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“Ah, well, I won’t have time to wait.”
Impulsively, she tore off a length of paper and placed a cherry tart in the center. “A poor substitute, Lord Lockwood. I regret the cherries were not fresh, but preserves suit quite well.” She folded the paper over it and tied it with the blue ribbon. “Careful, or the crust will split and the filling will make you sticky.”
He accepted the package with a slight bow. “I am in your debt, Mrs. Hobbs.”
“Not in the least, Lord Lockwood. I regret it is all I have to offer at the moment.”
“I will be pleased to take whatever you offer, Mrs. Hobbs.” He gave her an appraising glance. “Whenever you offer it.”
Her mind went blank and she could only nod and hurry back to the kitchen, mumbling an excuse about the dough rising. The low voices of the two men carried to her, but she could not make out their words. She did not like the idea of Lockwood questioning Captain Gilbert.
The shop bell rang again and a moment later Captain Gilbert appeared in the kitchen doorway. He leaned one shoulder against the jamb. “Once again, I thank you for your efforts on my behalf, Mrs. Hobbs. If ever there is anything I can do for you, I stand ready and willing.”
“Just keep bringing me newspapers, Captain.”
At quarter past eleven that night, Lockwood found the abandoned hut without trouble. Layton’s directions had been quite precise. He waited in darkness, melding with the shadows of a massive oak. When Oliver Layton arrived and dismounted, he watched while the agent checked the brick over the lintel for messages.
He came up behind Layton and tapped him on the shoulder. Layton jumped and spun around, his pistol drawn and cocked. “Sweet Jesus,” he cursed in a whisper when he saw who it was. “I could have killed you, Lockwood!”
“Not with your throat slit,” he mocked. “Island life is making you sloppy.”
The man shrugged good-naturedly. “Lesson learned. But what are you doing here? Have you found something out?”
“I’m just getting started,” Hunt admitted. “I did a little quiet questioning at the reception and discovered a few interesting tidbits. Nothing concrete at the moment, but I will let you know should anything come of it.”
“Is that all?” Layton frowned.
“Guard your tongue with the harbormaster.”
Layton raised his eyebrows and gave a succinct nod.
“I heard a piece of gossip that the American president has authorized the formation of an antipiracy squadron. If it’s true, we might find some help there.”
Layton laughed. “They’ve got their hands full trying to protect their own ships. Aside from that, it will be another year before such a squadron is outfitted and ready to sail. Heaven knows it will take a year before our own government decides what to do with the information we gather. And yet I had the impression that events here were critical and urgent.”
Hunt thought of the dwindling fortunes in London and of the unknown man who had secretly betrayed them all. And what Layton didn’t know was that their government had sent him to deal with the situation. “I’ve given up trying to second-guess the government,” he told the agent. “Have you heard any rumors of corruption or collusion on the part of local officials?”
Layton raised an eyebrow. “If you mean the harbormaster, nary a whisper. Is that something I should pursue?”
“Not at the moment,” he answered, unwilling to expose the Foreign Office’s suspicion.
When Layton turned to go, Hunt ventured another question. “Ever patronize Pâtisserie?”
A roll of the eyes gave him the answer.
“Which little delicacy do you favor?”
“Mrs. Breton. Hannah. Those curves haunt my dreams.”
“Have you wooed her?”
“Good God, no! A longshoreman wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance with someone like her.”
“You’re not a longshoreman.”
“Aye, but she doesn’t know that. Yet.”
“I’ve been curious about the proprietress— Mrs. Hobbs. Have you heard anything about her?”
Layton shook his head. “No. Shall I—”
“No. Just idle curiosity.” He’d investigate that little mystery on his own. All the same, there was something not quite right about that whole arrangement. “Keep a weather eye on the shop, Layton. I’d hate to see them become embroiled in this. It promises to get ugly.”
An hour later, close to midnight by the position of the full moon, Hunt found he was unable to sleep. He slipped naked from bed and pulled on his trousers, poured himself a glass of brandy and went to stand on the verandah overlooking the ocean. The full moon above the bay was reflected in the placid water.
Leaning one shoulder against the brace of the overhang, he let the rich warmth of the brandy seep through him. His mind wouldn’t let go of the various tactics for his mission. Tomorrow he would study his map of St. Claire and get his bearings. Then he’d begin his search for the notorious pirates, Captains Sieyes and Rodrigo, and his investigation into St. Claire’s complicity, or lack of it, in the pirate conspiracy.
