One
March, 1819. Scotland.
“Jack.”
He held still, sure it was a dream.
“Jack Pike.”
He sat bolt upright in the bed, heart pounding, a young lieutenant again, startled out of sleep by his commanding officer.
The Countess of Kinmarloch stood across the room, holding a candlestick.
“What’s wrong, my lady?”
“Naething. Nae a thing. I dinnae mean to frighten ye.”
She hovered like a wraith in her nightdress. Jack himself was unclothed, not ready for battle stations. He clutched the blanket around his waist with one hand and reached out with other.
“Throw me my shirt, my lady. Behind you. On the chair.”
Her burst of laughter fluttered the flame of the candle.
“Ye dinnae need to dress yerself for me, Jack Pike. I’ve seen yer chest. Ye were anxious enough to show it off to me a few days ago. I cannae believe in yer shyness now.”
Oh. Yes.Wake up, fool.
Helen Boyd wasn’t his superior officer. This wasn’t a drill or an imminent threat to the ship. He wasn’t a youth, still in the navy.
He was a man in his prime, naked in a bed. She was a woman who had confessed a degree of admiration for him and had come to his bedchamber in the middle of the night. A woman in his bedchamber was a common enough occurrence in the life of Captain Jack Pike. He should be in complete command of the situation, himself, and the woman in question.
But it washer.
She took a step toward him. He noted there was no movement of her breasts under her nightdress. Too small.
“And ye are clearly aware ’tis a handsome chest, ye vain man.”
He made himself grin and lean back on the pillows, putting his arms behind his head, displaying himself and his handsome chest to her.
“I’m aware other females think highly of my chest, Helen, but I thought it might have escaped your notice.”
She took two more steps, sat down on the edge of his bed, and her gaze dropped from his face to his torso.
She was looking at his muscles there, he thought. Or she was looking at the sprinkling of blond-brown hair that narrowed to a trail down to his navel and, lower still, to his cock, beginning to stir under the blanket.
Or perhaps she was looking at the scar just under his left nipple, the one he had sustained that time when he had been a little too intent on the chest of the lady on top of him and not on her foil-wielding husband who had come home far earlier than promised.
Now Helen would ask him about the scar and he would tell the lie he told all women, the one which featured pirates on the high seas, the lie which made most women stroke the scar before moving on to stroking something else on his body. Preferably something lower down.
But she didn’t ask about the scar. And there was something in her expression he couldn’t identify. It might be appreciation. It might be desire. Those sentiments were expected and welcome. But maybe . . . it might be . . . resentment?
No.
It was a trick of the candlelight.
Under the blanket, he began to respond more strongly to her presence, and he had to remind himself to keep his hands where they were, fingers laced together on the back of his head.
Easy, Jack. Don’t spook her.
