Reckless

There were many lovely ladies littering his past. His success in London had not been tied solely to financial transactions. Before he’d gone to Egypt in Sybil’s wake, he’d cut a bold swath through the ballrooms of the elite, seducing many a lovely guest or sultry hostess during the movements of a dance, rutting amongst many a cuckolded peer’s lace-edged sheets. There had been little pleasure in any of the affairs. He’d been labeled the black-hearted Blackhawk before his arrival and had merely played each scene as it was written.

None of the beauties in the past could be compared to the lovely, disheveled woman who dallied with him at the ship’s rail, not even Sybil.

The wind drew a long strand of her flaxen hair across her face. It brushed her cheek, teased her nose, caressed her mouth. When it eluded her grasp, Garrett took the opportunity to close the distance between them. Without asking her permission, he trapped the errant lock between his fingers.

It was the texture of finely spun silk threads and glistened with a sheen more akin to moonlight than sunlight. Her hand grazed against his when they both moved to secure the curl beneath her hat.

“Perhaps I’d better do this,” she said.

If they’d still been alone, he would have been tempted to rip her ridiculously large picture hat away, to free her pale golden tresses so that they entangled in the wind. Then he could bury his hands among the glorious strands and turn her face up to his. But they were no longer alone. The Nereid was nearing the mouth of the bay and other passengers were strolling the decks, invading what had once been his preserve alone.

His alluring companion tucked the tangled curls back beneath her hat. White, even teeth worried a corner of her bottom lip as she worked. Despite the crowds, Garrett nearly gave in to the compulsion to draw her close and kiss her. Savor her.

“There. Much better,” she announced brightly. “Thank you for coming to my aid, sir.”

“It was an honor,” he avowed, forcing himself to look away from her lips. “But the name isn’t Galahad, it’s Blackhawk. Garrett Blackhawk.”

Galahad. Wyn paused as the name sounded an unwelcome echo in her mind. Deegan had dredged up that particular knight of the Round Table in conjunction with his courting of Leonore Cronin. The Galahad of legend had been pure, noble and unselfish. That description hadn’t fit Deegan and she doubted the high-minded ideals would settle any easier on Mr. Blackhawk’s broad shoulders. At least he had disclaimed any resemblance to the knight.

He was attractive, too, although perhaps a bit forward. When his eyes had lingered on her lips, she’d felt breathless. There had been a singing in her blood, and an excited fluttering beneath her ribs that she hadn’t felt since Deegan Galloway had enthralled her senses.

Garrett Blackhawk made her feel that way with nothing more than a look.

What a frightening and thrilling sensation!

And how comforting to know that she no longer had money with which to tempt the man. No doubt he had recognized the expensive tailoring of her clothing and equated that with wealth, which she would have again if each voyage the Nereid made was profitable. That was in the future though. For now, she felt safe.

“It is a pleasure to meet a fellow traveler, Mr. Black-hawk,” she declared. “I’m Winona Abbot.”

She offered Blackhawk her hand and was faintly disappointed when he didn’t play the gallant and place a kiss on her wrist or on the back of her gloved hand.

Instead his fingers curled around hers, his grip firm and businesslike. It lingered long enough for her to experience another delightful chill of awareness.

“Winona,” he repeated, his voice appearing to caress each syllable of her name. “It’s quite unusual and beautiful. Like its owner.”

Wyn smiled to herself. Oh, yes, he had definitely staked a claim. There wasn’t a man alive who could deal with a woman honestly. They felt the need to flirt, to cajole, to compliment. Well, this time she would enjoy the experience but she wouldn’t be hurt when he was revealed as a cad.

If only she didn’t find these roguish bounders so attractive.

“In the language of the Sioux Indians, Winona translates to firstborn daughter,” she explained. “Or so I’ve been told. And what about you, Mr. Blackhawk?”

His smile was rakish but perhaps she only thought so because his coloring was so dark, his skin so warm, his eyes so bold. He was as tall as her brother Pierce, a fact that appealed to her. Due to her own above-average height, she often met men eye-to-eye. With Blackhawk her eyes were level with his lips. It had to be the reason her gaze returned to linger on them so often.

