Читать книгу: «Knights Divided», страница 2

No expense had been spared, it seemed. To one side, a pair of sweaty-faced boys turned an oxen over a blazing fire. Platters of roasted game, pink salmon and a dozen accompaniments he recognized as his mother’s favorites crowded the long tables. Musicians played in the shadow of a pin oak tree for a line of merry dancers. Maids bearing heavy trays worked the crowd, making certain no ale cup or wine goblet went empty.

Footsteps behind him brought Jamie around. In one swift move he drew the knife from his belt and crouched to repel an attack.

“We’ve had our differences, but I hoped it hadn’t come to this,” drawled the voice that had dispelled his childhood fears.

“Papa.” Jamie sheathed his blade and straightened. Uncertain what to do, he stood still, struggling not to squirm beneath the piercing scrutiny of midnight eyes so like his own.

Time had laced silver hair at his father’s temples and etched deep lines around his mouth. Or was his own behavior responsible for his father’s air of weary resignation, Jamie wondered. An apology bumped against the lump in his throat. But what could he say that would make up for all he’d done.

“I prayed you’d come,” his father said.

“I…I shouldn’t have, I suppose,” Jamie murmured. “I’d hate to taint you with my trouble.”

“Nonsense.” The fire that never quite left Alex’s eyes flared. “You were acquitted of that girl’s murder.”

That wasn’t the trouble he’d meant. Strong was the urge to unburden himself to the one person who might understand what he was doing and why. The need for caution kept him silent.

‘Is it my imagination, or does this gaiety seem a bit frantic?” Jamie asked, smoothly changing the subject. He was good at that, so good at lies and evasion it was sometimes hard to separate them from the truth.

His father glared at the nobles, most of whom were friends and acquaintances of long standing. “They’ve gone mad. The whole damned country’s hysterical with fear of this rumored French invasion. They say Charles has mustered thirty thousand men.”

“And is reportedly readying a transport of near twelve hundred ships to bring them here.” Jamie had seen both the soldiers and ships for himself. But of course, ’twould be treason to admit as much.

“Two days ago the king ordered London’s suburbs demolished.”

Jamie gasped. “Why? Has he gone truly mad?”

“Oxford thought ’twould make the city easier to defend.” Alex shook his head. “I do not agree, but ’tis fruitless to oppose the king or his ministers. They are so anxious to find someone on whom to blame the excesses and stupidity which has landed us in these dire straits that they lash out at any who disagree with them. Walter Dunwell is a case in point. He converted his coin to jewels and tried to flee to the safety of Italy with them sewed into his tunic. He was arrested in Dover, charged with treason, and hanged before his family’s eyes.”

Jamie felt the noose tightening around his own neck. “London buzzed with talk of it when I landed a few weeks ago.” He’d barely paid them any mind, for he’d had troubles of his own. Sir Thomas Burton had met him on the docks with the news of Celia’s death and a lot of tricky questions. Damn but that had been a close brush with disaster. If not for his loyal crew—

“Nor is Walter the only one who has panicked. Those who have not succeeded in leaving are spending their money like…like sailors come ashore on their first liberty.”

“In case there is no tomorrow.”

“Aye. Fools. They’d do better to fortify their castles and hold up in them to resist the invaders.”

Jamie winced, imagining hordes of blood-crazed French troops battering down the gates of Harte Court and slaying those dearer to him than his own life. “Richard and his advisors are not fit to rule,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“I agree they’ve brought much of this trouble upon us, but the French have taken advantage of Richard’s weaknesses and now have us in a stranglehold.” Which was true enough. Last year King Charles had captured Bruges and confiscated the goods of English merchants there, effectively cutting off the wool trade that was a main source of royal revenue. A new wool staple had been established at Middleburg, but profits were slim because the ships had to sail in armed convoys to protect them from French privateers. “The royal treasury is so depleted it cannot fund foreign mercenaries to protect us, and we nobles have been taxed to the limit.” Alex sighed. “No one disputes the fact Richard has been a disappointment. He’s headstrong, capricious and—”

“Irresponsible. Oxford and the other greedy fops he’s surrounded himself with since he cast off his uncle’s good counsel will be the ruin of us all. They are the true traitors.”

“None would dare say so. Oxford stands so high in Richard’s favor he has only to whisper a thing in the royal ear and it is done. John of Gaunt alone had the power and courage to speak out against them. Tis a pity he picked these perilous times to go to Spain and press his claim to his father-in-law’s throne.”

