It had been months since he’d kissed a woman as enticing as this one.

Slowly, allowing her to escape if that was her wish, he bent to her lips. To his profound relief, Daphne did not demur. When her lips parted ever so slightly, he was quick to take the gift she offered. Her mouth was plush and tasted of a subtle honey blended with flowers and heat.

Lockwood met her tongue, shared his fire and hunger with her. A shivering sigh was her only response, as if she was struggling to regain her senses. Dear Lord, he knew he was lost. A single kiss, and he wanted her with an intensity that nearly doubled him over.

Instead, she placed one trembling palm against his chest and pushed him away with a little gasp.

What a sweet little fool she was if she thought they could recork that bottle. Once opened, that particular brew was too intoxicating to leave untasted.

Praise for Gail Ranstrom

The Courtesan’s Courtship

“This book should not be missed.”

—Rakehell

The Rake’s Revenge

“Ranstrom crafts an intriguing mystery, brimming with a fine cast of strong and likable characters and a few surprises.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Missing Heir

“Ranstrom draws us into this suspenseful tale right up to the very end.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Saving Sarah

“Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England… If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”

—The Romance Reader

A Wild Justice

“Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.”

—The Romance Reader

Indiscretions
Gail Ranstrom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Shirley, Fritzie, Winnie and Sadie, who taught me

all I needed to know about being a lady. And for

Cheryl, Tanya, Christine and Sandi, who taught me all

I needed to know about being a woman.

And with everlasting gratitude to Lisa, Suzi,

Eileen and Tracy.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Prologue

London

August 11, 1815

T he second blow sent sudden pain racing along Elise’s nerves to explode in her brain. She cringed and raised her arms to protect her head. Striking back only angered him further. Oh, but the last little shred of pride and self-respect she still possessed demanded that she defend herself, no matter what the cost. No matter what the consequences.

She skittered backward until she cleared his reach and then staggered to her feet. “No, my lord! Back away now, before I call for help.”

Her husband laughed at her hollow threat. “The servants won’t come, madam. They’d lose their living, and they know it. And you, pathetic cow that you are, will not leave me because you’d have to leave your brat behind.”

“Your heir,” she corrected.

“Heir,” Barrett snarled. “You gave me a puny, sickly squalling little brat. That’s what I get for marrying a chit barely out of the schoolroom. But you’re going to remedy that now, aren’t you, Elise? Spread your legs and I might not hit you again.”

He unfastened his trousers and bile rose in her stomach. His eyes were wild and his breath stank of whiskey. If he touched her, she would vomit. She’d had enough of his brutal lovemaking. She shook her head. “Go back to your mistress, Barrett. There is no comfort for you here.”

He launched at her with a strangled cry. “By God, your brother did not warn me of your stupidity when I bought you. Give me value for my money. Do your duty!”

Her back hit the wall, trapping her. A thin wail drifted from the adjacent room. Their voices had woken William. She turned toward the sound. The governess had quit after Barrett’s last fit of temper, and she hadn’t been able to find a replacement. “Let me go to him, my lord. He needs me.”

“Your duty is to me, Elise, and ’tis time you learned it.” He turned and headed for the adjoining door.

Terrified, she followed. “Wait, my lord. Let him cry. I… I will give you what you want.”

“Aye, you will. When I’m done here.” He threw the door open and crossed to the bed. Seizing the three-year-old, he held him aloft. “Is this what you love best, madam?”

“Barrett, please,” she choked, fear clogging her throat. She tore off her wrapper, exposing herself in her thin nightdress. “Put him back and…and I…”

“I’ll have it anyway, madam. It’s mine to take as I please.” He tucked little William under one arm and headed to the window. “But first I’ll rid us of this useless appendage.”

Oh, dear God! He meant to throw William out the window and he was drunk enough to do it! He had his back to her and, without thinking, she seized a brass candlestick and hit him over the head. He dropped to his knees and William tumbled onto the woven rug, still crying and hiccupping.

Barrett turned toward her, hatred in his eyes and a trickle of blood oozing down his cheek from his temple. “You will pay for that!” He staggered to his feet, the child forgotten in his fury.

It was hopeless. Barrett was insane and he knew her weakness. William would never be safe. His lips drew back in a snarl and his hands stretched out for her. He no longer meant to claim his marital rights—he meant to kill her. She fled back to her room and he tackled her, bringing her down with a breathless thud. Her forehead hit the marble hearth and her head swam as blood streamed from the gash in her skin.

Frantic, knowing that if he killed her there would be no one left to protect William from his father, she groped above her head, seeking anything she could use to stop him.

She gripped the fire poker and rolled faceup.

Barrett’s expression was a study in madness. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth as he ripped her nightdress away from her breasts. Sobbing, she brought the poker down on his shoulder and again on his head. And again. And again.

He collapsed on her and was still, his weight compressing the air from her lungs. Still weeping and panting, she dropped the poker and pushed his weight to the side. She wriggled free, clutching the gaping sides of her nightdress together and using a shred to wipe the blood from her forehead.

William’s cry was frenzied now, almost a scream. She half crawled, half stumbled back to the other room, gathered him up from the floor and held him close. Still in a daze, she crooned and rocked back and forth, murmuring reassurances.

“Hush, William. Hush. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

When she’d soothed the toddler, she put him back in his bed and returned to her room. Barrett still lay facedown and unmoving in front of the fireplace. There was a wide split on the back of his head and his skull showed through a gap in his hair. A widening puddle of blood had formed on the hearth. A clock in a distant part of the house struck midnight.

Her stomach convulsed. She had killed her husband! She groped for the chamber pot, emptied her stomach and then wiped the cold sweat from her forehead. There would be hell to pay! Barrett’s younger brother, Alfred, would take William away, then see that she was arrested and hanged. Alfred had always been ambitious for his own sons. Elise would not put it past the man to eliminate William so his own son could inherit the title and wealth.

No. No, she wouldn’t let that happen. She staggered to her dressing room and donned a dark blue dress, then pulled her valise down from an upper shelf. With no particular plan, she threw a few serviceable gowns and the contents of her jewel chest into the case, then carried it to William’s room and packed the necessary items for him. There would be a ship leaving the docks. Any ship. It didn’t matter where it was going. She’d go to hell if she had to.

Chapter One

London

September 1, 1820

R eginald Hunter, sixth Earl of Lockwood, regarded the undersecretary of the Foreign Office with doubt. “I don’t know, Lord Eastman. I’m with the Home Office. How can I help you?”

“The lines between the Home and Foreign Offices have blurred recently, especially in the West Indies. St. Claire is a British colony, which would put it under the auspices of the Home Office, but since we are dealing with other nationalities and subjects, the Foreign Office has taken charge.”

Hunt settled into the deep overstuffed chair across from Lord Eastman and accepted a small goblet of brandy from the footman. What could the man be about to say that required them to meet at their club instead of the government offices? Either Eastman wanted him drunk, or he had a concern with security at the office.

He cupped the goblet in his right hand and warmed the deep red liquid. “Did Castlereagh inform you that I’ve tendered my resignation to the Home Office?” The last thing he wanted on the eve of his retirement from public service was to become embroiled in someone else’s problem. He’d paid his dues, and an extra measure besides. What more could they ask than his soul?

“Yes, your resignation.” Eastman nodded. “That’s why we were hoping to persuade you to join us.”

“Thank you for the confidence, but why would I trade one dangerous job for another? I’m weary of risking my life at the turn of a corner. And now that we’ve finally dealt with—”

“The white slaver. Yes, heard about that. Just a week or so ago, wasn’t it?”

“That was the last loose end. I can quit in good conscience now, take my seat in the Lords and settle down.”

Eastman sipped his own brandy. “You’ve barely reached your apex, Lockwood,” he said, using Hunt’s title. “This assignment is a little plum. Easy as pie and something you could do in your sleep. Think of it as a holiday.”

In his experience, nothing the government asked of him was that simple. “Then have someone else go on holiday.”

“Has to be done on the hush. Very sensitive, as it is a part of an ongoing investigation. You’re known for your discretion.”

Discreet? Is that what they were calling assassins now? Would discretion reclaim the soul he’d forfeited to do the dirty but necessary jobs that other men refused?

Ah, but he was intrigued in spite of himself. And now he was sure the Foreign Office had a traitor. Why else would they need a man of his “talents”? “Is your leak here or in St. Claire?”

Eastman frowned and lowered his voice. “We don’t know. We need an outsider for this, and your name came up since you have holdings in St. Claire. Only natural that you’d want to visit and check on your investments, eh?”

Hunt sighed. “Tell me about this ‘little plum’ you want me to look into.”

“Pirates.”

The answer so surprised him that he coughed, drawing the attention of a few quiet occupants of the club library. He cleared his throat and whispered, “Easy? What the hell is easy about pirates?”

“The Caribbean is rife with them. These are a particularly ruthless and bloodthirsty lot and we need to put them down like the rabid vermin they are.”

And there it was. They wanted him to “put down” the rabid vermin. Need someone without a conscience? Bring Lockwood in. “I’m out of that business, Eastman.”

“We’re only asking you to gather intelligence, Lockwood. See if you can find out where the pirates are based and who is feeding them information and ship movements. Find our leak. And plug it.”

“They aren’t likely to be based at a single point. And you must know who their informants are by now.”

“Only that they are British.”

Hunt digested this information for a moment. “Why St. Claire and not Jamaica or Barbados?”

“We already have operatives there, but they are making no headway. We need someone with a perfect right and reason to be on St. Claire. Ask questions. Cozy up to the locals. The officials. Find out what they’re hiding. Only contact us if you have an emergency or urgent news, and go through me or my clerk, Langford.”

Hunt sat back in his chair and sighed. He hadn’t visited the plantation on St. Claire in ten years. Maybe it was time.

Eastman leaned forward. “It won’t inconvenience you too long, Lockwood. Present yourself to Governor Bascombe and his chargé, Mr. Doyle, for introductions. Poke around a fortnight. A month at most. If the opportunity presents itself, handle the problem. Then back to England and on with your life.”

Handle the problem? God, he wanted out. Out of the ugly underbelly of government intrigues and foreign machinations.

Apparently reading Hunt’s hesitation, Eastman tried a new appeal. “Every time a ship is taken or sunk, we hear the groans all over London. We wouldn’t ask if there weren’t so many underwriters losing their drawers over this and if prices for imported goods weren’t rising even as we speak.”

With a sinking feeling that he’d just been sucked into another vortex, Hunt nodded.

St. Claire Island, West Indies

October 9, 1820

Though the journey had been quick and uneventful, Hunt was glad to set foot on solid ground again. He had a full list of things to do today—buy a horse, call on Governor Bascombe, rent a room at the local inn and meet his contact—but first he needed to take the lay of the land.

He shrugged out of his woolen jacket and draped it over his arm. The first thing that struck him as he walked the streets of San Marco was how truly international the town had become. A mixture of languages and accents buzzed around him as he strolled the cobbled streets.

