Chapter 31 #2
“You know, I have no idea because when he arrived at the doorway beside Morgan and looking so nice—almost natty, in fact, in a mulberry coat and stone-colored trousers—all she could do was stare at him. And then when he came striding across the room to pull her into his arms and kiss her, my only thought was, Poor Aunt April—it must be like a nightmare for her to find Henry Cork suddenly in England hugging her in front of a room filled with pirates. I would have gone to her and tried to push him off, let me tell you, but Morgan put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me into a chair—don’t frown; he did it very gently, I promise—and it turned out Morgan was right, because Aunt April didn’t seem to mind the kiss at all, although she looked rather bemused.
And then Henry Cork made her the prettiest speech about how he hadn’t had her off his mind a day since they parted in New York, and though he knew he wasn’t her quality and never would be, Morgan had settled a nice size of property on him, as he’d promised for watching me all those years, and if Aunt April would consent, he’d like to court her, and didn’t she know the reason he’d plagued her with all those tricks was to get a moment of her attention when he could.
He led her out to the carriage so gentlemanly-like and kicked Max Reade in the shin because he hadn’t doffed his hat.
Cat says it might serve, because with a duchess for a niece and Henry Cork’s money, she might not be shunned by the ton, or at least all but the highest sticklers, if we could think up some story to make his background sound more respectable.
And you know, I think Aunt April wouldn’t care so much if she was shunned just a little, because although in Virginia she pined for England and society, now that I see her here, she’s just as content to putter in the garden and coze with her close friends as she is to go to ton parties.
I think the”—she had to think about the best way to say it—“the pleasant quiet of our life in Fairfield changed her more than she knew. What are you thinking?”
“That I don’t want our children to have Henry Cork for an uncle.” But Devon was smiling.
The offhand mention of their children brought new color to her cheeks.
“They may as well have him, since they’ll have Rand Morgan also.
Poor little things, we’ll probably find them sailing the Jolly Roger from their cradle slats.
But you had better go back to sleep. What am I doing, keeping you awake chattering?
Go on. Close your eyes. Close them. There.
And I can sing you a lullaby.” But her singing voice was not as good as her drawing, and the song she chose was an American one which made reference not only to the villainy of England’s ruling prince but to his girth as well.
Devon opened an eyelid and in a mild tone said, “If you will sing just a little louder, my heart, you’ll ensure our place in the history books, because by morning our heads will be adorning Traitor’s Gate.”
“Then never mind that. I’ll rub liniment into your poor bruised body. That will relax you.” She heard his indrawn breath as she laid a hand lightly on him.
Both his eyes were open now and shining. “You don’t have any liniment… and I don’t have any bruises.”
“Quibbler!” Then, as though willing to concede a point, she said, “Well, perhaps not bruises.” Her hands slid lower, and her voice was ingenuous and husky as she said, “Swellings.”
A laugh, a breath, taken quickly. “My love, my own sweet love… my lily petal. I’m too damned weak.”
“As though I care for that,” she scoffed cheerfully. “I mean to ravish you. You’ll find I don’t share your scruples. It should be a good lesson to you.”
As she carefully removed the pillow from under his head and laid him back, eddying her parted lips over his mouth, he said, in fervent agreement, “God, yes.” Then when her hand began to coast down over his body: “I’m beginning to think you should have no mercy.
” He took another hard breath as her fingers wandered over the rise of his thigh.
She could feel his flesh heat under her cheek and the crooked curve of his smile.
“I don’t know how it comes to be, but I’m feeling stronger by the minute. ”
She sighed, trailing the tip of her tongue over his lips. “Men are so easy.”
Meeting her tongue, moving his lips against hers, he said, “Flammable is the word. Please, if you intend to assert your conjugal rights, carry on. Although—and I’m sorry about this—the way Cat’s bound my arm, I don’t think my shirt will come off.”
But this morning she had tucked a small knife from her breakfast tray into her garter, and her shifting skirts twisted it against her stockings, reminding her of its presence. A gleam of humor lit her eyes. “What I have under my skirt may change your mind.”
He watched appreciatively as she sat back on her heels and began to draw up her hem. “It may.” His gaze widened lazily as he saw a small knife with a mother-of-pearl handle under the gold Brussels lace garter that circled her slim thigh.
“I come equipped with the necessities.” Her breathless voice tried to sound informative.
There was an oddly disquieting smile in his eyes. “Every last one. And now?”
“You’re such an unsuccessful ravisher, I’m going to show you how it ought to be done.” A series of jabbing slashes opened his remaining buttons, laying his midriff bare.
Laughing, flinching as the inexpertly wielded blade skimmed his flesh, he said, “I suppose I’ll have to make my way mother-naked back to Teasel Hill?”
“We pirates never trouble ourselves about whether our victims have a change of clothing. Revenge is sweet. How do you like this?”
“If I told you, love, it might ruin your revenge,” he said huskily, lifting a knee to kick off the bedclothes. “Now what? Trouble?”
“Yes.” She was sawing at the seam over his shoulder. “It’s hard work being a swashbuckler. How do you ravishers always make this look so easy?”
He had brought up a hand to brush the back of his forefinger over her nipple, feeling a nerve-shiver run through him as it hardened against his skin. Sympathetically he said, “For one thing, we don’t use dining utensils.”
She had to gasp a little as his hand curved up and into her low-cut bodice, pressing under the warm thrust of her breast, caressing the nipple with his thumb. Feebly she murmured, “When one dines, one uses the proper utensils.”
He slid her closer, freeing her breast from its aching confinement, and applied his lips and tongue to the tip. “Then I think I may come by my just deserts.”
Her laughter was a sensual stroke on his brow. “I think, love, that your desserts have just begun.”
When Cat returned much later to check on his patient, he found Devon asleep in a bed littered with the scattered tatters of his clothing and Merry’s nose peeking out of the bedclothes, her eyes deliciously alight with amusement.
And seeing the answering humor in his pale-blue gaze and questioningly upraised brow, she whispered, “Give me your hand,” and slapped the knife into it.
“There wasn’t a bit of fight in the lad. ”