wished he’d speak up, that he would tell her what should happen now. She was confused and inundated, and at that moment, if he’d but asked, she might have agreed to engage in any depraved act.
Luckily, the opportunity for further mischief vanished, for up on the verandah, someone called, “James! James, are you out here?”
Miranda’s voice crashed over them like a wave of icy water.
Helen gasped with dismay and slid away, clutching at her loosened bodice. She’d been so swept up that she’d utterly ignored the fact they were in a very public spot. Any of the guests could have stumbled on them, and she wouldn’t have noticed.
Was she insane?
She huddled next to him on the bench, barely clad and more embarrassed than she’d ever been in her life.
“Dammit!” he cursed.
“Is she coming toward us?” Helen hissed.
“Yes.”
“I can’t let her see me like this!”
“No, you can’t. I don’t imagine the discovery would go over too well.”
She glared at him, and he was very calm and seemed faintly amused.
“What should we do?” Helen whispered.
“I’ll find out what she wants, and I’ll lead her back to the party. Then you can sneak up the rear stairs to your room.”
He was thoroughly composed, as if his being interrupted in the middle of a tryst was a regular incident for him—which it probably was. How many other times had he dallied in his garden with a foolish, smitten female?
As the realization hit home, her ecstasy fled, and she felt like an idiot. Why did she let him overwhelm her better judgment?
He rose, pausing to lean down and kiss her goodbye.
“You’re beautiful in the moonlight,” he murmured.
Then he walked away, and shortly, she could see him up by the house with Miranda.
“Where have you been?” she cheerily said. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
“I was smoking a cheroot.”
“Well, I have the most thrilling news.”
“What is that?”
“Lord Gladstone has arrived.”
“Gladstone?”
“Yes, you know...the new earl? The privateer everyone is gossiping about.”
“Oh, marvelous.”
“You’ve been wanting to meet him, so I sent him an invitation, and he’s here!”
Westwood steered her to the door, and within seconds, they’d disappeared inside. Though Helen understood that he didn’t dare glance back, she kept waiting for him to peek around, or to give some other sign of encouragement, but he didn’t.
She loitered, experiencing an emotion that was oddly close to betrayal.
Eventually, she ran to the servants’ entrance, not slowing until she was safely sequestered in her bedchamber. She staggered over to the bed, laid down, and stared at the ceiling. Sounds from the soiree wafted up the stairs, underscoring how she didn’t belong with the people down in the parlor.
Was Westwood thinking of her? Or had he—once she was out of sight—forgotten her completely?
She felt as if her heart was breaking, as if she’d done something very, very wrong.
“What am I going to do?” she inquired of the empty room, but the walls had no answer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Don’t leave this cabin.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Give me your word.”
Harriet held up her palm, as if swearing an oath on a Bible. “I promise I won’t leave.”
Captain Harcourt scoffed. “As if I’d believe anything you say.”
She flashed her most innocent smile. “Where would I go?”
“Who the hell knows, but if I come back and find you’re out wandering the ship, I’ll paddle your bottom.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would, so don’t push me.”
“Why can’t I take a walk up on the deck?”
“Because it’s not safe.”
“But I’m getting claustrophobic down here.”
“It can’t be helped. My men aren’t saints. If one of them catches you off by yourself, there’s no predicting what might happen. I won’t hang a member of my crew simply because he couldn’t resist your dubious charms.”
“I’m not afraid of your crew,” she
Luckily, the opportunity for further mischief vanished, for up on the verandah, someone called, “James! James, are you out here?”
Miranda’s voice crashed over them like a wave of icy water.
Helen gasped with dismay and slid away, clutching at her loosened bodice. She’d been so swept up that she’d utterly ignored the fact they were in a very public spot. Any of the guests could have stumbled on them, and she wouldn’t have noticed.
Was she insane?
She huddled next to him on the bench, barely clad and more embarrassed than she’d ever been in her life.
“Dammit!” he cursed.
“Is she coming toward us?” Helen hissed.
“Yes.”
“I can’t let her see me like this!”
“No, you can’t. I don’t imagine the discovery would go over too well.”
She glared at him, and he was very calm and seemed faintly amused.
“What should we do?” Helen whispered.
“I’ll find out what she wants, and I’ll lead her back to the party. Then you can sneak up the rear stairs to your room.”
He was thoroughly composed, as if his being interrupted in the middle of a tryst was a regular incident for him—which it probably was. How many other times had he dallied in his garden with a foolish, smitten female?
As the realization hit home, her ecstasy fled, and she felt like an idiot. Why did she let him overwhelm her better judgment?
He rose, pausing to lean down and kiss her goodbye.
“You’re beautiful in the moonlight,” he murmured.
Then he walked away, and shortly, she could see him up by the house with Miranda.
“Where have you been?” she cheerily said. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
“I was smoking a cheroot.”
“Well, I have the most thrilling news.”
“What is that?”
“Lord Gladstone has arrived.”
“Gladstone?”
“Yes, you know...the new earl? The privateer everyone is gossiping about.”
“Oh, marvelous.”
“You’ve been wanting to meet him, so I sent him an invitation, and he’s here!”
Westwood steered her to the door, and within seconds, they’d disappeared inside. Though Helen understood that he didn’t dare glance back, she kept waiting for him to peek around, or to give some other sign of encouragement, but he didn’t.
She loitered, experiencing an emotion that was oddly close to betrayal.
Eventually, she ran to the servants’ entrance, not slowing until she was safely sequestered in her bedchamber. She staggered over to the bed, laid down, and stared at the ceiling. Sounds from the soiree wafted up the stairs, underscoring how she didn’t belong with the people down in the parlor.
Was Westwood thinking of her? Or had he—once she was out of sight—forgotten her completely?
She felt as if her heart was breaking, as if she’d done something very, very wrong.
“What am I going to do?” she inquired of the empty room, but the walls had no answer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Don’t leave this cabin.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Give me your word.”
Harriet held up her palm, as if swearing an oath on a Bible. “I promise I won’t leave.”
Captain Harcourt scoffed. “As if I’d believe anything you say.”
She flashed her most innocent smile. “Where would I go?”
“Who the hell knows, but if I come back and find you’re out wandering the ship, I’ll paddle your bottom.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would, so don’t push me.”
“Why can’t I take a walk up on the deck?”
“Because it’s not safe.”
“But I’m getting claustrophobic down here.”
“It can’t be helped. My men aren’t saints. If one of them catches you off by yourself, there’s no predicting what might happen. I won’t hang a member of my crew simply because he couldn’t resist your dubious charms.”
“I’m not afraid of your crew,” she
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