He found an inn, several taverns, chandlers, locksmiths, haberdashers and greengrocers. Midway down Broad Street, he spied a tidy stone building with a divided door—the top half open to admit the morning breeze—and a wide front window with Pâtisserie lettered in black script. At the bottom of the window, in smaller letters, was the information, Mrs. Hobbs, Proprietress. A baker’s rack stood in the window to display a stunning array of pastries and breads.

This would be a good place to start. Bakeries, as much as taverns, were often the hub of gossip and news. He’d once uncovered a pickpocket operation being run out of a bakery in Cheapside. He opened the lower half of the door and entered, setting the shop bell a-jingle. A mouthwatering smell wafted from the back and, along with the sound of feminine laughter, enticed him.

A woman, using a towel to protect her hands from burning, carried a tray of biscuits from the back room. The task had her complete attention as she slid the pan onto the counter, and Hunt used the moment to study her.

Mouthwatering. Yes. Exactly. Sleek brown hair that fell halfway down her back and glinted streaks of sun was tied at her nape with a green ribbon. Her figure was neither thin nor stout, but definitely voluptuous, and a soft smile lifted the corners of those full rose-tinted lips. She was somewhere in her midtwenties, a head shorter than he and, when she turned toward him, he was stunned by the deep green eyes that rivaled her hair ribbon. Her features were a study in perfect symmetry. Greek sculptors would have done mayhem to carve her likeness.

A blush stole up her cheeks, a sure sign she had noticed his interest. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked as she wiped her hands on a crisp apron. “I’m Mrs. Hobbs.”

Yes. Dear God, at least a dozen things she could do for him, and several she was doing at this very moment without even trying. Even her voice raised the fine hairs on his arms.

“Sir?”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I’ve come for something sweet.”

She smiled again, but this time his heart bumped. Then she glanced away, almost as if she were afraid to look at him too long. “Sweet? Well, then, we have cherry and blueberry tarts, buns with cinnamon and raisins, sweet biscuits, lemon and ginger biscuits and, if you care to wait, biscuits with a wee bit of chocolate. Oh, and pineapple cakes.”

While he was still mulling over his choices, another woman peeked out from the back room. Shorter, plumper and younger than Mrs. Hobbs, this woman was almost as lovely. He had the sudden notion that the wares at Pâtisserie could taste like chalk and the bakery would still do a brisk business.

As if sensing his thoughts, Mrs. Hobbs lifted a biscuit off the tray with a spatula and held it out to him. “Compliments of Pâtisserie, sir.” She turned her attention to the woman in the back room. “Do you need something, Mrs. Breton?” she asked.

“I just came to see if we have shelf space up front.” She glanced at the baker’s rack in the window and nodded. With a shy glance in Hunt’s direction, she disappeared again.

He took the offered biscuit, still warm from the oven, and shifted it from one hand to the other until it cooled enough to eat. The first bite convinced him that he was in heaven. He watched Mrs. Hobbs’s reaction as he ate the delicacy. Her lips parted ever so slightly and her chin lifted a fraction of an inch as if tilting upward to receive a kiss. Oh, would that he could! But, no. She was waiting for his verdict.

“Delectable,” he pronounced. “Make that a dozen biscuits, Mrs. Hobbs.”

She blinked and nodded, the spell broken. Turning again, she ripped a length of brown paper off a roll, placed the biscuits in the center and tied the package with a length of French blue ribbon.

Mrs. Hobbs took his crown and opened a drawer beneath the counter. “I fear my change is limited. Do you have anything smaller, sir?”

Actually, to his embarrassment, he had something growing larger by the minute. “Sorry, Mrs. Hobbs. Keep the change.”

“Oh, no. That is excessive, sir.”

The gleam of a gold band on her left hand caught his attention as she withdrew every coin in her till. Of course. Mrs. Hobbs. Damn the luck. The most charming shopgirl he’d ever seen, and she was unavailable.

She held her hand out with the change from the till. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Not at the moment, Mrs. Hobbs.”

When her eyes met his, she shivered, dropped the coins in his palm and broke the contact. “I shall get change, sir. If you will come back later, I will have it for you.”

Chains and an anchor wouldn’t keep him away. “Count on it, Mrs. Hobbs.”

Hannah Breton elbowed Daphne in the ribs as they craned their heads out the half door to watch the tall stranger walk back down Broad Street. “You’ve brought another visitor low with your charms, Daphne.”

She’d brought him low? She rather thought it was the other way around. It was a rare occurrence, indeed, when a man could so take her by surprise that she could not think. She must have looked an absolute fool.

“You should have mentioned you are a widow,” Hannah continued.

“Even if I were interested—which I am not—he did not even bother to introduce himself. Besides, I do not want a man.”

“And a crying shame, if you ask me,” Hannah teased. “You use that gold ring to keep them away. When are you going to take it off? There’s certainly no shortage of men for a woman like you.” Hannah sighed, then glanced back down the street. “But not many with eyes that blue.”

Not blue. Deep, deep periwinkle. Almost violet. And it should be a crime for a man to have lashes so dark and long.

But his eyes hadn’t been his best feature. No, that would be his smile. Sensual lips drew back to reveal straight, even teeth and a tiny dimple in his left cheek. Almost boyish, and completely charming. Daphne always noted a man’s smile—or the lack of it. Men who did not smile made her very nervous. She always suspected them of an ill nature.

Hannah chuckled and nudged her with an elbow. “There, that little sigh gave you away. And if you do not want a husband, who’s to say you cannot take a lover? You’re alone, after all.”

She shivered. Impossible! For so many reasons. And she’d never even been tempted before looking into those amazing eyes.

When she’d seen the Gulf Stream in the harbor this morning, she knew there would be strangers in San Marco—and she knew they’d be gone soon. The dark, compelling stranger was no exception. No one ever came to stay on St. Claire. And that was exactly why she did.

A knock on the kitchen door interrupted Daphne’s thoughts. The egg delivery, no doubt. Hannah put her spoon down and went to open the door.

“Here they are!” their visitor exclaimed. “The treasure of St. Claire.”

“My goodness! Captain Gilbert! Where have you been?” Hannah asked, an expression of pleasure curving her lips.

“Around the world and back again,” he teased. “But I came to see you all the moment I could.”

“How long will you be here this time?”

“A week. Perhaps a fortnight. Need to take on cargo and make a few repairs before I return to England.”

“Then we’d best stock up on pineapple cakes.” Hannah smoothed her apron as she went back to her kettle.

Daphne faced the captain. He was graying and tall, had a warm smile and clear blue eyes with creases at the corners from squinting into the sun. “Hello, Captain Gilbert. Nice to see you again.”

“How nice?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.

She laughed. He knew she was always happy to see him, and not just because he always brought her an issue or two of the London Times. He was the kindest man she knew. “Hannah, would you fetch the captain a pineapple cake?”

Hannah nodded. “Why don’t you take Mrs. Hobbs out back for a little catch up, Captain? I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea.”

Daphne lifted her apron over her head and slapped a puff of flour from her patterned skirt before following Captain Gilbert to the small courtyard outside the back door.

He took a seat at the little wrought iron table and laid the newspapers on his lap. She knew he wanted conversation. He had once confided that he missed female conversation since he was always at sea and his wife had died many years ago.

“Tell me, Captain, how was your voyage and what have you been doing?”

He fell silent as Hannah brought a tray with a teapot, cups, sugar, milk and lemon, and a small pineapple cake on a delicate china plate. She raised her eyebrows at their silence and left as quickly as she could. Hannah would want an accounting of the conversation later.

Knowing his preferences by now, Daphne poured the tea and added a bit of sugar and a squeeze of lemon. He took the cup and sipped, then nodded his approval.

“Working hard, Mrs. Hobbs. It is becoming more and more difficult for an honest man to make a living. But I get by. Made enough last trip to carry me through another voyage. My underwriters are charging an absurd price to insure my cargo. Damn pirates.” He sighed and shrugged. “But what else can I do?”

“Not much, I suppose,” she agreed. “I fear goods from home are costing me dearly, too. You wouldn’t believe what I pay for tea, cloth, paper and ribbon.”

“Aye, it hurts on both sides, Mrs. Hobbs. Here and there. Wish there were a way around it. For now I’m just trying to carry the items most in demand in London. Pineapples, this trip. And parakeets and mahogany.”

“Have you considered applying for a patent to carry government documents? They wouldn’t clutter your cargo space and would provide a nice little bonus at the end of the voyage.”

“I did, in fact, apply in London, Mrs. Hobbs, but with so many naval vessels in the Caribbean, they have been providing that service.”

Daphne frowned. The Royal Navy did not provide that service for St. Claire. It was a rare occurrence when one of His Majesty’s ships put in at San Marco. Perhaps she could ask Governor Bascombe. Yes, she’d speak to the governor, and then tell the captain if the result was favorable.

The captain finished his pineapple cake and set his fork aside. He returned his teacup to the saucer and stood. “Now I’m off to arrange the repairs. I want everything in readiness for the arrival of the pineapples. They don’t keep well in a warm hold, you know. The ton pays a pretty price to have them on their tables, and I don’t want to dock with a hold of rotten fruit.”

She stood with him. “The repairs will require a week or two, will they not?”

“Aye.”

Good. She’d have time to talk to the governor.

“Oh, by the way, I’ve brought a Times or two.” He dropped the papers on the table and grinned.

Daphne affected surprise. “Oh! You shouldn’t have, Captain. But thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

He patted her shoulder as he passed her on his way down the alley. He never said goodbye. She wondered if that was a sailor’s superstition.

She gazed at the newspapers. There was no time to linger now. The chores of closing lay ahead. But tonight, at home, she would sit and read every word, savoring the little nuggets of gossip and the latest scandal to occupy wagging tongues—any news at all of her family or friends.

Chapter Two

T he sun was nearly setting and Daphne wanted to get home before dark. The trade had been very good today and all that remained was a loaf of plain bread, a few buns and three pineapple cakes. She would place them on the table in back, and the poor children from the wharves would take them away in the night.

Hannah was washing up in the back and called to her. “You go on, Daphne. Timmy will be bringing your gig any minute. I can handle the last of the customers.”

Her home was five miles from town, sufficient to provide isolation without desolation. She was hanging her apron on a peg as the shop bell rang, and she spoke without turning. “Sorry. We’re closed.”

“Just my luck.”

She turned at the sound of the rich baritone. The stranger had come for his change. Before she could think better of it, she smiled. “I’m glad you made it back.” She went behind the counter, opened the till and counted out his change. When she looked up, he was watching her in a most peculiar way. “Is there something you need, sir?”

“I am wondering what other delicious things you might have besides biscuits and tarts, Mrs. Hobbs. I’m thinking I’d like my change in goods.”