“The Blackhawks are Saxon rather than Sioux, despite certain similarities in name imagery,” he said. “We had a strain or two of Celt creep in before the Conquest but there hasn’t been much culling from other bloodlines since then.”

His voice was a pleasant baritone, yet not overly deep. It was the crisp way he pronounced some words and yet seemed to linger over others that drew her. It wasn’t just that his tone differed from that of American men. A host of English men materialized each season in San Francisco, many on the lookout for wealthy wives. Blackhawk’s voice was similar to theirs and yet it wasn’t. Perhaps the difference was that his words were more a caress than a sound.

What a fanciful thought!

“Would you care to tour the deck with me, Miss Abbot?” he asked.

Fanciful or not, his voice was blatantly sensual. She felt it to the tips of her toes.

Wyn shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I already have an engagement.”

“Later, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

When she made no immediate move to leave, he closed the scant space between them even more until the hem of her skirt brushed the toes of his boots. He took her gloved hand and raised it in his. Wyn was barely conscious of her surroundings when at long last his lips brushed audaciously over her fingertips.

The breeze was fresher now that they were at sea, but the passion in Blackhawk’s eyes held the chill at bay, and warmed her. His hair was as dark as his name implied and lay in tumbled splendor over his brow. She recognized the work of a master tailor in the cut and fit of his dark suit, and of an artist in the design of his boots. Deegan had dressed as dapperly, though. Clothes were part and parcel of a fortune hunter’s trade.

“What are you thinking, Miss Abbot?” Blackhawk asked, recalling Wyn to the present.

She gave him a considering look. “I was wondering, Mr. Blackhawk, if you play whist.”

Hildy was busily sorting through her belongings when Wyn returned to the suite of staterooms they shared. With her new status as a Shire Line stockholder had come the privilege of boarding the ocean liner the evening before. Wyn had thought she and her friend already settled, their trunks unpacked, their gowns hung neatly in the clothes-press, the few personal belongings they’d brought scattered around the trio of linked cabins.

“Have a nice stroll?” Hildy asked, without turning her head. A number of her new gowns were tossed negligently aside, covering divan, chairs and ottomans in the parlor. She held a gown decorated with silver tissue before her and considered her reflection in a cheval mirror.

Wyn closed the hatch, carefully securing it behind her. “There was a lovely breeze off the port side,” she said. “Since the captain was occupied with putting to sea, I managed to enjoy myself without his running commentary.” Of course, she admitted silently to herself, the encounter with Mr. Blackhawk had greatly enhanced the minutes she’d spent on deck.

“That’s the burden you must bear for being the lady of his choice this voyage, dearest,” Hildy reminded. “You yourself told me there is always a belle on the voyage. If I didn’t have other plans, being fawned on by a man in uniform would appeal strongly to me.”

Wyn walked through the archway that led to her sleeping quarters, unpinning her. hat as she went. Two long strands of hair dangled over her shoulders. She touched one briefly recalling how Garrett Blackhawk had rescued it from the wind, imprisoning the contrary lock between his long, elegantly tapered, masculine fingers. Rather than refix the knot at the crown of her head, Wyn pulled the rest of her hairpins free and let the curls spill loosely down her back. “Plans? What sort of plans?” she called out to Hildy.

Her friend appeared in the hatchway, an elaborate gown over each arm. “In which of these do I look the most attractive?” she demanded. “The silver or the deep lavender?”

Hair brush in hand, Wyn glanced back over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me you have a new prospect in mind already?” In Hildy’s vocabulary, a prospect meant an available, marriageable man.

“I cornered the purser while you were communing with nature,” Hildy said. “I gushed compliments about the ship until he regaled me with a list of viable names.”

Wyn sank onto the stool before her dressing table and worked at the tangles in her hair, half envying her friend’s single-mindedness. Perhaps she should adopt it. If her requirements in a husband were only half as mercenary as Hildy’s she would soon have a home of her own, then children about her skirts.

And a lifetime of winter in her heart.

It was better to remain alone.

“By all means, make it the lavender then,” Wyn advised. “It nearly gave the meat packing magnate in Chicago apoplexy when you wore it to dinner at the hotel.”