Once he had formed a strategy and committed to a course of action, he wouldn’t feel so on edge. He mentally ticked off a number of ploys and their advantages. He’d taken the first step by entering San Marco society. Even a colonial outpost observed protocol and decorum. And there was nothing like a drawing room for cultivating confidences and gossip. He’d found that people often did not realize the small gems of information they possessed. Until they knew the puzzle and how to put it together, they didn’t even recognize they held the pieces.
The cry of a night bird broke the stillness and alerted him that something was amiss. He walked, silent and barefoot, down the steps onto the path leading to the beach, every sense attuned to danger. He caught his breath and stilled when he saw what had disturbed the peace.
Daphne riffled the surface of the water with her bare toe. Still water made her nervous. She had learned that it was an omen of storms to come. An errant breeze lifted her hair in a little swirl and carried the scent of rain with it as she walked along the edge of the ocean.
She loved the freedom on St. Claire—or, perhaps, simply the freedom of not being Lady Elise. No appearances to keep up, no social obligations. No hiding of bumps or covering of bruises. She could stroll the edge of the ocean at midnight in nothing but her knee-length chemise with complete freedom. No one to see her. No one to care. No one to gossip.
Though she usually slept well, tonight a persistent restlessness troubled her. Every time she relaxed, her thoughts wandered back to that unexpected kiss with Lord Lockwood. How could she have known the unsettling emotions that would evoke? All day, her head had been filled with visions of a dark curl falling over a forehead above deep blue eyes and a mouth curved in a smile. Oh, that smile! It did strange things to her insides. Things she’d never felt before. Things that had kept her awake tonight and longing for something she knew she could never have. Something that was a lie at its core.
She stooped and picked up a conch shell. Wading into the water to her calves, she let the waves dampen the bottom of her chemise to weight it from rising in the wind, then retreated to the sand before it became soaked. She hummed a new tune she’d heard in town—a seaman’s chantey.
The lights of San Marco shimmered across the bay, reminding her how remote her home was, for all that it was barely five miles from town. When she’d come to St. Claire, she’d wanted to hide away, keep William safe from any chance of recognition. Then he’d grown and changed, turning from a sickly boy to a strong lad. When he’d been old enough, she’d sent him away to boarding school—away from her—to keep him safe. If Barrett’s brother managed to trace her, he wouldn’t find William.
She shivered at the thought. Or was it the rising wind? A cloud passed over the moon and she looked up to find the stars replaced by sudden dark clouds. A storm had whipped up out of nowhere. She glanced over her shoulder, dismayed to find that she had wandered beyond the boundaries of Sea Whisper and would be caught in the impending storm.
“Did you miss me, Mrs. Hobbs, or are you lost?”
She gasped and whirled toward the sound of the deep voice. There, before her, was the cause of her sleeplessness. Lord Lockwood. Her heart thumped at the sight of his bare chest. Strongly muscled, clearly defined, softly matted with dark hair and tapering into a narrow waist, it was the most stirring sight she’d ever seen. He was barefoot, dressed only in trousers, and those compelling eyes were watching her with a mixture of wariness and amusement as he twirled the stem of a white wild orchid between his index finger and thumb.
“Oh, I…what are you doing here, sir?”
“This is my land, Mrs. Hobbs. You are a trespasser, so a better question might be, ‘What are you doing here?’”
“You…own New Albion?” She’d heard of the absentee owner of the neighboring plantation, but she’d never expected to meet him. Indeed, she scarcely talked to the overseer, Mr. Prichard. How ironic that Fate had delivered Lockwood to her doorstep, or her to his. “Why did you not tell me last night when you brought me home?”
“I told you that you were not out of my way.”
“Oh, well, I did not mean to intrude. I shall excuse myself.”
“I thought for a moment that a naiad had surfaced.”
She smiled at his attempt at humor. “Sorry to disappoint, Lord Lockwood.”
“No disappointment at all, Mrs. Hobbs.” He came closer and Daphne’s heartbeat sped. “And I would be pleased if you would call me Hunt. Or Lockwood.”
She started to curtsy and then realized how absurd the scene was. Heavens! She was in her chemise! She dropped the conch shell and crossed her arms over her chest. “Again, I apologize for my interruption.”
