Seduced by the Scoundrel Page 10

  Luc stood up and she saw him clearly for the first time: a silhouette reaching for the ropes. Leading from the front, she thought with a surge of pride that killed the fear for a moment. The men scrambled after him in ferocious silence and then she and Ferris were alone on the tossing gig.

  ‘Check all the ropes,’ he whispered. ‘And keep checking. Get everything together and bundle it into that net, ready to swing up. You got the pistol?’

  There was a shout from on deck, the sound of gunfire, a scream, shouted orders. Chaos. Luc … ‘Yes,’ she said and pulled it from her waistband. ‘But you take it. Someone might need it. Watch his back, Ferris, please.’

  ‘You call me Ferret, miss. You’re one of us. Yeah, I’ll watch your man’s back for ye.’

  He was gone, swarming up the side like his namesake after a rabbit, and Averil was left in the tossing boat with no idea what was happening above. She got to her feet, was thrown down, crawled, flinched as shots rang out above and voices yelled. Her hands groped until she had collected up everything that was left. A long tube made of some hard material must contain the charts, she supposed. She stuffed it all into the net and tied the neck tight.

  A man screamed, there was a splash. More yelling. Her foot found something sharp that she had missed: a cutlass. With it tight in her left hand she worked along the gig, testing each rope, each knot, as though they tethered Luc and his men to life.

  A pistol cracked, the brig lost way and they were wallowing, so suddenly that for a moment it was like the awful, endless second when the Bengal Queen hit the rocks. The fighting had stopped. Averil shifted the cutlass into her right hand and stared up. Who was she going to see, looking down from the rail?

  Then a voice roared, ‘Ferris, what the hell are you doing up here?’ and she sagged on to a rowing bench in relief. There was the sound of Ferret’s voice, making excuses, she supposed, and then the wiry little man came scrambling down the ropes.

  ‘All’s well. Nobbut a few scratches all round and a hole in Tom Patch’s shoulder and that’s just an in-and-out,’ he said, as a rope came over the side and he lashed the net to it. ‘You better hold on tight to this, miss, and get pulled up with it. And keep yer ‘ead down when you get on deck—Cap’n’s fit to be tied. ‘E says you’re to stick with me and keep out of the way or he’ll leave you in the gig and cut the lines.’

  ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ Averil said and saw the glint of white as Ferret rolled his eyes.

  ‘Ha! Most likely drop me over instead. Up you go.’

  It was worse than being swung on board the Bengal Queen in the bo’sun’s chair. Averil clung like a monkey and landed on the deck in a jumble of netting and sharp objects, rolled clear and stood up as Ferret came over the side to attack the bundle and free the weapons.

  ‘Where is he?’ she panted, looking round. They had lit a couple of lanterns and in the swaying light she could see that the deck of the brig was crowded. The original crew was huddled around the foremast with three of Luc’s men systematically tying their hands and feet and removing hidden weapons. The rest of the men were moving about the small ship with a purposeful air of getting themselves familiar with its workings and she could see Potts at the wheel, feet braced, face calm, transformed from cook to helmsman.

  ‘Cap’n’s below in the cabin getting them papers safe.’ Ferret dug the chart roll out. ‘Be calling for this any minute, I expect—you want to take that down to ‘im, miss?’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ Averil said with complete truth, ‘but I might as well get it over with.’

  ‘Bark’s worse than ‘is bite,’ Ferret said as he tidied the net away.

  ‘He shot the last person who upset him, I hear,’ she muttered as she made her way along the sloping deck and down the steep ladder.

  Luc was scribbling on a piece of paper, his head bent over a table spread with charts. In the corner a redheaded man sat scowling in the light of the swaying lantern, his hands tied to the arms of the chair. ‘Take this up to Potts,’ Luc said, and pushed the note across the table without looking up. ‘Tell him to hold that heading until told otherwise.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ Averil said as she snatched the paper, dumped the chart roll on the table and beat a hasty retreat.

  ‘Then get back down here!’ he roared after her.

