Indiscretions. Gail Ranstrom
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