turning away from temptation, heading back to his own rooms.

The gaslight was turned down low, and he didn’t bother to turn it up. There was no fire burning in the grate, but it had been warm the last few days, and the heat rose in this old house, making the second floor faintly stuffy. The attics must be stifling, he thought, and wondered if she’d opened the windows. And whether the bats had flown at her head when she did.

There’d been no bloodcurdling screams from above, so he had to assume not. He closed his door behind him and pulled off his jacket, tossing it across a chair. Gwendolyn was always on him to get a valet, but he couldn’t see the use of it since he was at sea more often than not. Wilf Crozier managed to keep his clothes in order, though if things were as he suspected, the new maid was probably doing that work as well. The Croziers were possibly the worst servants in the world, and he hadn’t cared enough to do anything about it. If they were working Eustace Russell’s highborn daughter half to death then that was her problem.

He moved to the window, pulling his shirt free from his breeches. There was a quarter moon, casting enough light that he could look out over the harbor, see his sloop lying at anchor, see the dark outlines of the two he’d bought from Russell Shipping. He was still waiting for the Maddy Rose, the one he wanted with a fierce possessiveness. He’d known from the start that she was his ship, built sleek and trim, the last of the clipper ships as Russell Shipping turned completely to steam, and he wanted her beneath him. He wanted her namesake beneath him as well, he thought with a wicked grin. It was no wonder the solicitors were having trouble getting Russell’s daughter to sign off on the deed of ownership. They didn’t know where she was.

No, that wasn’t true, was it? She had entered his household under the auspices of Matthew Fulton, who had to know exactly who she was. Not something to endear the solicitor to him, Luca thought. Once he managed to convince Gwendolyn that she didn’t want to marry him he was doubtless going to be in need of new solicitors. It had made sense to use the same solicitor as Russell had, and once the old man had died there’d been no reason to change. Moving his business over to Haviland’s young associate, Fulton, was no longer an option.

He yanked off his shirt, stretching, then turned, suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone in the room. She was so slight he hadn’t even noticed the small lump on his bed. His new housemaid was curled up on the counterpane, sound asleep.

He moved across the room, taking care to be silent on his stocking feet, though he knew he made little noise when he moved, an old habit from his pickpocket days

Oh, bloody fucking hell. She’d undone the front of her dress, and he could see the hollow of her throat, the creamy swell of her breasts as they rose and fell with the softness of her breath, and damned if he didn’t feel his cock stir. He normally kept his parts under control—his cock got hard when it needed to and stayed quiet the rest of the time. In fact, he didn’t think Gwendolyn had managed to stir him in the slightest. But looking down at his treacherous intruder seemed to be another matter entirely, and he could feel himself start to react.

A better man would have hesitated, but he’d never had any illusions about himself. A woman he couldn’t stop thinking about was lying asleep on his bed, as sure an invitation as he’d ever known. It didn’t matter that she was clearly exhausted, shadows beneath her eyes. Her dress was open, and he wanted her.

She didn’t stir when he got on the bed. He sat back and calmly began to finish releasing the buttons on her bodice, one by one, his fingers sure and practiced. He wanted to bury his face in her sweet, pale breasts, he wanted to bury his cock between her sweet, pale thighs. He wasn’t going to think twice—she was there and he wanted her. Levering his body over hers, barely touching her, he let his lips brush against her with just the lightest of pressure. She sighed against his mouth, and he groaned softly, moving his mouth against hers. He touched her soft lips with his tongue, wetting them, and then slowly sealed his mouth over hers, sliding his tongue inside to claim her, as he lowered his body to hers.

She woke instantly, and any illusions he might have had about her arranging this vanished as she began to struggle. It took only a moment to subdue her flailing hands, her kicking legs, and he lifted his head to look down into her furious gaze.

“I’m presuming your presence in my bed wasn’t the blatant invitation it appeared to be?” he said mildly.

“Of course not!” she said. “Get off me!”

“No.”

It was a simple answer, but she stared at him in momentary confusion. “No?” she echoed.

“Don’t pretend to be stupid. You know what ‘no’ means.”

“Do you?” she shot back.

He gave her a lazy grin. “I’m not sure. I haven’t heard it very often.”

Her blue eyes darkened even further. “You are an insufferable popinjay!”

“Is that any way to talk to your employer?”

There was no missing the dawning horror on her face. Miss Madeleine Rose Russell suddenly remembered who she was supposed to be.

He took advantage of her momentary hesitation, lowering his mouth again to take her. Her struggles had ended up with him lying between her legs, her skirts rucked partway up her thighs, and he pressed his erection again her, feeling the shock vibrate through her body. He could feel her reluctant response, a shimmer of reaction dancing through her, and he wanted her, needed her so badly that his hands shook slightly as they slid down her legs, caught the heavy skirt and drew it up, feeling the silken warmth of her thighs. Suddenly he wanted to taste her, push her back on the bed, tie her up if need be, and teach her about sex. He wanted her to take him in her mouth, he wanted to watch her as she did it, cradle her head with his hands as she took him, sucked him. He wanted her damned clothes off, and he reached for the tapes of her drawers, ready to rip them, when a last, damnable bit of conscience hit him, and he hesitated, only for a moment, but it was a moment too long.

She shoved him, pushing him off her, and he went easily enough. He was more than strong enough to stay just where he was, but the idea of force took all the pleasure out of it. He fell back on the mattress with a groan as she scrambled off the bed, knocking against the bucket of water and sending the contents spilling over the floor.