THE ADMIRAL’S HEART

By

Danelle Harmon

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Danelle Harmon

THE ADMIRAL’S HEART

Copyright © 2013 by Danelle Harmon

License Notes

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~~~~

This story is dedicated with great affection to Milanka …

and my beloved ReaderFriends on my Facebook “fan page” who have been so supportive and generous as I’ve made my return to the writing world.

I hope you all know how much I appreciate and treasure each and every one of you.

The Admiral’s heart is gold, and I might coin it.

— Richard Cumberland (1732-1811)

Berkshire, England

February, 1774

Chapter 1

She knew she was in trouble the minute she stepped into the hot, crowded ballroom of Blackheath Castle and saw the small knot of naval uniforms dominating the space near the refreshment table.

She had been in love with a naval officer once.

A long time ago.

Before he had become an admiral.

Before she had married.

Before he had become famous.

Before she had become widowed.

A long time ago . . .

Even so, the sight of the uniforms and gold lace caused her heart to skip a beat and a sudden flush to warm her skin, and her instinct was to melt back into the crowd and lose herself in the protective swirl of dancers, gossipers, revelers, and well-wishers, all of whom had come to help send off the Duke of Blackheath’s heir-presumptive, Lord Charles de Montforte, in grand style. Lord Charles had bought a captain’s commission in the King’s Own Fourth Regiment of Foot, and he and the regiment were headed off next week to the American colonies to help quell discontent in the rebellious port of Boston. Anyone who was anyone was here to say farewell.

Lady Philippa Jane Ponsonby Hatfield was also headed to America—not to fight the rebels, but to look over a large parcel of land that her late husband had left to her in a town somewhere out in the western part of Massachusetts. She supposed she’d better accustom herself to seeing naval officers, because, though it certainly wasn’t customary for civilians to be traveling aboard naval ships, when one counted a mighty and influential duke as one’s cousin—as she did Blackheath—“customary” wasn’t always the done thing.

Lucien pulled strings.

People danced to his tune.

It had always been thus.

“Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?”

So tight were her nerves, so desperate was she to put space between herself and the group of glittering blue and gold uniforms that Philippa gave a start and nearly spilled her glass of punch.

Speak of the devil.

Literally.

“Lucien,” she chastised her cousin, “You have an uncanny habit of sneaking up on a person and scaring the living daylights out of them.”

The Duke of Blackheath was tall, commanding, and resplendent in powder, satin and lace, but no less dangerous than an underfed wolf, and his black eyes missed nothing.

“Sneaking up?  My dear, there was nothing clandestine about my approach.  I daresay that your attention was so focused on a certain group of naval officers that I could have borrowed one of their cannon and fired it, and still, you would not have noticed me.”

“I was not looking at them, I was . . . I was pondering my growling stomach, and . . . and thinking of fetching a plate for myself.”

Blackheath only gave a knowing little smile.

And Pippa had a feeling—no, she had more than a feeling, she knew—that her omniscient cousin knew exactly what she was thinking, and feeling, and, yes, fearing, the moment she spotted the group of naval officers laughing, talking, and idly studying the pretty young women in the crowd and out on the dance floor.

He was like that, Lucien was.

“Really, my dear, there is no need for anyone to starve at a Blackheath ball. And as for that group over there that you’ve been eying with such a faraway look in your eye, ‘tis only your brother Seth and his friends. Two of those captains will be escorting my brother’s regiment to America . . . it would have been a shame, not to invite them. Come, let us see to your poor hungry stomach.”

Offering his elbow, the duke guided her back to the refreshment table, and with every step, Pippa’s eyes grew a little larger, not in fear, but because, without her spectacles—which she had placed in her reticule thanks to what small bit of vanity she did possess—it meant that faces were a bit blurry and she was trying her best to see. But perhaps seeing wasn’t such a good idea.

Certain things needed no reminders . . .

A pond, with the sunshine warm upon the sparkling waves, at her family’s seat in Hampshire. A gentle wind through the grasses, and he, her brother Seth’s friend, a young captain in the navy, resplendent in his blue and white uniform as he’d stood at the edge of the pond, skipping pebbles over the surface for his dog Albion to chase. How unreal it had all been . . . a dream . . .  To think that he had been courting her, Pippa, when he could have had his pick of any of the pretty young girls who were all vying for his attention . . .

She tried to block the memory. To think of something else. But the sight of those handsome officers, now turning to regard her as Lucien brought her closer and closer to the refreshment table, brought it all crashing back . . .

He, laughing, as the dog, barking in excitement, jumped into the pond in pursuit of pebbles he could never catch. Such a sweet dog, and one that he loved deeply.

Albion.

Poor Albion.

It hadn’t been his fault.

She, her eyes itching, her nose running like a spring stream whenever she got near the dog, or even him, after he’d been playing with the animal . . . he looking at her in confusion, handing her a handkerchief and asking why her cold had not yet cleared up after all this time.

Oh, the humiliation, that he had noticed her ugly running nose. Her cheeks had gone red, and she, flushed with shame and mortified in the way that only a young girl could be, who had no control over her body’s doings while in the presence of the man she loved, had reached out a shaking hand to take the handkerchief—

“Ah, Pippa!  There you are, I was wondering where the devil you’d gone off to,” Seth said jovially. He detached himself from the small group with whom he’d been conversing, bowed over his sister’s hand, and faced the others. “Gentlemen, I would like to present you to my sister, Lady Philippa. Pippa, my friends—Captain Brendan Merrick, frigate captain, designer of warships and all-around clever rogue . . . Lieutenant Oliver Heathmore . . . my admiral, Sir Geoffrey Lloyd . . . and Captain Christian Lord.”

Lord.

Was the latter related? To him?

“I am honored to make your acquaintances,” Pippa murmured, hearing herself as from a great distance away as each man took her gloved hand, murmured words of flattery and appreciation, and made an elegant bow over it.

Tall, lanky Captain Merrick with rich chestnut curls, warm, laughing eyes and an Irish brogue; Lieutenant Heathmore, young, very young, and blushing a bit as he made his bow; the elderly Sir Geoffrey, stooped and bleary eyed, but still able to smile a bit wolfishly as his rheumy gaze appraised her, and Captain Lord.

The family resemblance was unmistakable.

Oh, God help her.

“Are you quite all right, my dear?” Lucien was saying, raising one dark brow. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I . . . I just find myself a bit faint . . . perhaps some fresh air . . .”

“Allow me,” Captain Merrick said quickly, insinuating his elbow beneath her hand.

Pippa was still looking at Captain Lord. He, in turn, was returning her regard her with no small degree of bemusement, as though vaporous females were beyond his realm of knowledge, experience, and everyday encounters. She felt Captain Merrick’s hard, wiry arm beneath her own, and she had taken two steps, then three, toward the door and the cool, bracing air of the winter night outside, when she realized that if she allowed him to lead her away from this group of men, she would never know just who Captain Lord was, or why Lucien had that conniving gleam in his eye, or why the tall Captain Lord with the gold epaulets on his shoulders looked oh, God help her, so dreadfully, shockingly, heartbreakingly familiar.

She had to ask.

“A moment, Captain,” she said to her well-meaning escort, before turning to the other sea officer, “but do you happen to be related to . . .”

No, maybe she’d be better off letting Captain Merrick take her outside, after all.

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind, Captain, it’s just the hot air getting to me, I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

The duke of Blackheath selected a bit of cheese from a passing tray and slowly put it into his mouth, watching Pippa—who was beginning to feel hot and a bit panicky beneath the constraints of stays and fitted bodice—from over the top of his fingers. “Nonsense, Pippa,” he murmured. “Captain Lord comes from an illustrious naval family. His father was master of HMS Ryegate. Captain Lord is, himself, commander of one of the two frigates that will be escorting Charles’s regiment across the sea when they leave here next week.” The duke smiled, his black-nightshade eyes never leaving Pippa’s. “And his brother is a famous admiral.”

His brother is a famous admiral.

Pippa gulped down the lump in her throat.

“In fact, he is here now, and approaching as we speak. Sir Elliott? I do believe you are acquainted with my cousin, Lady Philippa?”

No. Oh, God, no.

Pippa’s gloved hand tightened like a claw on Captain Merrick’s perfect blue sleeve, and every bit of blood in her body immediately stopped flowing. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. And she certainly couldn’t think as she slowly turned and, her ears buzzing and her knees going strangely boneless, looked up, up, up, into a pair of gray eyes the color of slate.

A pair of gray eyes she had not seen for nearly ten years.

A pair of gray eyes she had never forgotten.

The great, glittering chandelier was suddenly too bright above Admiral Sir Elliott Lord’s handsome blond head, the music from the orchestra, the laughter of the revelers and dancers too loud, and she felt as though a horse had landed a solid and punishing kick to her stomach.

With a hastily murmured apology, she turned on her heel and fled.

Chapter 2

“I must say, Admiral, you have quite an interesting effect on women,” the duke of Blackheath mused, nonchalantly finishing his bit of cheese.

But Elliott was already heading out of the ballroom, determined not to let his quarry escape so easily.

He saw a flash of blue ahead as she rounded a corner, and broke into a run. He would not lose her. Even if he had to chase her from here to London.

