What a Duke Dares

Chapter Ten

English Channel, late March 1828

Cam stood clinging to a rope on a deck that bucked up and down. He wiped stinging, icy rain from his eyes and reminded himself that the yacht had withstood worse. His gut tightened with foreboding only because they were so close to journey’s end.

They’d experienced rough weather since leaving the Mediterranean and sailing into the Atlantic. Thus far, the Windhover had coped with raging seas like the thoroughbred she was. Spring gales had tossed the ship until Cam didn’t know which way was up. Much the way he felt when he encountered his enigmatic passenger.

Now they were only hours from Folkestone, the port he’d chosen in preference to Dover. At Dover, he was too likely to run into someone who recognized him. After that inn above Genoa, Cam was more careful than ever. Pen had assured him that she’d headed off Mrs. Barker-Pratt’s curiosity. If she was right, Cam had achieved a miracle. He’d managed to bring Pen home without jeopardizing his plans to marry Lady Marianne.

Even more miraculous, he’d managed to keep his hands off Pen. Despite a case of blue balls unlike any he could remember, he’d resisted the ravening hunger that kept him awake at night, and restless and cranky all day.

A wonder indeed.

Now he just had to deliver Pen to London. Then, given her plans to return to the Continent, he’d probably never see her again. He was a damn fool to regret that. But regret it he did. Losing her before he discovered what all those lovers had taught her made him want to gnash his teeth and break something.

Even in the last minutes, the storm had worsened. The wind through the rigging shrieked like lost souls in hell.

“Can we turn back to France?” he shouted to his captain, who was lashed to the wheel. The usually imperturbable Scotsman fought to hold the helm steady, the set of his jaw betraying their danger.

“Too far.” Through the gale, the man’s brogue was barely comprehensible. “Better we race for the nearest port and wait the storm out.”

“Do as you think best,” Cam shouted back.

For years, he’d sailed with John MacGregor. If anyone brought the Windhover through, it would be the dour Aberdonian.

“Go below, Your Grace.” His tone held no deference. If Cam hadn’t been worried sick, he’d smile. “Ye’re proving a wee distraction up here.”

It was an indication of their perilous situation that MacGregor admitted to needing all his concentration to keep the yacht afloat. “I want to help.”

“Ye’ll help by bundling up somewhere safe. If the bonnie Duke of Sedgemoor drowns on my watch, my bluidy wife will never let me hear the end of it.”

Cam acknowledged the man’s dry humor, surely the only dry thing left on the ship. He clapped MacGregor’s shoulder then turned. Staggering from one handhold to the next, he struggled against the clawing wind toward the hatch.

Below decks, he’d thought the din would lessen, but it was somehow worse for being contained. The creak of timbers, the water pounding against the hull, the deep, irregular bang as the Windhover struck the bottom of a wave. He wondered how the fragile wooden structure survived.

In the saloon, he shook off the water drenching him. Like the crew of five above, he wore oilskins. Not that they provided much protection. Swiftly he undressed to shirt and breeches, shivering in the cold.

Pen was in her cabin. Throughout this trip, she’d borne every inconvenience without complaint. But in such a storm, even a good sailor with a courageous heart would be frightened. Whatever her distaste for Cam’s company, he couldn’t leave her terrified while they plunged through this turbulent ocean. She was alone—Maria hadn’t wanted to come to England.

Bumping drunkenly from one wall to another, Cam made his way down the short corridor to where Pen’s cabin faced his. During their fortnight at sea, that proximity had plagued him. Now, all he could think about was extending comfort and reassurance.

Although it was only early afternoon, the hallway was as dark as the pit. Cam knocked on Pen’s door, received no reply, knocked more loudly, then realized that he’d need to bash the polished teak with a hammer for her to hear. Feeling like a trespasser, he depressed the brass handle and stepped inside.

All day he’d breathed air sour with salt. How was it, then, that the moment he entered this shadowy room, he caught Pen’s violet scent? Sweet, womanly, alluring. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was here purely to provide assistance.

