I Kissed an Earl Page 6
Corcoran coughed in surprise, forgetting this was a tantalizing possibility. Flint scowled at him.
An indecisive silence crept by.
He heard the woman inhale at length. Likely gathering courage. But then she coughed out the breath again. Perhaps unable to tolerate the “vile stink” of the cabin entering her nostrils.
“Very well,” she agreed at last with elegant dignity.
The door began to move. She pushed it slowly all the way open.
Creeeaak. Thunk.
A dumbstruck silence followed.
“Mother. Of. GOD,” Corcoran said reverently. He plucked off his hat and placed it over his heart again.
For the doorway framed a tall, dark-haired, startlingly clean Englishwoman dressed in a gold-braided deep red walking gown and pelisse, which hung in the kind of effortless lines Flint recognized as both fashionable and bogglingly expensive. Her hair was dark, glossy. Blue eyes set deep beneath two fine very black brows. A ruler-straight nose. A pale, full mouth, fine, sharp jaw, a stubborn chin.
She was even wearing a bloody bonnet, albeit hanging on ribbons down her back.
They all stared at each other in a nonplussed silence.
Well, Flint thought. She was certainly different in this context.
She’d called him a savage. She’d been bored at the ball. She smelled of lavender, faintly, when she’d stood on toe and asked him to guess whether she was an innocent, and he’d known an instant of temptation, an infinitesimal sizzling sense promise, during which the veil of boredom and niceties had been dropped and they’d enjoyed an honest, if not entirely comfortable, exchange. But he’d known then she was merely testing herself. She was an innocent, indeed, one who could likely be urged to be wicked and reckless.
And there would also likely be a grave cost to any man who did urge her to do it.
Oh. And her brother resembled Le Chat. His nemesis.
The reason he was on this voyage at all.
“Miss…” He could barely get the word out for incredulity. He could hardly believe he’d even said the word miss. On his ship.
There was a miss on his ship.
Oh, God. A very unwelcome turn of events.
“Redmond,” she supplied with glacial dignity. As though she were accustomed to saying that name and then watching as everyone dislocated their spines in bows of obeisance.
Oh dear God.
Now he remembered. She was a Redmond. He’d been introduced to Isaiah Redmond last night; he’d learned all about the man’s wealth and influence and reach. Isaiah Redmond would have an armada sent after The Fortuna.
If he knew where she’d gone.
Flint stole a desperate glance in the direction of London, as though wondering whether he could plop her into a long boat and have one of his men row her straightaway back to shore.
They were emphatically at sea, of course. And the nearest port was days away.
She curtsied. He bowed.
It all seemed very ridiculous.
“Name’s Corcoran, madam,” said the midshipman behind him reverently.
“Delighted to meet you Mr. Corcoran.” Her voice was aristocratic and mellifluous.
She seemed sound enough, though she was definitely pale, and faint shadowed rings of sleeplessness curved beneath her eyes. He wondered if she’d been seasick in the chamber pot, but surprisingly she didn’t seem to be suffering unduly—her skin would have been more green than white. In fact, one would have thought she’d simply enjoyed a standard night of dancing and debauchery, apart from shockingly crisp clothing. And the bonnet. A woman who had taken great care, even in the absence of a maid, to groom herself scrupulously.
He peered beyond her.
He saw a trunk, a cloak draped over a chair and that lumpy uninviting mattress that appeared undented by a sleeping body. It was one of only two traditional beds aboard. His was the other. The rest of the men slept in hammocks.
Behind her the cabin exhaled the singular aroma of a space in which legions of sailors had sweat, broken wind, drunk, and aimed for chamber pots with perhaps more urgency than accuracy. It had always been cleaned to the extent possible but always with the occupancy of men in mind. In other words, it smelled like every other cabin on the ship, apart, perhaps from his own, which was spotless, as he was the only person who’d ever slept in it.
His own aim was impeccable.
