The Captain's Wicked Wager. Marguerite Kaye
agree to take part in another, different sort of wager.”
Isabella tore her eyes from the money to his face. “What kind?”
Aware he was behaving outlandishly, conscious that his mind was excited from brandy, Ewan eyed her speculatively. Her lovely countenance was flushed. Excitement there was in her striking eyes, in the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Defiance and daring, too. Beautiful. And highly alluring.
It was an impulse, nothing more. He wanted to see how far she could be pushed. Had no real intention of seeing it through, though he knew deep down even then, that whatever it took he could not let her go. “You spend three nights with me. The outcome each night will be dependant upon the fall of the dice. The winner to decide what happens between us. Anything…” he heard himself say, unable quite to believe he was uttering the words “…or nothing at all, if your luck holds. What do you say?”
Ewan’s smile entreated trust, but Isabella was not fooled. He had the look of a lion confronted with a wary prey. She swallowed her instinctive flat refusal and forced herself to think rationally. The money would allow her to fulfil the plan which brought her here in the first place. This was her last chance, and she knew it. In the past three months she had exhausted all other avenues. But what price might she pay in the three nights which lay between now and then?
The man in front of her was a complete stranger, known to her only by reputation, and a disreputable one at that. If he won, and the odds were that he would on at least one occasion, she would have to give herself to him. Shocking to even consider it. Scandalous. No lady in her right mind would. And yet were not the circumstances so extreme as to justify the gamble? Would it not be more scandalous still to let this unexpected final opportunity to provide desperately needed salvation slip through her fingers?
In any event, the fates might favour her and allow her to win all three throws of the dice. She had been lucky tonight, until the last. She might be again. And if she was not? She probed deep, but could find only a strange quiver of excitement at the prospect. What was convention after all, when the stakes were so high?
“Why not, Captain Dalgleish?” she finally said, with a shaky laugh, “I agree to your wager.”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips, soft against her skin. “Ewan,” he said, “my name is Ewan. And what might yours be, my fair opponent?”
“Belle,” she replied instinctively.
“Belle,” he whispered. “I would not have had you for a Belle, but it describes you well enough.” Now was the time to laugh, to pass it off as a jest. Now was the time to step back. Instead, he kissed her, and in doing so hurtled both of them irretrievably beyond the point of no return.
Gently, he kissed her, his lips cool against her own, his fingers tangling in her elaborate coiffure to tilt her head up. Isabella stood compliant, her mind numbed, conscious only of his mouth, his fingertips, the nearness and heat of his body. She was alarmed by the power she sensed there, yet reassured by the gentleness of his touch. Strangely, detachedly, exhilarated by the sensations he was arousing in her. A craving for more awoke in her but he stepped abruptly back.
“One thing you must know,” he said, taking her hand, “I will neither harm you nor hurt you. I have already seen enough cruelty to last me a lifetime. Come then, I’ll have them call my carriage.”
What had she done? What on earth had she let herself in for?
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