She laughed. “That would be enough to give you a tooth-ache. And I fear we’ve sold out of sweets but for a few pineapple cakes.”

“Then I shall have to come back. Keep the change on account,” he said.

She dropped his change back in the till. “Are you staying aboard the Gulf Stream, sir?”

He gave her that slow grin and shook his head. “I have business on St. Claire.”

She schooled her curiosity. “Then I hope you find our island to your liking, sir.”

“Hunt,” he said.

“Mr. Hunt.” The name suited him. He had the watchfulness of a predator. He seemed about to say something and then shrugged. “I already find St. Claire to my liking. I doubt I’ll be in town every day, but you may be sure I will come here when I am.”

Hannah appeared around the corner, making it apparent that she’d been eavesdropping. “Well, then, the widow Hobbs and I will be looking forward to seeing you,” she said.

Mr. Hunt grinned widely and bowed his head to Hannah. “Thank you, Mrs. Breton. For everything.”

“My pleasure,” Hannah said. She turned to Daphne and said, “Timmy is in back with your gig, Daphne. I’ll tell him you’ll only be a minute.”

The heat of a blush crept into her cheeks. She’d scold Hannah later, but the damage was done. And she marveled that Mr. Hunt had remembered Hannah’s name from this morning, though he did not look like the sort of man who would miss much.

He raised an eyebrow and said, “You’re young to be a widow, Mrs. Hobbs. I am sorry for your loss.”

He didn’t look sorry as he glanced down at her wedding ring. “Thank you,” she told him after a moment’s hesitation.

He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Good evening, Mrs. Hobbs.”

She stood there for a long minute, staring at Mr. Hunt’s back as he left the shop and mounted his horse. Oh, such strong calves, long legs and wide shoulders. There was something very…compelling about the man. Something that piqued her interest and caused a yearning she hadn’t felt before. She would have to be very careful around Mr. Hunt. Any careless involvement would have her at the end of a hangman’s noose in short order.

Even near midnight, the air was balmy and humid. The soft breeze was a sultry caress on his skin and the scent of exotic flowers overlay the tang of sea air. In the past ten years, Hunt had forgotten the night heat, warmer than a summer day in England. Even the tavern door stood open to catch an errant breeze. He took a deep breath and entered.

Like taverns everywhere, the Blue Fin was dimly lit and smelled of stale ale. The square barroom had a long counter at one side and two dozen tables scattered throughout. Hunt sat in one corner facing the door with his back to the wall, a habit he’d acquired after being knifed in the back by a French agent in a Marseille public house. He ordered a tankard of ale and placed it on the small wooden table in front of him. Half past eleven. Right on time.

A man of average height entered and glanced around. He was dressed in rough brown trousers and a stained blue work shirt. His long sandy hair was pulled back and tied with a black string at his nape. He was the very picture of a longshoreman. When his gaze met Hunt’s, he nodded. Hunt nodded back.

The man went to the bar and bought a tankard of ale. After exchanging pleasantries with the barkeeper, the man slammed his tankard down on the counter and headed for the back door with an excuse that he had to use the privy.

Hunt did a slow count to ten, finished his ale and stood. He dropped a small coin on the table, exited to the street and then rounded the building to the rear courtyard of the tavern. And there, waiting for him in the shadow of an ancient oak, stood Oliver Layton, clandestine operations, Foreign Office.

Layton glanced at the rear door to the tavern. “We’ve got about five minutes, Lockwood.”

“Good to see you, too, Layton. Have you found a more private meeting place for us?”

The man nodded. “West of town, just before your plantation, there’s a brick mile-marker. Off the road about one hundred yards you’ll find an abandoned hut. The track is overgrown, but there’s still a trace of it. Behind the center stone above the lintel is a pocket. Leave messages there. I will check for them and leave my own every midnight. If you need to talk to me, meet me there.”

Hunt nodded. “Bring me up-to-date.”

“Not much to tell. I’ve been in place a month. The locals are just beginning to trust me. I’ve hinted that I’d like to make more money and don’t care how. We’ll see if someone takes the bait. Do you have a plan?”

“Nothing firm beyond a reception to be given tomorrow night by Governor Bascombe and his chargé d’affaires, Gavin Doyle. I met with them this evening. They don’t know why I’m here. I gather Eastman fears the problem may have reached the highest levels. In the morning I’ll go to New Albion. I haven’t been to my plantation for ten years.” Hunt closed his eyes to remember. “Then…if I recall correctly, there is a mountain range that runs down the south end of the island. The mountains come down to the sea, and since it is the windward side of the island, the currents are fairly treacherous. Not much land over there.”

“What has that to do with us?”

“There’s a small town built on the cliffs. Blackpool. I hear they don’t like strangers. Something is wrong there. The captain of the ship I sailed on pretended ignorance of the town. I find that interesting,” Hunt told him. “Most shippers want to make the most of a port. If Blackpool has any goods to trade or any need of supplies, it would be a logical stop. That it isn’t on anyone’s itinerary is suspicious. I intend to pay them a little visit. Have you heard any gossip regarding the village?”

“The townspeople are strangely silent about the other side. It’s almost as if it doesn’t exist. I asked the harbormaster about ships from Blackpool, and he told me they don’t come here, and that our ships don’t go there. Then he made a cryptic remark about ill fortune to those who tried.”

Hunt laughed. “Good God, what an opening! And you haven’t gone to the other side after that tempting remark?”

Layton rubbed the stubble on his chin and shook his head. “The pack of sea rats we’re looking for are bloodthirsty barbarians. I’m just a poor longshoreman. I don’t go looking for trouble and I don’t make any.”

“Or so they believe.”

Layton gave him a lopsided grin. “So far, at least on St. Claire, that’s the truth. My orders are to collect intelligence and stay out of trouble.”

Hunt nodded. Those were Layton’s orders, not his. The Foreign Office expected him to “handle” any problem on St. Claire. “Any word, any mention at all, of Captains Sieyes or Rodrigo?”

“None. It is as if no one in San Marco has ever heard of pirates.”

“They cannot be blind, deaf and dumb.”

Chapter Three

T he next morning, Hunt threw his coat across his saddle and left for New Albion, his plantation just west. Lush growth crowded the sides of the road while overhanging trees canopied the track, blocking the sun but not the early morning heat. The road ran parallel to the ocean and he could hear the soft hiss of waves through the heavy growth of mangrove and cypress. Distant screeches reminded him of the brightly colored birds in cages on the wharves destined for London drawing rooms.

That thought brought him back to the most exotic creature he’d seen yet: the tempting Widow Hobbs. Widow. Not married. Fair game. She’d have no illusions of a future together. She was self-sufficient and did not need him—a good thing, since he had nothing to give. They’d be free to enjoy whatever comfort the other could offer without impossible expectations.

When Governor Bascombe had insisted upon holding a reception for Lockwood, Hunt had requested that an invitation be sent to Mrs. Daphne Hobbs. The governor had merely smiled and warned that she never attended public affairs.

Too bad. She had made her own way in the world instead of catching another husband—which would have been an easy task for a woman of her looks and manner. She had a backbone. He liked that in a woman. But if she could not be enticed to attend soirées, he would just have to become Pâtisserie’s best customer.

A pair of wrought-iron gates, open to the road, bore the words New Albion. He turned his recently acquired gelding through the gate and proceeded down the track a quarter of a mile.

His first sight of the house surprised him anew. He hadn’t remembered it looking so typically like a British manor. Two stories, with tall windows open to the breeze, it was constructed of stone and covered with a verdant growth of flowering tropical vines. A row of small well-kept cottages formed a semicircle behind the house, and off to one side across a clearing were the barn and stables. The drive made a loop in front and he dismounted at the wide steps.

A short man with dark, slicked-back hair and a luxuriant mustache came down the steps to greet him. “Lord Lockwood? Good to meet you. I’m Jack Prichard, your factor. You had a pleasant voyage, I hope?”

He nodded and shook the man’s hand. “Uneventful, which I hear is a good thing.”

Prichard laughed. “Never know when you’ll encounter a hurricane this time of year.”

Hunt looked toward the cottages. “The staff?”

“And the workers. They are out on the plantation this time of day. Your trunks arrived and I’ve left them in the foyer until you decide where you want to stay. There is a room upstairs with a crossbreeze or, if you prefer privacy, the guesthouse.”

He would prefer privacy. In fact, he would require it. “Where is the guesthouse?”

Prichard pointed to a trail through the garden toward the sound of waves breaking on a beach. “Not far down the path.”

The factor signaled a waiting servant who entered the front hall, hoisted Hunt’s trunk to his shoulder and followed them. The path took them several hundred yards toward the ocean, but the destination was well worth the walk. Single story, long and low, the guesthouse was built on stilts with a porch surrounding the entire structure. When he opened the door, he was enchanted. Though the house was beneath the tree canopy, the ocean was visible through a wall of windows lining the front.

Prichard slid one window to the side, and then another, and fresh sea air swept through the house, making it feel almost a part of the outdoors. Polished native mahogany floors were interrupted only by rich Persian carpets and low rattan chairs with deep cushions that faced the water.

Hunt dropped his jacket over one chair and went to the other room. A wide bed made up in crisp linen sheets was partially shrouded by transparent netting draped from the ceiling. More floor-to-ceiling windows were open to the breeze. The only concession to cooler months was a fireplace in the wall between the outer room and the bedroom, open on both sides. The privacy would suit him well.

“Shall I assign you a personal servant, Lord Lockwood?”

“No servants,” Hunt said. No interference, and no witnesses to his comings and goings.

Daphne smoothed the rich plum silk in her lap. After trying the gown on, she’d only had to take in the seams a fraction beneath her bosom. She’d had the gown remade in Charleston, along with a few others, when she’d gone to visit William at school last year.

And now, with Governor Bascombe’s invitation to a reception honoring a Lord Lockwood tomorrow night sitting on her foyer table, she’d have the perfect opportunity to repay Captain Gilbert for all his thoughtfulness. She’d steal a private moment with the governor, request a patent for the captain to carry official documents and then count her debt to him paid.

The errant notion that she might encounter Mr. Hunt passed through her mind and sped her heartbeat. The mere thought of him was like an opiate—seductive, promising unknown delight, addictive. Dangerous. Every sensible thing in her warned her to stay away from the man. That anything else could bring disaster. That, should he have the faintest suspicion of who she was and what she’d done, all she had worked to build and all she loved would be forfeited.

No, the risk was too great to give in to the temptation that was Mr. Hunt. Nevertheless, and illogically, she twisted the wedding band off her finger, dropped it in her sewing basket and returned to her task.

Taking one final stitch and knotting the thread, Daphne put the gown aside. She arched her back and rolled her head as she stood. Her life since leaving London had been anything but sedentary and now she could not sit for long periods of time. She’d found forgetfulness and peace in hard labor. It was only in the quiet moments that the reality of what she’d become caught up with her.