“Miss Redmond…” he said very mildly, very gently, in a voice that belied the momentum of his gathering outrage. “Why the devil are you on my ship?”
Corcoran cleared his throat. “Captain. Perhaps you oughtn’t use the word devil in front of Miss Redmond, as she’s a fine la…”
Flint whipped a scorchingly quelling look at Corcoran.
Who clapped his jaw shut audibly.
Then Flint returned a deceptively mild gaze to Miss Redmond.
He gave her a moment more to respond to his question. She didn’t seem eager to do it.
“Very well. If you would just come with me, Miss Redmond, we shall speak in private quarters. Please return to your duties, Corcoran. Thank you for calling my attention to these…circumstances.”
“Aye, sir. Good day to you, Miss Redmond.” He made a bow so extravagant the top of his balding head nearly touched his knees, and he backed away, soaking up the sight of Violet Redmond as long as possible, though she were a healing vision and the fetid little cabin a shrine.
He turned and scrambled back up onto the deck.
Flint was certain he’d spread word of her presence to the other men on board as quickly, and with as much exaggeration, as possible.
Unholy, bloody mess.
Trust an Englishwoman to complicate things.
“Miss Redmond,” he repeated firmly. He gestured for her to precede him.
And after a hesitation, she tilted up her chin in a show of bravado—she’d certainly need that, he thought grimly—and obeyed.
Chapter 5
He opened the door to his cabin, his sanctuary: an elegantly simple, masculine room of the type he’d occupied since he’d captained his first ship at age eighteen. It was roomier than the typical captain’s cabin, but not by much. His bed, his bureau, a mirror, his chessboard, a tiny painting, a dartboard, some books, a map-covered wall. Touchstones, these things. Everything in the room was either utilitarian or had been given to him by someone who mattered to him.
He ushered her inside and closed the door.
For sitting there were several chairs and a bed, but he didn’t invite her to sit. He turned and fired questions like shots over a bow.
“How did you get aboard my ship, Miss Redmond?”
“I learned that your man Rathskill was discontented, and discovered he was easily enough bought, Captain Flint. He’s not overly fond of you, you know.”
Rathskill himself wasn’t a terrible loss. He was mad to surrender to the urge to ask. Still, curiosity won.
“What was his price?”
“Five pounds.” She sounded bemused that he could be got for such a bargain.
Flint was surprised, too. It demonstrated the man was either a fool and he was better off without him, or far more diabolically brilliant than he’d originally credited him, because he’d certainly taken revenge upon the captain by leaving Miss Redmond as a parting gift.
“After the ball, I packed a trunk and paid a hack to take me to where The Fortuna was anchored. Rathskill rowed me aboard and installed me in the guest cabin, and then he departed to enjoy his five pounds and his freedom from you in London.”
“And you’re entirely unchaperoned on this misbegotten endeavor?”
A hesitation. “Yes.” She didn’t address his adjectives.
“Does your family have an inkling where you are?”
“My family believes I am at a house party in Northumberland and departed for it this morning by way of hired hack. At least, that’s what I instructed our footman to tell them. He’s a bit afraid of me, so no doubt it’s what he did tell them.”
Worse and worse and worse.
“Why in God’s name are you here?”
Her silence seemed more reluctant than stubborn. She wasn’t quite certain how to go about telling him. Very well. He would drill it out of her.
“Are you fleeing an arranged marriage?”
“No.”
“Are you with child and intend to cast yourself off the side of my ship out of remorse and shame and a misplaced sense of drama?”
“No!” She didn’t blush, though she sounded appropriately horrified.
“Excellent. So the option of throwing you overboard remains.”
“I—”
“Has anyone in your family beaten or in any way mistreated you, such that you fled pell-mell to the docks to board my vessel, after calculatedly bribing my man in order to take his place?”
“N—”
“Have you fallen in love with Lavay and intend to follow him to the ends of the earth?
“No!”
Though her eyes darted interestingly here.