And he’d be damned to hell and back if he’d allow Sir Geoffrey, or any of his subordinates to know that he felt dismasted, in irons, as stricken as a brig that had just been smashed beneath a salvo of chain shot, and he damn well didn’t need the young Captain Merrick, whose arm had been so conveniently placed beneath Pippa’s hand when he’d come upon the little group, trying to make himself useful. Elliott was on the distant side of thirty. The far distant side. He had enough aches and pains when he got up in the morning these days, and though his sandy blond hair was still thick and rich and showed no sign of either thinning or gray, the lines that bracketed the corners of his eyes, carved there by sun and salt and the passing of years, were an all too blatant reminder that he was no dashing young buck like the handsome Captain Merrick or even that pink-cheeked pup, Oliver Heathmore.

Pippa. Of all people to encounter here. Of all people to run up against when it had taken him ten years to forget her.

Of all people.

There, ahead, a door, ajar. He pushed it open.

Nothing.

He kept going, moving faster now.

Another door. Closed.

He shoved it open and there she was, standing by a window with one hand anchoring herself on its sill. A candle in a glass globe stood on a small table nearby, striking gold into her beautiful face.

“Elliott,” she said weakly.

He stopped in his tracks, one hand still on the door, just looking at her.

She was beautiful. Heartbreakingly so. Certainly, the years had treated her kinder than they had him. But then, the one doing the jilting wasn’t usually the one who did the suffering. And by the looks of her, she hadn’t suffered one bit. Skin that was still clear and smooth. Full, pink lips, now parted in surprise or shock, making him ache to kiss them, and a mouth that used to be able to quirk up just a fraction on one side, as though she found life perpetually amusing and expected others to, as well. Kind, gentle, blue eyes, heavily lashed and slightly down-turned at the corners like those of her de Montforte cousins, and a tiny, nipped waist that just begged him to span it with his hands. She wore a beautiful gown of shimmering cobalt silk, the skirts overlaid with white lace and the fitted bodice embroidered with gold thread that caught the light of the candle.

Blue and white and gold.

Naval colors.

Surely it was a coincidence.

Somewhere off over his shoulder, and coming down the hall toward them, he heard voices. Without a second thought, Elliott kicked the door shut behind him with one foot. The abrupt sound it made as it slammed was immensely satisfying.

He leaned back against the wall, glad that she could not hear the pounding of his own heart, a heart that had never stopped beating for her, and her alone.

He stared at her.

She stared back, a thousand emotions flitting across her lovely face.

Then she went to the chair in the corner, and sat down on its edge. Beneath the hem of her gown, her slippered feet peeked out. They were as tiny and delicate as he remembered. He longed to cup them in his hand, to admire their grace and beauty.

They had made love once. Just once. But it had been enough to whet his appetite for more, to set about pursuing her with as much zeal as he’d ever given chase to an enemy frigate, to dream of having her by his side as his wife for the rest of his life.

One night of magical, all-consuming passion.

And then she had left him without explanation.

“So, the years have treated you well, then,” he said, at length.

“Well enough, thank you.”

He gazed at her, thinking she was even more beautiful than she had been as the girl he had fallen in love with all those years ago.

She looked back, then, with a sad little smile, stared down at the hands she kept so tightly folded in her lap. She was fidgeting with a fan, her discomfort almost painful.

“It’s been a while, Pippa,” he said, at last.

She didn’t look up. “Ten years.”

“And five months and fourteen days.”

“Thirteen days, actually.”

It was an awkward moment. Her head remained bent, and she traced the design on her fan with one finger as it lay in her lap.

“Blackheath throws a great party,” she said.

“Indeed, he does.”

“Had I known there would have been so many naval officers here, perhaps I would not have come.”

“And why not?”

She just looked at him, flatly. Hopelessly. “Do I really need to explain?”

“You might try. Though there are other things that I’d rather have an explanation for, Pippa.”

She winced as if he’d struck her, and despite himself, he felt bad. He was not in the business of hurting people. Well, not unless their ship flew an enemy flag and had no business being, or doing, something he had the authority and ability to put a stop to. But that was different. They were the enemy. But this . . . this was Pippa. His Pippa.

No enemy.

But why did just seeing her again after all these years hurt so much?

Have him completely in irons?

“They say time heals all wounds,” she murmured, her eyes suddenly sad. “I guess we needed more of it.”

“There are some wounds that never heal, no matter how much time they are given.”

“Forgive me, Elliott. You deserved better than me. I was young, foolish. Insecure. Dreadfully insecure.”

Outside, from beyond the closed door, came the distant sounds of music and laughter. Moments passed. The candle in its glass globe burned on. Elliott was acutely aware of everything about her—her dark brows beneath her powdered, upswept hair, and the fact she needed no white lead paint to enhance her milky-smooth complexion. The scent of her; something floral. Lilacs, perhaps. The way the soft glow from the candlelight brought out the depths in her eyes, the valley between her breasts, and played upon the delicate hollows at her throat.

He wanted to kiss those hollows.

Put his lips against the soft swell of her breasts.

He cleared his throat, and turned away. “I was sorry to read about the death of your husband last year.”

“Thank you. He was a good man, Walter.”

He felt a momentary stab of jealousy, that this Walter had had what he had coveted, what he had thought was to be his. That Walter had taken her to his bed, night after night, woken up to her sweet face in the mornings, loved her, shared the years of her youth.

Years that should have belonged to him.

“And look at you now. Confident. Poised. All grown up,” he murmured.

She met his gaze, and some of the guardedness in her eyes softened. “And you . . . going off, becoming a famous hero . . . knighted by the king, given command of a fleet, and your name known to the whole of England. What an exciting life you have led.”

“Nothing is exciting when one is alone, Pippa.”

She looked down. “Why didn’t you marry?”

A heavy silence hung between them. Quietly, he walked the few steps across the room to the window, pretending to look out into the darkness when all he really wanted was to be that much closer to her.

“Why do you think I didn’t, Pippa?”

“You could have your pick of any woman in England. You, decorated, handsome, famous. And the eldest son of a noble family”—

“The reason, Pippa, is that I never found anyone I loved as much as I did you. Nobody who stirred my blood and captured my heart, as you did. Nobody.” And then, tightly: “Why did you leave me?”

The question was sudden, abrupt, baldly delivered. Pippa sighed and bravely met his gaze. Leave it to Elliott not to mince words, nor to waste time in getting to the point.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She took a deep breath. Now all these years later, it seemed like a paltry reason to leave the man that one loved, and she doubted he would understand.

Memories filled her mind. Of that same sunny day, with a sky the color of flax and green lawns of pastoral beauty. He, who had come to call on her. She, going into the house to fetch a shawl, for it had been springtime, and there was still a decided nip in the air. He had brought his dog with him, and returning, she had come across him lying on his back in the grass beside the pond, reading a book, with Albion, dripping wet from his swim, standing over him with tail wagging. Albion, with his long golden fur, happy brown eyes and floppy ears, wanting his master to throw more pebbles. Albion, with his undying love, for Elliott. And Elliott, the book in one hand, pretending to be ignoring the dog, before its tongue took a sudden swipe at his face and guffawing, he had tossed down the book and wrestled the canine to the grass, where each had been laughing in their own way. . .

The memory was enough to make her heart hurt.

“Well?”

He was still waiting.

“You had a dog, then,” she said. “Do you remember?”

“Ah, Albion.” She could see his smile in the candlelight, reflecting off the cold black pane of the window. “I loved that dog.”

“Yes, I know you did.”

“God, Pippa, you weren’t jealous of Albion, were you?”

“No, of course not. He was a nice dog.”

He had turned and was looking down at her, so very tall, his broad shoulders filling that splendidly handsome uniform. One could rest the whole of England on those shoulders, and she imagined that more times than not, that, exactly, was what had been done. He was a hero. He could have been her hero. She looked at the hard, sculpted line of his lips, and remembered what it had been like to be kissed by them. He was older, yes, wiser, experienced, a hardened sea warrior; no longer the zealous youth he had been, full of ambition and dreams. How could she expect him to understand?

“I was so in love with you,” she said at last, and looked down at her hands folded so quietly in her lap. A little smile of remembrance touched her lips. “But I was young then, Elliott. Painfully shy, and dreadfully lacking in confidence. I was ashamed of how I looked in my spectacles, which is why you never saw me in them, and why you must have thought me a clumsy fool, always bumping into something. I was so self-conscious about my appearance. And”—she felt her cheeks beginning to warm, because here came the hard part, here came the part he would never understand, “Whenever I was near Albion, or you, after you had been petting him or playing with him, my nose would run, my eyes would itch and water, and I couldn’t breathe. I was . . . I was terribly afflicted by him. But I didn’t know how to tell you without hurting your feelings.”

“You are right, Pippa. I don’t understand.”

She got up then, and quietly moved to join him at the window. The girl she had once been, so shy, so painfully insecure about her appearance, so totally undeserving—or so she had thought—of a dashing young captain in the service of his king, would never have reached out and taken his hand.

But Pippa was no longer that girl.

She reached out . . .

And took his hand.

A jolt of feeling went through her. Emotion clogged the back of her throat. It was only his hand, but she had not held this particular hand in some ten years, had not touched this man she had loved so much that she had made the single biggest sacrifice of her life so that he would not have to make a painful choice, and here she was, touching him now, holding his hand.

Oh, Elliott.

“One day when you had come to call on me, I went into the house and returned to find you playing with Albion, next to the pond. You never knew that I stood there and watched you for a long time . . . you never knew that in that moment, I saw how very much you loved your dog, how devoted you each were to one another, and I didn’t want to put you in the position of having to choose between him and me. I loved you too much, Elliott . . . and I didn’t think it was fair to ask you to possibly give up something you loved so much, on account of me.”