Hildy held the dress against her curvaceous form and peered past Wyn to her reflection in the ornately framed mirror that hung over the dressing table. “Quite a staid little man, wasn’t he?” she mused. “Hopefully I’ll have better luck this time. The steward tells me we have a member of the British aristocracy aboard and he will be eating at the captain’s table with us tonight.”

“A duke perhaps?” Wyn suggested.

“A baron. Not a very exalted rank, but I understand he’s wealthy.”

“Perhaps he knows your brother-in-law. You could ask him as a conversational opening.”

Hildy exchanged the lavender for the silver gown and considered her image in the glass a second time. “And totally destroy the good baron’s interest? The Loftus family connection is the last thing I should mention. You’re right about the lavender. Lord, I hate being in mourning, even half mourning. Are you wearing the terre-verte?”

“Not if I’m going to stand near you,” Wyn said brushing through another wind-born tangle. “Besides, I have no need to dazzle anyone. As the only Shire Line family member aboard, I’ll have the captain’s undivided attention even if I dress in sack cloth.”

“Well, you are the Belle,” Hildy said. “Oh, but I did learn a bit of distressing news.”

Thinking the ship had developed a problem, Wyn put her brush aside and turned to face her friend. “Don’t tell me one of the grand saloon chandeliers is loose.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hildy scoffed. “The ship is perfect. It’s the quality of the passengers that is at fault.”

The rakish dark face of Garrett Blackhawk flashed in Wyn’s mind. He was probably only one of many fortune hunters aboard. Hildy surveyed her reflection a last time, considering how to make her conquest. Yes, Wyn reflected, there were a good number of mercenary passengers aboard, and they were not all male.

Hildy tossed her gowns over the end of Wyn’s bunk and perched on the lid of her largest trunk. “If I’d discovered he was aboard before we sailed you could probably have had him tossed off,” she said and assumed a thoughtful expression. “Do they still keelhaul people?”

This was serious indeed. “Not aboard a Shire ship,” Wyn answered, “and never to a paying customer.”

Hildy sighed. “Well, perhaps Deegan didn’t pay for his pas—

Blood rushed to Wyn’s face. “Deegan? Deegan Gallo-way?” she demanded in a tight voice.

“I don’t believe he noticed me,” Hildy admitted. “He was engaged in conversation with a very pretty girl and a mountainous woman whom I took to be her mother.”

Not only was he aboard, he was dallying with another heiress! Wyn surged to her feet, fuming and confused at the tumult of emotions his name raised in her breast. Had Pierce arranged this? She recalled clearly that he’d placed a wager on Deegan’s success in winning her. Pierce’s disreputable conduct in the past lead her to believe in the likelihood of the scheme. He’d probably sought Deegan out before leaving San Francisco months ago and arranged everything.

Well, he’d read her heart wrong if he believed she would fall readily into the perfidious Mr. Galloway’s arms again.

Wyn strode angrily around the cabin, unaware that Hildy was unnaturally quiet.

Had Pierce actually used her eagerly offered money to appease the bank during construction of the ship, or had he merely told her that he had? If it was still nestled in the vault of the Bank of California, she was going to cheerfully murder her older brother.

“I wonder what he looks like?” Hildy murmured.

No, she would torture Pierce first. She would see about acquiring thumb screws from a moldering dungeon and—

“What?” Wyn snapped, halting in mid stride.

Hildy looked up, her face still contemplative. “I was just wondering what the baron looks like,” she repeated.

“Fat and balding probably,” Wyn said, her voice bordering on a growl. Didn’t Hildy realize the complications Deegan’s presence presented?

Hildy shivered theatrically. “Oh, I hope he isn’t,” she said with a sigh. “I’d enjoy an improvement over Oswin, in looks, age, and money.”

Especially money, Wyn thought ruefully. It had come as a nasty shock to Hildy to find the man she’d married for his wealth had died nearly a pauper. Apparently her friend had yet to learn her lesson. There were other things in life that mattered more than a healthy bank account.

As if reading her thoughts, Hildy sighed again. “I do wish I had my diamonds rather than the paste copy to wear. The baron will probably notice the difference. Those of noble birth tend to be more educated in these matters than Americans are.”

Spoken like the true snob Hildy was, Wyn decided with disgust.