The faint click of the kitchen door opening drew her attention. Olivia must have come back for something. The housekeeper was always leaving her supper or her mending before going back to the cottage by the gate to her property.

“Olivia?” she called. “What did you forget?”

When there was no answer, an uneasy shiver shot up her spine. “Olivia?” She snatched the scissors from her sewing box and whirled to the back hallway as soft footsteps approached. “I… I have a pistol,” she warned.

“Si, an’ you will use it, too.” A tall Spanish beauty appeared in the doorway. Her long dark hair hung loose to the small of her back and she had the confident look of a woman who knew her own worth. She gave Daphne a saucy grin. “I think you will have to be more ferocious than that if you want to stop someone, querida. If I had been the thief, you would be much the poorer now, eh?”

Daphne exhaled and dropped her scissors. “Why did you not answer me?”

Olivia shrugged. “I wished to see what you would do. I worry about you when I am not here.”

Daphne turned away from her to hide her annoyance. Olivia meant well, but she could often be trying. “I got on quite well before you came along,” she snapped.

“Si?” Olivia laughed and shook her head. “And that is why you are here on St. Claire? Because you ‘got on’ well?”

Daphne had learned almost the same day she arrived on the island that Olivia was a conscienceless busybody. Thank heavens she was discreet. And thank heavens Daphne had been careful to bury her secrets deeply beneath the rain tree behind her house.

“I suspect I am here for the same reason you are, Olivia,” she answered.

Olivia gave a weary shrug. “Men,” she said. “They are the reason for everything, eh? But I came back tonight because I forgot to put the little William’s letter where you could see it. It is in your desk.”

William? She went to the escritoire in one corner of the room. Her spirits lifted and she smiled as she opened the thin little letter and saw the child’s bold writing. “Do you mind if I read it now, Olivia?”

“I will go, querida. Tomorrow, eh?”

“Yes, tomorrow.” Daphane sighed, settling into her chair again. She read the words quickly, then went back to savor them a second time.

Her son was doing well. His letter was filled with news about his friends and classes. He’d finished his exams and had been promoted a level. He had grown two inches since last Christmas. The headmaster and his wife had invited him to stay with them over the Christmas holiday again, but he begged to be allowed to come home. He was homesick for her and St. Claire, he wrote, and promised he would be no trouble.

Trouble? That he could even think such a thing cut like a dagger to her heart. Of course he was no trouble, and she would give anything to have him with her every single day. It tore at her very soul to spend so much time apart from him, but the danger of having him where he could be found if she was discovered was too great. Oh, but surely she could risk having him for the Christmas season? A month? Two?

She withdrew a sheet of paper from the escritoire drawer and scribbled a few lines. Words of encouragement and love, and the promise that she would send for him soon. She folded her letter, sealed it and placed it on the foyer table to take with her to town tomorrow. She would post it by packet to a neighboring island, where it would be routed to Charleston—the only way she could be certain her letters wouldn’t be traced.

Music floated on the sultry island breeze. Chandeliers cast a gentle glow through the grand ballroom. Were it not for the smell of salt air stirring the draperies and the humidity, Hunt could well imagine himself at a state dinner at Whitehall. On his left, Governor Bascombe introduced him to yet another island notable while, on his right, the chargé d’affaires, Mr. Doyle, kept the line moving.

Hunt shook the newest arrival’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Goode,” he said. “I believe we are neighbors, are we not?”

“Aye, Lord Lockwood. Our lands adjoin to the east. Glad you’ve come. Now you can straighten out that factor of yours.”

“Prichard?” Hunt asked in surprise. “Has he encroached on your land or business?”

“In a manner of speaking. I can’t keep workers. Prichard pays yours too much, so mine keep wandering off to New Albion.”

“Have you tried paying yours more, Mr. Goode?”

The man gave him an incredulous look. “Profits, Lord Lockwood. That would cut my profits.”

“Ah, yes,” Doyle interrupted smoothly. “A man must make a living, mustn’t he? Have you tried the hors d’oeuvres, Mr. Goode? They’re delicious. You’ll find them in the drawing room.”

“Nicely done, Doyle,” Hunt said when Mr. Goode had shuffled off to the drawing room. The chargé was the type of man who had always been popular at school—charming, good-looking and the sort one wanted on one’s cricket team.

The tall, fair, solidly built chargé grinned. “Mr. Goode has a tendency toward confrontation. Easy enough to manage when you see it coming.”

Hunt was about to reply when he caught a flash of shimmering plum from the corner of his eye. He refocused on the captivating creature. Mrs. Hobbs. Bascombe had been wrong. She’d come. Dare he hope she’d come alone? He gave a polite half bow and excused himself.

She had her back to him and he took a moment to admire the curve of her swanlike neck and the set of her shoulders. Her sun-streaked hair, done in an interesting twist at her nape, glowed in the candlelight. He could smell her scent—not vanilla and sugar, as it had been in her shop, but something more tropical. Oleander? No, gardenia. He inhaled deeply before speaking.

“Mrs. Hobbs. I am delighted to find you here.”

She spun and left him bemused. The cut of her gown was both innocent and bold, revealing the valley between her breasts and suggesting a hidden lushness. And was that a hint of black lace beneath the plum silk? Lord! Was she wearing a black chemise? His mind ran riot with the fantasy and his body responded shamelessly.

“Mr. Hunt,” she said in a low, throaty voice, obviously unaware of what she was doing to his pulse. “I wondered if you might be here tonight.” She offered her hand, as gracious as any duchess.

Mr. Hunt? Then she still didn’t know who he was? He bowed over her hand and held it fast. “Have you come alone, Mrs. Hobbs? Might I importune you for a waltz?”

She glanced around and took note of Governor Bascombe, still in conversation with Mr. Goode near the punch bowl.

“You can pay your respects to our host afterward,” he said. “In fact, I will be pleased to take you to him myself.”

A shadow of indecision passed over her features and he thought she might refuse. Then she looked up at him and when her uncertain green eyes met his, he could see her surrender. Whatever internal battle she had been waging had just been lost. And he’d won. Still holding her hand in his, he led her to the dance floor.

She tilted her chin to look up at him and an enigmatic smile curved her full lips. She looked so exactly like a woman who’d just tempted fate that he grinned back.

“It’s just a dance, Mrs. Hobbs. I’m not going to devour you,” he said, not entirely certain that was the truth.

She laughed and moistened her lips as he led her into the dance. “It’s just that…it has been a while, Mr. Hunt.”

“Really? How long?”

She shook her head. “So long I cannot remember. Six, seven years?”

“Ah, since your husband died.”

“Long before that. I…we did not mix in society much. My husband did not like to dance, and he did not like me to dance with others.”

And yet, as they danced, he’d have sworn dancing had been second nature to her. “Where was that? London?”

“Yes. It seems like another lifetime ago.”

He found it hard to believe that he could have missed her, even in the height of the seasonal crush. He had no doubt she was a part of the ton, even if only on the periphery. Could she have come to town when he was away on business?

“You have not forgotten a single step,” he said, and led her into a quick turn.

She tilted her head back and laughed. “I shall hope I keep my balance.”

“Follow my lead, Mrs. Hobbs. I shall keep your balance.” He should be doing his job—meeting and charming the locals, ferreting out information about the islanders, pirates and the leeward side of St. Claire—but he didn’t care. He’d rather dance with Mrs. Hobbs than breathe at the moment.

“How long have you been on St. Claire?” he asked, still curious how he had ever missed meeting her in London.

She glanced away and sighed. “A little more than five years.”

“Less than ten?”

He felt her resistance to his questions in the stiffening of her spine and her unwillingness to meet his gaze. Mrs. Hobbs was hiding something. He’d seen the signs too many times to be fooled by it now. He shouldn’t be surprised. After all, most of the English occupants of the West Indies were hiding from something or looking for a fresh start. Had she just wanted to find a life away from painful memories after her husband died?

He glanced sideways at her hand on his shoulder. Her wedding ring was gone. That was interesting, as was her pretty blush when she noticed the direction of his gaze.

The music ended and he released her with a reluctant sigh, remembering his promise to deliver her to the governor. He offered his arm and led her toward the reception line, which had halted in his absence.

“Ah, here you are,” Bascombe said as they approached. “We’ve been waiting for you, Lockwood. But now that I see what has delayed you, I completely understand.”

“Lockwood?” Mrs. Hobbs looked up at him in surprise.

“Oh? I thought you’d been introduced.” Bascombe looked between them with a touch of reproach, as if to say that they shouldn’t have danced without a proper introduction. “Lord Lockwood, may I present Mrs. Daphne Hobbs? Mrs. Hobbs, please meet Reginald Hunter, Lord Lockwood.”

Unbelievably, Hunt saw a veil drop over her features, as if she had just shut herself off from him. She performed a graceful curtsy and bowed her head. “Lord Lockwood. So pleased to meet you.”

If they had not been surrounded by people, he might have told her to call him Reginald, Hunt or Lockwood, but not Lord Lockwood, or my lord, or sir, or any of the other words that would put distance between them. He bowed, lifting her hand to his lips. She met his gaze over her hand and her expression was guarded. When he released her, she moved away, as if she’d been just another guest waiting in line to meet him.

Oh, no. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment, but he was not about to let her close him out so easily.

Daphne sipped a glass of wine as she stood in the shadows and watched the reception line dwindle. Whatever tryst or liaison she’d fantasized about with Mr. Hunt was now an impossibility. As Lord Lockwood, he would mix with the same society she had fled. He would have heard the scandal concerning her. She was not naive enough to think such a delicious bit of gossip would have been hushed up. She would wager everything she owned that Lord Lockwood would know the name Lady Barrett. It was not every day a peer’s wife murdered him and escaped the country with his family’s jewels and the heir to the title.

As soon as she could make her plea to Governor Bascombe, she would excuse herself and leave. Furthermore, she would ask Hannah to wait on Lockwood if he came to Pâtisserie again. She would immediately remove herself as far as she could from his notice. She’d only been successful in remaining undiscovered all these years by avoiding encounters such as this.

Finally, Governor Bascombe exchanged a few words with Lord Lockwood and moved away, leaving Lockwood with the chargé. She seized the opportunity and went forward to take the governor’s arm.

“Thank you for inviting me,” she said as she led him toward a balcony overlooking the bay.

“Not at all, m’dear. Thank you for coming. You’ve always refused, and that’s what I told Lockwood.”

“The invitation was his idea?”

“Imagine my astonishment to learn that you’d never been formally introduced. Ah, well, that’s fixed now. A very clever way for him to arrange a proper introduction. I think it’s plain that you can expect even more attention from Lockwood.”

Daphne looked over her shoulder to see Lockwood deep in conversation with a local planter. How extraordinary that he would request an invitation for her.

But she could not think of that at the moment. A quick glance right and left assured her that they were quite alone on the balcony. “Actually, I wanted to speak with you, Governor Bascombe. I have a favor to ask.”