“What do you want?” Pen asked sharply from across the cabin.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw her braced in the porthole embrasure. He’d imagined she’d be in bed, but of course, that would be devilish uncomfortable, given the yacht’s lurching.

“I wanted to see if you were all right.” He raised his voice over the bedlam. He shut the door, hoping that might help. It didn’t.

“Of course I’m all right.”

Disappointment and self-disgust weighted his gut. He’d been a fool to imagine she might want him with her. “I’ll go to my cabin, then.”

He faced the door, catching the lintel for balance, when she replied. “No. Stay.”

From Pen, that counted as a major concession. Slowly, he turned. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Cam, don’t be a numbskull,” she snapped. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

“Oh, my dear…”

The endearment escaped before he could stop it. He prayed that the storm muffled the words. With a few unsteady steps, he covered the space between them and, knowing it was a mistake, wrapped his arms around her. As he pressed into the opposite side of the embrasure, lightning flashed, revealing her face as she jerked her head up.

“Cam, what are you doing?” Like her expression, her voice was wary, but her eyes betrayed flaring heat. Even without the lightning, near the window the light was better.

“Stopping you from falling.” They balanced inside a narrow nook, porthole on one side, cabin on the other. The restricted space offered at least an illusion of stability.

Was his world reeling because of the tumultuous ocean or because he touched this woman? His hands tightened on her waist and he couldn’t even pretend that he held her for safety’s sake. She was tall and strong, but he felt her tremble.

“They’ll give you a medal,” she said with a dryness that wouldn’t have disgraced John MacGregor.

“Is there a kiss with my medal?”

More lightning illuminated the way she nervously licked her lips. She shifted backward, but their nook was so small, she had nowhere to go unless she returned to the cabin.

“How can you flirt when we’re about to find a watery grave?”

“How can I not?” His voice roughened into urgency. “If the ship goes down, I’ll be damned if I die without kissing you.”

She started without moving away. “This is a mistake.”

He laughed, wondering how his demise became cause for amusement. Perhaps Pen’s courage bolstered his. Most people would cower at the raging seas, but valiant Penelope Thorne met the storm and the man who wanted her with her head high and a smile on her lips. At that moment, if he’d been capable of love, he might imagine that he loved her.

“The thought of kissing you has tortured me.”

Her hands linked around his neck. To steady herself or because she wanted to touch him? He hardly cared as long as she stayed near.

“I thought you were bored with this journey.”

He snorted his disbelief. “We’ve battled brigands, avalanches, bad roads, nosy English travelers, and fleas as big as cats. Boredom would be a relief.”

“You acted bored.”

He’d never seen her like this. Like she yearned for his touch the way he yearned for hers. Desire pounded harder than the waves outside. Thunder cracked close.

“Oh, hell, Pen,” he groaned, firming his grip on her. He was incapable of gentleness. The storm outside was a pale echo of the storm in his blood.

On another guttural groan, his mouth crashed down.

As the ship plunged like a wild thing, Cam’s mouth ravaged hers. Astonishment held Pen captive as a fierce mixture of sensations struck her harder than the waves against the hull.

Since she was a girl, she’d imagined Cam’s kisses. The reality was earthier, more intimate, more passionate, more… exciting than anything she’d conjured in fantasy, no matter how lurid. His mouth was hot and commanding. His hands were ruthless and inescapable. The storm beat around her until she wasn’t sure whether the chaos was outside or within her.

Pen was no longer the nineteen-year-old innocent who had turned down his proposal. She knew how a man behaved toward a woman he respected. In Cam’s kisses, there was neither caution nor care.

Some distant corner of her mind urged her to protest. He treated her the way he’d treat a strumpet from the docks. But how could she demur when she basked in endless heat? All her life, she’d felt so cold, so cold.

