Rake Beyond Redemption

‘And kissed her in an inn parlour. Hardly a reputable act.’

‘Yes, you did. And then you took me home to save my reputation, from some ridiculous sense of honour!’

His lips twisted. ‘Don’t think too well of me.’

‘I’ll think what I like, what I know here.’ And Marie-Claude placed her palm flat against her heart.

For a long moment he looked at her as if he were reading her thoughts, considering an answer. Even searching for a decision. For the length of that moment Marie-Claude thought that he would dismiss her again.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘I am thinking that, almost, you persuade me, Madame Mermaid.’

And Zan Ellerdine, for better or worse, made a decision.

Drawing her close, he released her hands to slide his arms around her waist so that she fit perfectly against him, then lowered his head and laid his mouth against hers. Warm and firm, as was hers in reply. He deliberately kept the pressure gentle, seductive, tender even, sinking into her scent, her soft curves. Even when desire flooded through him, prompting him to pounce and ravage, he maintained the control to keep his demand light. His senses swam and he was suddenly iron-hard, but he lifted his head and smoothed the pad of his thumb over her cheek.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll not come to the Pride. Come here if you wish. I’ll not turn you away. But you must take care—if you tell them at the Pride, they’ll try to turn you away from me.’

‘So will you meet with me, Zan?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Come to the cliffs. Tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Will you call me by my name?’

‘I will call you by your name.’ His lips, soft as a breath, devastating as a spear of lightning, a seductive promise on hers. Or was it a warning? Marie-Claude was not sure.

‘Adieu, Marie-Claude. Until tomorrow. If you dare…’

Chapter Four

She dared! Marie-Claude kept the assignation. Nothing other than the Crack of Doom would have kept her away. And now she found herself seated in the stern of the Black Spectre, fighting to catch her breath, racing with the waves and the wind towards the far headland, the sails taut and full.

‘Come with me, Marie-Claude,’ he had demanded. ‘We’ll launch the Spectre. Come and sail with me across the bay.’ There he had stood on the cliff top as if he would bar her way. He was impossibly, outrageously persuasive. And so splendid to look at, his even teeth glinting in a smile that challenged her mettle, his black hair shining, lifted by the relentless breeze. ‘I’ll make a sailor of you yet.’

Her heart had leapt, with fear, excitement, desire. ‘No, I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I think I’m afraid…’

‘Afraid?’ He seized her hand, tugged, as his careless smile tugged at her heart. ‘You have the courage to do anything, Madame Mermaid. I swear water’s your element. All you have to do is say yes.’

She doubted, after her recent ordeal, any affinity with water deeper than two inches, but could not refuse. Nor did she need to. He had swept her up into his arms before she could say either yes or no, carried her through the shallows and deposited her, hands firm about her waist, on to the planking of the Black Spectre. Zan Ellerdine had a distinct tendency towards the domineering.

Now here she was, denying her basic fear of open sea to be with him, and it was everything she had imagined it could be if she could overcome her trepidation. Windblown she might be, clinging to the side with rigid fingers, but exhilaration sang through her blood. Nor was it the speed and uncontrolled movement of the little cutter that forced her to catch her breath, even though it leapt over the water with the power of a runaway horse. Given the opportunity to study Zan whilst he was occupied, she felt free to watch the flex and play of his shoulders and back beneath the fine linen of his shirt, the strain of his muscled thighs as he braced against the kick of the waves. If she had enjoyed watching him groom his horse, how much more aware of him was she now as he leapt to secure a rope? Of his potent masculinity, the understated power of his body, the smooth control of interlocked muscle and flesh and sinew.

Suddenly he was standing before her, his body blocking out the light.

‘Why are you clinging to the side?’

‘The waves seem very close,’ she admitted as the spray rose and fell between them in a sparkling arc.

‘I’ll not let you fall overboard. Don’t you trust me?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She squinted up at him through the drops. ‘I think the sea has a mind of its own.’

Placing a booted foot on the seat next to her, he leaned to peel her fingers away from their grip. ‘There—you’re quite safe.’ Then he pressed his lips to the very centre of each palm—first one, then the other—before placing her hands firmly in her lap. ‘I promise to bring you safe home. Just sit there and enjoy it.’

And then he was gone to trim a flapping sail. Marie-Claude closed her fingers over that invisible imprint, still conscious of his closeness. The heat and power of his body as he had leaned against her. What would it be like to lie in those arms, to feel the weight of his thighs?

She turned her face away and shivered, considering whether she should feel some element of guilt. It was impossible to deny that she was acting against some unspoken disapproval, but since no one was prepared to spell out the truth for her she could hardly blame herself. She would snatch at the happiness that was offered. Never had she felt so full of joy, so awake to every sensation. So there was no guilt, no remorse, only a close-knitting into a seamless whole of all that she was with him.