“Were you perhaps dared by one of your female friends to board this ship?”
“No.”
He glared at her so fiercely, so pointedly, he was astonished a smoking hole didn’t appear between her eyes.
“As much as I’m enjoying this guessing game, Miss Redmond, my time is valuable and I’m needed to command this bloody SHIP.”
Well, then. His temper got hold of him on the last three words.
Her eyes widened. Her hands clenched reflexively, he noticed. More impressed with his temper than afraid of it.
Give her time.
Splendid color, he noticed. Those eyes. Crystalline blue, a bit like sunlight glancing off a foaming sea. In the grittier context of a ship, splendid things, grace notes, stood out in stark relief. And introducing feminine splendor and grace into a ship full of splendor-deprived men could spell chaos, if not disaster.
“Miss Redmond.” Heavy as an anvil with irony, those two words. “Do you intend to tell me why you’re on my ship?”
Again, her silence was more recalcitrant than considering. She was still working out her rationale. Women.
“Very well. While you contemplate how to begin telling me your story—for I assure you, you will, and you will tell me the truth—allow me to tell you a few things. Do you have any idea what the presence of a woman such as yourself can do to a crew of men deprived of female companionship for weeks and months at a time, and I do mean ‘companionship’ euphemistically? You’re not precisely ugly.”
Only a blink betrayed that she might be a trifle taken aback.
“Surely flattery is unnecessary, Captain,” she said mildly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of flattering you. I’ve never seen the necessity of flattery and I’m not a frivolous man. The Fortuna is on an important mission, one that will likely be dangerous. I’ve a slim crew of hardworking, skilled men, each of whose full physical and intellectual capacities are needed each minute of each day. And each of them—as they are men—are disposed both to gallantry and, shall we say, animalistic behavior when confronted with a woman and the competition of other men for her attention and favor, regardless of this woman’s family name or the status of her virginity.”
He waited for her to go scarlet.
She did not. But her jaw tensed and there was a definite tightening of the skin about her eyes. Admirable fortitude, or more than her share of bloody cheek. He wasn’t certain which it was.
“The wrong woman could tip the balance disastrously. You, I assure you, are very much the wrong woman. Your appearance could therefore jeopardize my mission and wreak havoc upon my crew, none of whom deserves havoc, or deserves the disturbance of his peace of mind. I thought I would share this on the off chance you possessed a conscience, if not a brain.”
She listened to this, her face going tauter and paler. And she swallowed.
Good. Not entirely without a conscience, then.
But he was wrong about the source of the whiteness. He was indeed intimidating.
But Violet was angry now, too. And when she was angry, she was reckless.
“Have you so little control over your men, Captain Flint?” She said it softly.
He froze. And something so closed and hard and final passed over his face she felt her teeth jar. As though she’d run headlong into a wall.
His voice became low and even and much more frightening.
“You had better have an excellent reason for paying my man to board my ship. Because if you’re here on a whim, I’ll cast you overboard now with no regrets.”
“Surely you’ll know a twinge or two.”
Why oh why did she say those sorts of things? What made her do it? Violet was even frightening herself. But flippancy was her only defense in the moment, and she supposed it was what cornered animals did: lash out with whatever defenses remained to them.
He sizzled incredulity at her.
“I cannot protect you every single hour of every day you’re aboard my ship, Miss Redmond, and I cannot afford to charge one of my men with the duty. They are not gentlemen, Miss Redmond.” Good heavens, how ironic he’d made that word sound. “Some of them, in other circumstances, might qualify as rogues and scalawags. In other words, they are sailors and fighters.”
She knew she was the transgressor. Still, his arrogance made her feel rash.
“I wouldn’t allow any of them to touch me, my lord. I am not so fragile as you may think. I managed to bribe Rathskill, did I not? And like as not they wouldn’t dare succumb to animal instincts, as you say, if they know what the consequences would be? You’ll simply make it known that you’ll have the flesh stripped from their bones in a gauntlet. Since you are the captain and their loyalty is unquestioned.”