He caught her shoulder as she turned to go. “A welcome interruption,” he said. “I could not sleep, either. Are the nights on St. Claire always so sultry?”
“N-not always.”
“I like what it does to your hair,” he said, lifting a strand that had curled in the humid heat, then tucking the wild orchid behind her right ear.
She froze. Under any other circumstances, his familiarity would be insulting and presumptuous. But there was something otherworldly about this night, something almost destined, and he did not seem insulting. To the contrary, his expression held admiration and…desire? Her pulse quickened and she licked her lips, gone suddenly dry with anxiety.
He stepped closer still and she had to tilt her chin to look into his eyes. He slipped his hands around her waist and drew her against his chest with gentle pressure.
A reckless yearning seized her and she lifted on her toes to meet his descending mouth. The touch of his lips was gentle, tentative, neither beseeching nor demanding. He was teasing, heightening the sensation, making her want him. Waiting for her to ask for more.
A wave washed around their ankles, unbalancing her and making her cling to him for support. Lightning flashed across the sky and a warm tropical rain began to fall. The drops trickled over her face, down her neck, between her breasts. His hand, exquisitely gentle, lifted her chin and he kissed her deeply again, coaxing her, nibbling at the corners of her mouth until she opened to him. The other hand drew her closer until her breasts flattened against his chest and a hard swelling pressed against her lower belly. Then she ached for that, too. How odd that in all her years with Barrett, she had never once felt this need.
“Oh!” she breathed, aghast at her own thoughts. Where had this wantonness come from? “I…should go. The rain…”
“Let me shelter you,” he said in a dark velvet voice.
She knew what would happen if she stayed. She’d sworn not to let any man possess her again. She’d clung to her independence. But independence did not banish her loneliness and longing. In the five years since… Barrett…she hadn’t been more than mildly tempted, but this man was different. There was a promise of pleasure in his eyes and a deep magic in his touch.
He stroked her spine from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, pressing her closer. “It’s a dream,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “Just a dream. When you wake, it will be your secret. No one else’s. No words will ever be spoken. Can you let yourself dream, Daphne?”
Dream? It had been so long. Did she even remember how?
“A dream,” he murmured again, his lips brushing hers. “In a dream, nothing is forbidden.”
She slipped her arms around his neck to drag his mouth down to hers. A moan started somewhere deep inside him and he tilted his head to nuzzle her neck as he lifted her off her feet. He carried her up the steps of a cottage and across the mahogany planks to what must be his bedroom.
He placed her on her feet, lifted the chemise over her head and dropped it on the floor in a sodden heap. Heedless of her damp skin and the sand clinging to them both, he lifted her again and laid her against the pillows. She held her breath as he unfastened his trousers and let them fall.
He was lean, well-sculpted and beautifully proportioned. And, heaven help her, he was twice the man her husband had been. In every way. Logic mingled with anxiety and she began to panic. What had she done? Three days ago she hadn’t even met this man, and tonight she was naked in his bed. It was wrong. It was madness.
And she wanted it more than she’d wanted anything in a very long time.
Can you let yourself dream, Daphne?
He lay down on the mattress beside her. A kiss—a single kiss—and she was caught in a vortex dragging her deeper and deeper. He pulled her to him, pressed himself against the length of her. She trailed her fingers down his side, enthralled by the solid strength of the man in contrast to his exquisitely gentle touch.
Lowering his head, he paused to kiss a tender spot where her neck met her shoulder, and a deep shudder went through her. Then his tongue trailed to the hollow of her throat, and she could feel the heat of his lips against her flesh.
“Sweet Daphne, your sighs are an aphrodisiac.”
She moaned at the deep warm rumble of his voice, and he moved lower still, capturing one tender nipple between his lips and drawing a tingle up from her belly. She felt herself dissolving, becoming fluid beneath his hands, and when those hands moved downward over her stomach to glide past her nether hair to find her entrance, she bit her lip to hold back an outcry.
Passion? Need? Possession? What were the feelings overwhelming her? She couldn’t name them. She only knew she didn’t want them to stop. And when he began stroking her, she gasped, wondering why she’d never felt such intimacy and surrender with Barrett.
And then, in the back of her mind, she heard a nagging voice—her conscience?—warning her. If you surrender to this man, you’ll never be whole again. If you let him make love to you, you are lost. He will learn your secrets and betray you, and when he does, you will truly die inside.