His tongue plunged between her lips, demanding a response. Helpless to resist, bewildered and giddy with arousal, she gave it to him. She opened her mouth wide, sucking his tongue, tasting this man she’d always wanted. Her senses flooded with his rich flavor, his salty scent of storm and ocean and clean male sweat.

She moaned and arched into his damp clothes, frantically seeking the searing heat beneath. She’d set him alight and the flames of his desire lashed her. His hard length jutted into her vulnerable belly.

The knowledge of how much he wanted her set up a throbbing between her legs and she wriggled, wanting more. He rocked against her in an imitation of the sexual act. The breath scraped from her throat and she closed her eyes, reveling in incandescent sensation. Never had she felt like this.

Still his mouth explored hers as if he claimed a private kingdom. She could hardly breathe, sinking into untamed delight. She clung to his shoulders as her knees threatened to collapse. He was shaking too. If he wasn’t braced so firmly against the window frame, they’d tumble to the floor.

His hands roamed over waist and hips and thighs. She didn’t hear her dress rip, so she was startled at the sudden coolness across her chest. When his hands closed greedily on her breasts, she cried out in surrender. His long fingers plucked the beaded peaks, teased the areolas, stroked and squeezed and pinched. She’d recognized his desire weeks ago, but had no idea he wanted her so ferociously.

His hands pushed her to the edge of pain, but the agony was glorious. Never had she felt this intensity. Awe lanced through her.

Still he wasn’t tender. She was past caring. She’d permit him anything, as long as he kept kissing her, touching her, panting his appreciation into her neck. She burned to touch him. Return this bliss. Conquer him in turn.

Hesitantly she slid a shaking hand between their bodies, cupping him. He was large, vigorous, daunting in her hand. She shuddered to feel the vibrant life. The thought of all that power thrusting inside her made her head swim.

“Damn it, Pen,” he groaned into her bare shoulder and nipped her sharply.

Shock sizzled through her with the sting. His savagery appalled her, scared her, but spiked her excitement to a level where she threatened to combust.

“Should I stop?” The storm made her feel as though they were in a world of their own. She nibbled a line up his neck and along his strong jaw. “Tell me to stop.”

“Hell, no,” he groaned and drew one pointed nipple into his mouth. More exquisite pain flowed into intoxicating pleasure. To share this delightful hurt, she clenched her other hand in his tangled, wet hair.

He sucked her other nipple. Heat flooded her as every muscle tightened into a delicious coil. Through the haze, she felt his hand on her leg above her stocking. Another hitch against the ship’s movement and his fingers curled around her mound. She jerked at the intimacy.

She tugged at his shirt until her lips skimmed hard pectorals, kissed the mat of soft hair. When one long finger invaded her body, she released a sharp inhalation and sank her teeth into his chest. He jerked and returned the favor with a sharp bite to her throat.

With a stagger, he swung her from the window. Away from the embrasure, the ship’s pitching was dizzying. Or perhaps Pen was dizzy with passion. Cam tumbled her toward the luxurious bed where she’d slept alone for two weeks, tormented to know he lay just across the corridor.

Breathless with excitement, she toppled back onto the mattress. Then she was doubly breathless when Cam flung himself on top of her. His weight was unfamiliar, thrilling. The boat’s tossing rolled them together so they wrestled like puppies. Inside her, a great emptiness yearned. She ached for Cam to fill her. She grabbed his shirt and ripped it off, desperate to feel his bare skin. She was as fierce as he was. Even now when it was clear that he was mad for her, she still feared that this glory might end before she’d drunk it to the dregs.

Cam fondled her breasts, pressing them together, kissing her nipples. Response rippled through her like fire as she bowed up toward the hot rasp of his tongue.

He kept speaking, broken words of praise and encouragement. Kiss me. Touch me. Hold me. There. There. Ah, just there. You’re beautiful. I want you. That’s right. More. Harder. Tighter. Don’t stop. A feverish litany of demands that set her wayward heart pitching like the yacht.