  She had to face the music sooner or later, she thought, as she climbed down the ladder again. Better down there and not on deck in full view, and hearing, of the crew.

  But Luc’s attention was elsewhere when she peered round the cabin door again, so she slid in and perched in a corner.

  ‘We’re smuggling, that’s all,’ the red-haired man protested. It sounded like a continuing argument. ‘Picking up lace and brandy.’

  ‘I am sure you were.’ A cupboard door in the bulkhead swung open on its hinges to reveal an empty interior. Luc studied an oilskin package in his hand, then slit the seals. ‘Paid with by this, presumably.’

  ‘Don’t know anything about that,’ the man said, shifting in his bonds. ‘Private letters, those. Mr—er, the gentleman who hires us said they were letters to relatives in France. Personal stuff. I wouldn’t dream of looking,’ he added with unconvincing righteousness.

  ‘Indeed?’ Averil shivered at the cold disbelief in Luc’s voice as he spread the papers open on top of the charts. ‘They are certainly in French. What an interest his Continental relatives must have in naval affairs. Ship movements, provisioning, rates of sickness, armaments, prizes taken …’ He read on. ‘Rumours of plans for changes at Plymouth. Interesting—I hadn’t heard about those.’

  He looked up. That wolf’s smile had the same effect on the other man as it had on Averil the first time he had used it on her. ‘Treason, Mr Trethowan, that is what this is. You’ll hang for it, along with your anonymous gentleman. Unless you cooperate, of course. I might be able to do something for you if I had names to bargain with, otherwise …’ He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness and smiled that smile again.

  ‘He’ll kill me. He’s got influence, a tame admiral.’

  ‘So have I—and the First Lord of the Admiralty trumps your man’s cousin any day. It is his cousin, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you know it all, why ask me?’ The red-haired man hunched a resentful shoulder, then winced as it made the cord dig into his wrist.

  ‘Who else on the islands is involved in this?’

  ‘No one, I swear. That interfering Governor is suspicious—had the brig searched last week, arrested my bo’sun on some trumped-up charge the day before yesterday—and his men are asking questions.’

  So, the Governor is in the clear, Averil thought. That would make things easier for Luc.

  ‘Any more papers on board? I’ll have the vessel stripped down in any case, but it’ll go better for you if you hand it all over now.’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve got stuff in my house, though.’ The man seemed eager to talk now. Averil eyed him with distaste—he had known exactly what he was carrying to pay for those French luxury goods. ‘I’ll give it all to you, if you’ll save my neck.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. And when we come alongside the Frenchman, you’ll act as though nothing is wrong or you’ll get a knife in the ribs and won’t have to worry about the hangman at all.’ Luc got to his feet, went out to the foot of the steps and shouted up, ‘Two men, down here, now!’

  When Trethowan was bundled out Luc turned, finally, to look at Averil. His expression did not soften in the slightest from the way he had looked at the traitor. ‘And your excuse for being here is what, exactly?’

  ‘You were a man down.’ She wanted to wriggle back against the bulkhead and vanish, but it was solid against her shoulders. Luc neither raised his voice nor came any closer, but her mouth had gone dry and her pulse was pattering as though he had shouted threats at her. ‘If I took Ferret’s place in the gig then he could come up on deck and fight. I gave him the pistol as well, so you had one more weapon.’

  ‘Very noble,’ Luc
said.

  ‘There is no need to be sarcastic,’ Averil snapped. ‘I couldn’t bear being stuck back there, not knowing what was happening. But I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t been able to do something helpful.’

  ‘Helpful!’ The change from cool sarcasm to a roar of fury had her jerking back so violently that her head banged on the wood behind her. ‘Do you call shredding my nerves helpful? I saw Ferret, asked him what the devil he was doing on deck and he said you were in that damned gig and I nearly throttled the little rodent. We still have a French brig to capture. You will stay down here. You will not so much as put your nose above deck until I send for you. Is that clear?’

