longer willing."
"Give me a minute," he softly said, "and I'm sure I can change your mind."
She drew in a deep breath, his words, the small underlying heat in his voice, triggering delectable memory. And her voice when she spoke trembled slightly. "Would you keep me against my will?"
"Never." Shameless impudence shone in his eyes.
"Bloody go to hell," she breathed, rankled by such brazen assurance.
"Give it up, darling. You don't really want the notoriety anyway, do you?"
He was right, of course. Any publicity would be disastrous to her reputation. "You needn't feel smug, Rochefort," she fiercely declared. "I intend to pay you back for this coercion."
"I never doubted you would," he serenely replied. "Just remember to stay in the carriage."
******************
When the coffee arrived a few moments later, he politely offered her some, for a second cup had been thoughtfully included on the tray.
"I'd rather break bread with the devil," she snapped.
"I'll make it up to you," he soothed, well schooled in dealing with irate females. "We'll go shopping afterward."
"Does that calm all your doxies' temper tantrums?"
Always, he wished to say, but gracious in his victory, he said instead, "I'll beg your pardon in any way you please once this is over."
"And the cost is incidental," she sarcastically murmured, "because your family owns half of England."
"I'm sorry," he quietly said, not about to argue the merits of his wealth. "I don't suppose you'd like some ginja?" he offered, pouring himself a liberal draft of the Portuguese liqueur made from Morello cherries. And when she didn't answer, he casually lifted his glass to her in salute before drinking it down. He didn't speak to her again but waited silently at the window overlooking the harbor, sipping his coffee, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
She maintained a studied indifference that took its toll on her willpower, for the fragrant aroma of steaming coffee filled the room. She was dying to pour herself a cup and take a cake from the tray. The fruity cakes, heavy with citron and cher ri es, were steaming too in the coolish temperature of the harbormaster's office, the sugar glaze melting down their fluted sides giving off little tendrils of heat. Beau hadn't even glanced at them, damn his black soul, while the delicious scent and sight of them were torturing her.
By the time the carriage and guard arrived she was in a decidedly pettish mood, feeling ill used and starved. Even the harbormaster noticed and gallantly directed his conversation to Beau during the drive to the eastern reaches of the port where the Betty Lee was berthed. The men were engaged in a discussion of river currents as they stepped from the carriage and took leave of her with a minimum of words. But as the harbormaster gave last orders to his men who had arrived in a second conveyance, Beau paused at the carriage door. "Now don't move," he gently reminde d her, "and once this is over, you can take out your temper on me with my blessing."
"You may regret such generosity, Rochefort," she irritably said.
A small smile curved his f i ne mouth; her raw, restless nerve was reminiscent of her untrammeled sexuality. "I'll take my chances," he softly replied.
She watched him stride away, his long, dark redingote stamping him with a sinister air, the silhouette of his ta l l form limned against the pale water like a darkly forbidding apparition from some s tygian gloom. His black hair was spiked by the wind into a wild disheveled nimbus; the caped folds of his black coat, caught up by errant gusts, billowed out like fiendish wings.
He suddenly looked a stranger moving down the quay; dangerous, menacing, phantomlike, towering above the phalanx of guardsmen. An unnerving shiver fluttered down her spine. How well did she know him beyond the narrow confines of their heated passions? Could she truly assert herself against such ominous power?
But a second later she shook away her apprehensions. She wasn't
"Give me a minute," he softly said, "and I'm sure I can change your mind."
She drew in a deep breath, his words, the small underlying heat in his voice, triggering delectable memory. And her voice when she spoke trembled slightly. "Would you keep me against my will?"
"Never." Shameless impudence shone in his eyes.
"Bloody go to hell," she breathed, rankled by such brazen assurance.
"Give it up, darling. You don't really want the notoriety anyway, do you?"
He was right, of course. Any publicity would be disastrous to her reputation. "You needn't feel smug, Rochefort," she fiercely declared. "I intend to pay you back for this coercion."
"I never doubted you would," he serenely replied. "Just remember to stay in the carriage."
******************
When the coffee arrived a few moments later, he politely offered her some, for a second cup had been thoughtfully included on the tray.
"I'd rather break bread with the devil," she snapped.
"I'll make it up to you," he soothed, well schooled in dealing with irate females. "We'll go shopping afterward."
"Does that calm all your doxies' temper tantrums?"
Always, he wished to say, but gracious in his victory, he said instead, "I'll beg your pardon in any way you please once this is over."
"And the cost is incidental," she sarcastically murmured, "because your family owns half of England."
"I'm sorry," he quietly said, not about to argue the merits of his wealth. "I don't suppose you'd like some ginja?" he offered, pouring himself a liberal draft of the Portuguese liqueur made from Morello cherries. And when she didn't answer, he casually lifted his glass to her in salute before drinking it down. He didn't speak to her again but waited silently at the window overlooking the harbor, sipping his coffee, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
She maintained a studied indifference that took its toll on her willpower, for the fragrant aroma of steaming coffee filled the room. She was dying to pour herself a cup and take a cake from the tray. The fruity cakes, heavy with citron and cher ri es, were steaming too in the coolish temperature of the harbormaster's office, the sugar glaze melting down their fluted sides giving off little tendrils of heat. Beau hadn't even glanced at them, damn his black soul, while the delicious scent and sight of them were torturing her.
By the time the carriage and guard arrived she was in a decidedly pettish mood, feeling ill used and starved. Even the harbormaster noticed and gallantly directed his conversation to Beau during the drive to the eastern reaches of the port where the Betty Lee was berthed. The men were engaged in a discussion of river currents as they stepped from the carriage and took leave of her with a minimum of words. But as the harbormaster gave last orders to his men who had arrived in a second conveyance, Beau paused at the carriage door. "Now don't move," he gently reminde d her, "and once this is over, you can take out your temper on me with my blessing."
"You may regret such generosity, Rochefort," she irritably said.
A small smile curved his f i ne mouth; her raw, restless nerve was reminiscent of her untrammeled sexuality. "I'll take my chances," he softly replied.
She watched him stride away, his long, dark redingote stamping him with a sinister air, the silhouette of his ta l l form limned against the pale water like a darkly forbidding apparition from some s tygian gloom. His black hair was spiked by the wind into a wild disheveled nimbus; the caped folds of his black coat, caught up by errant gusts, billowed out like fiendish wings.
He suddenly looked a stranger moving down the quay; dangerous, menacing, phantomlike, towering above the phalanx of guardsmen. An unnerving shiver fluttered down her spine. How well did she know him beyond the narrow confines of their heated passions? Could she truly assert herself against such ominous power?
But a second later she shook away her apprehensions. She wasn't
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