With an urgency that stoked her craving, he slid down her body, setting his mouth wherever he reached. Throat. Breasts. Stomach, still covered by her shift. She’d had no idea her skin was so sensitive. Somewhere between the window and the bed, she’d lost her corset. She still wore her dress. Barely. Her skirts frothed around her hips.

His hands were everywhere. She jolted as he ripped her drawers away. His touch commanding, he caught her thighs and parted her. The ship gave a mighty kick as though protesting at his action.

Chest heaving as he rose, Cam caged her between his arms. “You drive me insane.”

Gasping, she hooked her hands around his neck and held on hard. Making love in this storm was like embracing on a galloping horse. “I think we’re both insane.”

Lightning flashed again and again, turning the room continually bright. He looked desperate, as she’d never seen him. She thrilled to think that she, Penelope Thorne, did this to him. He dipped his hips until he rubbed against the place where she wanted him.

“I need more than this.” Urgency made him sound angry.

“Don’t talk.” She pressed higher into that intriguing hardness, gathering her courage to unbutton his breeches. Above, there was a deafening crash as if a mighty tree fell. The yacht plunged, setting Pen bouncing. If Cam had been naked, he’d be inside her.

His hands on her waist were insistent, holding her firm against the shifting mattress. “Say you’ll give me more than this.”

What on earth? She frowned at him, struggling through her lunatic arousal to understand what he asked. “Of course I’ll give you more than this.”

“Having you once isn’t enough. Give me a month.” He pressed his face to her naked breast. “We’ll go somewhere. Somewhere nobody knows us. Cornwall. The Highlands. France. A month will make no difference to your aunt’s bequest.”

Bewilderment, passion, recklessness vanished within the second. Like freezing seawater, stark reality crashed down. “A month,” she repeated flatly.

He didn’t notice her tone or that her body no longer curved toward his in welcome. Instead, she lay stiff as the planking on the deck.

“A month. Say you’ll give me that much.” He shifted to cradle her face in his elegant hands. “I promise you more pleasure than you’ve ever known.”

Quickly and thoroughly, he kissed her. There was still no tenderness. Minutes ago, she wouldn’t have minded. Stupid, brainless, needy little fool she was. Even now, her heart raced, her skin yearned for his touch.

“What’s wrong?” He raised his head and stared at her in concern. “Is it the storm? This is hardly the best place to start an affair, but I see you and I can’t keep my hands to myself.”

“Apparently.”

This time, he noted her tone. Slowly he sat back on his knees and she stole the chance to scramble up against the bedhead. She curled one hand over the carved top while the other clumsily struggled to restore her dress.

Lightning revealed Cam’s wary expression. The flash also showed her how she’d devastated his clothing. How mortifying. His shirt hung in tatters over his powerful shoulders and chest. She struggled not to glance at his breeches, after a nervous glance revealed that he was still mightily aroused.

He ran a hand through his hair and his lips twisted in self-castigation. “You told me not to talk.”

“You should have listened.” She blinked back corrosive tears of anger and frustration. And hurt. When would she learn to keep her distance? Venturing closer to Cam always shredded her into bloody gobbets. But never so agonizingly as today when he’d asked her to be his temporary mistress before he married another woman.

“What did you think I offered?” He no longer sounded like her ardent lover, but like the authoritative man who had escorted her through the Alps.

“I didn’t think,” she admitted grudgingly. She still had trouble making her mind work. Anger and pain had doused passion, but her blood still pumped hot and ready.

“What in Hades is this, Pen?” Cam growled low in his throat. “You don’t want to marry me. You made that clear nine years ago. I can’t believe you’ve changed your mind.”

Had she changed her mind? The awkward truth was that if he loved her, she’d swim a mile through the heaving ocean outside to marry him. With one arm tied behind her back.

The even more humiliating truth was that if he loved her, she’d sneak away in the blink of an eye to his love nest. If he loved her, she’d give up her last drop of blood to make him happy.

But the sad and unalterable reality was that he didn’t love her. He’d never allow himself to love anybody.