  Chapter Ten

  What did I expect? To be welcomed with open arms and to be told I am a heroine? ‘Yes.’ Averil nodded. ‘Yes, I promise to stay below deck. Is anyone wounded? Ferret said something about Tom Patch’s shoulder. I could dress that if there are any medical supplies.’

  ‘Have a look round,’ Luc said as he stuffed the papers into the breast of his coat and strode out. ‘And if you find anything incriminating, let me know.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that without putting my head out?’ Averil enquired of the unresponsive door panels. Oh, well, it could have been a lot worse, she supposed. At least no one was seriously hurt and Luc could have been even more angry. It occurred to her after a moment’s thought that he was probably more furious than he appeared, but was controlling it well. She could only hope that the fight to capture the French brig would take the edge off his temper.

  She began to search the cabin systematically and found several cupboards built into the woodwork. None of them contained any sinister papers, which was a disappointment, but she did find a workmanlike medical kit rolled up in waxed cloth.

  ‘You all right, miss?’ Ferret poked his nose round the door, then sidled in. ‘Thought I’d keep out of sight a bit.’

  ‘Could you tell the captain that I have found a medical case and if someone could bring me some water and send anyone who is hurt down I will see what I can do for them?’

  ‘I’ll do that, if ‘e don’t throw me overboard on sight.’ He vanished and a few minutes later Tom Patch arrived with a bucket in one hand and the other thrust into his bloodstained shirt.

  Averil had been brought up to deal with far nastier injuries amongst the servants or sustained by her father or brothers on hunting expeditions, although Tom was reluctant to take off his shirt and show his wound to a lady.

  ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ she said as she poured water into a bowl. ‘I had to dig a bullet out of my brother once when the doctor couldn’t be found.’ Actually it was buckshot in the buttocks, the result of drunken horseplay. Still, bathing and bandaging a simple bullet hole was easy enough, and it kept her mind off Luc’s scathing tongue.

  ‘That’s better, miss, thank you.’ Tom got to his feet. ‘Better get back up top, we’ll be up with them at any moment, I reckon.’

  Averil discovered that she could obey Luc’s instructions and still catch a glimpse of what was going on by sitting on the second step down. It was frustrating, for all she could see was legs, but she could hear orders being given and listen to Luc’s voice.

  When it happened, it all happened at once. The brig slowed and came around. There was a hail, the redheaded man answered in poor French, then there was a shouted exchange and the brig lost more way. She almost tumbled down the steps with the bump as the small ships came together with a grinding of fenders and, suddenly Luc shouted, ‘Board them!’

  Gunfire, the clash of steel on steel, shouts in French and English. Averil gripped the steps in an effort to stop herself bobbing up to see. But if Luc saw her he would be distracted, or think he had to protect her; it was her duty to stay here, she told herself. Once being dutiful had been second nature, now it was something she had to struggle to achieve. Averil held on and prayed.

  She did not have long to wait. The gunfire ceased and the voice she could hear clearly was Luc’s, in French and then English, giving orders. Averil unclenched her reluctant fingers and went down to the cabin. She was seated at the table, rewinding bandages with mechanical precision when the door opened.

  ‘There you are.’ Luc came in and closed the door behind him, then leaned back against it like a man falling on to a soft feather bed, eyes closed. ‘Come here.’

  So now he was going to shout at her. Averil put down the gauze and went to stand in front of him. ‘Is everything all right? Did you get what you needed?’

  ‘Everything.’ He kept his eyes closed. ‘We got their orders, before they had a chance to throw them overboard, we took the captain and the officers unharmed. Je te … I have the proofs.’ His educated English accent had changed. He had been speaking and thinking in French, she realised.

  ‘Très bon,’ she ventured and his lips quirked. Her accent was probably laughable. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘This.’ He opened his eyes and looked at her and she saw the fire in them, the life, the fierce energy. The desire.

  ‘Luc?’ It came out as a quaver.