“Oh, Pippa . . .” He shook his head, his eyes darkening with pain and disbelief. “You left me because of my dog?”

“I know it sounds silly, Elliott, but you’ve never been a shy young girl who didn’t think she deserved the handsome golden god. You don’t know the embarrassment, the humiliation, of having a constantly running nose and reddened eyes, in front of the man you’re trying so hard to look your best, for . . . so hard, in fact, that you wouldn’t even wear your spectacles. It got to the point I was afraid to have you even see me, I was so ashamed of my body’s reaction to your dog.”

He just shook his head. “And all these years, I had thought you left me for another man . . . or because you couldn’t tolerate the idea of a husband away at sea . . . “

“I left you because I didn’t want to put you in the painful position of having to make you choose between the dog you loved . . . and me.”

“And you think I didn’t love you? That I wouldn’t have given up the dog? My parents adored him, they would have taken him.”

“I know you would have given him up, Elliott. You would have done that, because you were noble and true. But it would have broken your heart, and I couldn’t do that to you.”

And so I had broken my own.

Long moments went by. He pulled his hand out from beneath her own, and slid it around her waist, fitting it there just above her hipbone. It felt warm and delicious and something in her ached, because his hand belonged there, and now, only now, did she realize how much she had truly sacrificed when she had made that long ago decision.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I knew I’d hurt you . . . but I thought it would hurt less than if you’d had to give up your dog.”

Still he said nothing, and she wondered if he was angry, hurt, disgusted, or a little bit of all three.

Instead, he asked, “How is your vision these days, Pippa?”

“As terrible as ever.”

“And yet you wear no spectacles.”

“They’re in my reticule.”

“Put them on.”

“Really, Elliott”—

“No. I insist.”

I am not eighteen again. I am a grown woman nearing my third decade. Confident.

Maybe.

She opened the little bag, found the wire-rimmed spectacles, and put them on, bravely looking up at him from over the top of the lenses so he wouldn’t see how bookish and plain she looked behind the glass.

“Uh-uh,” he said, quietly, studying her. “Not good enough.”

And then he put his finger beneath her chin, and her heart began to melt into a warm puddle in her chest at just the touch of it against her skin.

She closed her eyes.

“Look at me, Pippa.”

She opened them, shyly—as shyly as if she were, indeed, eighteen years old all over again, and looked up at him.

And instantly regretted that she hadn’t put the spectacles on earlier. Now, his familiar, beloved face was clearly defined, with no blurriness to soften it. Now, the gray eyes, keenly intelligent, fringed by long golden lashes, bracketed by little squint lines in their corners . . . now, the bold, straight nose, the firm mouth, the chiseled lips . . . all were there to see in crystal clarity. Unlike many blonds, his skin was not florid, but tanned and handsome, perhaps because of the ashy, sandy shade of his hair. She could look at him all night.

But then she wondered what he, seeing her in her spectacles for the first time, was thinking of her, because he had never suffered a visual encumbrance, and certainly suffered none now.

Would he find her unattractive, plain, or—

He kissed her. With his finger still beneath her chin, he gently tilted her face up to his, bent down, and kissed her.

It was no chaste thing, that kiss. It was one of hunger and longing, of deprivation and impatience, of years wasted and lost that would never be gotten back. She felt his hand slide around behind her nape to cup the back of her head, to hold her close, even as his mouth ground against hers and his tongue came out to lick at the seam of her lips until they parted, and his tongue thrust inside, finding her own, touching it, tasting it, making her very soul sigh with bliss.

Oh, Elliott . . .

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and she pressed against him, damning the layers of skirts and petticoats that prevented her from getting as close to him as she would like. The years fell away. All ten of them, plus the five months and the thirteen days, and she was eighteen again, madly in love with this man, her very soul soaring with the purest form of joy. She slid a hand up his sleeve, and around to his broad back, anchoring herself against his strength, delighting in the feel of his body beneath her touch. He tasted of peppermint, and wine, and she felt herself melting inside, growing weak in the knees, even as her longing for him built within her to the point she didn’t think could be contained.

Slowly, he drew back, breaking the kiss, his hand cradling her jaw while his thumb gently stroked her cheek.

Pippa was still trying to draw breath.

“I think,” he said softly, “That that is my answer to your fears about your spectacles, Pippa.”

Her heart was beating against her breastbone like the flutter of a hummingbird.

“Now,” he continued, “Will you join me for a dance?”

She smiled, feeling like that young girl, once more. “I would be delighted.”

Chapter 3

As evenings went, it was an unforgettable one.

Pippa was, indeed, eighteen again, because that was how he made her feel as he guided her through the steps, young, giddy, foolish, silly, and dancing, spinning, soaring, on top of the world. Hot and cold and full of wonder, swept off her feet by this tall and handsome naval hero whom she had never forgotten, and never stopped loving.

A grand room of candlelight and color, dazzling gowns of every fashion, hue and description, ladies with hair powdered and piled high atop their heads and festooned with all manner of decoration—birds, flowers, jewels, pastoral scenes, even— showing great expanses of bare bosom and cleavage, sporting moleskin beauty patches artfully placed near the corner of a mouth, below a saucy eye. Gentlemen in velvet and hose, brocaded waistcoats, powdered wigs and high-heeled shoes. The de Montforte brothers, always dashing and handsome, every one of them drawing the eye: Lucien, magnificent as duke, resplendent in rich indigo satin . . . his heir-presumptive, Lord Charles, proud shouldered and confident, a worthy man, a natural leader, enjoying one of his last nights in England before duty and fate would take him far across the sea; Lord Gareth, the bane of the Lambourn Downs, carefree and light-hearted, never serious, always up for a practical joke . . . Lord Andrew, brooding, intelligent, creative and fiery—

And Elliott.

She went through the steps, was passed off to her brother Seth, to the dashing Captain Merrick, to Captain Lord—

To Elliott.

The music ended, and she was the happiest woman in the room, and the only one who was, she assumed, quite near to swooning because she kept forgetting how to breathe. She was quite relieved when, her heart beating quite loudly in her breast, he guided her to the refreshment table, where he ladled punch into two glasses and pressed one into her hand.

“To you, Pippa,” he said, toasting her, and his eyes were very dark above the rim of his own glass. He smiled. “And your spectacles.”

She laughed, despite herself, and their eyes met. At that moment, an excited, girlish voice cut into her thoughts.

“Pippa! I am so happy to see you enjoying yourself, instead of poring over those maps of that infernal place in Massachusetts that you’re headed off to. And who is your friend, here?”

She turned, and there, a vision in pale blue and silver, was the youngest de Montforte, precocious, saucy, beautiful Lady Nerissa. And though she may have been young, she was certainly old enough to be awestruck by the sheer magnitude of male beauty in the great ballroom.

And right now, she was staring up at the man at Pippa’s side, her big blue eyes very, very wide.

It didn’t matter that Elliott—Sir Elliott, Pippa thought, wryly—was old enough to be Nerissa’s father. A handsome, charismatic man was a handsome, charismatic man, whether he was twenty or forty.

“Elliott Lord,” he murmured, taking the girl’s hand and bowing elegantly over it.

“The Elliott Lord? The famous one?”

Pippa shut her eyes.

“I am certain any fame I enjoy is of the infamous variety,” he said wryly. And then, turning back to Pippa, “And what is this, my dear? Land in Massachusetts?”

“Something Walter left for me, I’m afraid. I’m off to America to inspect it when Lord Charles’s regiment departs next week. I’ll be traveling with them.”

Something in his face changed, like a cloud suddenly moving over the sun and throwing the day in shadow.

For Elliott, it felt as though he had picked up a handful of sand, only to have it slide through his fingers.

“It’s the only reason I came to the ball, really,” he heard her explain, as though from a great distance away. “Lucien wanted to meet the captains who would be escorting the transports, and he arranged to have me go aboard Captain Merrick’s frigate and on to Boston.”

Over my dead body.

“I see,” he said quietly, wondering what she would think if he, as an admiral, un-arranged it, because he certainly had the power to do just that. Beside him, he saw that Lady Nerissa’s eyes had widened in the alarmed realization that she had said something to cause strife between him and her cousin, and she was now quietly slipping away.

“So you are leaving, then,” he murmured.

“Yes. It is something I must see to.”

“And you are going . . . alone?”

“I will have my maid with me. And I’ll be under the capable protection of both Captain Merrick and the man I presume is your brother, Captain Lord.”

Not if I can help it.

She reached out and laid her little gloved hand on the gold insignia of his sleeve. “It is late, Elliott. I am tired. Perhaps—perhaps it is time to say goodnight.”

His voice hardened. “Goodnight? Or good-bye?”

“I—“

“You are an elusive woman, Pippa,” he said. “I have only just found you after all these years, and here you are, running from me yet again.”

“Not running, Elliott, but it would be impractical to change my plans based on a few minutes spent in each other’s company. Based on just a dance, and a kiss.”

“Perhaps, then, you need further convincing.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Perhaps,” he said softly, and there was no mistaking the intent in his eyes, “You need more than just a kiss.”

She just stared at him.

“I’ve taken a room at the village inn. Spend the night with me, Pippa. You’re no young girl of eighteen. Grant me this night . . . and then tell me that you want to run off to America.”