Hoping she’d astonished him with her knowledge of nautical punishments, she angled her shoulders to leave, since she’d recalled her trunk was in the guest cabin and her twenty pounds were inside, and she could not recall whether it was properly locked.
As if in a dream, out of the corner of her eye, she watched as his arm stretched out and his hand closed over her upper arm—completely.
Shackling it.
She was just able to register the fact that his grip was impersonally ungentle, and that she’d never been touched like that in her entire life, and that she couldn’t move at all despite a cursory attempt to do so, when he spun her around to face him.
Abruptly.
He held her motionless for a moment. As much with his hands as with the ferocity of his gaze. And then he slowly relinquished her, his fingers dragging along her arm, leaving behind an imprint of heat.
His point made: he could control her if he chose. And he could touch her if he chose.
She was thunderstruck.
She resisted the urge to rub at her arm. It didn’t hurt, and yet she thought she could feel the brand of his five fingers on her arm. Heat started in her cheeks; she was uncertain whether it was fury or mortification or some combination thereof. Whatever it was robbed her entirely of speech.
She could only stare at him.
“Ah, that’s better. I prefer to be looked at when I’m speaking, Miss Redmond, and as captain of this ship, I prefer to do the dismissing when I feel a conversation has run its course. This one has not. And, oh, look at that: I dared to touch you.”
He waited for her to react.
She had enough sense this time not to say a single word.
“Here is what you fail to realize. I can take you whenever—and—however I please. Should I please to do so, and I can’t imagine why I would, as I expect my women to do a little of the work, as it were. And I doubt you’ve done anything resembling making an effort in your entire life.”
Absurdly, Violet was at first struck by his impeccable grammar. Little elegant hammer blows of words. She was reminded of her former French tutor; it was the same carefully flawless English spoken by those who didn’t come native to it, but learned it as a foreign language.
The earl had learned gentility.
He balanced the trappings of it like a juggler with glittering clubs. Beneath it simmered whatever it was he showed her now, whatever it was everyone had sensed in him in that ballroom that night but would never have been able to identify.
Savage. Or so they’d said.
He was studying her face for the impact of his words. “I daresay you haven’t the faintest idea to what I’m referring.”
And that’s when delayed shock settled fully in. A sweep of ice, then heat, washed her limbs and then settled into her stomach. For God’s sake, of course she knew to what he was referring. Take her. Animalistically, he meant.
She’d never heard it referred to quite as “work” before, however. She imagined the “ladies” at The Velvet Glove viewed it as such.
“I do know ‘of what you’re speaking.’” She mimicked him icily. Or, rather, she’d tried for ice. Her voice emerged hoarse and shock-frayed.
What an absurd thing to say. It sent his eyebrows upward mockingly.
“Well, then. I do wonder what makes you think that I won’t take you, on a whim. Brute that I am. And so forth,” he said as though he were merely idly curious. His eyes belied the tone, however. Imperious, impersonal, cold anger.
They stared at each other.
“Savage,” she corrected absently, “is what they say.” She possessed enough wits at the moment to not address the rest of his sentence at all.
He gaze increased in incredulity.
She returned it warily, unblinkingly, with a penetrating interest that unbeknownst to her made her look remarkably like her brother Miles, the naturalist, when he peered at man-eating plants and crawling things in order to understand them. The Earl of Ardmay was showing no indication of being anything like any of the other men she’d ever known.
“Is it that you are accustomed, Miss Redmond, to treating men either as pets or servants? I’m curious—which one of those did you suppose I’d be?”
This gave her pause. She’d never thought about it quite in those terms.
And when she realized he was very close to correct, a fresh bolt of shock and anger shivered down her spine. As though she’d suddenly caught him peering at her through a keyhole. This was an entirely new angle from which she could be viewed, and it was hardly a flattering one.