Seven Years to Sin Page 5

  He excused himself, unable to bear the feeling that something was wrong in her world, and he lacked the right to do anything about it.

  It was late afternoon, and Jessica had yet to make an appearance on deck.

  Alistair restrained himself from pacing by dint of will alone. If she decided to avoid him on the ship, it would make wooing her more difficult, but he was not a man who accepted defeat gracefully. He intended to build a rapport with her during the journey, and he would find a way to do it. There had to be means of establishing at least the beginnings of a deeper association. He simply had to puzzle out the key to unlocking her. Last night, he’d thought forthrightness might be the avenue of least resistance, but perhaps he had misread her.

  Gripping the gunwale, he stared down at the water. It did not escape his notice that the sea was presently the same gray hue as Jessica’s eyes.

  By God, she was breathtaking.

  He remembered her entering the great cabin for supper. She’d altered the very air around her, allowing him to feel her come in. The weight and heat of her regard had flowed over his spine like a physical caress. He’d arranged to be standing as he was, coatless and occupied, at the time of her arrival. He wanted her to see him as the man he was now—cultured and learned. Polished. His presentation was meant to be the first salvo in what was intended to be a slow, careful seduction.

  In actuality, however, she’d struck him a blow that carried equal fierceness. She had stood there before him with guinea-blond hair piled high, her pale skin as flawless as the finest porcelain, her once slender body matured into that of a woman … Full, high breasts. Delicate waist. Long legs he desired to feel wrapped around his hips. There was something inherently vulnerable about her that called to every base and primitive instinct inside him.

  He wanted to ravish her. Possess her.

  For a taut moment, her features had betrayed her response to the realization of who he was. Seven years ago and now, she’d been drawn to him. He could use that against her, if he tread very carefully.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Caulfield.”

  Bloody hell. Even the sound of her voice could send lewd imaginings through his mind. It was as precise and restrained as her deportment. He wanted to turn that clipped intonation into something throatier. Softer. He wanted to hear her say his name while hoarse from pleasured cries.

  With a deep breath, he faced her. “Lady Tarley. You look rested. I trust you slept well?”

  “I did, thank you.”

  She looked more than rested; she looked stunningly beautiful. Dressed in a deep blue gown and carrying a delicate parasol, she was a vision on the deck of his ship. He did not look away from her, but knew every man within eyesight had to be equally mesmerized. She was impossibly perfect in every way.

  Joining him at the gunwale, Jessica set one gloved hand atop the wood and looked out at the endless ocean around them. “I have loved sailing from the very first,” she offered in a rush of words. “There is something so freeing yet calming about the lack of visual obstruction. Although I would not wish to be so isolated while alone, on a ship as fine as this, and with such a large crew, there is nothing to mar the joy. Lord and Lady Masterson must be very proud of your successes.”

  The sound of his father’s title had the customary effect of making his hackles rise. He shook off the tension by rolling his shoulders back. “Pride is, perhaps, not the word I would use. But they are certainly aware of my endeavors.”

  Jessica glanced at him. The nervousness revealed by her quick speech was also evident in the way she worried her lower lip between her teeth. Though neither of them had yet to acknowledge the memory of that long-ago night in the Pennington woods, the recollection was wedged between them, more pervasive because they avoided addressing it. He wished to. God, how he wished to. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her.

  Instead, he redirected her back to a topic they could both be comfortable with. “I agree the wide ocean is like a blank slate. The possibilities and mysteries of it are endless.”

  Her smile was lovely. “Yes.”

  “How is your family?”

  “Very well. My brother is at Oxford now. Hadley is quite pleased, of course. And my sister has become a hostess of some renown. She will be most helpful to you once you return to England.”

  “She wed the Earl of Regmont, did she not?”

  “Yes. I introduced them on the eve of my wedding, and the meeting led to a love match, as horribly unfashionable as that is.”

  He couldn’t resist. “A night to remember.”

  “And your family?” A soft blush tinged her cheeks. “How do they fare?”

  “As expected. My brother Albert—Lord Baybury now—has yet to produce an heir, a fact that disturbs Masterson greatly. He fears I may one day inherit the dukedom, which would be his worst nightmare realized.”

  She shot him a castigating look. “Nonsense. It is difficult for everyone when there is a failure to conceive. Certainly, it is distressing for Lady Baybury as well.”

  The sympathy in her tone clearly sprang from a deeply rooted place, which reminded Alistair that six years of marriage had not produced a child for Jessica, either.

  He swiftly changed the course of discussion. “I cannot recall the time of year Tarley took you to Calypso, but the weather now is tolerably hot. On occasion, there are brief spates of afternoon rain, but sunshine swiftly follows. Most find it quite delightful, and I trust you will as well.”

  Her mouth curved in a way not meant to be seductive, but he found it so. “You navigate through difficult conversations with remarkable aplomb.”

  “A necessity in many business transactions.” He glanced at her. “Are you surprised? Impressed?”

  “Would you like me to be?”

  “Absolutely.”

  One perfectly arched brow rose. “Why?”

  “You exemplify the epitome of social grace. One can only think highly of those who receive your approval.”