He took her hand and bowed over it, his lips brushing the back of her knuckles through the gloves, and the breath caught in her throat.

Spend the night with me, Pippa.

Her heart began an ever-increasing tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump, within her chest.

Oh, God help her.

How could she refuse?

# # #

Neither Elliott nor Pippa noticed that the duke of Blackheath, immersed in conversation with his brother Lord Charles, had been watching them from out of the corner of his eye.

Not much got past Lucien, and he was famously protective of his family. And as far as he was concerned, family did not mean just his brothers and little sister, for whom any and all he would gladly have laid down his life.

It also meant his cousin, the daughter of his own mother’s sister. She might not be a de Montforte, but as far as Lucien was concerned, she warranted a bit of intervention on his part, and he was not above providing it.

He knew that she and Admiral Sir Elliott Lord had once known each other. He knew that something had happened to drive them apart, and that whatever that Something was, it no longer bore any relevance, given the way the two had been looking at each other for the last half hour.

She was from a seafaring family.

He was a hero of England.

She and the admiral would make a splendid match.

He beckoned a servant with a discreet crook of one finger.

“Puddyford, the admiral appears to be preparing to take his leave. Do find out where he is going.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

Moments later, the servant was back with his report. Sir Elliott had called for his coach and was headed back into Ravenscombe. Lady Philippa was pleading fatigue and about to retire to a guestroom.

That would not do.

“Find a way, Puddyford, to detain Sir Elliott’s driver, and replace him with one of my own. Murdock, I think, will do nicely. And then send Murdock to me. I have some instructions for him.”

“As you please, your Grace.”

Lord Charles, resplendent in his new scarlet regimentals and quite oblivious to the hungry stares that several nearby beauties were bestowing upon him, turned his pale blue stare on his brother. “Why the sudden interest in the admiral’s affairs, Luce?”

“Interest in his affairs? Nonsense.” The duke gave an innocent little smile, but his black eyes held a particular gleam that spoke volumes. “I just think it would be better all around if Sir Elliott remained here at Blackheath for the night. No need for him to go all the way into Ravenscombe on such a dark and dreary night when we have plenty of rooms right here, would you not agree?”

Lord Charles frowned, suddenly uneasy.

But the duke was thinking of the happiness he’d seen on Pippa’s face when she’d been dancing with the admiral.

He was thinking of how he could ensure that they didn’t part and go their separate ways.

He was thinking how nice it would be if they were both at breakfast together.

No, the admiral was not going to leave and break Pippa’s heart.

Not if he had any say in the matter.

And Lucien, the Duke of Blackheath, always got his way.

# # #

Of course, it would not do to be seen leaving Blackheath Castle with Elliott, even if she was a widow and quite grown up, because people were wont to talk. And so, Elliott, ever conscious of her reputation, made his farewell wishes to Lord Charles and their host, and, retrieving his cocked hat and sword, went out into the chilly winter night to wait for her in his coach.

Pretending to be retiring for the evening, Pippa had gone to her rooms only long enough to grab her cloak. Then, ducking outside through a servant’s entrance, she had pulled the hood up over her head against the damp night air, and, with the mist spattering her spectacles, found Elliott’s gleaming black coach.

She knew it was his, because it had an anchor on the door.

Even so, she was relieved when, as she neared the vehicle, the door opened from within and there he was, waiting for her.

“It’s cold out here,” he murmured, tucking a blanket around her shoulders with tender care. “And the devil only knows where my damned driver is. Been waiting for him for the past ten minutes.” He reached out and took her hand. “I trust you got away, unseen?”

“Unseen,” she said, a little breathlessly.

“Good, I—”

There was a voice outside. “Sir Elliott?”

The admiral frowned, put a finger to his lips, and opened the door, leaning well forward so his large form blocked anyone from being able to see inside the coach.

“Oi’m Murdock, sir. The duke sent me t’ droive ye into Ravenscombe, ‘e did. Seems yer own man took ill.”

“Ill?”

“Aye, sir. Had ’imself one too many shrimp out in the servant’s quarters, ’e did. If ye’re ready to leave, we can be off now, sir.”

“Yes, of course I’m ready. Carry on.”

He shut the door, frowning.

Pippa met his gaze. “They serve shrimp in the servant’s quarters? How odd.”

“Well, I suppose that when one is a duke, even the servants eat well.”

“Still. Shrimp?”

The coach remained unmoving, and inside its cold confines, their breath made plumes of fog.

Growing impatient, the admiral rapped on the roof. “Drive on, please.”

With a start, the vehicle began to move. He leaned back against the squab across from her, filling up the space in the darkness, his long legs just inches from her own. She was very aware of him, not only of what he must be thinking, but of the sheer physicality of him. Elliott, with his wide shoulders and commanding height, stuffed into this coach when the quarterdeck of a warship would have been a more fitting setting.

Elliott, no longer a boyish youth.

Elliott, in whose bed she was destined to spend the night.

She shivered with excitement and longing.

“I would not have thought it possible,” he said, in the close darkness of the coach, “for you to grow even more beautiful over the years, Pippa, but time has been good to you.”

“You are too kind, Elliott. I never really felt beautiful, you know.” She tensed as he moved his leg slightly, so that his buckled shoe nudged up against her slipper. She wondered if either of them would be able to wait until the reached the inn to make up for so much lost time.

Elliott was thinking the same thing. But he was a patient man, quite accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted. He would not take Pippa here in the cramped confines of a coach. She deserved better than that.

And she would have it.

Nevertheless, there was a part of him that wasn’t quite as patient, and that part of him was, at the moment, swelling painfully against his breeches in a way that made it exceedingly difficult to get comfortable.

“So, do you still keep a dog?” she asked, and he could see her soft smile, the gleam of her perfect white teeth caught in the glow from the coach lanterns. “Because if you do, we could never make a go of it, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not home enough to keep a dog,” he said. “It would not be fair to the animal.”

“I’m sorry for leaving you all those years ago.”

“We have a lot to catch up on, Pippa. But not if you go running off to America.”

“I won’t be gone for long. I’ll come back.”

“Even if you were only to spend just a day there inspecting the property, the crossing, and the return, will take months. Even an hour spent without you, Pippa, is too long, as far as I’m concerned. Don’t go. I beg of you.”

“I will think on it,” she returned, and he saw her look outside into the darkness beyond the window, worrying her bottom lip. She looked charming in her spectacles, adorable, and he lamented the fact that she had been so shy and self-conscious, that she had refused to ever let herself be seen by him in them.

He moved his leg a little closer to hers, letting his ankle touch hers.

Now, this was nice.

Quite nice indeed.

“Pippa, I have”—

The coach suddenly slowed and then, came to a halt.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked, confused.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”  He picked up his hat where he’d laid it on the seat, pushed open the door, and stepping down into the muddy road, found the driver bending near a front wheel.

“Sorry, sir,” the man said, knuckling his forelock. “This ’ere wheel, it ain’t rollin’ roight and Oi’m just ’avin’ a look to make sure all’s as it should be.”

“It felt perfectly fine from within the coach.”

“Aye, well, sir, it didn’t feel so foine from up on the box, beggin’ yer pardon Oi am, sir. But everything seems toight, though Oi’d best check the other three wheels as well.”

“They are fine. Get back on the box and proceed, if you will. I haven’t all night.”

Faintly annoyed, Elliott turned and climbed back into the coach. What the devil had that been all about?

They began moving once more.

“What was the problem?” Pippa asked.

“The devil only knows. Blackheath’s driver can’t be expected to know my vehicle like my own man does, I’ll grant him that, but he’s imagining things if he thinks there’s anything amiss with the wheels.”

“I hope he didn’t hear us talking. I’m supposed to be back at the castle, safely snuggled in my bed.”

“Oh, you will be safely snuggled in bed soon enough, Pippa, but not your own. Mine.”

She gave a nervous little laugh, and felt her insides beginning to melt at the thought of what pleasures awaited her in that bed.

“In any case, as I was about to say”— He swore under his breath as the coach slowed to a stop once more. Snatching up his hat yet again, Elliott shoved open the door, stepped down into the rutted road, and found Blackheath’s ridiculously inept driver doing something up at the head of one of the horses.

“Now what?” he thundered.

“The rein fell off.”

“What?”

“It fell off, sir.”

“Look, I may be a mariner and know more about the workings of a bloody ant-hill than I do those of a horse and coach, but I know that reins don’t just fall off— ”

“No, sir, this rein ’ere, it just fell off. Oi’m tellin’ ye, sir, ye can ’ave a look if ye don’t believe me, but no sooner did the nags start moving when all of a sudden loike, it fell off.”

“Well, fix it, then, and this had better be the last time we stop, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. ’Twill just be a few minutes while I put it back onto the bit.”

Elliott turned and stormed back to the coach.

“For the life of me, I don’t understand how Blackheath tolerates such incompetence,” he muttered, climbing back into the vehicle. “I never heard of such a damned ridiculous thing in my life.”

Pippa sat on the seat across from him, an amused little smile playing about her mouth. “Why, Elliott. One would think you’re in a hurry to get somewhere,” she murmured, and even in the dim light, he could see the humor in her eyes.

“This nonsense keeps up, I won’t be responsible for what I do to that idiot out there.”

She actually laughed.

