What a Duke Dares (Sons of Sin 3)

Chapter Ten

English Channel, late March 1828

Cam stood clinging to a rope on a deck that bucked up and down. He wiped stinging, icy rain from his eyes and reminded himself that the yacht had withstood worse. His gut tightened with foreboding only because they were so close to journey’s end.

They’d experienced rough weather since leaving the Mediterranean and sailing into the Atlantic. Thus far, the Windhover had coped with raging seas like the thoroughbred she was. Spring gales had tossed the ship until Cam didn’t know which way was up. Much the way he felt when he encountered his enigmatic passenger.

Now they were only hours from Folkestone, the port he’d chosen in preference to Dover. At Dover, he was too likely to run into someone who recognized him. After that inn above Genoa, Cam was more careful than ever. Pen had assured him that she’d headed off Mrs. Barker-Pratt’s curiosity. If she was right, Cam had achieved a miracle. He’d managed to bring Pen home without jeopardizing his plans to marry Lady Marianne.

Even more miraculous, he’d managed to keep his hands off Pen. Despite a case of blue balls unlike any he could remember, he’d resisted the ravening hunger that kept him awake at night, and restless and cranky all day.

A wonder indeed.

Now he just had to deliver Pen to London. Then, given her plans to return to the Continent, he’d probably never see her again. He was a damn fool to regret that. But regret it he did. Losing her before he discovered what all those lovers had taught her made him want to gnash his teeth and break something.

Even in the last minutes, the storm had worsened. The wind through the rigging shrieked like lost souls in hell.

“Can we turn back to France?” he shouted to his captain, who was lashed to the wheel. The usually imperturbable Scotsman fought to hold the helm steady, the set of his jaw betraying their danger.

“Too far.” Through the gale, the man’s brogue was barely comprehensible. “Better we race for the nearest port and wait the storm out.”

“Do as you think best,” Cam shouted back.

For years, he’d sailed with John MacGregor. If anyone brought the Windhover through, it would be the dour Aberdonian.

“Go below, Your Grace.” His tone held no deference. If Cam hadn’t been worried sick, he’d smile. “Ye’re proving a wee distraction up here.”

It was an indication of their perilous situation that MacGregor admitted to needing all his concentration to keep the yacht afloat. “I want to help.”

“Ye’ll help by bundling up somewhere safe. If the bonnie Duke of Sedgemoor drowns on my watch, my bluidy wife will never let me hear the end of it.”

Cam acknowledged the man’s dry humor, surely the only dry thing left on the ship. He clapped MacGregor’s shoulder then turned. Staggering from one handhold to the next, he struggled against the clawing wind toward the hatch.

Below decks, he’d thought the din would lessen, but it was somehow worse for being contained. The creak of timbers, the water pounding against the hull, the deep, irregular bang as the Windhover struck the bottom of a wave. He wondered how the fragile wooden structure survived.

In the saloon, he shook off the water drenching him. Like the crew of five above, he wore oilskins. Not that they provided much protection. Swiftly he undressed to shirt and breeches, shivering in the cold.

Pen was in her cabin. Throughout this trip, she’d borne every inconvenience without complaint. But in such a storm, even a good sailor with a courageous heart would be frightened. Whatever her distaste for Cam’s company, he couldn’t leave her terrified while they plunged through this turbulent ocean. She was alone—Maria hadn’t wanted to come to England.

Bumping drunkenly from one wall to another, Cam made his way down the short corridor to where Pen’s cabin faced his. During their fortnight at sea, that proximity had plagued him. Now, all he could think about was extending comfort and reassurance.

Although it was only early afternoon, the hallway was as dark as the pit. Cam knocked on Pen’s door, received no reply, knocked more loudly, then realized that he’d need to bash the polished teak with a hammer for her to hear. Feeling like a trespasser, he depressed the brass handle and stepped inside.

All day he’d breathed air sour with salt. How was it, then, that the moment he entered this shadowy room, he caught Pen’s violet scent? Sweet, womanly, alluring. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was here purely to provide assistance.

“What do you want?” Pen asked sharply from across the cabin.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw her braced in the porthole embrasure. He’d imagined she’d be in bed, but of course, that would be devilish uncomfortable, given the yacht’s lurching.

“I wanted to see if you were all right.” He raised his voice over the bedlam. He shut the door, hoping that might help. It didn’t.

“Of course I’m all right.”

Disappointment and self-disgust weighted his gut. He’d been a fool to imagine she might want him with her. “I’ll go to my cabin, then.”

He faced the door, catching the lintel for balance, when she replied. “No. Stay.”

From Pen, that counted as a major concession. Slowly, he turned. “I don’t want to intrude.”