“Lancaster chose it apurpose,” Jamie said. “He has been so vocal in his censure of his Richard’s actions he feared the king would give in to Oxford’s urgings and put him in the Tower.”

“Are you still close with Lancaster and his brood?”

Closer than ever, but that would only hurt the father from whom he’d become estranged. Jamie had been fostered into the royal duke’s household at age nine, and a valuable, if sometimes dangerous, association it had turned out to be. “His Grace asked me to provision his ships for the voyage to Castile, and Harry and I hunted together a few months ago.”

“You’d best be careful how you go. There are some who’d like to see Lancaster or young Henry of Bolingbroke on the throne in place of Richard.”

And Jamie was one of them. “Enough of this war talk.”

The militant light faded from Alex’s eyes, replaced by quiet joy. “Aye, I’m glad you’ve come home, Jamie. Your mother has been worried about you.” He grinned ruefully. “As have I.”

“I can only stay a short time,” Jamie murmured, not wanting to raise any false expectations.

“But if there is trouble, we’ll need every fighting man.”

“I’ve never stayed away from a battle in my life,” Jamie exclaimed. “But the attack will come from the sea, and I can best serve England from aboard the Lady.” If it came to that.

His father nodded. “I suppose there is truth in that, still…” He sighed. “Though you’re a grown man, I hate having you off fighting where I cannot defend you if need be.”

Jamie longed for the days when his problems were simple enough to be solved by his father’s strong arm and sage advice. He was on his own in this, vulnerable as a fly on a whitewashed wall. If he was caught, he’d die a traitor’s death, and no one, not even his powerful foster father, would step in to save him.

So he must not fail.

“I may not have you standing behind me, Papa, but I have the skills and training you drubbed into my thick skull.”

Alex laughed. “’Twas not easy to teach a lad who thought he already knew it all.”

“Shall we see if we can find Mama. I’ve a gift for her…a dagger from the East that I think will take her fancy.” He was adept at knowing what women liked, especially his mother, whose tastes ran to practical things, not pretty baubles.

“Your presence is the best gift she could have.” He draped an arm over Jamie’s shoulder and together they worked their way around the fringes of the crowd. “Hugh should be back soon.”

Jamie stiffened instinctively, but his father only held tighter to him.

“You are both grown, now. Let there be peace between you.”

“Of course,” Jamie said, but he knew he and his twin could never live in harmony. There was too much between them. Blood and betrayal. Guilt and remorse. “I know it hurts you that we always fought when you and your brothers were so close, but Hugh and I are so different.” Hugh, the stuffy prig, Jamie the hellion.

“Aye, Hugh was ever quiet and serious—”

Cold, remote and sanctimonious.

“And you a hellion bent on mischief,” Alex added. “’Twas evident from the first night. We’d put you together in the one cradle because we hadn’t known we’d be needing two. When you awoke, you howled for attention. Hugh just lay there, quietly waiting his turn.”

Jamie laughed. “Mama said I’d inherited your temper, curiosity and thirst for adventure.”

“Ha! Speaks the woman who pitched a kettle at me when she saw me talking…only talking, mind you…with another woman. At least I learned to control my temper. And taught you the same.”

“Lessons that stand me in good stead, else I’d have shoved Hugh’s teeth down his throat every time he tattled on me.”

“Which was often and with good cause, you rascal. Ah, there are your mother, uncles and aunts.” Alex veered toward a fivesome standing beneath the spreading branches of an old oak.

How handsome they are, Jamie thought with a spurt of pride. Light from a nearby torch played softly on the fair hair of the two tall men, Ruarke, youngest but bigger and more thickly muscled. Gareth, the eldest Sommerville and now earl, and the smiling faces of the three petite women, his mother and aunts, Gabrielle and Arianna. Though Alex had also been born a Sommerville, he’d changed his name to Harcourt when he’d wed Jesselynn, last of that line, so her name wouldn’t die out. The minstrels had devoted many a verse to that romantic gesture.

“Let the French come!” Uncle Ruarke roared in a voice that in his day had urged men to victory against the French, making him the hero of Poitiers and the scourge of the Continent. “My men are well trained. They’ll not take Wilton whilst I live.”

Aunt Gaby clutched at his sleeve. “Oh, Ruarke. ‘Tis been years since you’ve fought Is there no other way?”

“Nay!” her husband shouted. “Do you impinge my skills?”