Despite himself, he found himself smirking a bit, too, because it was hard not to be affected by Pippa’s cute lopsided smile, hard not to be affected by Pippa herself, and as the coach began to move once more, Elliott pulled out his watch, held its face up to the window so as to catch the faint gleam of light coming in through the vehicle’s lanterns outside, and stuffed it impatiently back into his pocket.

“Shouldn’t be more than another ten minutes before we reach that damnable inn,” he grumbled. “That is, if the other rein doesn’t just . . . fall off.”

He slid his leg back over to hers once more, and this time, had just reached out to lay a hand on her knee, when the coach stopped yet again.

Elliott exploded.  “Hell and damnation, what the devil is it this time?”

“Really, Elliott, since when did you curse so much? My bleeding ears.”

“Since this short trip into the village has been plagued with nonsense from the beginning, that’s when! At this rate, we’d get there faster if we were to walk!” Once again, he slammed out of the vehicle, and, his breath frosting the night air, stalked angrily toward this utter fool that Blackheath had the poor fortune to have in his employ.

“What is it this time?” he snarled. “The other rein? A puddle in the road? Highwaymen? You’d better have a damned good reason for this latest delay, or so help me God”—

“Er, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but the horse ’as diarrhea.”

“What?”

“Oi said, sir the horse—”

“Can’t he move and poop at the same time?”

“Well, ’e could, sir, but it would make an awful mess of the coach, sir, as well as my livery, which Oi loike to try an’ keep clean, sir—”

“Let me guess, he got into the shrimp as well, right?”

“Wot?”

“How far are we from the inn at Ravenscombe?”

“Oh, Oi’d say maybe a half mile at best, sir— ”

“Very well, then. Since you seem incapable of getting me there under your own direction, I will sit here on the box with you to ensure that I actually reach my destination tonight.”

“But sir, it’s startin’ to rain and—”

“I’m in the damned Navy, I’m sure I know what it’s like to get wet! Now get on the damned box, take the damned reins, and get this damned vehicle into Ravenscombe before I really lose my temper!”

Moments later, both high-ranking admiral and lowly servant were seated on the box, the former scowling beneath the brim of his hat, the latter flustered and worried, for he had instructions, very specific instructions from his Grace, to do all within his power to ensure that the admiral did not reach his lodgings in Ravenscombe and was brought back to Blackheath Castle for the night.

And as Murdock sat there, pale, nervous, and uncertain, he wasn’t sure whose ire he dreaded more.

That of this stern-faced sea warrior sitting beside him on the box . . .

Or that of his Grace the Duke of Blackheath, when he returned to the castle—alone.

Chapter 4

The rest of the short journey passed, of course, without incident. Arriving at the Speckled Hen Inn, Pippa slipped out of the coach before the driver—kept occupied by Elliott—could see her, hurried across the damp courtyard, and stood waiting in the common room. The hour was late, the room deserted. Moments later, the admiral joined her, took her hand, and led her up the stairs, leaving her to wonder at the bizarre set of circumstances that had delayed their arrival.

But as Elliott pushed open a door, lit a candle from the fire that had been left burning in the grate by a chambermaid, and stood there, so tall that he seemed to hold up the low ceiling, she forgot all about the coachman’s strange behavior, and thought, instead, of the years she had sacrificed.

Despite the fire, the room had a damp chill to it, and outside, rain began to pelt the leaded glass panes of the window.

Pippa stood somewhat uncertainly, her nerves tingling with anticipation. Would he find her beautiful, after all these years? She, who was nearly in her third decade, she, who no longer had the nubile body she’d possessed that one time they had made love? She, Pippa?

Elliott, removing his hat and cloak and placing them on a peg near the door, had his own worries. Would she still desire him after all this time? He, no longer a young and dashing captain, but a man who’d seen years of service at sea, years that had weathered his skin, left his body with a scar here, another there? He, who had never stopped loving this woman, whose heart was still fully owned by her, he—who might not be all that she would want him to be? He, Elliott?

He had this one night to convince her to stay here in England. One night to convince her of his love, the true direction of his heart, and the folly of chasing after some ridiculous piece of land in a faraway place that she certainly couldn’t need or care much about.

Outside, the rain began to fall harder, pinging against the window pane.

One night.

“Guess we got here just in time,” Pippa said, removing her gloves.

“I could have done with it being a hell of a lot sooner,” the admiral returned, and began unbuttoning his coat.

Pippa moved forward, smiling a bit shyly, and placed her hand over his, stopping him. “May I do that?”

He returned her smile, and let his arms fall to his sides. She stepped closer and reaching up, began to slide each button through its hole.

She had just gotten to the third one down, when his arms went firmly around her, his big, broad hands slid down the small of her back, and there, settled just above her bottom, drawing her close up against him.

He was a sculpted god in the candlelight, his face one of angles and planes, his hair, which he had left unpowdered, catching the glow from the fire. All those years ago, it had curled boyishly behind his ears, and this, it still did, for he wore it rather unfashionably short, save for the wrapped sailor’s queue that hung between his shoulders. She reached up, slid her palms beneath his lapels, and tilted her head up as he lowered his own to claim her lips in a kiss.

The moment his lips touched hers, hard, demanding, hungry, Pippa knew she was lost, that she would leave this room changed forever, for she felt as though she had finally come home. There was no other way to put it, no other way to put a name to the feelings that were aroused just by being in this man’s arms. She moaned softly as his tongue came out to push against her own and his mouth ground against hers, seeking closer contact, a fusing of kindred souls and two hearts that beat to the same drum. His hands pressed harder behind the small of her back, roved down and over her bottom, and brought her close, so close that she could feel his arousal shoving hard against her pelvis, even through the layers of her skirts.

Desire flared through her.

Bliss was his mouth against hers, the heat of his body engulfing her, his hands so warm and strong  as they held her against him. Anticipation was the hot, solid length of him pressing against her, the feel of hard chest muscles beneath his waistcoat, the bed that waited just a few feet away.

Slowly, ever so tenderly, he broke the kiss.

“Turn around,” he murmured, and as she did, she felt his hand, so warm, so roughly calloused, so tender, brushing her nape. She was keenly aware of the heat of his body just behind her now, dwarfing her. Elliott, right here in this room with her. Elliott, for whom she had always held a candle, even throughout the short years of her rather dull marriage. Elliott, who was running his hand up the side of her neck, gently tugging her ear lobe between thumb and forefinger, leaning down to plant a kiss there, his breath warm against the sensitive skin. She trembled deep inside. A moment later, he slowly began to pull the pins from her hair.

“Do you know, Pippa, the loneliness a man feels while all alone out on the vast ocean?” he murmured.

“I confess, I do not.”

“There were many nights, out under the stars on the open Atlantic, when your face would come into my mind, and I would wonder what you were doing at that very moment. If you ever thought of me. If you had found happiness, joy, love.” She shivered as he dropped a warm kiss on her nape, the brush of his faintly bearded chin sending a lightning bolt of feeling straight into the pit of her belly. “I moved on, of course. Lost myself in my work and my ambitions, in the every day and mundane workings of my life. But I never forgot you, Pippa. And you, I hope, will not forget this night.”

She took a deep and shuddering breath, feeling her hair beginning to tumble down around her shoulders now, each silken, weighty tress still heavy with powder.

“And to what purpose, Elliott?”

He gathered up the heavy fall of her hair in one hand, shook it, and powder whispered from it and onto the bare floor. She felt him running his fingers through it now, loosening what was left of the powder, pulling at her scalp in a way that felt immensely pleasurable at the same time it only built the sensations of sexual awareness. He made her want to purr like a cat.

“To what purpose, Pippa? Do you really have to ask?”

She leaned back against his chest, sighing with pleasure as he reached around to fully enclose her body within the mighty circle of his arms; looking down, she saw him undoing the tiny hooks of her bodice, moving slowly down between her breasts, going lower and lower until the front of the silk garment, lined with the softest cotton and embroidered with tiny flowers, gapped open in his hands. Her skin quivered in longing. Her nipples tightened in immediate response. How she ached for the feel of those fingers against her flesh, shielded, still, from their touch by her stays, her chemise.

Slowly, he turned her around to face him, and his eyes smiled down into hers. She could see the heat in them now, and her own blood fired with answering desire.

“I have wanted to undress you from the moment I saw you this evening,” he said softly,  pulling one fitted sleeve down over her wrist, her hand, her fingers, and freeing her arm. His fingers whispered over the elaborate fall of lace that draped from her elbow, gently pulling at it, and then he went to work on the other sleeve, freeing that one, too, until he had removed the garment and was holding it in his hands.

He smiled, brought it to his nose, and closed his eyes.

“Lilac,” he said. “You wore that a long time ago, too.”

She reached out and with a trembling hand, touched his waistcoat, buttoned down over his chest beneath his uniform coat.

“You remembered?” she asked, smiling.

“I don’t think I will ever forget.”

His fingers were working on the laces of her stays, now, pulling at the long ties until the bow came free and the restrictive garment sagged from her shoulders. He turned her around once more, pulling her spine back up against his chest, her bottom against his arousal, and the sensation filled her with such desire that the chill of the room was suddenly forgotten.

Elliott’s lips, beneath her heavy fall of hair, nuzzling against the warm curve of her neck. Elliott’s hands, reaching up beneath the gaping stays to cup her breasts, his thumbs gently stroking each nipple even as his tongue came out and began to touch, to taste, to lick the sensitive skin behind her ear.