“What do you think the baron will think is my most attractive asset?” Hildy asked seriously.

In resignation, Wyn sank back down on the dressing stool. She had suggested Hildy accompany her on the voyage to restore her widowed friend’s spirits. Deegan Galloway could be dealt with successfully later. For now, it was Hildy who needed her whole attention.

Wyn pasted a bright smile on her face. “Your charm,” she declared staunchly. “It will stand you in good stead once you are a baroness.”

Hildy laughed softly and leaned forward to hug Wyn. “You’re lying but I love you for it,” she said.

The porthole framed a portrait of early evening. Flamboyantly painted shadows in various shades of purple appeared like bold brush strokes across the eastern sky. The stateroom suite was located on an upper deck and, to Wyn’s mind, afforded some of the most spectacular views available. How lovely it would be to escape to the bow of the ship and watch night gather. The heavens would sparkle in their full glory and, when the moon rose, the ocean would metamorphose into a gleaming reflection of the vast universe above.

But as an Abbot aboard a Shire ship, she had responsibilities.

“Perhaps we’d best change for dinner,” Wyn suggested. “You wouldn’t want another lady to attach your baron before we arrive.”

“If another woman so much as looks at him, promise me you’ll help me toss her overboard,” Hildy said, her tone of voice making Wyn wonder if her friend was actually serious rather than theatrical. Obviously, bringing a man with a title up to scratch meant a lot to Hildy. If that was the case, Wyn vowed silently to do whatever it took to make Hildy happy once more. Perhaps in doing so it would mollify her conscience over the way her blind attachment to Deegan had inadvertently hurt Leonore Cronin in San Francisco.

“I do wish the purser had been able to give me a few details about the baron’s appearance instead of being insidious,” Hildy said as she gathered her gowns from the bed.

Wyn began working loose the buttons of her form fitted jacket “Perhaps he hasn’t met the man,” she offered.

The fabric of Hildy’s evening gowns rustled softly, brushing against the flounces of her day dress as she crossed the room. “No, he said he met all the truly important passengers as they came aboard. But all he would tell me was that the baron’s appearance was quite appropriate to his name.”

Wyn turned her attention to the fastenings of her cuff. “What is his name?”

“Nothing spectacularly strange sounding.” Hildy paused in the doorway a moment. “It’s quite plain and distinctly Anglo-Saxon really. It’s Blackhawk.”

Chapter Four

Preferring to spend as little time as possible in his suite, Garrett changed for dinner and retreated to the gentlemen’s smoking room where he plied a steward with silver for information. It took only a single clandestinely passed bribe to learn the direction of Winona Abbot’s stateroom, and that she represented the Shire family aboard the liner.

The news cheered him immensely, for it meant they met on far more equal footing. Both were not only financially comfortable, they were wealthy. Even though Deegan had handled the arrangements for their trip, Garrett’s nose for business had led him to make inquiries about the Shire Line before actually boarding the luxurious steamship. What he’d heard had impressed him. A number of shipping companies had folded when pitted against the sailing expertise of the White Star Line and Cunard, but the Shire Line had held fast, cutting a niche of their own in both the Atlantic trade and that of the Pacific. Considering that luxury liners had been making the crossing regularly since the Great Eastern launched in 1859, a good twenty years previous, he was rather surprised that the Nereid was the Shire Line’s first attempt to corner a share of the first-class passenger trade. Perhaps they had dallied, learning from the mistakes of their competitors. He wondered idly if the Shire and Abbot families had considered issuing stock, taking their shipping business out of the realm of a closed company, opening it to investors. A block of Shire stock would work well with his other investment interests. As soon as things were settled on his family’s lands, he’d, check into the matter, escape to London and—

Garrett nearly laughed out loud. Considering the way his associates in London treated him, London was anything but an escape. It would be little more than a brief reprieve from the oppressiveness of the Blackhawk estate.

That destination, thank God, was still more than a week away. A week in which he intended to immerse himself in the delightful pursuit of Winona Abbot. This would no doubt be the last time he could trust a woman to see him as simply a man rather than as Blackhawk of Hawk’s Run.