Even when he was too busy to give her any attention it felt as if his mind caressed her. Soft, smooth as the silk he admitted to smuggling, she luxuriated in his presence and dreamed. Until she realised that the old fisherman, Zan’s efficient crew, was frowning at her.

She raised her brows and he came over.

‘What is it, Mr Gadie?’

As weather-beaten as the fishing smacks in the bay, George Gadie propped himself against the thwart at her side. ‘The family won’t like it.’

Marie-Claude sighed. Here it was again. ‘Why would they not?’

‘Not my place to say, mistress.’

‘Then I make my own decisions. No one has given me a good reason why I should not have Mr Ellerdine as my friend. Why should a sail in the Spectre be a subject for any man’s disapproval?’

‘It’ll cause trouble. I’m not saying as I agree with what’s said against him—but don’t say I didn’t warn you, mistress.’

‘I won’t. I see no cause for trouble.’ A trip of anger surprised her. ‘And do I not have you or Meggie as permanent mentor and chaperon? There’s nothing inappropriate in what I do. I am a respectable widow.’

She knew bright colour surged in her cheeks, nothing to do with the effect of the brisk wind. Nothing inappropriate? There was everything inappropriate in the line of her thoughts as her attention moved to Zan when he loped across the little vessel to secure a rope with those clever, long-fingered hands. Marie-Claude’s belly became mellow and liquid with longing. The glamour of his loose-limbed grace and handsome face struck home once more.

‘I will have him as my friend if I choose to,’ she said. ‘I’ll hear no more from you.’

The old fisherman’s lips shut with a hearty smack. ‘Aye, aye, mistress.’ He saluted. ‘You’ll do as you wish, I expect.’

Yes, she would.

But George’s words would not go away, spoiling the moment, forcing Marie-Claude to grasp at honesty. What was she doing?

Flying in the face of her upbringing, certainly. Of all she had been taught, all the principles instilled in her.

A daughter of the de la Roche did not engage in casual affairs. Did not throw aside all ideas and tenets of morality and good breeding. A well-mannered husband, marriage, family—that was as her upbringing dictated, that should have been her expectation in life.

‘But it is not enough!’ she informed a passing gull.

Nor was the life she was leading. Comfort, indeed luxury, a choice of houses in which to live, a thriving son, a loving family. An assured future. She must be the most selfish creature alive to cast all this aside in her mind as unsatisfactory. But it was. It was all enveloping, endlessly suffocating. Restricting every thought, every movement to fit with what the London ton considered respectable.

‘Respectable!’ She issued the word as a challenge as the gull circled and dived into the waves.

She lived, breathed, dressed in the most fashionable of garments, enjoying the pretty clothes that her jointure allowed her. When in London she danced, rode in Hyde Park, laughed.

But was smothered by it all. Stifled by respectability.

She was grateful to Harriette and Luke. Horribly grateful. And always would be. But she was only halfalive. Was this it for her, for ever? To exist, only half-awake?

‘I have a half-life. And I want to live!’

Marie-Claude gripped hard on the glossy wood of the Spectre’s gunwale. After Marcus’s death, she had escaped death, dishonour, appalling fear for herself and her baby son. Of course she would never wish to return to those days, but she recalled how her blood had run hot in her determination to break free from Jean-Jacques Noir and his evil plans. In the intervening years her blood seemed to settle into a dull sluggishness that horrified her. Was she now to sink into tedious oblivion, a widow, a doting and ageing aunt to Luke and Harriette’s children?

‘No! I won’t!’

Although the wind snatched her words away, they still lingered to echo in her mind as her eyes again sought the man who stood by the mast in utmost mastery of the vessel, shirt billowing at sleeve and neck. This man had come into her life, had awoken her. Had stirred her senses into flame. Until that moment in the inn parlour she had not fully understood how desolate her heart had become.

At that moment he turned his head, shouted an order to George Gadie to reef the sail as they would tack into the wind. What did he offer her? Ah, that was the problem. He offered her nothing. Nor ever would, she suspected. He was an enigma. A man with dark shadows. He had saved her and surely would not hurt her, but had shown a coldly calculating streak as he had tried to put her at a distance. He would have succeeded if she had not been so determined to have her own way. He could be ruthless too, she thought, given the right circumstances. And there was a guarded secrecy that trapped him, some mystery that he would not talk of. Certainly he had a reputation. He had not denied being a rake or a libertine, had he?

The mere thought of his mouth on hers took her breath away entirely. Marie-Claude closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun.

You don’t want to know me.

Well, she did, despite her confusion. But what did she want from him? Friendship? Zan Ellerdine was not a friend. What he was she did not rightly know, but it was not friendship that placed him at the centre of her thoughts and her dreams. He was a difficult and dangerous man to associate with.

Would she risk his threat to her reputation?

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