Pippa sighed deep in her throat, deep in her soul, and leaned her head back against the cup of his shoulder, her bones going soft, her knees going weak, as he repeatedly stroked each budding, hardening nipple beneath her chemise, gently rolling them between thumb and forefinger, making her want to squirm with longing as he kept up this delicious torture.

She closed her eyes, the breath coming a little faster through her lungs.

Outside, the rain began to ping harder against the glass panes of the window as it turned to sleet, but Pippa only registered the sound as though from a long distance away, because Elliott had the heels of his hands against her rib cage, pressing her backward against him, his skilled, warm, delicious fingers coaxing her body into a hot mess of jumbled nerve endings.

And then he was gently turning her in his arms to face him, lifting her chin to his own bent head, and he was kissing her once more.

She kicked off her slippers, first one, then the other. The bare floor was cold beneath her feet, but she didn’t care. Somehow, the stays came off and were cast aside. Somehow, her fumbling fingers managed to slide beneath his uniform coat and remove it, to unbutton his snug-fitting waistcoat, and both landed in a heap beside her discarded stays and bodice. Somehow, his hands were roving behind her back, pressing her up hard against his arousal, his fingers already untying the tapes that held her heavy silk petticoats up, the panniers beneath, and with a rustle, both fell to the floor to pool around her ankles until she stood before him in just her chemise, her stockings, and her desire.

“Elliott,” she said simply, her eyes mirroring the longing of her heart, and with one hand, she reached out to touch his waistband.

His eyes darkened, and a smile touched his mouth. “I’m glad you decided to come to the ball tonight, Pippa.”

“And I’m glad that you found me before I could run away once more.” And then, with a bold but shaking hand, she found the buttons of his flap front, pushed them through their holes, and as his breeches gapped open, he sprang out hot and hard in her hand.

She smiled. Widely.

His eyelids lowered.

And then he reached out and, ever so gently, removed her spectacles, folding them and placing them on the bedside table as her fingers began a tantalizing exploration of his shaft . . . the warm, velvety head . . . the rigid, iron-hard length . . . his testicles, warm in their wiry hair.

He bent his head to kiss her once more, and suddenly the cold floor beneath Pippa’s feet fell away as she was swept up into the admiral’s strong arms. Her own arms looped around his neck, and she felt the brush of his queue against her knuckles. It was a dizzying, heady, arousing thing, to be carried so easily in a man’s arms, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of being gently laid down on the bed, spread out like some treasured gem on a jeweler’s table, to have this man, so powerful and perfect in form, so hungry for her, and her alone, step out of his breeches, pull the shirt over his head, and climb up into the bed beside her.

He lay down alongside her, and she felt the hot, hard length of his body against her own, dwarfing it. His mouth found hers once more, his arm pulled her close, and she hungrily met his kiss, breathing hard now, her blood beating through her veins as his hand skimmed down over her ribcage, into the concave dip of her hip, up over her pelvic bone, down, down, her upper thigh. His thumb hooked in a garter, peeled away the stocking, his finger trailing sensuously over her leg. Off came the other a moment later. How warm and strong that hand, against her silken flesh. How agonizing, the wait, as that hand slowly moved back up her leg, warm against her calf, warm against the back of her knee, now catching the bunched up hem of her chemise and pulling it up, up, up, toward that part of her that was doing a slow burn for him and made her squirm with wanting. And now, oh, oh yes . . . his hand, the palm warm and calloused, dragging up her inner thigh until his fingers were gently playing in the warm, damp curls at the junction of her legs.

He did not need to ask her to open for him.

He began to stroke her. It was a slow, measured thing, just his thumb moving over her slit, once, twice, until his finger parted her gently and began to slide through her dampness, back and forth, torturously slow, until Pippa’s body, of its own accord, began to squirm and the breath came through her lungs at a pace that left her unable to catch it.

He drew back then, and gazed down into her dazed eyes.

“Ten years is a long time to wait for the love of your life,” he murmured.

“Ten years and five months . . . “

“And fourteen days.”

“Fifteen, now.”

“My heart has never stopped beating for you, Pippa.” His gaze was direct, and very intense. “All these years and it still belongs to you. And you, alone.”

She just swallowed and stared up at him, watching the soft orange flames of the candle flickering against his skin, making his eyes look very dark in the semi-gloom.

“Will you marry me, Pippa?”

“Make love to me, Elliott, and then we will talk . . . it is unfair to ask such a question when you have me at my most vulnerable.”

He merely smiled, a gentle, patient gesture, and bent his head to nuzzle and kiss the hot curve of her neck. She shut her eyes, threaded one hand up behind his head, cupping the back of his skull as he moved lower, now dropping kisses on her collarbone . . . atop the swell of one breast . . . and there, the nipple itself, hard and aching as he took it fully into his mouth and began to suckle her through the thin fabric of the chemise.

“Oh, Elliott,” she breathed, trying to draw breath.

Soft, suckling sounds as he pulled the swollen nipple up into his mouth. Sweet anguish as his tongue licked and laved it through the wet fabric, pulling a hot, tingling ache from ever cell in her body, causing her to drive her heels down into the mattress, to moan with need as his other hand roved down her body and once more found the center of her passion.

And then, his mouth left her breast, was kissing her abdomen through the fabric as he moved lower down the bed, and then, oh, God help her, he was sliding his hands beneath her hips, pushing the chemise up, up, past her hips and to the level of her waist, until she was shamelessly, deliciously, wantonly bared to his gaze.

“You,” he breathed, “are the most beautiful creature that God ever made.”

She saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, hard, and then he was moving down between her thighs, his hands gently parting them, wide, wider, wider still, as he gazed at her most inner and private flesh. He looked up, once, and met her gaze, and with a dark look of intent, parted her with his thumbs and lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue against her flesh nearly undid her, and she caught desperately at the sheet as his mouth went to work on her. A sob rose in her throat and stuck there, and a sound came out of her that she did not recognize as her head twisted on the pillow and her fingers frantically laced in the thick waves of his hair. Her skin went hot and everything inside her started to burn as his tongue began to lick at her seam, up one side, down the other, his thumbs still holding her shamelessly, impossibly wide. Above her, firelight danced on the plastered ceiling, swam, and Pippa shut her eyes against it, trying to hold back the rising tide of sensation that was building in the floor of her pelvis, a rising, burning ache as his tongue stroked her over and over again. The balled sheet grew damp in her hand. The bed sighed beneath her as her body began to writhe. She felt his breath against her most inner flesh, soft, hot, coming now as hard and fast as her own. He spread her a little wider, and then, just when Pippa knew she could not take this sweet punishment anymore, he dragged the tip of his tongue over her swollen nub, and her world began to splinter as climax rushed down on her in an unstoppable wave of feeling.

“Elliott”—

He only pressed his tongue against her, and then, as she cried out and began to spasm out of control, sucked her engorged bud deep into his mouth and held her there in its hot recesses as she arched and keened beneath him, not letting her go until tears of joy were coursing down her cheeks and she was reaching down to pull him back up against her body, to seek his erection with her hand and gently, firmly, began to stroke him.

“Marry me . . . Pippa,” he said, straddling her from above, taking his weight on his forearms and letting his head droop between his shoulders as she handled him gently, firmly, and began to guide him toward her wet cleft. “You are no longer the vulnerable one . . . I am.”

His mouth found hers once more, and she tasted herself upon him. She moved her body slightly, angling her hips so as to better receive him, and then, opening her thighs wide to him once more, guided him toward, and into, herself.

The sensation of being stretched, of being filled, widened, and fully possessed by this man, was enough to bring her senses sharply back into focus and once again, sensation began to build within her. Deeper he penetrated, inch by hard, hot inch, filling her so completely that she felt as if they were joined at the heart, which, with the part of her mind that could still function, she supposed they were. She fastened her arms around his broad back, savoring the play of hard muscle over his shoulder blades as he began to move, and of their own accord, her legs came up to lock around his hips.

He drew back, pushed forward, and so began the timeless rhythm, slowly building pressure, slowly building speed, as she arced up to meet each powerful thrust, her own hips matching his, their mouths desperately seeking, meeting, grinding against each other in rising frenzy as he took them both closer and closer to the edge. Harder now, each thrust, deeper now, each lunge, each one bringing her closer, closer, closer to the edge, until at last he stiffened and drew back, and she felt the warm pulse of his seed against the walls of her womb. Then his palms were against either side of her jaw, cradling her, holding her, his mouth fierce yet gentle against her own and covering her own cries of release as her muscles clenched and spasmed once more.

They lay there for a long moment, trying to recover. Then, still buried inside her, he eased himself down and alongside her, turning her body on its side so that they lay facing each other. Her bare legs lay entangled with his. His skin was hot against her own, and reaching out in the gloom, he found her hand and squeezed it tightly. She slid her fingers within his, interlocking them. Heartbeats steadied, and began to slow. Panting breaths began to level out and to quiet, and eventually, they both became aware of the sleet pinging and tinkling against the window.

“A beastly night out there,” he murmured, raising himself up on one elbow to gaze down at her.

“But so cozy and perfect right here,” she returned with a little smile, feeling safe, warm, and protected.

“I love you, Philippa.”

“I love you, Elliott.”

“Will you be my wife?”

She reached up to touch his cheek, so dear, so beloved to her. “I will be your wife, Elliott.”

“Don’t go to America.”

“I have to . . . the land I inherited must be seen to, possibly sold.”