  ‘Are you afraid of me?’ He came upright with a speed that took her unawares, caught her in his arms, turned her and had her pressed against the door before she could say another word. Her nostrils were filled with the scent of man and fresh sweat and black powder smoke; her body quivered with an anticipation she could not control. ‘Because you should be. I want to take you here, up against this door. Tell me no. Tell me no, now.’

  One hand was in her hair, the other palmed her breast with possessive urgency. His mouth on her neck was hot, fierce, and her blood responded, all the tension and fear and triumph of the night merging into a fire that consumed the last shreds of restraint.

  This is what I want: this, him, now. Nothing else was real, nothing else mattered except the moment, and the next few moments, in Luc’s arms. My hero, my man.

  Her hands were in his hair, trying to bring his mouth to hers, but he was intent on dragging her clothing off and she vanished, blinded and struggling, into the thick wool to emerge, naked from the waist up. She blinked in the lantern’s light as she pushed her hair from her face so she could see Luc, reach for him. But he dropped his hands and stepped back, pale under his tan.

  ‘Oh, my God.’ He stared at her as if he was seeing her naked body for the first time, then lifted both hands and cupped her breasts, moving close so he could look down at them, as though they were treasures he had found and could not quite believe. Her flesh felt heavy and swollen in his palms, but he did not move more than his thumbs, caressing slowly across the hard, aching points of her nipples.

  ‘Luc.’ It was a whisper, but it brought that deep grey gaze to meet her eyes. ‘What … what do I do?’ Her aunt’s lecture on Marital Duties had not included this quivering in her belly, the ache between her legs, the desire and the need. It had included nothing that did not involve lying on her back in the dark and submitting to embarrassing and probably painful intimacies.

  His eyes went dark and his hands still and then he released her, turned, slowly, and dropped his hands to the chart table, bent over it like a man in pain.

  ‘Nothing. You do nothing,’ Luc said and heard his voice harsh with barely suppressed fury that was directed at himself, not at her. She was probably ruined. Probably. He could not take her until he had tried, and failed, to rescue her from the consequences of all this. He had made her his responsibility, fool that he was.

  Behind him Averil was silent for the time it took her to draw in two, very audible, breaths. Then she said, ‘Why are you angry? You do not expect a virgin to know what to do, do you?’

  She was always thinking—when he allowed her to and was not addling her senses with lovemaking—always, always, courageous. ‘I am angry at myself,’ he said, wrenching his voice back under control. ‘Get dressed before I lose my mind again and forget that you are an innocent.’

  ‘My friend Dita says that men become amorous after danger or excitement. It seemed rather strange
to me, when she said it.’ Averil’s voice faded, then strengthened, and he guessed she had pulled her clothes back over her head. ‘Is that what it is?’

  ‘My inability to control myself?’ Luc asked. The lines on the chart under his spread hands came back into focus. He was supposed to be sailing this damn brig, and getting it and the French prize and the captured papers back safely, not ravishing virgins in the cabin.

  ‘You seem quite capable of controlling yourself,’ Averil said as she came round on his right side and sat down on the edge of the bunk. Her voice was steady, but one look at her white face and the slashes of colour on her cheeks told him that she had sat down because her legs were about to give way. ‘Eventually,’ she added. For a hideous moment he thought she was going to cry and his stomach, already knotted with guilt and lust, gave a stab of pain.

  ‘You give me an opportunity to excuse myself?’ Suddenly it felt as though speaking in French would be easier, for him, but from her accent it seemed unlikely that she would be fluent enough to follow what he was struggling to understand himself. ‘I was fired up. I had been fighting and we had won. And, yes, some primitive creature inside me needed to take a woman—my woman—in triumph.’ My woman. She is not my woman. I do not have a woman. I will not think of her like that. I will not care.

  She was silent and he wanted to drop his eyes from that clear, troubled gaze, but that would be cowardice. ‘I had been frightened for you, and angry because you had put me in a position where I might not have been able to protect you. I required, I suppose, to assert mastery and that is one step from forcing you.’ Which is no doubt why I feel sick. That and aching frustration.