He suffered a bad case of unsatisfied desire, a stronger reaction than she’d expected from phlegmatic Camden Rothermere. But love had never been part of the equation.

She spoke stiffly. “No, I don’t want to marry you.”

Another crash from above, violent enough to shake the deck. It sounded like a herd of elephants thundered up and down playing football.

“If you don’t want an affair, what the hell do you want?” Because of the noise, his voice emerged more aggressively than perhaps he intended.

A fair question. So fair that it made her lash out in disappointment. “I don’t want you to relieve your itch for me in some shabby little hideout before you go straight to Lady Marianne.”

Lightning revealed him looking particularly ducal, all supercilious lowered eyelids and lips curled in aristocratic disdain. “My dear girl, you do me an injustice. There would be nothing shabby about our retreat. My mistresses never complain of my generosity. You won’t surrender your doubtful virtue for a mere shilling.”

She slapped him hard enough for the impact to echo over the wailing wind. Glaring, she rubbed her palm. It stung like the devil. She hoped his cheek felt worse.

Despite the noise, a vibrating silence descended.

When lightning streaked through the sky, she clearly saw the imprint of her hand on his face. He looked ready to murder her.

Good. She felt the same. If she could arrange it, she’d happily push him into the ocean and laugh while he drowned.

She should feel horrified at hitting him. But outrage still writhed in her stomach like a cobra, making her feel sicker than the rolling ship ever could. She’d never imagined him addressing a woman of his own class like a courtesan.

Damn Camden Rothermere to hell.

Another crash from above shattered his paralysis. He rolled off the bed to stand, clinging to the base of the bed. The rage drained from his expression, leaving him tired and unhappy. She told herself she didn’t care.

“I’m sorry, Pen.”

Pen wished he’d go, then realized that he awaited absolution. He could wait until hell turned into green meadows. “There’s no excuse.”

Her uncompromising response flattened his lips. “I haven’t acted as a man of principle.”

“And that irks you,” she snapped.

He looked surprised, although to do him credit he didn’t sidle away from responsibility. “Yes, it does. You know how I’ve struggled to prove that a Rothermere isn’t necessarily a scoundrel.”

She sighed, suddenly deathly sick of it all. “Cam, grow up and accept that you’re not perfect. You made a mistake.”

He knew he wasn’t off the hook. “Around you, I make nothing but mistakes.”

“Then perhaps it’s better that we never meet again,” she said dully.

“That might be best.”

His ready agreement shouldn’t sting. Of course he wanted to be rid of her. She’d been nothing but trouble, and now she’d teased him into a lather, then clouted him for good measure. “So get out of my cabin.”

A lurch of the ship had him grabbing for the bedpost. Fortunately the furniture was nailed down. “You said you were frightened.”

“Now I’m frightened of you,” she said with a spite that later she’d regret.

He paled and his hand clenched on the carved column. “Pen, I—”

She stared blindly at the paneled wall, hoping he’d take the hint. Still he didn’t go. Couldn’t he tell that she didn’t want to see him?

A splintering sound rent the air. A more fanciful woman might say it marked the splitting of her heart.

“Pen, I never meant it to be like this. Please forgive me.”

Cam sounded like the boy she’d grown up with. She’d fallen in love with that boy. She’d trust her life to that boy. She turned ready to scream like a harpy, then stopped astonished as the door behind Cam slammed open and an oilskin-covered Goliath barged in.

“Your Grace, Your Grace, come above. The lady too. Cap’n says the Windhover’s about to founder on Goodwin Sands. The mast’s gone and we’re taking water. We must man the boats if there’s hope of saving ourselves.”

For a burning instant, Pen stared into Cam’s eyes. “Cam, are we lost?”

“Never.” The mad courage in Cam’s response made her heart surge, despite all the anguish and hatred of the last hour. “Give me your hand.”

Then the world turned to chaos as the yacht slammed into a solid obstacle.