“The land, and anything you inherited upon the death of your husband, is in your past, Pippa. Let the past remain in the past. It is a done thing. I am your future.”

There was a desperation in his words that tugged at her heart. “I’ll think about it, Elliott,” she murmured, hooking her arm around the back of his neck and drawing him back down alongside her. Quietly, he eased out of her, and reaching out to find the sheets and blanket, pulled them up and over both their bodies.

They lay there in the darkness listening to each other’s breathing, neither saying a word, each content to just gaze upon the other’s face, to study each beloved detail, until the fire began to die in the grate, the candle burned low, and sleep began to weigh heavily against their eyelids.

Elliott gave a sigh, rolled onto his back, and pulling her up against his bare chest, positioned her head in the cup of his shoulder. Then, one arm cradling her gently to his heart, he finally closed his eyes.

“Good night, dear Pippa.”

“Good night, dear Elliott.”

“I love you.”

Tears wet her eyes. “I love you, too, Elliott.”

Pippa lay there for a long time. She heard his heartbeat beneath her ear, strong and steady, so very beloved to her. She felt the comforting weight of his arm around her back, growing heavier, now, as sleep claimed him and drew him down into its restful depths.  His breathing grew rhythmic and he twitched once, twice, before finally falling still. She snuggled herself closer to him, lay her palm against his tiny nipple, and gazed lovingly up at the line of his jaw, his firm but sensual mouth, his long, pale, lashes lying against his cheeks.

There was nowhere else in the world she would rather be.

No other person with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

Let the past remain in the past. It is a done thing.  I am your future.

And no need, really, to go to America, after all.

Turning her head to place a kiss against the admiral’s heart that beat so strongly just beneath her cheek, a heart that beat for her, and her alone, she settled back down against him and closed her eyes, safe beneath the loving embrace of his arm, the steady tattoo of that noble heart the last thing she heard before sleep claimed her, too.

the end

Thank you for purchasing this short story. If you enjoyed this glimpse of Lucien, the Duke of Blackheath, as well as Captain Brendan Merrick, Captain Christian Lord, and other characters you met here, and would like to explore their stories, read on!

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About the Author:

Bestselling, multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon has written ten novels, previously published in print and distributed in many languages worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great Britain and is married to an Englishman; she and her husband make their home in New England with their daughter Emma and numerous animals including three dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her readers and can be reached at Danelle@danelleharmon.com or through any of the means listed below:

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MORE BOOKS FROM DANELLE HARMON!

introducing:

THE BESTSELLING, AWARD-WINNING, CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED

DE MONTFORTE BROTHERS SERIES:

“The bluest of blood; the boldest of hearts;

the de Montforte brothers will take your breath away.”

Meet the dashing and aristocratic De Montforte Brothers by Danelle Harmon:

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(read below for an excerpt!)

THE BELOVED ONE (Book 2)

THE DEFIANT ONE (Book 3)

THE WICKED ONE (Book 4)

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from Danelle Harmon’s bestselling

HEROES OF THE SEA SERIES:

MASTER OF MY DREAMS

The unforgettable story of Sir Elliott Lord’s brother, Captain Christian Lord, and the little Irish stowaway who taught him how to love once again:

CAPTAIN OF MY HEART

Romantic adventures aboard the privateer schooner Kestrel with the clever and dashing Captain Brendan Merrick and the outrageous shipbuilder’s daughter, Mira Ashton!

MY LADY PIRATE

The sexy, swashbuckling tale of Pirate Queen of the Caribbean Maeve Merrick (daughter of Captain Brendan and Mira Merrick) and the powerful English hero who is determined to win her heart at all costs.

Winner of Romantic Times Magazine’s Reviewers Choice Certificate of Excellence

Winner of Romantic Times K.I.S.S. Hero Award

WICKED AT HEART

A Beauty-and-the-Beast tale of love and redemption between a dark and brooding marquess and the woman who is determined to heal his tortured heart.

Nominated for Romantic Times Magazine’s K.I.S.S. Hero of the Year!

and…

and coming in March, 2013 to Kindle:

TAKEN BY STORM

(the story of Captain Christian and Deirdre Lord’s son, Colin Lord):

Want to know when the next new title from DANELLE HARMON is released?

Click here!

#  #  #

And now, for a special excerpt from the first book in Danelle Harmon’s bestselling de Montforte brothers series!

** Number One Kindle Store Bestseller **

THE WILD ONE!

#  #  #

THE WILD ONE

By Danelle Harmon

Book 1 of the De Montforte Brothers Series

~~~~

Prologue

Newman House, 18 April, 1775

My dear brother, Lucien,

It has just gone dark and as I pen these words to you, an air of rising tension hangs above this troubled town. Tonight, several regiments — including mine, the King's Own — have been ordered by General Gage, commander in chief of our forces here in Boston, out to Concord to seize and destroy a significant store of arms and munitions that the rebels have secreted there. Due to the clandestine nature of this assignment, I have ordered my batman, Billingshurst, to withhold the posting of this letter until the morrow, when the mission will have been completed and secrecy will no longer be of concern.

Although it is my most ardent hope that no blood will be shed on either side during this endeavour, I find that my heart, in these final moments before I must leave, is restless and uneasy. It is not for myself that I am afraid, but another. As you know from my previous letters home, I have met a young woman here with whom I have become attached in a warm friendship. I suspect you do not approve of my becoming so enamoured of a storekeeper's daughter, but things are different in this place, and when a fellow is three thousand miles away from home, love makes a far more desirable companion than loneliness. My dear Miss Paige has made me happy, Lucien, and earlier tonight, she accepted my plea for her hand in marriage; I beg you to understand, and forgive, for I know that someday when you meet her, you will love her as I do.

My brother, I have but one thing to ask of you, and knowing that you will see to my wishes is the only thing that calms my troubled soul during these last few moments before we depart. If anything should happen to me — tonight, tomorrow, or at any time whilst I am here in Boston — I beg of you to find it in your heart to show charity and kindness to my angel, my Juliet, for she means the world to me. I know you will take care of her if ever I cannot. Do this for me and I shall be happy, Lucien.

I must close now, as the others are gathered downstairs in the parlour, and we are all ready to move. May God bless and keep you, my dear brother, and Gareth, Andrew, and sweet Nerissa, too.

Charles

Sometime during the last hour, it had begun to grow dark.

Lucien de Montforte turned the letter over in his hands, his gaze shuttered, his mind far away as he stared out the window over the downs that stood like sentinels against the fading twilight. A breath of pink still glowed in the western sky, but it would soon be gone. He hated this time of night, this still and lonely hour just after sunset when old ghosts were near, and distant memories welled up in the heart with the poignant nearness of yesterday, close enough to see yet always too elusive to touch.

But the letter was real. Too real.

He ran a thumb over the heavy vellum, the bold, elegant script that had been so distinctive of Charles's style — both on paper, in thought, and on the field — still looking as fresh as if it had been written yesterday, not last April. His own name was there on the front:  To His Grace the Duke of Blackheath, Blackheath Castle, nr. Ravenscombe, Berkshire, England.

They were probably the last words Charles had ever written.

Carefully, he folded the letter along creases that had become fragile and well-worn. The blob of red wax with which his brother had sealed the letter came together at the edges like a wound that had never healed, and try as he might to avoid seeing them, his gaze caught the words that someone, probably Billingshurst, had written on the back....

Found on the desk of Captain Lord Charles Adair de Montforte on the 19th of April 1775, the day on which his lordship was killed in the fighting at Concord. Please deliver to addressee.

A pang went through him. Dead, gone, and all but forgotten, just like that.

The Duke of Blackheath carefully laid the letter inside the drawer, which he shut and locked. He gazed once more out the window, lord of all he surveyed but unable to master his own bitter emptiness. A mile away, at the foot of the downs, he could just see the twinkling lights of Ravenscombe village, could envision its ancient church with its Norman tower and tombs of de Montforte dead. And there, inside, high on the stone wall of the chancel, was the simple bronze plaque that was all they had to tell posterity that his brother had ever even lived.

Charles, the second son.

God help them all if anything happened to him, Lucien, and the dukedom passed to the third.

No. God would not be so cruel.

He snuffed the single candle and with the darkness enclosing him, the sky still glowing beyond the window, moved from the room.

Berkshire, England, 1776

Chapter 1

The Flying White was bound for Oxford, and it was running late. Now, trying to make up time lost to a broken axle, the driver had whipped up the team, and the coach careered through the night in a cacophony of shouts, thundering hooves, and cries from the passengers who were clinging for their lives on the roof above.

Strong lanterns cut through the rainy darkness, picking out ditches, trees, and hedgerows as the vehicle hurtled through the Lambourn Downs at a pace that had Juliet Paige's heart in her throat. Because of Charlotte, her six-month-old daughter, Juliet had been lucky enough to get a seat inside the coach, but even so, her head banged against the leather squabs on the right, her shoulder against an elderly gent on her left, and her neck ached with the constant side to side movement. On the seat across from her, another young mother clung to her two frightened children, one huddled under each arm. It had been a dreadful run up from Southampton indeed, and Juliet was feeling almost as ill as she had during the long sea voyage over from Boston.

The coach hit a bump, became airborne for a split second, and landed hard, snapping her neck, throwing her violently against the man on her left, and causing the passengers clinging to the roof above to cry out in terror. Someone's trunk went flying off the coach, but the driver never slowed the galloping team.

“God help us!” murmured the young mother across from Juliet as her children cringed fearfully against her.

Juliet grasped the strap and hung her head, fighting nausea as she hugged her own child. Her lips touched the baby's downy gold curls. “Almost there,” she whispered, for Charlotte's ears alone. “Almost there—to your papa's home.”

Suddenly without warning, there were shouts, a horse's frightened whinny, and violent curses from the driver. Someone on the roof screamed. The coach careened madly, the inhabitants both inside and out shrieking in terror as the vehicle hurtled along on two wheels for another forty or fifty feet before finally crashing heavily down on its axles with another neck-snapping jolt, shattering a window with the impact and spilling the elderly gent to the floor. Outside, someone was sobbing in fear and pain.

And inside, the atmosphere of the coach went as still as death.

“We're being robbed!” cried the old man, getting to his knees to peer out the rain-spattered window.

Shots rang out. There was a heavy thud from above, then movement just beyond the ominous black pane. And then suddenly, without warning it imploded, showering the inside passengers in a hail of glass.

Gasping, they looked up to see a heavy pistol—and a masked face just beyond it.

“Yer money or yer life. Now!”