“Well, now. I hope it is within my power to grant.”

“The favor is for a friend of mine. Captain Gilbert. He makes the run from London to Washington and St. Claire, and then back to London. He is here at least three times a year.”

“Yes. I’ve met the man. Quite competent.”

“I’m glad you think so, sir. You see, I thought it might make good business sense to offer him a patent to carry official government documents.”

The governor just stared at her, speechless. No doubt he was not accustomed to women meddling in state affairs. This was going to take a little finessing.

“I am concerned, sir, that Captain Gilbert may discontinue the run if it is not more profitable. As he is one of the most reliable shippers to make port in St. Claire, I think it would be expedient to make him the offer. I must say that I depend upon him for my supplies of untainted flour and a number of spices. He has even been known to take small orders for cloth and other items. I’m certain there are some items that you and Mrs. Bascombe have come to rely upon. Surely it would be a detriment if he should forego St. Claire in the future.”

“Er, yes,” he replied. “Hmm. I suppose there would be no harm in it.”

She gave him an admiring smile. “The only one who could say nay is the king, and I do not think he would have much interest in such a matter.”

The governor rubbed his chin. “I will take the matter under advisement, Mrs. Hobbs.”

“That is all I ask, sir. I trust your judgment and know you will make the right decision.”

Governor Bascombe preened as she led him back into the glittering ballroom. The interview had gone marginally better than she had anticipated. She’d summon her gig and be home within an hour.

Scarcely attending the conversation, Hunt watched the doors to the balcony until he saw the governor and Mrs. Hobbs reappear. He had a sudden twinge of jealousy that Mrs. Hobbs and the governor might be…no, impossible! The man was nearly twice her age, and his manner, when he introduced them, had been quite formal.

“I say, Lockwood, I cannot blame you! Mrs. Hobbs is rather tempting, is she not?” his companion asked.

Unaccountably annoyed by Doyle’s comment, he shrugged. “I’ve scarcely seen lovelier. Does she have…is she involved with anyone?”

Doyle chuckled. “Not that anyone knows. She’s quite reclusive. Believe me, if I’d found an opening, I’d have tried. She has a Spanish housekeeper, and the rumor is that they are—” He paused and gave an eloquent shrug.

“Impossible,” Hunt said.

Doyle laughed again. “Ah, you’ve been struck by the thunderbolt. As delectable as she is, she really is not suitable, Lockwood. Well, for a discreet affair, perhaps, or to be your mistress. But how would you ever explain that Lady Lockwood had been a tradeswoman? She’d never fit in, you know.”

Lockwood was well past worrying what was suitable and what was not. There was a world of difference between taking a mistress and getting married. He watched as she curtsied nicely to the governor and headed for the foyer. Ah, the innocent dove! Did she really think she’d escape unnoticed?

Chapter Four

D aphne stood on the bottom step as she waited for her gig to be brought around from the stables. She could still hear the strains of a waltz, and sighed. She’d enjoyed her dance with Lord Lockwood. Perhaps too much.

Back in London, the year she had been presented to society, she had loved to dance and had often waltzed until dawn. Barrett had dogged her every footstep and courted her relentlessly. At first she’d been flattered, but when he’d somehow bribed her brother, she ceased to be amused. In the days and years that followed, Lord Douglas Barrett proved to be as bullish and relentless a husband as he had been a suitor.

She shuddered at the memory and closed her eyes against the visions. She had lived the horror too often and dared not give it a foothold now. Her peace had been too hard-won.

A breeze tugged a few long strands of hair loose from their pins and caressed her cheeks. She brushed them back impatiently, thinking that she was coming undone in more ways than one.

“Do you have a chill, Mrs. Hobbs?”

Oh, that deep baritone! She did not need to open her eyes to know who had joined her. A frisson of warning raced up her spine. She placed a smile on her face before she turned. “Lord Lockwood. Shouldn’t you be at your party?”

He grinned and shook his head. “I’ve met everyone, Mrs. Hobbs, and as far as I’m concerned, the best part of the party is right here.”

A scorching heat infused her cheeks. How could he unnerve her so? Could anyone so glib be trustworthy? “Then it is a pity that I am going home.”

“Can I persuade you to honor me with one more dance?”

In the moment of her hesitation, a stable boy brought her gig around from the stables. She shrugged. “Sorry, Lord Lockwood, but here’s my gig. Nellie doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“And who can blame her?” He went forward and stroked Nellie’s forehead. The mare blew out softly and pushed her nose against Lockwood’s shoulder. “A beautiful girl should never have to wait. Where’s your driver?” he asked.

“Here,” she admitted, tapping a finger against her chest.

He seemed at a loss for words for a moment, then regained his composure. He took the ribbons and flipped the boy a coin. “Bring my horse around, will you, lad?”

The boy was off at a run and Daphne realized what Lockwood intended. “Please do not inconvenience yourself, Lord Lockwood.”

“You cannot expect me to stand by and allow you to hazard weather, brigands and a broken axle alone?”

“I am not your responsibility, sir. And I drive the road alone every day.”

“In the daylight,” he amended. “There are hidden dangers in the dark.”

Not the least of which was him. “Really, my lord, there is no need—”

“I won’t hear of it. If you will not permit it for your sake, permit it for mine. How would you expect me to live with myself if anything should happen to you on your way home tonight? What if you were attacked by brigands? How could I ever call myself a gentleman again?”

She paused. This was not like Barrett’s heavy-handed manipulation. Lockwood was half cajoling and half serious. She almost believed he really was anxious for her safety. “There are no brigands on St. Claire,” she said, only half convincing herself.

His forehead creased and doubt narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain?”

Was she? Crime was more prevalent on St. Claire than in London. The waterfront brought all types here, most of them trying to hide aboard a ship or lose themselves in a new land.

Her indecision made up his mind. The stable boy arrived and Lockwood looped the reins of his horse to the box behind the passenger compartment of the gig. He handed her up and waited for her to settle herself before climbing in and taking the ribbons. At the end of the drive, he asked, “East or west, Mrs. Hobbs?”

“West. Are you certain I am not taking you out of your way?”

“I am now.” He turned west at the end of the drive onto the coastal road.

She looked sideways at him and realized that this was what she’d wanted. Despite her protests, she’d been secretly hopeful that he’d find a way to persuade her. Oh, but what was she thinking? She should be avoiding him, praying he wouldn’t remember her face five minutes after he embarked for London!

Tomorrow. She’d avoid him tomorrow. And every day after that until he was gone.

“How long will you be on St. Claire, Lord Lockwood?”

“Longer than I’d originally planned.” He gave her a crooked smile and her heart lurched. “And we need to come to an agreement about the way you address me. Reginald, Hunt or Lockwood would be my choices. I’d rather leave my title behind, if it’s all the same to you.”

“But why? A title is a great advantage in society.”

“Not when it puts distance between me and what I want.”

“What do you—” She cleared her throat and turned back to the road. “A fortnight, then? Or longer?”

He laughed and she knew he was amused by her embarrassment. “A fortnight at the least,” he said. “A month at the most.”

She gazed out at the passing landscape, eerie in the night shadows, and clasped her hands in her lap, wondering what she should do. Lord Lockwood was an outrageous flirt, yet she was captivated by his easy charm and intrigued by the hint of danger beneath it. And tempted—for the first time since…

“What brought you to St. Claire, Mrs. Hobbs?”

“A frigate, Lord Lockwood.”

He grinned but did not press. Instead he reminded her of his wishes. “Lockwood. Reggie. Hunter. Hunt. Surely you can find one you like?”

She breathed deeply and exhaled her tension. It was only a ride home. He did not seem like a Reginald and Hunt seemed somehow too…intimate. “And what brought you here, Lockwood?”

His pause was fractionally longer than natural and she realized he was hiding secrets of his own. “I’ve been debating whether to sell my interests here or to keep them.”

“Are they profitable?”

“Moderately so. Since I am a planter, my profits are tied to seasonal vagaries.”

She nodded. “As are those of most islanders who are not engaged in shipping and trade. But since St. Claire is small, I doubt it will ever compete with other islands in goods or shipping.”

“Is that your conclusion, or that of most islanders?”

“Mine, I suppose. When the St. Claire Planters’ Society decided not to cultivate sugarcane, it limited growth. Most of our exports, with the exception of mahogany, are delicate or perishable, which makes transport difficult.”

“Do you disapprove of that decision, Mrs. Hobbs?”

“I do not necessarily see growth as a desirable thing.” More settlers from England would mean more likelihood of recognition.

He nodded and looped the ribbons through his left hand with the casual grace of one accustomed to taking the reins. With his right hand, he swept the moonlit vista ahead of them. “It would be a shame to lose all this. But I find myself wondering what the attraction might be for a woman like you. In London, you’d easily make a good marriage and have a life of ease. Instead, you’ve chosen to labor on a distant island with an uncertain future.”

“Some things are preferable to marriage, Lockwood.” As soon as the words were out, she realized what she’d given away. She cleared her throat and hastened to add, “And the…memories were too painful to remain in London.”

“You could have removed to the country.”

“I did not want my husband’s family managing my life.” She frowned at him, hoping that would be enough to discourage further questions.

Undaunted, Lord Lockwood seemed to consider her statement. “Hobbs. Hmm. I wonder if I knew him. I believe there are Hobbses in Devon, are there not? What was his given name?”

“I would not imagine you ever met him. We did not travel in such lofty circles as yours.”

He glanced at her in surprise and she wondered if he had detected the lie in her voice. “I did not mean to offend you, Mrs. Hobbs. You think I’m prying, do you not?”

“Aren’t you?”

He looked apologetic. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am. I tend to see the world as a Chinese puzzle. I want to know how all the pieces fit. The curse of an orderly mind, I fear.”

Some of her tension eased and the edge of panic receded. “I dislike speaking about the past. The memories are painful.”

“Then we shan’t,” he said. “What shall we discuss instead?”

“You, Lord Lockwood. Why is it that every time I ask you a question, you give me a short answer and turn the conversation around to me again?”

“I swear I’m not as meddling as you think. I’m new to St. Claire and want to know everything about it. But I promise to leave you alone. Shall we discuss the island?”

That should be safe enough. “Of course. Our main exports are—”

He guffawed. “I do not want the tour lecture, Mrs. Hobbs. Tell me what sights are worth seeing before I’m off again.”

“The waterfall on Mount Colombo. That is my favorite, if your time is limited. Take a picnic lunch, since there are no stops between.”

“Is there a walking path?”

“An easy one. I’ve walked it with my son.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Lockwood turned to her with a puzzled expression. “Oddly enough, I hadn’t suspected you had children. Perhaps because you look so young. How old is your son, or is that prying?”

She’d have to be more careful about volunteering information. She couldn’t blame him for his curiosity. “He is eight years old, and away at school.”