“No one doubts your strength,” soothed Gareth. “But the French number thirty thousand. How many can you field?”

“Two thousand, twice that with your men and Alex’s. And there are at least ten other nobles who can muster a like force.”

“Too little. Too late.” Gareth shook his head. “Mayhap the king is right to try and solve this by treaty.”

“Treaty!” Ruarke’s roar shook the branches overhead and caused heads to turn the length of the garden. “That effeminate little brat will lose his crown and his head if he trusts Charles. Curse the Earl of Oxford and the other greedy—”

“Hush,” Gareth interjected. “Do you want to be arrested?”

“’Tis good to see you’ve not grown soft with age, Uncle,” Jamie called before the man dug himself in any deeper.

All five whipped around. Their mouths fell open, then lifted into smiles of welcome as they rushed to him with glad cries.

“You are well come, lad.” Uncle Ruarke lifted him off the ground in a rib-cracking hug, then passed him down the line of grinning Sommervilles, their cheeks wet with happy tears.

Lastly he came to his mother. “Happy Birthday, Mama.”

Jesselynn Harcourt’s green eyes filled with the ghosts he knew he’d put there. But they were chased away by delight. “Oh, Jamie…I thought…I feared…” She opened her arms.

“I’m fine, Mama. He bent to bury his nose in the veil that hid her wild red hair. She still smelled the same, like lavender, like home, but the fragility of her body startled him. Either he had grown or she had shrunk. Before he could voice his fears, his father’s muscular arms enveloped them. For several moments Jamie stood there, soaking up the balm of their unspoken love, then a shriek rent the air and a solid body collided with his back.

“Jamie! You wretch.” Despite the harsh words, slender arms encircled his waist and clung. “Why did you not write you were coming?” wailed a muffled voice. A fist slammed into his ribs.

Grunting, Jamie released his mother and twisted about to plant a kiss on the red curls that barely reached his breastbone. “You’ve grown, bratling, but you’re still a heathen.”

“I was ten and five last birthday and know how to act the lady when I choose.” Johanna was a miniature of their mother, with flaming hair, brilliant green eyes and a wayward nature that made Jamie seem tame by comparison. Their mother had lost two other children before delivering Johanna, so she was doubly precious to them all. And spoiled. “I’m old enough to be betrothed,” she added loftily.

“Perish the thought,” Jamie teased, though the idea of his darling Jo wed to some man was intolerable. “Who’d have you?”

“Lots of people. I’m an heiress, you know.”

Jamie glanced at his father. “You haven’t—”

“Nay, I haven’t.” Alex exclaimed. “I’m never going to part with her.” He ruffled her curls. “No man is good enough for my little princess.”

Agreed, Jamie thought. Despite the differences in the sexes and ages, he and Jo were as close as he and Hugh should have been. There was always a letter from Jo waiting when he put into port, and she’d come to London a few times with their parents to see him. Hugh had never come, of course, claiming pressing work on the estate as an excuse, whilst Jamie pleaded a busy schedule as the reason he didn’t travel to Harte Court. “More like, no man is fool enough to undertake to discipline her as we never could.”

Jo snorted. “If I have to become a prissy mouse like Willa in order to catch a husband, I’ll never wed.”

“Who is Willa?”

“Willa Neville. Hugh’s betrothed.”

“This is news.”

“The contracts were signed only last week,” Alex explained. “Though they won’t be wed till she is sixteen.”

Jamie smiled. “Is she beautiful and well dowered?”

“She has her father’s hawk beak and is so homely she’d not get a husband if she weren’t a great heiress,” Jo muttered.

“That is no way to speak about your new sister,” her mother chided. “Willa is only eleven. She may…grow into her features.”

“She is Lord Matthew Neville’s only child,” Alex hastened to add. “His lands border Harte Court on the north and on the east, those of Austen Heath, the keep we gave to Hugh.”

“Trust Hugh to take a wife who will increase the family fortunes,” Jamie said more sharply than he’d intended.

“At least he is marrying,” Aunt Gaby said pointedly.

“I am certain my parents are glad Hugh thinks with his mind and not his—”

“James Harcourt!” Jesselynn exclaimed.

“I beg pardon, Aunt Gaby.” Jamie bowed stiffly. Jesu, even when Hugh wasn’t present there was trouble between them.

“I think they deserve each other.” Jo wrinkled her nose. “Willa is as dull and serious as Hugh.”

