How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) (7 page)

CHAPTER
11

Quincy slammed
the door of his bedchamber and prowled the room. He rent the cravat from his
neck and stripped off his jacket and vest. That woman! That infernal woman! She
would keep the wretched nude? Stare at it whenever it pleased her? Stare at
him
whenever it pleased her?

He kicked off his
shoes, sending both into the wall. He’d torch that painting yet, he vowed. He
wouldn’t give her the pleasure of keeping it, of keeping
him
, like a sideshow
bear trapped in a cage. She would not have any part of him, not even his
likeness.

Pulling the
shirt up over his head, he dropped it, too, to the floor. Was she staring at it
right now? he wondered, then stopped in his tracks. His every muscle cramped at
the thought of her penetrating eyes caressing the canvas, her elfin fingers
grazing the fabric in sensual want.

As if he’d felt
her arousing touch, he shuddered.

Burn it.

Definitely.

Quincy crouched
beside the sea chest at the foot of his bed and rummaged through the contents,
searching for the satchel of opium capsules stored somewhere inside. He needed
the drug’s numbing effect, its blissful ability to blot out torments. He damn
well didn’t want to think about his wife wanting him. Or wanting other men.

He stilled as he
remembered the lechers salivating over her during the engagement ball. And her
“little notebook” of the men’s names? Perhaps she’d already had an affair? He’d
been gone three months and hadn’t a deuced idea what she’d done—unsupervised—in
all that time.

No, she wouldn’t
take a lover while he was at sea. If she became pregnant, it would be mighty
obvious he wasn’t the father. She would time her affairs with his furloughs,
the wench. And if she was having an affair right now?

He fisted his
palms. What if she was already pregnant? What if
that
was the real
reason she was so intent upon their wedding night? To legitimate the babe?

He didn’t care.
He
shouldn’t
care.

At last he found
the satchel and grabbed a few capsules. He dropped his head back and downed the
opium. The capsules became stuck at the back of his throat, but the sugar
coating quickly melted and the drug slipped easily into his belly.

Quincy wiped his
mouth and sighed, dropping the satchel back inside the chest. Soon, he thought.
Soon the unfeeling darkness would come and he would rest.

He pushed away
from the chest and peeled off his trousers before he dropped onto the bed and
curled his arm around a pillow.

The drug’s heady
effect was swift to come. His muscles relaxed. His mind quieted. And then
darkness fell . . .

The room was
silent. Candles burned beside the bed, revealing a fevered brow and the sallow skin
of  a wraith.

The duke stood
beside the window, unmoving, holding back a torrent of immeasurable grief. If
the duchess breathed her last breath, that grief would explode. It would be the
rebirth of a monster.

“How is she?”

Silence.

“The duke?”

“I fear for his
mind. Bring the child.”

She can’t die,
thought Quincy. She can’t die. Not again.

“The child is
here.”

“Open the
window,” his sister whispered. “I don’t want her to sense my death.”

James carried
the child and kneeled beside the bed.

“Alice, you have
a baby brother,” said Mirabelle.

“But I’m still squirt.”

“Yes, you’re
still squirt. Bring her closer, James.”

The pirate
captain rested the child nearer her mother, and she wrapped her arms around the
small figure.

“I want you to take care of your brother, Alice.”

The girl screwed up her face. “Why, Mama?”

“Because that’s what big sisters do.”

“I thought that’s what nurses do?”

“I’d like you to help nurse. Can you do that for me?”

The child sighed. “Yes.”

Mirabelle took in a shaky breath.

“What’s wrong, Mama?”

“Nothing’s the matter, squirt. I’m just tired.”

“It’s late,” said Alice wisely.

“It is. I’m sorry uncle James had to wake you, but I needed to tell
you something . . . I love you, Alice.”

“I love you too,
Mama.”

“Give me a hug and a kiss, squirt.”

Alice leaned forward and pecked her mother’s lips.

“Take her,” said Mirabelle, choking on tears.

James collected his niece and headed for the door. He paused, then retraced
his steps and pressed a kiss to his sister’s ashen brow before he quit the
room, moisture glistening in his eyes.

Once the door was sealed, Mirabelle let out a wretched sob.

No, she can’t
die, thought Quincy. She can’t die. Not again.

“Mirabelle, no!
Don’t go! Stay, Megan!”

“Quincy.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill her. Megan, I’m sorry!”

“Quincy, wake up!”

Quincy bolted upright, covered in sweat, his lungs starved for air.
In the dimness, he was disoriented, the movement beneath him waves? No, a bed.
He was in a strange room but his furniture was the same. Where was the light
coming from?

He searched the chamber. A candle. A burning candle. In the hand of a
woman.

“Who are you?”

“It’s me, Quincy.”

Her voice was familiar. He couldn’t see her face, so twisted. He
rubbed his sore eyes. He was in hell. How much opium had he taken? He couldn’t
remember. More than usual, though. He couldn’t wake up. The nefarious shadows
stretched toward him, reaching for him.

“Stay away,” he snapped, his breathing ragged. “Don’t come near me.”

“All right,” the feminine voice answered.

The light retreated into the distance. The darkness swallowed him.

“No! Come back,” he beseeched.

The light returned.

“It’s a dream, Quincy,” the gentle voice assured him. “Wake up.”

He tried. He grabbed his head, crushing his skull.

The light landed on the bedside table. A warm body settled behind
him, and a set of strong yet slender arms reached around his chest and
squeezed.