“Ah. And are there more?”

“No. Only William.”

Another long pause, and then he said, “That must be very lonely for you, Mrs. Hobbs.”

She blinked and cleared her throat. She was not going to cry in front of Lord Lockwood. She drew herself back to the subject at hand. “There is a coral reef beyond the settlements where the mountains begin on the northwest side of the island. They are beautiful, and the water is so clear that you can see the most amazing fish. Do you swim, sir?”

He nodded.

“Then I would definitely recommend the trip, although it is not a simple one. There are no boats for hire there, and no towns. The reefs are too treacherous for ships to anchor or even send a tender ashore.”

He stared at her again before he spoke. “I shall put that on my list. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of at the moment. If something should occur to me, I shall send you a note.”

“No need. I’ll be stopping by your shop. You can just tell me.”

How could she be both anxious to see him and dismayed at the prospect? It wasn’t logical in the least, and yet he seemed to create these paradoxes in her.

“What can you tell me about Blackpool, Mrs. Hobbs?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. We keep to our side of the island and they keep to theirs.”

“I’ve been thinking that I’d like to see a town built on cliffs. If I can find a spare day or two, I believe I’ll go.”

“I hear large ships occasionally moor offshore, but the rip currents are treacherous for small boats and skiffs. I wouldn’t recommend it, Lockwood.”

“Thought I might walk overland. Have a peek at the waterfall and volcano on my way. I’m the consummate British traveler, you know.”

She laughed. “Even overland, I wouldn’t recommend it.” The inhabitants of Blackpool were determinedly unfriendly. And there were darker, unsubstantiated rumors that some visitors never returned at all. She would hate to have Lockwood suffer a similar fate.

He was silent for a time, as if he were digesting the information. When he finally spoke, it was not what she expected. “I confess that I suspect a conspiracy here. Every time I mention Blackpool, I’m met with silence or abrupt warnings to stay away. What is over there? Cannibals?”

Heavens! She wished she could laugh at that, but no one really seemed to know what went on over there. “I assure you, I have no idea. The mystery existed before I arrived in San Marco and I’ve never gone there. I have known people who have been there, but they do not speak of it.”

“By the saints! With a temptation like that, I’m amazed that half of San Marco has not gone to see for themselves.”

The comment made her smile. She’d thought the same thing. “I do not know what to tell you, Lockwood. You now have the sum total of my knowledge of Blackpool. But it is your turn. Tell me what has passed in London the last five years.”

“I fear only more of the same. Prinny overdrawing the royal coffers, riots over the price of corn, the Spa Field riots, general social unrest—but you do not want to hear this.”

“Oh, but I do!”

She was so eager that he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, at least tell me the on dit. Men are no good at gossip, but I shall take what I can get.”

What a clever little jibe to loosen his tongue. “Ah, the on dit. Well then, you knew, of course, that the Burlington Arcade opened in Piccadilly? Two floors of excellent shopping, or so I’ve been told by my sister. I have been shopping there, myself.”

“No!” She feigned a delightful disbelief. “What did you purchase?”

“Wedding gifts.”

“For whom?”

“Ah, a sad story, that. You knew that Princess Charlotte died after giving birth to a stillborn son?” He waited for her nod. “Yes? Well, it was truly scandalous what happened next.”

“What?”

“Since Prinny has no other heirs, the royal dukes raced to the altar with suitable women in tow. Clarence wed Princess Adelaide, Kent wed Mary Victoria, Cambridge wed Princess Augusta. I vow, ’twas impoverishing me to buy wedding gifts that year. Kent has won the race for England’s future by producing a daughter, Princess Victoria. The entire country is praying for her health. And for a son.”

He had hoped to amuse her, but she turned thoughtful at this news. “Heirs,” she said with a wistful sigh. “They are important, are they not? Do you have an heir, Lockwood?”

“Aye. Three of them. My brothers, Andrew, Charles and James.”

The road veered into the deep canopy of overhanging trees and the night became somehow more intimate without the light of the moon.

“No heirs of your own?” she asked.

“Not yet, Mrs. Hobbs.”

“Do you not want to marry?”

He winced at the surprise in her voice and fought the impulse to tell her the truth—that he couldn’t live a lie. More to the point, that he couldn’t subject an innocent woman to the life he’d led and was still living. That he’d never marry, never risk the revulsion of his wife when she found out who he really was. If he dared to share the truth, she would flee, appalled by his past and the things he’d done. No, he’d have to give her the expected response of half-truths, omissions and lighthearted lies.

“I haven’t reached my ripe old age unattached by avoiding women, Mrs. Hobbs. On the contrary, I’ve been searching high and low for the right one. Ah, the rigors I’ve endured! The disappointments.”

“The rejections?”

“Dozens.”

Now she laughed outright. “I am loath to call you a liar, Lockwood, but that just does not seem possible.”

He shrugged. “I suppose you’d be right. I’ve never actually had the opportunity to propose. I seem to always come up late. My friends snatch up the good ones.”

“Have you ever thought of fighting for the one you love?”

“An interesting concept, that,” he admitted. “Perhaps I have not loved deeply enough to do so. But my sister swears she will choose me a wife if I do not come up with one soon.”

“I shall hope, for your sake, that she has excellent judgment.”

“She does. She is the only one of us married and is the youngest of us all.”

“That must aggravate the matchmaking mamas at Almack’s. Four eligible men, none of them married? You must be the talk of the town.”

Were they? He wouldn’t be surprised. Ah, but he and his brothers had avoided Almack’s for the past five years. The atmosphere was too cloying and the almost unseemly forwardness of mothers desperate to marry off their daughters was too unsettling.

“My dear Mrs. Hobbs, I am more like most men than you’d suspect. Society has become stale and I would like to believe I could find friendship and affection with a woman who would be willing to cast her lot in with mine and, if fortune favors us, have a gaggle of little Hunters. Failing that, my brothers will provide heirs aplenty.”

“Yet I must maintain that the only obstacle to your goal is you. If you wanted a wife, Lockwood, you would have one.” She waved at a gate just off the road. “Here. This is Sea Whisper, my home.”

Ah, this was convenient. Should he tell her that his plantation adjoined her property? He turned the gig down the drive and passed a small gatehouse cottage with a light in one window. Mrs. Hobbs, noting his interest, said, “My housekeeper lives there. This is far enough, my lord. No harm could possibly come to me on my own land.”

He drew up and paused with the reins in his hands. He did not want their ride to end. “Thank you for your company, Mrs. Hobbs.”

She tilted her face up to his and smiled. “Thank you for your escort home, Lord Lockwood.”

In the moonlight filtering through the oaks and cypress, she took his breath away. It had been months—nay, years—since he’d kissed a woman as enticing as this one.

Slowly, allowing her to escape if that were her wish, he bent to her lips. To his profound relief, she did not demur. On some level, she must have been expecting it. The dark fan of her lashes lowered as he hovered, barely touching, unwilling to deepen the contact until he had a response. When her lips parted ever so slightly, he was quick to take the gift she offered. Her mouth tasted of a subtle honey blended with flowers and heat, as delicious as any of her confections.

He met her tongue, shared his fire and hunger with her. A shivering sigh was her only response, as if she were struggling to regain her senses. Dear Lord, he knew he was lost. A single kiss, and he wanted Mrs. Hobbs with an intensity that nearly doubled him over. Wanted to lose himself between her heated thighs, to bury himself inside her and hear her sighs of passion.

Instead, she placed one trembling palm against his chest and pushed him away with a little gasp. “Please, I…that was a mistake, Lockwood. It must never happen again.”

What a sweet little fool she was if she thought they could recork that bottle. Once opened, that particular brew was too intoxicating to leave untasted. But he’d grant her the illusion of control, and he’d wait for the inevitable outcome. Because he had no doubt they would become lovers.

He smoothed a wayward strand of hair back from her cheek and passed her the ribbons. If she was expecting an apology, she was not going to get it, nor would she get a promise it would never happen again. He grinned at her bemusement and stepped down from the gig. Unfastening the reins of his horse, he mounted as she pulled away down the drive.

“Sweet dreams, Mrs. Hobbs,” he called after her.

Gasping, Daphne woke in the middle of the night, sitting up, sweat soaking her thin nightgown and tears dampening her cheeks. She threw her covers back and staggered to her feet, wishing she could cast off the haunting memories as easily.

What had brought them on—the memories of terror and pain she had so carefully buried, suppressed with hard work and denial? Just surviving—keeping William safe from his greedy uncle, preparing him to claim his rightful inheritance and escaping the hangman’s noose—had consumed her days and nights. That had become all she knew of life these last five years.

Then, Lockwood’s kiss! That one small intimacy had awakened the dormant part of her—the woman she had been before Barrett. Before the nightmare marriage and that final bloody night. That she could even think of the sweetness of a kiss again, or the aching of her heart for something she’d never thought to have, was completely unacceptable. She had denied herself for five years. Surely she could deny Lockwood for a few weeks?

Chapter Five

“Y ou’re awfully quiet this morning,” Hannah said. “Did you enjoy the governor’s reception?”

Daphne sighed and continued to roll the pastry dough out until it was paper thin. “It was not as tedious as I feared it would be.”

“About time you got out, I’d say,” Hannah commented as she added wood to the fire beneath the oven. “I wondered how long it would take you to come out of mourning.”

“Oh, that happened long ago. And last night does not mark a change—it was simply the exception to a very strong rule.”

“I wouldn’t dismiss the notion, Daphne. There may yet be someone who can turn your head and carry you away.”

Reginald Hunter’s face flashed before her, and she blinked. No. Never. Not on a cold day in hell. If he remembered her, and if he should see her portrait somewhere, she’d be arrested and taken back to England—and she’d do no more than step off the ship before she’d be hanged. What would become of William then? Barrett’s brother would take custody. She doubted William would survive his Uncle Alfred’s care. He was every bit as brutish as Barrett had been. But once William achieved his majority, Alfred would hold no power over him. Only then would William dare return to England.

The shop bell rang and Hannah hurried to see who it was. A moment later, Captain Gilbert peeked around the kitchen door and grinned at Daphne. “I stopped by to thank you, Mrs. Hobbs. I just left Governor Bascombe. He summoned me this morning and we’ve had a most interesting interview. It seems I’m to have the patent to carry government documents between here and London.”

She wiped her hands on her apron. “I hope that will make your circuits more profitable.”

“By a far sight, Mrs. Hobbs. And I understand I have you to thank for it.”

She was slightly abashed to have been caught in her machinations. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that, sir. I simply mentioned your name.”

“Not the way the governor retells the story.” He grinned. “He told me that you have shunned island society since your arrival, and that you suddenly showed up when least expected. He said you were a woman with a purpose, however, and that you left once you’d accomplished that purpose.”

She grimaced that she’d been so transparent. “I made a suggestion. That is all. Please do not make more of it than it warrants.”