“Your brother carries a heavy load of responsibilities,” Jesselynn said, but she looked at Jamie, silently reminding him the burdens Hugh shouldered should have been Jamie’s.

I cannot, Jamie cried, staring into his mother’s hurtfilled eyes and wishing things didn’t have to be this way.

Johanna broke the tension by plucking on his sleeve. “How long can you stay?” she demanded.

Another unwelcome question. Over the guests’ laughter and jesting, he heard the minstrels strike up.a sprightly tune. “Long enough to dance with you, brat.”

Catching hold of her hands, Jamie tugged his sister toward the couples forming up for the next set. As they passed by the minstrels in their red and gold tunics, he realized one of them, the one glancing over her shoulder to speak with the leader, was a woman. ‘Twas not unheard of, merely unusual, especially since their badges identified them as members of the Golden Wait of Harrowgate, the professional troupe employed by the city of London. ‘Twas a source of great pride and prestige to be a member of the group founded by the legendary Alford le Trompour.

Out of long-standing habit, Jamie looked the woman over a second time. She was tall, her figure unfortunately obscured by the concealing folds of the simple woolen gown that fell from shoulders to hem without a belt to cinch it in. He noted she was not wearing the badge. A substitute called to fill in for an ailing player? If so, she was not much skilled, for the instrument she held was the bells.

“Jamie?” Jo asked, plucking at his sleeve.

“Hmm. I am waiting for the music to begin,” he said without looking away from the girl. Not beautiful, he mused, studying her profile. But pretty. Her dark hair had been skinned back into a single braid, exposing her high forehead, slim nose and determined chin. At the moment, said chin was thrust out in a manner reminiscent of Jo in a fury, and her cheeks were flushed. Ah, a lass with fire. He liked that.

Jamie redirected his gaze to the source of her anger, a bull of a man with black hair and coarse, florid features. He mistrusted the man on sight. The bastard’s lips moved as he took the girl to task for something. In one hand, he held a trumpet, the other beat the air as he made his point.

The girl lifted her chin further and countered with a remark that turned her opponent’s face purple.

He is going to hit her.

Without waiting to confirm the hunch, Jamie dashed across the intervening space, shoving people from his path. But he was too late. Just as he leapt over the wooden rail separating the minstrels from the dancers, the brute lashed out with one massive paw, and the girl went down in a heap.

“Bastard!” Jamie launched himself at the man. The impact of flesh hitting flesh drove the air from his lungs and toppled them both to the ground. Jamie came out on top. Conscious that the man outweighed him by several stone, he got his hands around his opponent’s fleshy throat and braced for a fight. But the man lay beneath him like a dead fish, gasping for breath and moaning piteously. “Do you yield,” Jamie rasped.

“Aye…” the man said, choking. “P-please do not strike my mouth. I…the horn.”

Thoroughly disgusted by this craven display, Jamie lifted himself off the man and sat back on his haunches. “See you never strike her again.” Speaking of which, he turned his head and found the girl sitting on the ground a foot away, her eyes round as serving platters, one hand on her cheek. He crawled over to her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded mutely.

“Let me see.” He took her hand to move it aside, and something ruffled through him. A shock of awareness, a feeling of being connected. His gaze locked on hers, and for an instant the noise and lights faded away. “Wh-who are you?” he whispered, because the air had been punched from his body by whatever was happening to him…to them.

“Em…Emmeline.” She sounded as dazed as he.

“Emmeline.” He savored the taste of it on his tongue.

“Jamie!” His father grabbed hold of his shoulder, breaking the spell. “What happened?”

“I was rescuing the fair Emmeline from yon brute.” Jamie gave her his most dazzling smile. The one that caused ladies to melt at his feet. This lady looked cold as the North Sea in December. “You’ve not asked, but I will tell you ‘tis Jamie Harcourt you have to thank for saving you.”

Emmeline pulled free of his grasp. “I know who you are.” She glared at him with such hatred she stole his breath for the second time that night. Scrambling to her feet, she speared him with one last, damning glance and dashed off into the crowd that had assembled around the musicians.

“What is going on?” his father demanded.

Damned if I know, Jamie thought, staring at the place where the mysterious Emmeline had disappeared. But he meant to find out. No woman ran away from him.

Chapter Two

James Harcourt was here! Her desperate gamble had paid off.

Emmeline hurried through the crowd in search of Toby to tell him the news. He’d come disguised as the minstrels groom and should be near the stables, but in her haste, she got hopelessly lost in the gardens. Dazed and winded, she sank down on a small, secluded bench to catch her breath and get her bearings.

