Chapter Twenty-Six
Lucien tucked Abigail’s hand firmly against his elbow as they made their way down the dock.
They wound between crates and coils of rope as he guided her toward the sleek shape of his waiting schooner.
Each step took them farther from the passenger ship, the captain’s words about conduct still ringing in his ears.
He grinned. Worth it.
Abigail’s fingers tightened on his sleeve, and he glanced down, ready to tease her about the flush still riding her cheeks. But her widened eyes gave him pause as a commotion came from his side.
“I’m not done with you yet, you bastard!”
Ainsley shoved through a group of sailors with a snarl. His expensive coat flapped open, cravat askew, face blotched red above a collar two sizes too tight for his indignation. The idiot swung wildly. Even a tavern drunk would have been ashamed of such an effort.
Lucien dropped the bag of Abigail’s belongings and ducked without effort, the fist sailing over his head and spinning Ainsley half around.
The man righted himself with a scowl. “You think you’ve won, don’t you? Sneaking off with her like the fortune-hunting pirate you are. She was mine. Her money was mine!”
Abigail stiffened beside Lucien. He heard the small, wounded sound she attempted to swallow, and something cold and lethal uncoiled in him. His hand reached for her, settling at the small of her back.
Ainsley didn’t notice. He stepped forward, reeking of desperation, his voice rising to a high-pitched sneer. “Did you tell him, Abigail, how you begged me to marry you? To take you away from this backwater hell? Did you tell him of our adjoining cabin? Or does he already know what a little—”
Lucien’s fist answered before he could finish his vile accusation.
The crack of knuckles against bone cut through the dock noise like a shot. The outraged aristocrat staggered backward with a howl, hand flying to his bloodied mouth.
Lucien flexed his hand. “Care to finish that thought?”
Ainsley spat blood, face twisting into something feral. With a wordless shriek, he lunged again.
Fool.
Lucien caught him by the lapels and hauled him forward till they were nose to nose. “If your face ever darkens my sight again, I will finish this.”
One clean pivot, a heave of his shoulders, and the ass went sailing, hitting the water between the wharf and a moored fishing boat with a heavy splash. A chorus of laughter rose from dockhands and sailors alike as Ainsley surfaced with a sputtering curse.
Lucien turned his back on the spectacle, sliding an arm around Abigail’s waist. Her eyes were wide, but the tremble on her lips betrayed her building laughter. “Come now, our ship awaits.”
They crossed the narrow gangplank onto the schooner’s polished deck as the setting sun gilded the spars and cast the sails in warm amber.
Pierre waited at the mainmast with a bundle of canvas over one shoulder.
His expression twisted into a wicked smirk the instant he caught sight of Abigail beside Lucien.
“Ah, bienvenue, Miss Ross. I was beginning to despair that our captain here would spend the rest of his days brooding over a cup of rum.”
Lucien snorted, though his hand tightened around the curve of her waist. “I only drink whiskey.”
Pierre winked. “The sentiment still stands.”
Abigail let out a soft chuff, and his friend’s eyes twinkled with a mischievous glint.
“Pierre…” He injected as much warning into his voice as he could. “Please keep a civil tongue.”
“Merci!” The Frenchman straightened, hand pressed to his heart.
“Me? Uncivil? Never.” He leaned closer to Abigail’s ear.
“He was pathetic, you know, ready to spend a week at that tavern drowning himself in his sorrow. Lucky for you, it took me but a moment to convince him a woman as beautiful as you was worth storming a dozen passenger ships to find.”
Lucien groaned. “I’m seriously reconsidering our friendship.”
Pierre’s grin widened, and he clapped him on the shoulder before offering Abigail his arm with a gallant flourish. “Come, mademoiselle. Allow me to show you to the captain’s cabin before he remembers how to bark orders and send me from your fair presence.”
He followed the two below deck and extracted her hand from his friend’s arm. “I’ll take it from here. You’ll be sailing the first watch.”
A knowing look passed over Pierre’s face, and Lucien half expected another outrageous outburst. But with an exaggerated bow, he left them alone.
Once in the cabin, Lucien clicked the door shut behind him, scratching the back of his head. “I promise he’s not normally so theatrical.”
Abigail gave him a shy smile. “I found him rather charming.”