  Her expression was wry. “You grant me more credit than I deserve.”

  Turning slightly, he faced her and leaned casually into the gunwale. “Then allow me to say that I would be most pleased to earn your esteem.”

  Jessica tipped her parasol in a way that shielded her face from him. “You are doing a fine job so far.”

  “Thank you. However, do not fault me for trying harder.”

  “You are trying quite hard enough.”

  Her prim tone caused his smile to turn into a grin.

  This time, she was the one to change the subject. “Is the water around the island as clear as I remember?”

  “Clear as glass. From the shore, one can watch the fish swim. And there are places along the coast where the depth is shallow for a great distance, far enough that one can wade out to the reefs.”

  “I will have to find one of those places.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  The parasol lifted then. “Surely your obligation to Michael does not extend that far.”

  “I would enjoy nothing more.” The moment the words were out, he knew he’d revealed too much in the huskiness of his voice. It couldn’t be helped. Not with the image of her wet and playful in the water, with her skirts lifted high enough to bare slender ankles. Perhaps shapely calves …

  “I believe I’ve had enough sun today,” Jessica pronounced, stepping back. “It was lovely speaking with you, Mr. Caulfield.”

  Alistair straightened. “I will be here for the next several weeks,” he teased, “if you should like to share the sun again.”

  As she glided away, she spoke over her shoulder. “I will keep that in mind.”

  The soft note of flirtation in her tone sent a surge of satisfaction through him. It was a small victory, but he’d long ago learned to take whatever he could.

  Chapter 4

  As Jessica enjoyed another surprisingly delicious evening meal in the great cabin, she glanced repeatedly across the table at Alistair Caulfield. She couldn’t help
marveling at the man he had become. He easily held his own against the formidable, and much senior, captain. The ship’s surgeon—a man who’d been introduced only as Morley—also deferred to him in a manner beyond that of employee to employer. Both men seemed to admire Alistair and respect his opinions. In return, he spoke to them as equals, which impressed Jess very much.

  As she had the night before, she endeavored to ease the flow of conversation by directing it toward topics the gentlemen were most conversant with. Presently, they were discussing the slave trade, a subject she knew was a heated one in some circles. At first, Caulfield hesitated to expound upon his views and the manner in which he supplied labor to his plantation. But when Jess showed interest, he indulged her. She remembered how she’d once derided the ease with which he deviated from established mores, but now she appreciated that trait in him. Neither her father nor Tarley had ever discussed business or political matters in her presence. Caulfield’s willingness to do so emboldened her, giving her the courage to broach areas she would never have otherwise.

  “Do most plantations still rely on slave labor?” she asked, well aware that the abolition of the slave trade had not abolished slavery itself.

  The captain tugged on his beard. “Like pirates, a law of the land won’t change a trader’s ways. The Preventative Squadron is too small as yet.”

  “Are pirates a problem for you, Captain?”

  “They’re a plague on all ships, but I’m proud to say no ship under my command ’as ever been boarded.”

  “Of course not,” she said with conviction, which earned her a beaming smile from Captain Smith. She turned her attention to Alistair, steeling herself for the impact the sight of him would have. The effort was made in vain. The effect of his comeliness on the female senses did not lessen with time or exposure. “Is Calypso reliant on slave labor?”

  Alistair nodded. “Most plantations remain dependent upon it.”

  “Including yours?”

  He leaned back in his seat. His lips pursed before replying, as if he had to contemplate his answer before offering it. She appreciated his circumspection, a trait she had not attributed to him before now. “From a business perspective, slavery is cost effective. From a personal standpoint, I prefer to have individuals working for me who desire to do so.”

  “You are evading my question.”

  “I do not use slaves on Sous la Lune,” he said, watching her in a way that indicated an interest in her reaction. “I use indentured servants. Mostly Chinese or Indians. I do have several Negroes under my employ, but they are free men.”

  “Under the Moon …” she murmured, translating the name of his plantation. “How lovely.”

  “Yes.” His smile held a secret. “Call me sentimental.”

  Gooseflesh swept over Jess’s arms. Once again, he seemed to reference that night in the Pennington woods. But if so, he was not going about it in the manner she would have expected. His tone was warm and intimate, not mocking or laden with indiscreet suggestion.

  But why would such a lewd incident hold sentimental value for him?

  Caulfield lifted his glass to his lips, his gaze lingering on her over the rim. His cool blue eyes held such appreciation, she felt it on her skin as she would the rays of the sun.

  Jess reconsidered her own view of that night. The act he’d been engaged in had been obscene, and for so long she had thought only of that aspect. Yet in those moments when their gazes held, there had been … something else as well. She couldn’t understand it, nor could she explain it, which was part of what frightened her. If someone were to describe the incident to her, she would be appalled and find nothing positive to attach to it. But it had happened to her, and her subsequent discussion with Tarley that night had changed her life irrevocably. She’d been incited into recognizing unknown needs and given the tenacity through desire to make those needs known to the man she’d wed. The six years of her marriage had been precious to her as a result. Perhaps Alistair had gained something, too? She hoped to muster the courage to ask him one day.