The shop bell interrupted them. Even with Hannah in front, Daphne seized the opportunity to halt the conversation. She left her rolling pin on the worktable and hurried into the shop.

Lord Lockwood stood at the counter, bending over the pastry tray, his hands clasped behind his back. When he saw her, his lips curved in a smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hobbs,” he said, his voice soft and warm.

“Good morning, Lord Lockwood,” she murmured. She felt Captain Gilbert come up behind her.

“’Lo, Lord Lockwood,” he said.

The warm smile changed subtly to one of polite formality. “Captain.” He nodded. “How’s the provisioning going?”

“Slowly, I fear. Looks like it will take a fortnight to have the cargo aboard and make ready to sail. Mrs. Hobbs, however, has just seen to it that I keep making the run from London.”

A flicker of something feral passed through Lockwood’s eyes. “Did she? Well, I’d guess she could be persuasive.”

Heavens! Did he think she’d persuaded the captain with favors? She started to deny it and then decided it would be better for Lockwood to believe anything that would make him keep his distance.

Captain Gilbert, however, was quick to sort out the misunderstanding. “Mrs. Hobbs was kind enough to speak to Governor Bascombe on my behalf. I’ve been given a patent on carrying official documents and correspondence between St. Claire and London.”

“I see,” Lockwood said.

But he didn’t. The hardness that settled around his features told her that.

The uncomfortable silence drew out until she remembered herself. “Oh, sorry. Can I get something for you?” She moved behind the counter and fussed with a rack of cooling bread.

“Something smells good, Mrs. Hobbs. What do you have cooking?”

“Cobblers, but they won’t be ready for hours.”

“Ah, well, I won’t have time to wait.”

Impulsively, she tore off a length of paper and placed a cherry tart in the center. “A poor substitute, Lord Lockwood. I regret the cherries were not fresh, but preserves suit quite well.” She folded the paper over it and tied it with the blue ribbon. “Careful, or the crust will split and the filling will make you sticky.”

He accepted the package with a slight bow. “I am in your debt, Mrs. Hobbs.”

“Not in the least, Lord Lockwood. I regret it is all I have to offer at the moment.”

“I will be pleased to take whatever you offer, Mrs. Hobbs.” He gave her an appraising glance. “Whenever you offer it.”

Her mind went blank and she could only nod and hurry back to the kitchen, mumbling an excuse about the dough rising. The low voices of the two men carried to her, but she could not make out their words. She did not like the idea of Lockwood questioning Captain Gilbert.

The shop bell rang again and a moment later Captain Gilbert appeared in the kitchen doorway. He leaned one shoulder against the jamb. “Once again, I thank you for your efforts on my behalf, Mrs. Hobbs. If ever there is anything I can do for you, I stand ready and willing.”

“Just keep bringing me newspapers, Captain.”

At quarter past eleven that night, Lockwood found the abandoned hut without trouble. Layton’s directions had been quite precise. He waited in darkness, melding with the shadows of a massive oak. When Oliver Layton arrived and dismounted, he watched while the agent checked the brick over the lintel for messages.

He came up behind Layton and tapped him on the shoulder. Layton jumped and spun around, his pistol drawn and cocked. “Sweet Jesus,” he cursed in a whisper when he saw who it was. “I could have killed you, Lockwood!”

“Not with your throat slit,” he mocked. “Island life is making you sloppy.”

The man shrugged good-naturedly. “Lesson learned. But what are you doing here? Have you found something out?”

“I’m just getting started,” Hunt admitted. “I did a little quiet questioning at the reception and discovered a few interesting tidbits. Nothing concrete at the moment, but I will let you know should anything come of it.”

“Is that all?” Layton frowned.

“Guard your tongue with the harbormaster.”

Layton raised his eyebrows and gave a succinct nod.

“I heard a piece of gossip that the American president has authorized the formation of an antipiracy squadron. If it’s true, we might find some help there.”

Layton laughed. “They’ve got their hands full trying to protect their own ships. Aside from that, it will be another year before such a squadron is outfitted and ready to sail. Heaven knows it will take a year before our own government decides what to do with the information we gather. And yet I had the impression that events here were critical and urgent.”

Hunt thought of the dwindling fortunes in London and of the unknown man who had secretly betrayed them all. And what Layton didn’t know was that their government had sent him to deal with the situation. “I’ve given up trying to second-guess the government,” he told the agent. “Have you heard any rumors of corruption or collusion on the part of local officials?”

Layton raised an eyebrow. “If you mean the harbormaster, nary a whisper. Is that something I should pursue?”

“Not at the moment,” he answered, unwilling to expose the Foreign Office’s suspicion.

When Layton turned to go, Hunt ventured another question. “Ever patronize Pâtisserie?”

A roll of the eyes gave him the answer.

“Which little delicacy do you favor?”

“Mrs. Breton. Hannah. Those curves haunt my dreams.”

“Have you wooed her?”

“Good God, no! A longshoreman wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance with someone like her.”

“You’re not a longshoreman.”

“Aye, 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 loneliness and longing. In the five years since… Barrett…she hadn’t been more than mildly tempted, but this man was different. There was a promise of pleasure in his eyes and a deep magic in his touch.

He stroked her spine from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, pressing her closer. “It’s a dream,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “Just a dream. When you wake, it will be your secret. No one else’s. No words will ever be spoken. Can you let yourself dream, Daphne?”

Dream? It had been so long. Did she even remember how?

“A dream,” he murmured again, his lips brushing hers. “In a dream, nothing is forbidden.”

She slipped her arms around his neck to drag his mouth down to hers. A moan started somewhere deep inside him and he tilted his head to nuzzle her neck as he lifted her off her feet. He carried her up the steps of a cottage and across the mahogany planks to what must be his bedroom.

He placed her on her feet, lifted the chemise over her head and dropped it on the floor in a sodden heap. Heedless of her damp skin and the sand clinging to them both, he lifted her again and laid her against the pillows. She held her breath as he unfastened his trousers and let them fall.

He was lean, well-sculpted and beautifully proportioned. And, heaven help her, he was twice the man her husband had been. In every way. Logic mingled with anxiety and she began to panic. What had she done? Three days ago she hadn’t even met this man, and tonight she was naked in his bed. It was wrong. It was madness.

And she wanted it more than she’d wanted anything in a very long time.

Can you let yourself dream, Daphne?

He lay down on the mattress beside her. A kiss—a single kiss—and she was caught in a vortex dragging her deeper and deeper. He pulled her to him, pressed himself against the length of her. She trailed her fingers down his side, enthralled by the solid strength of the man in contrast to his exquisitely gentle touch.

Lowering his head, he paused to kiss a tender spot where her neck met her shoulder, and a deep shudder went through her. Then his tongue trailed to the hollow of her throat, and she could feel the heat of his lips against her flesh.

“Sweet Daphne, your sighs are an aphrodisiac.”

She moaned at the deep warm rumble of his voice, and he moved lower still, capturing one tender nipple between his lips and drawing a tingle up from her belly. She felt herself dissolving, becoming fluid beneath his hands, and when those hands moved downward over her stomach to glide past her nether hair to find her entrance, she bit her lip to hold back an outcry.

Passion? Need? Possession? What were the feelings overwhelming her? She couldn’t name them. She only knew she didn’t want them to stop. And when he began stroking her, she gasped, wondering why she’d never felt such intimacy and surrender with Barrett.

And then, in the back of her mind, she heard a nagging voice—her conscience?—warning her. If you surrender to this man, you’ll never be whole again. If you let him make love to you, you are lost. He will learn your secrets and betray you, and when he does, you will truly die inside.

“No,” she sighed with the last of her will. “I cannot do this.” She struggled to sit up, her limbs as heavy as if she’d been drugged.

Hunt looked confused and reached out to her. “Daphne, I will not hurt you. If you do not want this…”

Want it? Oh, yes, she wanted it with every tingling nerve, every throbbing pulse, but she could not. The memory of Barrett made it impossible. Would always make it impossible. Because his ghost always reminded her that she was a fraud. That she was a murderess and, given half a chance, that she’d do the same again. That she was hollow and had nothing inside to give.

She scooped her chemise off the floor and ran from the room.

Chapter Six

C hirping insects. The deep croak of frogs. The eternal sound of the waves. Yes, the storm had passed, leaving peace in its wake.

Hunt rolled over, the sheet twisting around him. His first thought was of the gift the storm had brought and then taken away. He sat up and stared at the pillow that still held the impression of her head. A wild white orchid was all that remained. If not for that, he could have dreamed her. Ah, but he could still smell her. Warm ambergris, orchid and sea spray. And woman. And, God, what a woman.

He stood and pulled his trousers on. Not bothering with shoes, he went down the verandah steps to the sand. An edge of watercolor blue stained the eastern horizon. Dawn was not far.

He found the place where they’d met, marked by the conch shell she had dropped, abandoned in the sea foam now. He picked it up and stroked the smooth pink inner curves. As smooth and delicate as Daphne had been.

He returned to the house and stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at the damp impression of her chemise on the floor, remembering her as she’d looked when he removed it. A flash of lightning had revealed her, flushed, trembling, her skin glistening from the rain, her sun-streaked hair curling down her back in a riotous wet windblown tangle and a wild orchid tucked behind her ear. She had looked like Venus rising from the sea.

There’d been something electric in the air. A tingling certainty. Something fated. They’d both felt it beneath their skin. They’d known from the moment they saw each other on the beach how it should end. It had been absurd to resist. Pray Daphne would realize that soon. Pray a fortnight would be sufficient to take his fill.

He placed the conch shell on his bureau and went to find the brandy bottle. Blast! Now he was drinking his breakfast!

Hunt pulled himself back into the moment and resettled in his chair on the governor’s terrace overlooking the bay. Every time he let his guard down, his thoughts drifted back to orchids, soft flesh and hard passion. Damn! Was there no escape from the spell Daphne had woven around him? “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You were saying?”

Gavin Doyle cocked an eyebrow and gave him a slanted grin. “I was saying that there’s nothing to see in Blackpool. The governor would prefer you stay on this side of Mount Colombo.”

Would he? “Have you been there, Doyle?”

“Once,” the chargé admitted. He poured another cup of dark, bitter coffee for Hunt. “Not worth the trouble. The people are unfriendly, the women are not attractive and the terrain is challenging. I’d rather climb an uncomplicated mountain than traverse those cliff paths. The houses literally hang off the rocks. One good shake, and the whole town would tumble into the sea. But it is the potential danger that is the governor’s concern.”

“Danger? Are the inhabitants that unfriendly?”

Doyle gave a short laugh. “That is the gossip. Every time someone disappears, it’s said they’ve gone to Blackpool. Whether that is true remains to be seen. I’m of a mind to think the disappearances are due to common kidnapping or conscription. Ships have need of crew. When one sailor runs off—” He shrugged. “Replacements must be found, one way or another.”