~~~~

It was the very devil of a night. No moon, no stars, and a light rain stinging his face as Lord Gareth Francis de Montforte sent his horse, Crusader, flying down the Wantage road at a speed approaching suicide. Stands of beech and oak shot past, there then gone. Pounding hooves splashed through puddles and echoed against the hedgerows that bracketed the road. Gareth glanced over his shoulder, saw nothing but a long empty stretch of road behind him, and shouted with glee. Another race won—Perry, Chilcot, and the rest of the Den of Debauchery would never catch him now!

Laughing, he patted Crusader's neck as the hunter pounded through the night. “Well done, good fellow!  Well done—”

And pulled him up sharply at he passed Wether Down.

It took him only a moment to assess the situation.

Highwaymen. And by the looks of it, they were helping themselves to the pickings—and passengers—of the Flying White from Southampton.

The Flying White? The young gentleman reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out his watch, squinting to see its face in the darkness. Damned late for the Flying White . . .

He dropped the timepiece back into his pocket, steadied Crusader, and considered what to do. No gentlemen of the road, this lot, but a trio of desperate, hardened killers. The driver and guard lay on the ground beside the coach, both presumably dead. Somewhere a child was crying, and now one of the bandits, with a face that made a hatchet look kind, smashed in the windows of the coach with the butt end of his gun. Gareth reached for his pistol. The thought of quietly turning around and going back the way he'd come never occurred to him. The thought of waiting for his friends, probably a mile behind thanks to Crusader's blistering speed, didn't occur to him, either. Especially when he saw one of the bandits yank open the door of the coach and haul out a struggling young woman.

He had just the briefest glimpse of her face—scared, pale, beautiful—before one of the highwaymen shot out the lanterns of the coach and darkness fell over the entire scene. Someone screamed. Another shot rang out, silencing the frightened cry abruptly.

His face grim, the young gentleman knotted his horse's reins and removed his gloves, pulling each one carefully off by the fingertips. With a watchful eye on the highwaymen, he slipped his feet from the irons and vaulted lightly down from the thoroughbred's tall back, his glossy top boots of Spanish leather landing in chalk mud up to his ankles. The horse never moved. He doffed his fine new surtout and laid it over the saddle along with his tricorn and gloves. He tucked the lace at his wrist safely inside his sleeve to protect it from any soot or sparks his pistol might emit. Then he crept through the knee-high weeds and nettles that grew thick at the side of the road, priming and loading the pistol as he moved stealthily toward the stricken coach. He would have time to squeeze off only one shot before they were upon him, and that one shot had to count.

~~~~

“Everybo'y out. Now!”

Holding Charlotte tightly against her, Juliet managed to remain calm as the robber snared her wrist and jerked her violently from the vehicle. She landed awkwardly in the sticky white mud and would have gone down if not for the huge, bearlike hand that yanked her to her feet. Perhaps, she thought numbly, it was the very fact that it was bearlike that she was able to keep her head—and her wits—about her, for Juliet had been born and raised in the woods of Maine, and she was no stranger to bears, Indians, and a host of other threats that made these English highwaymen look benign by comparison.

But they were certainly not benign. The slain driver lay face-down in the mud. The bodies of one of the guards and a passenger were sprawled in the weeds nearby. A shudder went through her. She was glad of the darkness. Glad that the poor little children still inside the coach were spared the horrors that daylight would have revealed.

Cuddling Charlotte, she stood beside the other passengers as the robbers yanked people down from the roof and lined them up in front of the coach. A woman was sobbing. A girl clung pitifully to the old man, perhaps her grandfather. One fellow, finely dressed and obviously a gentleman, angrily protested the treatment of the women and without a word, one of the highwayman stuck his pistol into his belly and shot him dead. As he fell, the wretched group gasped in dismay and horror. Then the last passengers were dragged from the coach, the two children clinging to their mother's skirts and crying piteously.

They all huddled together in the rainy darkness, too terrified to speak as, one by one, they were relieved of their money, their jewels, their watches, and their pride.

And then the bandits came to Juliet.

“Gimme yer money, girl, all of it. Now!”

Juliet complied. Without a sound, she handed over her reticule.

“The necklace, too.”

Her hand went to her throat. Hesitated. The robber cuffed it away in impatience, ripping the thin gold chain from her neck and dropping the miniature of Charlotte's dead father into his leather bag.

“Any jewels?”

She was still staring at the bag. “No.”

“Any rings?”

“No.”

But he grabbed her hand, held it up, and saw it:  a promise made but broken by death. It was Charles's signet ring—her engagement ring—the last thing her beloved fiancé had given her before he had died in the fighting at Concord.

“Filthy lyin' bitch, give it to me!”

Juliet stood her ground. She looked him straight in the eye and firmly, quietly, repeated the single word.

“No.”

Without warning he backhanded her across the cheek, and she fell to her knees in the mud, cutting her palm on a stone as she tried to prevent injury to the baby. Her hair tumbled down around her face. Charlotte began screaming. And Juliet looked up, only to see the black hole of a pistol's mouth two inches away, the robber behind it snarling with rage.

Her life passed before her eyes.

And at that moment a shot rang out from somewhere off to her right, a dark rose exploded on the highwayman's chest, and with a look of surprise, he pitched forward, dead.

~~~~

Only one shot, but by God, I made it count.

The other two highwaymen jerked around at the bark of Gareth's pistol. Their faces mirrored disbelief as they took in his fine shirt and lace at throat and sleeve, his silk waistcoat, expensive boots, expensive breeches, expensive everything. They saw him as a plum ripe for the picking, and Gareth knew it. He went for his sword.

“Get on your horses and go, and neither of you shall be hurt.”

For a moment, neither the highwaymen nor the passengers moved. Then, slowly, one of the highwayman began to smile. The other, to sneer.

"Now!” Gareth commanded, still moving forward and trying to bluff them with his display of cool authority.

And then all hell broke loose.

Tongues of flame cracked from the highwaymen's pistols and Gareth heard the low whine of a ball passing at close range. Passengers screamed and dived for cover. The coach horses reared, whinnying in fear. Gareth, his sword raised, charged through the tangle of nettle that grew dense at the side of the road, trying to get to the robbers before they could reload and fire. His foot hit a patch of mud and he went down, his cheek slamming into the stinging nettles. One of the highwayman came racing toward him, spewing a torrent of foul language and intent only on finishing him off. Gareth lay gasping, then flung himself hard to the left as the bandit's pistol coughed another spear of flame. Where his shoulder had been, a plume of mud shot several inches into the air.

The brigand was still coming, roaring at the top of his lungs, already bringing up a second pistol.

Gamely, Gareth tried to get to his feet and reach his sword. He slipped in the wet weeds, his cheek on fire as though he'd been stung by a hundred bees. He was outnumbered, his pistol spent, his sword just out of reach. But he wasn't done for. Not yet. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He lunged for his sword, rolled onto his back, and sitting up, flung the weapon at the oncoming highwayman with all his strength.

The blade caught the robber just beneath the jaw and nearly took his head off. He went over backward, clawing at his throat, his dying breath a terrible, rasping gurgle.

And then Gareth saw one of the two children running toward him, obviously thinking he was the only safety left in this world gone mad.

"Billy!” the mother was screaming. “Billy, no, get back!”

The last highwayman spun around. Wild-eyed and desperate, he saw the fleeing child, saw that his two friends were dead, and, as though to avenge a night gone wrong, brought his pistol up, training it on the little boy's back.

“Billeeeeeeee!”

Gareth lunged to his feet, threw himself at the child, and tumbled him to the ground, shielding him with his body. The pistol exploded at close range, deafening him, a white-hot lance of fire ripping through his ribs as he rolled over and over through grass and weeds and nettles, the child still in his arms.

He came to rest upon his back, the wet weeds beneath him, blood gushing hotly from his side. He lay still, blinking up at the trees, the rain falling gently upon his throbbing cheek.

His fading mind echoed his earlier words. Well done, good fellow!  Well done . . .

The child sprang up and ran, sobbing, back to his mother.

And for Lord Gareth de Montforte, all went dark . . .

#  #  #

If you enjoyed this excerpt, download your free copy of THE WILD ONE!

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

About the Author

Other Books

Excerpt from THE WILD ONE