“No,” she sighed with the last of her will. “I cannot do this.” She struggled to sit up, her limbs as heavy as if she’d been drugged.
Hunt looked confused and reached out to her. “Daphne, I will not hurt you. If you do not want this…”
Want it? Oh, yes, she wanted it with every tingling nerve, every throbbing pulse, but she could not. The memory of Barrett made it impossible. Would always make it impossible. Because his ghost always reminded her that she was a fraud. That she was a murderess and, given half a chance, that she’d do the same again. That she was hollow and had nothing inside to give.
She scooped her chemise off the floor and ran from the room.
Chapter Six
C hirping insects. The deep croak of frogs. The eternal sound of the waves. Yes, the storm had passed, leaving peace in its wake.
Hunt rolled over, the sheet twisting around him. His first thought was of the gift the storm had brought and then taken away. He sat up and stared at the pillow that still held the impression of her head. A wild white orchid was all that remained. If not for that, he could have dreamed her. Ah, but he could still smell her. Warm ambergris, orchid and sea spray. And woman. And, God, what a woman.
He stood and pulled his trousers on. Not bothering with shoes, he went down the verandah steps to the sand. An edge of watercolor blue stained the eastern horizon. Dawn was not far.
He found the place where they’d met, marked by the conch shell she had dropped, abandoned in the sea foam now. He picked it up and stroked the smooth pink inner curves. As smooth and delicate as Daphne had been.
He returned to the house and stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at the damp impression of her chemise on the floor, remembering her as she’d looked when he removed it. A flash of lightning had revealed her, flushed, trembling, her skin glistening from the rain, her sun-streaked hair curling down her back in a riotous wet windblown tangle and a wild orchid tucked behind her ear. She had looked like Venus rising from the sea.
There’d been something electric in the air. A tingling certainty. Something fated. They’d both felt it beneath their skin. They’d known from the moment they saw each other on the beach how it should end. It had been absurd to resist. Pray Daphne would realize that soon. Pray a fortnight would be sufficient to take his fill.
He placed the conch shell on his bureau and went to find the brandy bottle. Blast! Now he was drinking his breakfast!
Hunt pulled himself back into the moment and resettled in his chair on the governor’s terrace overlooking the bay. Every time he let his guard down, his thoughts drifted back to orchids, soft flesh and hard passion. Damn! Was there no escape from the spell Daphne had woven around him? “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You were saying?”
Gavin Doyle cocked an eyebrow and gave him a slanted grin. “I was saying that there’s nothing to see in Blackpool. The governor would prefer you stay on this side of Mount Colombo.”
Would he? “Have you been there, Doyle?”
“Once,” the chargé admitted. He poured another cup of dark, bitter coffee for Hunt. “Not worth the trouble. The people are unfriendly, the women are not attractive and the terrain is challenging. I’d rather climb an uncomplicated mountain than traverse those cliff paths. The houses literally hang off the rocks. One good shake, and the whole town would tumble into the sea. But it is the potential danger that is the governor’s concern.”
“Danger? Are the inhabitants that unfriendly?”
Doyle gave a short laugh. “That is the gossip. Every time someone disappears, it’s said they’ve gone to Blackpool. Whether that is true remains to be seen. I’m of a mind to think the disappearances are due to common kidnapping or conscription. Ships have need of crew. When one sailor runs off—” He shrugged. “Replacements must be found, one way or another.”
That was a logical explanation, but Hunt wondered if it was true. “What is Blackpool’s raison d’être?”
“Fishing,” Doyle said with a little snort of disdain. “And logging. Mahogany grows in the mountains and along the cliffs. I gather they fell them, strip the limbs and roll the logs into the inlet, where they lash them together until a shipper comes by for them. Cabinet makers in London and New York are crying out for mahogany, but there’s sure as hell no sign of anyone getting rich in Blackpool. I believe they barely eke out a living.”
“Why does everyone seem so indifferent to them? You’d think Blackpool was a different country.”
Doyle raised an eyebrow. “It damn near is. The people there even contract their own supply ships. Believe me, they want nothing to do with us, nor do we wish to have dealings with them. It’s not exactly a secret, just an unspoken understanding.”
“Is it possible that the settlers are engaging in illegal activities?”