  “Why did Tarley continue to use slaves if there were alternate means available?” she asked, needing to find something less personal to focus on.

  “Do not think ill of him,” Alistair replied. “He was not directly responsible for the oversight of Calypso. There is a foreman and steward who handle such details, and they act in the best interests of their employer.”

  “They act in the interests of profit.”

  “The two are one and the same, are they not?” He leaned forward and gave her a hard look. “I pray you appreciate that. Ideals are all well and good, but they will not feed, clothe, and keep you warm.”

  “You utilize other means,” Jess argued. It did not sit well with her to think that her gowns, jewels, sprightly curricle, and a multitude of other luxuries had been purchased at the expense of the labors of enslaved men. She knew well what it felt like to be powerless and at the mercy of the whims of another.

  “My other business interests afford me a bit more license.”

  “So I am to understand that ideals are bought with coin? Those who have enough are provided the means, while those who do not must—in effect—sell them for gain?”

  “Unromantic, perhaps,” he said unapologetically, “but true.”

  There he was. The young man who would accept any wager and take coin for stud servicing. She had wondered where he’d gone and now saw he hadn’t gone anywhere at all. He had simply acquired some polish to disguise the rough edges.

  “Most enlightening,” she murmured, taking an overly large swallow of wine.

  As soon as she was able, Jess excused herself and headed directly toward her cabin. She traversed the passageway with as much haste as decorously possible.

  “Jessica.”

  The sound of her given name in Alistair’s deep voice was enervating. She waited until she reached her door before halting and facing him. “Yes, Mr. Caulfield?”

  As he had the night before, he took up all the space in the narrow hallway. “It was not my intent to upset you.”

  “Of course not.”

  Although he looked composed, the sudden rough raking of his hand through his inky dark hair suggested otherwise. “I do not want you to think ill of Tarley for the decisions he made that helped to provide for you. He was not a fool; he took the opportunities presented to him.”

  “You misunderstand,” she said evenly, feeling a rare exhilaration. As with Benedict, she did not fear reprisal for speaking her mind to Alistair. “I do not fault common sense, practicality, or even well-intentioned avarice. It is being underestimated that is bothersome to me. I know well enough not to weaken my interests, even for the sake of my higher sensibilities. However, I may renegotiate Calypso’s contract with you to gain the funds to acquire indentured servants. Or I may find that purchasing my own ship and crew will be more profitable in the long term, thereby freeing up funds in that manner. Or perhaps increasing the production of rum is a matter I should look into. In any case, it’s possible I can find the means to have ideals, if I so desire.”

  His eyes glittered in the dim light of the flashlamps. “I am duly chastened, my lady. I was under the impression that you meant to sell Calypso, in which case your questions pertained to the past and not the future.”

  “Hmm …” She remained skeptical.

  “I once underestimated you,” he admitted, clasping his hands behind his back. “But that was long ago.”

  Jess could not check the impulse to ask, “What altered your opinion?”

  “You did.” He flashed his infamously wicked smile. “When faced with the choice of fleeing or staying, you stay.”

  The sharp pang in her chest caused her shaky courage to flee. She turned to open her door, but paused to look over her shoulder before she entered her cabin. “I have never underestimated you.”

  Alistair bowed smartly. “I suggest you don’t start now. Good night, Lady Tarley.”

  Once inside her cabin, Jes
s leaned into the closed door and willed her heart to stop racing.

  Ever prepared, Beth had a damp cloth waiting. As Jess pressed the coolness against her cheeks, she saw the knowing look in the abigail’s eyes. She turned and presented the row of buttons fastening her gown.

  One person who could see right through her was enough for the night.

  Hester had just arranged the last white plume in her upswept hair when her husband entered her boudoir in a state of partial undress. His cravat hung undone around his neck, and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. Regmont was freshly bathed and shaved, if his damp hair and shadow-free jaw-line were any indication. He was undeniably handsome with his honey-hued hair and robin’s egg blue eyes. Together they formed a striking golden couple—he with his boundless exuberance and silken charm, and she with her mantle of reservation and faultless deportment.

  Regmont jerked his head toward her abigail, Sarah, who was smoothing out minute wrinkles in the new blue gown Hester intended to wear. “I was hoping to see you in the pink with lace. It’s ravishing on you, especially with my mother’s pearls.”

  She met the maid’s gaze in the mirror and nodded, ceding to her husband’s wishes. The alternative was an argument best avoided.

  The abigail quietly and efficiently exchanged the dresses. After the pink gown had been laid out on the bed, Regmont dismissed the servant. Sarah paled and looked miserable as she left the room in haste, no doubt fearing the worst. Although there was a pattern to the escalation of Regmont’s moods, violence defied reason.

  When they were alone, he cupped Hester’s shoulders and nuzzled the tender spot beneath her ear. As his fingers kneaded, she flinched and he noticed. Stiffening, he looked at the spot he touched.

  Hester watched him in the mirror, waiting for the remorse to cross his expressive features. In that respect, he differed from her father. Hadley never regretted his actions.

  “Did you receive my gift?” he whispered, gentling his touch over the darkening bruise marring her right shoulder blade.