James Harcourt had actually come to his mother’s birthday fete. Proving, she supposed, that there was a speck of decency in even the most evil of men. He charged in to rescue you from Uncle Markham, a sly voice reminded her.

Ha! Such an unprovoked attack proved Lord James was a man of violent temper and ungoverned impulses. Unprovoked? Well, he couldn’t know her foolish taunts had goaded her father’s brother into slapping her. She should have known better than to try the patience of one who had not only disliked her because he hated her father but was jealous of her talent, as well.

Poor Markham, her arrival in London a week ago had set his well-ordered world on its ear. She’d arrived on the doorstep of her estranged grandfather, half expecting to be tossed out Fortunately Alford le Trompour was not one to bear a grudge. He’d made her welcome and even cried over Celia’s death, despite the fact that she’d spurned his offers of friendship years ago. A stiffness in his limbs prevented Old Alford from getting about easily, so he’d turned the running of the Wait over to Markham, his younger son, but he still taught a few pupils.

“None of them is as gifted as you, my dear,” he’d told her as they chatted in his private chamber over a cup of wine. High praise from the man whose musical skills had made him a legend among players and leader of the famous Golden Wait of Harrowgate, the minstrel band chartered by the city.

“Thank you, sir.” She’d smiled briefly, recalling the magical summer when her father’s parents had come to Oxford to meet the children Cedric had never told them about. Small wonder, since his alliance with their mother had béen a lie and a sin. When he’d wed her, Cedric had neglected to mention the wife he already had. ‘Twas not until Olivia found out about them and followed him to Derry that Cedric’s sins had been revealed.

Cedric’s parents had been anxious to meet their only grandchildren, but embittered by Cedric’s betrayal, her mother had refused the old couple’s overtures of peace. Curious as she was to know her grandparents, Emmeline wouldn’t have defied her mother if not for the lute. The one her father had brought her; the only gift he’d ever given her. Gift, ha! It turned out the lute was a priceless antique Cedric had stolen from his father. Alford recognized the instrument as he was leaving her mother’s apothecary shop, but told her she might keep it.

Emmeline had felt bound to return the lute and sneaked out to the inn where Alford and his wife were staying. Alford had coaxed her into playing a song for him and then another. Her talent, raw and unformed, as he called it, had so impressed him he’d not only insisted she keep the lute but offered to teach her. Torn between loyalty to her mother and a soul-deep longing to make music, Emmeline had agreed. The lessons, given in secret, had opened up a whole new world for her, but the glimpse of heaven had cost her dearly. She’d deceived her mother and finally ended up hurting her nearly as much as Cedric had.

“I am sorry I could not come to London with you after that summer,” she told Alford. “But Mama collapsed, and…”

“You could not leave her.” He patted her shoulder with a gnarled hand. “You are far more loyal than your father. It’s been years since Cedric has crossed our threshold.”

Nay, I am no better than my father. Out of selfishness, she’d deceived her mother and broken her heart. And she’d failed Celia, too, but she was trying so hard to make amends. “I have come to London to learn what I can of Lord James Harcourt.”

“I know of him. He was often at court, being a member of John of Gaunt’s household. A handsome young man and much favored by the ladies, as was his father, Lord Alexander, who was accounted a rake in his day.”

Like father, like son. She explained how Sir Thomas’s hands were tied by Harcourt’s connections and his men’s testimony. Alford had immediately sent out inquiries, but they’d found naught to link James to Celia’s murder. Elusive and mysterious were two descriptions applied to the wayward Harcourt heir. He’d always had a penchant for adventure, and rumor linked him to smuggling and other illegal activities. But ‘twas speculation without a shred of proof. Adding to her frustration had been the disappearance of Celia’s maid. Lily had gone off a week ago, taking with her Celia’s few pieces of plate and the small silver brooch Emmeline had given Celia. They’d not been taken by the murderer, for Sir Thomas had listed them on his inventory of Celia’s possessions. None of Alford’s contacts had been able to find Lily. The silly girl was probably hiding somewhere, afraid she’d be arrested for thievery. Emmeline didn’t care about the pin, all she wanted was answers. And to make James Harcourt pay.

“Ah, there you are,” murmured a deep voice.

Emmeline gasped as the object of her speculation plopped down onto the bench beside her. She would have leapt up and run off, but he was sitting on the edge of her gown.