“Charming.” Lucien exhaled a quiet laugh, stepping closer until a faint whiff of orange blossom perfume filled his lungs. “I’ll remind him of that when he’s hauling anchor at dawn.”
His jest faded as his gaze swept over her.
A deep-blue silk gown cut low across her chest. Her blonde hair had been coaxed and pinned into an elegant twist threaded with seed pearls.
Lace gloves reached past her elbow, and a single sapphire drop rested in the hollow of her throat.
She looked expensive, untouchable, heartbreakingly beautiful, and utterly out of place against the scarred table and plain furnishings of the cabin.
“Abigail.” His throat worked. “You’re…” He waved a hand at her transformation.
She gave a small shrug. “Mr. Ainsley insisted on a new wardrobe before we boarded. He said I looked like a dockside trull and no one would believe I was his fiancée unless…” Her voice trailed off and she dropped her gaze to the floor.
He closed the space between them, fingers itching to pull her into his arms so he could kiss the self-consciousness from her face. Instead, he lifted one gloved hand, turned it over, studied the perfect stitches as though they belonged to a stranger.
“He dressed you like a damned porcelain doll.” His voice roughened, anger sharpening each syllable. “As if scrubbing the salt from your skin could erase what you’ve endured. As if a few yards of silk could make you forget.”
Her fingers trembled in his, her eyes wide and unblinking.
Slowly, deliberately, he peeled the glove from her fingers, then the other, letting them fall to the floorboards.
His hands skimmed up her arms, her shoulders, unclasping the necklace and tossing it to the side.
He reached for the first pin in her hair, tugging it free, and a single pale curl tumbled down her back. Then another. And another.
When the last pearl pin clinked to the floor, he slid his fingers into her hair, and tilted her face up to face him. Her breath hitched.
“You don’t need any of these to be the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen.” He fanned his thumb out to brush her lower lip. “Not the silk. Not the pearls.”
Her eyes shimmered in the lantern light, and he nearly gave in to the urge to pull her against him, to crush her mouth beneath his.
He turned and dragged a hand across his mouth as if he could wipe away the surge of possessiveness. A futile attempt. Distance. He needed distance, if only for a breath.
With quick strides, he crossed over to the chair and dropped into it, pulse hammering.
She stood where he’d left her, fingers twisted in her skirts, lips parted on a quiet exhale. He tried not to notice the slight tremor working through her, but God help him, he did.
He’d intended to give her space. To give himself space.
But the sight of her standing there with her hair tumbling over one shoulder, looking like a damn angel, gnawed at his restraint.
The need to claim her, to make her his after seeing her with Ainsley surged through him.
Did it make him despicable? Perhaps. Did he care?
Not one damn bit.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze locked on hers, dark and hungry and no longer pretending to be civilized.
“Come here.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers as Abigail crossed the room. When she reached him, she stopped just short of touching. Lucien set his hands on her hips and tugged her closer. She tried to angle to one side of him, but he guided her until she had no choice but to straddle him, one leg to either side.
“That’s better.”
She tried to move back, but his hands tightened, holding her in place.
“Sit.” The word came out soft, but no less a command.
Her eyes widened, but she obeyed, lifting her skirts to accommodate the position.
He settled her so her core rested directly over the part of him that ached most for her, straining through the fabric separating them.
She gasped, the sound sending a wicked thrill through him.
Good. Let her know how much she affected him.
Wide blue eyes watched as he flicked his tongue over his lower lip.
His hands slid from her hips to the pooled silk at her thighs.
Slowly, he gathered the fabric, inch by inch, dragging it upward until he exposed her stockinged calves.
Higher, past her knees, past the soft bare skin above her garters.
When the skirts bunched at her hips, he raked his gaze across the shadowed curls nestled at the apex of her thighs.
His knuckles brushed the sensitive curve where her leg met her body, and she jerked—a tiny, helpless movement that pressed her harder against the rigid line of his erection.
One more tug and the silk cleared her hips entirely, baring her completely.
He pressed his thumb in his mouth, wetting it with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving hers as he reached between them. A dark chuckle broke free when he dipped into the pool of wetness already waiting. Her body had betrayed her in the most telling way.
“Christ, Abigail.” A growl rumbled up his throat. “Do you feel it?” He swirled his finger, dragging sweet silk up to the nub of her sex in a slow circle. “Do you feel how wet you are for me?”