He released his head, spinning with grotesques images and voices,
and leaned against the soft and comforting figure, passing out.

~ * ~

Quincy squinted at the bright light. He shut his eyes again, his
head throbbing, his limbs trapped, tangled in bedding and some other infernal
restraint.

He sighed and shifted his arse when tender fingers stroked his
cheek. His eyes shot open, blinded by sunlight, but after a few dazed moments,
he focused on the room—and the heavenly body wrapped around him.

He heard a heart pounding beneath his ear, loud and steady beats,
like the hypnotic drum of a jungle tribe. A pair of soft breasts cushioned him,
while artful hands wandered over his naked back in sensual caresses. As soon as
a silky leg slipped between his thighs, Quincy jumped from the bed.

He reeled, his head pulsing, his thoughts mashed and entwined. He
couldn’t unscramble them and set right what had happened, but when he stared at
the woman in his bed—his
wife
—he groaned.

Slowly she sat up, unperturbed, her night rail seductively askew. She
wrapped her arms around her raised knees and smiled. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit!”

Quincy staggered as he grabbed his trousers off the floor and
crammed a leg into one of the openings. He trembled at the thought that he’d
bedded the wench. And he’d
no
bleedin’ memory of it!

“You really have a beautiful arse.”

He hardened at the provocative compliment and stuffed his other leg
into the breeches before buttoning the flaps.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, confronting her.

Her long, unfettered tresses, fiery in the morning light, spilled
over her shoulders. The green in her eyes glowed bright, like a meadow after a
rainfall, while her skin flushed with rose color, making her more beautiful
than a nymph—and more tempting than sin.

“Don’t you
remember?” she asked in a quiet, almost sensitive voice.

No, he didn’t
remember. He didn’t remember a wretched thing!

“The dream?” she
prodded.

“What are you
talking about? What dream?”

“I heard you
from my room, shouting in your sleep. I came to wake you.”

“Horseshit.”

She had found
him intoxicated, under the effects of the opium, and she’d taken advantage of
his bloody lust for her.

“You cried for
forgiveness,” she went on, “and your sister’s name, and . . . you also called for
another woman.”

He chilled.

“Who is Megan?”
she whispered.

His heart
slammed against his ribs, his legs wavered. He crossed the carpet and grabbed
the window frame for support, dazed, sinking into thick, suffocating memories.

Damn you, Holly.

“Megan is my
mother.” He released a tortured breath. “She died many years ago.”

A lifetime ago.

“I also lost my
mother,” she said softly. “Two years ago. I think of her often.”

Was she trying
to form a bond with him? Two lost orphans in the world, joining together to create
a new family? He shut his eyes again. Their situations were nothing alike. He’d
bet his soul she hadn’t killed
her
mother.

It was clear the
effects of the opium were weakening. Once, the drug had blanketed him in darkness,
so thick, not even his nightmares could reach him. But now . . . ? What would
he do now?

After a tense pause,
he asked, “What do you want from me?”

“To be your
wife.”

He’d suspected
some such rot. “Are you my
wife
?”

“If you mean in
body, no. I hope to change that, though.”

She was
relentless. He would lock his bedroom door in the future.

“I know what
you’re trying to do,” he said roughly. “It won’t work.”

She slipped off
the bed. He heard the sheets rustle before her quiet footfalls approached him,
stirring his blood to life.

“What am I
trying to do?”

When she reached
his backside, he seized. Her lengthy night rail fluttered and whisked against
his legs, her hips brushed his thighs, and when her bold fingers traced the
curvature of his spine, making him shudder, his breath caught in his throat.

“Are you
pregnant?”

Her fingers
froze.

He turned and
looked into her wide, startled eyes. “Well, Holly? All those men in your little
notebook? Did one of them get you pregnant? Is that why you’re so intent on a
wedding night?”

Her cheeks turned
red. Her hand dropped away from his back. “Oh, dear. I see I’ve made a terrible
mistake, trying to make you jealous. I’m afraid I’m not very good at seducing a
man.”

Oh, hell, she
was
too
good at seducing a man, and she didn’t even know it! That made
her all the more dangerous. And it made her innocent desire for him all the
more tempting.

Damn. He almost
wished she
was
pregnant. He could deal with the situation then, assure
her he’d claim the babe and she needn’t take him to bed to secure her
reputation and the child’s legitimacy.

But Quincy could
see in her eyes she wasn’t a wanton, that she had never known a lover’s
touch—and she wanted his to be the first.

“No,” he said
tightly, restraining his carnal impulses.

She remained
silent, contemplating. Her eyes then filled with understanding. “Why?”

“You’ve already
taken too much from me.”

Again her
fingertips stroked his fevered flesh. “I can give in return.”

He flinched at
her scorching touch and twisted around, grabbing her wrist, his thumb pressing
over her hammering pulse. In a hoarse, strangled voice, he warned, “Do not,
Holly.”

“But why?” she
beseeched, a hope for intimacy burning in her eyes.

“Because I won’t
forgive you for what you’ve done.” His hand quivered. “I cannot forgive you for
creating that painting and taking away my freedom, my life.”

“Quincy, I lost
my freedom, too. But I want to build a new life—with you.”

Hope still
burned in her faithful eyes. He had to snuff out that hope.

“You took more
than my freedom, Holly, don’t you see? You also took away my chance to meet the
woman I might truly have loved and married, like one of my brothers.”