“Stay,” he commanded when she tried to wriggle free. “Why did you run away?” He stared at her intently from that single, black eye of his. Torchlight filtering in through the bushes limned his ruggedly handsome features, high cheekbones, sensual mouth and strong jaw. Even sitting still, there was a vitality about him that commanded attention. An aura of power, leashed at the moment but likely to explode as it had when he’d attacked her uncle. She’d been right to think him dangerous.

“I—I was afraid.”

“Of me.” He managed to look as guileless as a schoolboy.

Fraud. “You hit Markham, and ‘tis said you killed a girl.”

“Your uncle is a fool and a bully. He deserved a few bruises for hitting you.”

“He was wroth at me because my grandfather insisted I be allowed to play with the Wait” That much was true. When Alford had heard about the party, he’d been certain James would attend and had forced Markham to bring her. Her indignation at being relegated to playing the bells had precipitated the slap.

“Is Alford le Trompour your grandfather?”

“Aye, he is. I’m surprised you know of him.”

“He is a minstrel without equal. As a lad I sat enraptured whenever he came to play for King Edward. I longed to make music as he did.” He gazed at his wide, callused hands lying palm up on his muscular thighs. “You’d think I had ten thumbs so poorly do I play. ’Tis not fair, for I always know all the words.”

“Grandfather says it is a talent you are either born with, or not.” Unfortunately she’d gotten the gift from Cedric, along with other, less pleasant, traits.

“What is your special talent?” He watched her as though her answer were the most important thing in the world to him. His regard, his attention, were too flattering to deny.

“The lute.”

“Yet you play the bells today.”

“Aye. ‘Twas the source of the argument and the slap. Markham does not think me good enough to play with them because I am neither a trained harpist nor a member of the Wait. I am only here because—” She stopped, aghast to realize she’d been about to spill her plans for revenge to Celia’s murderer. What kind of wizard was he to make her so quickly forget her goals?

“What is it? Did the slap cause your head to ache?”

“Nay. Aye.” Emmeline put a hand to her temple. Damn, he was the most confounding man. “Why did you come to my aid?”

He grinned and laid a hand over his heart. “I am the most chivalrous of men. If I see a maiden in distress, I must ride to her rescue like the knights in the ancient ballads.”

“Humph.”

“Not even a hint of a smile to reward my foolishness? You are far too serious, my lovely little harpist”. He leaned closer, his face so near it filled her vision. “Damn.” Gently grasping her chin, he tilted it toward the light. “He marked you.” His thumb barely grazed her cheek. “I should have been quicker.”

Light as the touch was, it sent an odd tingle streaking down her neck, leaving gooseflesh behind. His fingers were so warm, his expression so full of concern she felt herself being drawn in, drowning in the depths of his dark, compassionate gaze.

Shivering, Emmeline struggled back from the edge of disaster. Pulling her chin from his hold, she said, “Please…”

“Your head aches. Small wonder.” Quick as lightning, his hands slid around to the nape of her neck and attacked her braid.

“Wait! What are you doing.” She leaned away. Or tried to, but only succeeded in getting her hair pulled. “Ouch!”

“Hold still.” He was nimble and knowledgeable. In seconds he had her braid undone. “There.” He tunneled his fingers into her hair at her temples and gently massaged her scalp.

It felt so good a moan escaped her throat.

“See. Is that not better?” he murmured. His fingers slid in farther, tracing circles on the sides and back of her head.

More than better. ‘Twas magic, pure and simple. Her mind ceased to function. Her eyes drifted shut; her head fell back into the supporting cradle of his hands, her entire being focused on the wondrous sensations created by his touch. Exciting little ripples radiated down her spine. Deep inside her, something ruffled, like a flower unfurling beneath the warmth of the sun.

“Your hair is beautiful,” he murmured, his voice blending with her drifting senses. “Dark and soft as finest silk.” His breath fanned her ear as he leaned close. “And it smells of flowers. I’d like to see it spread across my pillow.”

“Mmm,” she said from her cloud.

“But not here. My ship’s in London harbor…we sail on the tide. Will you come away with me, my lady fair? And all the wonders of love’s pleasures will we explore.”

“Mmm…what?” Emmeline’s eyes flew open as his words penetrated her haze. A pirate stared back at her, a cocky smile on his lips, his single eye smoldering with the sort of fire she’d avoided all her life. “Sweet Mary!” She yelped, jumped back and yelped again as a few hairs remained in his grasp.