Unless, that is, his wretched reputation was known by someone aboard, which, considering a good many of the passengers enjoying the luxurious accommodations were British, was quite possible. It was only a matter of time before news of his past escapades buzzed in the plushly appointed saloons, flitting first in the men’s lounges before flying fleetly to that of the ladies’, where it would be tat-tered even more thoroughly. Perhaps even embroidered upon.

It certainly had been in the past.

Ah, his wretched past

When she learned who he was, would it change the way Winona Abbot looked at him? The memory of her darkly lashed deep green eyes lingered in his mind as strongly as the vision of her shapely form teased it.

It was only their first day at sea. Surely word would not spread this quickly. Surely he could remain anonymous for a brief while longer. Until she learned who—what—he was, Garrett intended to enjoy every moment he could steal with Winona Abbot.

It was a simple matter to lie in wait for her when it drew near to the hour for dinner. Fortunately, she was alone when she left her stateroom, rather than accompanied by her companion. The helpful steward had given him a name, but all Garrett recalled now was that the other woman was a widow, nothing more. She, after all, hadn’t been the subject that held his interest. He was relieved the widow appeared to be keeping to the cabin rather than join the company in the dining room, for sharing the blond beauty was not on his itinerary.

Winona didn’t notice him lurking in the shadows near the companionway. Her attention was on a contrary button on the wrist of her long ivory glove. Even with her head bent, Garrett found she was far more beautiful than his memory had painted her. No longer tossed by a sea breeze, her flaxen locks were upswept to a knot that spilled artful curls to tease her creamy shoulders. Delicate drop earrings danced as she moved, the cut of the crystal stone catching the light of each lamp she passed along the darkly paneled corridor, creating quickly flashed prisms of color. She wore no other jewels, but Garrett was too entranced to question why. His attention was drawn instead to the neckline of her bodice as it dipped low over a bosom that was both full and cleverly concealed by a swath of fine pale blue tulle. Silk a scant shade deeper molded to the rest of her torso, accenting her narrow waist, and swept in a shimmering apron around her generous, womanly hips. Fabric cascaded behind her in a graceful train, rustling with every gliding step she took. As he watched, she finished with the button and bent slightly to catch up her train before descending the stairs.

Garrett waited until she lifted her slimly cut skirts before he stepped forward. The delay allowed him a glimpse of her delicately turned ankles and high-heeled satin slippers.

He doubted there was another woman aboard to match her for beauty and grace.

She noticed him just as the ship dipped slightly, gently tipping the deck upon which they stood. Ever-alert to opportunity, Garrett took advantage of the situation.

“Good evening, Miss Abbot,” he murmured, slipping his hand beneath her elbow to steady her. The scent of her perfume teased his senses, a mixture of rose water that hinted of vanilla and clove. Its effect on him was erotic, titillating. And yet when she looked up at him, her very expression was one of innocence. “It is Miss Abbot, not Mrs.?” he pressed.

She didn’t pull away from him but paused, as if considering whether to accept his escort or not. Rather than answer his question, she posed one of her own. “And it is Baron Blackhawk, rather than Mr., is it not, my lord?”

Garrett grimaced wryly. Obviously he had been too wicked in the past to merit a respite from fate now. “Found me out already?” he asked as the deck righted once more.

Winona seemed little aware of the ship’s movement. “You needn’t feel flattered,” she said lightly, and proceeded down the staircase. “I did not go seeking the information, sir.”

Far from appalled at whatever rumors she had heard about him, she appeared to be far more miffed that he hadn’t told her of them himself. Garrett grinned to himself, pleased she cared that he hadn’t. “I am crushed,” he murmured.

“Yes, I can see you are,” she answered dryly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were titled, my lord?”

“Actually, it was to avoid having you call me my lord in just that tone of voice. I’d much rather hear you use my first name, which, if you recall, is Garrett,” he said.

She stepped away from the touch of his hand as they reached the bottom of the stairwell. The glow of the setting sun reached them through the glass of a nearby porthole, casting a pink glow around her, coloring her cheeks a warm, blushing peach.

She turned slightly to face him, her chin lifting in resolution. “I think not. I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression of me earlier on deck,” she said. “I really am not interested in a shipboard romance, or a brief flirtation. You would do much better to set your sights on another lady if dallying is your goal, my lord.”