That was a logical explanation, but Hunt wondered if it was true. “What is Blackpool’s raison d’être?”

“Fishing,” Doyle said with a little snort of disdain. “And logging. Mahogany grows in the mountains and along the cliffs. I gather they fell them, strip the limbs and roll the logs into the inlet, where they lash them together until a shipper comes by for them. Cabinet makers in London and New York are crying out for mahogany, but there’s sure as hell no sign of anyone getting rich in Blackpool. I believe they barely eke out a living.”

“Why does everyone seem so indifferent to them? You’d think Blackpool was a different country.”

Doyle raised an eyebrow. “It damn near is. The people there even contract their own supply ships. Believe me, they want nothing to do with us, nor do we wish to have dealings with them. It’s not exactly a secret, just an unspoken understanding.”

“Is it possible that the settlers are engaging in illegal activities?”

“Like wrecking?” He shook his head. “Not likely. There aren’t enough ships coming by to make that lucrative.”

Hunt narrowed his eyes and glanced out over the bay. Only three ships bobbed in the harbor. This was testament, he supposed, to the fact that St. Claire was a small, sleepy island. But that fact did not mean it had no secrets. On the contrary, he suspected that most of the islanders were escaping some unpleasantness in their past. Even Governor Bascombe’s assignment to St. Claire was his atonement for a diplomatic blunder in a far eastern country. Where better than a distant and ignored island of exiles to find a fresh start? What better place for chicanery?

What better place for treachery?

He sipped the strong coffee and mulled over the governor’s request. Only Oliver Layton knew his true purpose on St. Claire. If he continued to make an issue of Blackpool, the governor was sure to suspect an ulterior motive.

“Not Blackpool, then, but I’d still like to see more of the island before I leave,” he told Doyle.

“How long do you plan to stay?”

Originally, he’d meant to stay two weeks, but he was four days into his investigation and had made no progress toward his two goals—to discover whether the pirates had a nest on the island and to find out who might be feeding them shipping information. And, as luck would have it, he’d found another strong inducement to stay longer. “Not sure,” he admitted. “Perhaps a fortnight, perhaps two.”

“I see,” the chargé mused. He tented his fingers together and narrowed his eyes. “I believe that is longer than you planned, is it not?”

Hunt laughed. “Has the governor asked you to ferret out that information?” He did not like the idea of being pinned down, least of all by political officials.

Doyle gave him a self-deprecating smile and spread his hands wide in a gesture of surrender. “You’ve found me out. Alas, I was to be more subtle and not make you feel unwelcome. I am also to offer my services in any way to make your stay enjoyable. At least, until I leave.”

Any way but a trip to Blackpool, Hunt thought. The man needed diverting. “Are you being reassigned?” he asked.

“I’m being called back to London. I was only assigned to St. Claire to cover Bascombe’s frequent trips home when his mother was ailing. She’s passed now, so I shan’t be needed here anymore.”

Frequent absences? Warning Hunt away from Blackpool? Was this more than simple coincidence? He’d have to proceed cautiously or he’d tip his hand. “Too bad. I shall have to remember to offer my condolences when next I see him. Meantime, tell me about Mrs. Hobbs.”

“The little baker?”

“One and the same.”

“As I told you at the reception, I really do not know much about her. She was established here before my assignment several years ago. She’s quiet. Hasn’t mixed in society until the reception night before last. I was astonished to see her there. She has been somewhat insignificant in society, and only her consequence as a merchant lifts her above the ordinary. Her manners are impeccable but I am told that she is painfully shy. On the rare occasions I have spoken to her, she has been quite standoffish. I must say, however, that she looked very different at the reception—a damn sight better than her common garb. I wonder if it could have been the candlelight.”

Candlelight? Was Doyle blind? “Then you cannot tell me anything about her background?”

“Sorry. A small task to find out, if you’d like.”

Suddenly, Hunt didn’t like. In fact, he didn’t want the polished chargé d’affaires anywhere near Daphne Hobbs. “Never mind. It was just a passing curiosity.”

Doyle gave him a canny grin. “Passing? I think there’s more to keep you on St. Claire than your plantation, eh, Lockwood?”

That was an impossible question to answer. Say aye, and Doyle would have a reason to give Daphne a closer look. Say nay, and he’d subject himself and his own activities to closer scrutiny. “Idle curiosity, Doyle. Don’t give it another thought.”

“How can I help it? I hear that she’s been invited to the Grahams’ picnic this evening. I’ll be attending, as the governor is under the weather. Perhaps I’ll have occasion to talk to her. Or to sample her wares.” Doyle tapped one finger against his cheek thoughtfully.

Hunt tightened his jaw to keep from making an imprudent reply. If Doyle sampled anything, he’d regret it. Hunt had decided to send his regrets to Mr. Graham, but if Daphne would be there, he’d reconsider.

He stood, and his chair scraped back along the terrace flagstones. “Thanks for the coffee, Doyle. Give my regards to the governor and tell him that I’ve made note of his warning.”

“My, you are becoming quite the social butterfly,” Hannah teased as she looked over Daphne’s shoulder.

Daphne studied the handwritten invitation to an evening musicale and picnic hosted by the Grahams, a prominent family on St. Claire. Had Lockwood engineered this invitation, too? Of course, she would send her regrets.

“Oh, no,” Hannah said, with a single look at her mulish expression. “You will accept that invitation, Daphne Hobbs, and you will have fun. You have a nice gown upstairs, and—”

“But I really do not want to—”

“So you say, but I think otherwise. Your step was lighter and your smile readier after the governor’s reception, and I think you found something to interest you there. You’re too young to give up on life.”

“There is no future in—”

“Oh, bother! Who says you need a future? Just enjoy what you have at the moment.”

Just a dream… Can you let yourself dream, Daphne? Lockwood’s words kindled a languid heat in her center as the memory washed through her. Oh, how disconcerting the whole incident had been!

She had let herself dream. For the first time in her life, she’d followed her heart and dared to dream that there might be something more than self-loathing and pain in a man’s arms. She’d have been better off not knowing what could have been.

Hannah took her hands and squeezed them. “Damn the future, Daphne. Whatever joy you’ve found, take it and do not ask for more. Tomorrows are for virgins and kings. You have a right to find some happiness, however brief.”

Oh, how seductive Hannah’s words were. Could she risk so much for a few brief nights in Lockwood’s embrace? Could she live with the regret all the long empty nights ahead if she didn’t?

Hannah hung her apron on a peg and headed for the door. “I’ll be upstairs applying an iron to your dress, Daphne. Hurry up and close.”

Damn the future…. Yes, she would find some way to forget Lord Lockwood later.

She put her broom outside the kitchen door and untied her apron. She’d have to clear the shelves and hurry upstairs and change before she could leave for the Grahams’. The shop bell rang with insistence and she frowned. This would have to be Pâtisserie’s last customer of the day.

She was not surprised to see Mr. Lowe. He was her only customer from Blackpool and always arrived a few days after a supply ship put into port. He had told her once that Blackpool did not have a bakery, so her sweets were always a treat when he brought them back. He was a good customer and always paid in cash, but the way he watched her made her uneasy.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lowe. What can I get for you?”

“That’s dependin’ on what you gots, Mrs. Hobbs.” The man smiled. Daphne tried not to blink, as she often did when she noted his absent and broken teeth.

“Just what you see on the shelves, sir. You may have whatever you want for half price, as I am about to close for the day.”

“Aye? Well, then, I’ll take it all.”

“All?” She looked at the row of crusty breads and the glass case still bearing tarts and biscuits. “Are you certain?”

“It’ll keep a couple of days, will it not, Mrs. Hobbs?”

“The biscuits, yes. And the breads, so long as you do not dislike them a little dry. But you will have to cover the tarts if you hope to keep the insects out.”

“Aye, Mrs. Hobbs, just likes I always does.”

Daphne was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She turned away and ripped a length of brown paper from the roll to begin wrapping the purchases. “And who eats all this, Mr. Lowe? Surely not you?”

The man laughed. “Nay. Not I. I likes the biscuits and bread, but it’s the charge man who likes the sweets. Well, and the biscuits, too.”

The charge man? Ah, the man in charge. That was a rather quaint way to refer to an employer. But then everything about Mr. Lowe was quaint. Or sinister. Or perhaps she only thought that because he was from Blackpool.

“What is his favorite?”

“He likes the lemon and ginger best, Mrs. Hobbs. Says he cannot get enough of ’em.”

“Ah, then I am pleased I have some left. Anything else?”

“Cap’n likes the meringues, but they don’t last too good and I ain’t leavin’ until tomorrow night. Might come back for ’em tomorrow, though. That’d make ’im happy.”

“And it is always nice to keep the charge men happy, is it not?”

He gave her an odd look and then laughed. “Aye. Nice.”

Scarcely five minutes after his arrival at the Grahams’ picnic musicale, Hunt watched the color rise in Daphne’s cheeks as he bent over her right hand and drew it to his lips. Clearly, she was wondering if he would mention what had passed between them last night. He wouldn’t, of course. He was still that much of a gentleman. But he hadn’t promised it wouldn’t happen again.

“I did not think I would see you again so soon, Lord Lockwood,” she said, almost stumbling over her words. Her hands were trembling and he feared she’d spill the wine in the glass she held in her left hand.

“Then I shall count myself most fortunate, indeed, Mrs. Hobbs,” he said, playing the game of polite formality to appease the island gossips. He released her hand and turned to his hostess, plump, graying Mrs. Graham. “Thank you for including me in such a lively event.”

“Our pleasure, Lord Lockwood. After all, you are one of us now.”

“One of you? Ah, an islander.” He grinned. “Yes, I can see why so many people have made St. Claire their home. It has so much to recommend it.”

Daphne met his gaze over the top of Mrs. Graham’s head. She blinked and then covered her mouth with a fan. To hide a smile?

“Yes? Well, we think so, of course,” Mrs. Graham said with a gracious nod. “I hope you will consider extending your stay with us. We rarely have such a charming visitor.”

Oh, he was charming enough. Men like him learned to use charm and social skills to hide what lay beneath. “You flatter me, Mrs. Graham. I am not in the least charming. My sister reminds me of that fact often.”

She and Daphne laughed and he found himself wondering about Daphne’s background. Did she have brothers? Sisters? Were her parents still living? Would he and Daphne have anything in common at all? How odd that they’d spent such intimate time alone, and yet he knew so little about her. He must remedy that.

“Be that as it may, Lord Lockwood, we are delighted to have you here,” Mrs. Graham insisted. “The musicians are setting up on the terrace, and you will find seating on the lawn. Hurry if you wish to claim a chair, otherwise you will find yourself sitting on a blanket. Oh, dear! That is Mr. Graham calling me.” She turned to Daphne and said, “I am really loath to leave you when you have only just met and are so unfamiliar with our modest little house. And I fear dinner will not be served until after the musical presentation.”

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