Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (7 page)

Percy closed his weary eyes and dreamed of better days, of privilege, society, uncomplicated frivolity. Picnics, carriage rides in Hyde Park along the Serpentine, jaunts along Rotten Row, operas in Convent Garden and rare artifacts discovered at the British Museum.

In his youth, he'd indulged in wicked pretentiousness. Masked the real man he'd always dreamt of becoming, the real man, he, disguised as Thomas Sexton, had become, free of constraint. He was born Percival Avery, Marques Stanton, son of Rathbone Avery, Sixth Duke of Blendingham. Both Thomas Sexton, the contrived character he'd used to his benefit as a member of Nelson's Tea, and Percival Avery, his birthright, came from different societal molds. Percy had been born into a privileged life filled with gaiety, leisure, and fashion. Thomas had been born out of revenge, into murder and mayhem. Percy would not harm a hair on the fairer sex's head. He would not be seen cavorting with women of low virtue. Thomas, on the other hand, enjoyed plucking sensual women from his travels, taking what sexual pleasure he found when he wanted it or it was presented to him.

Torn between two worlds, Percy wondered if it was a crime to want the defenseless woman before him. A woman who crossed the boundaries he'd erected around his heart. A woman sporting the power to bind the two men he'd become into one.

Percy was tired of fighting, tired of battling images past and present. He drew a ragged breath. Lifting the locket dangling from Constance's neck, he opened it. Drops of water trickled out of the trinket onto her skin. Fascinated, he watched the rivulets stream across her flesh. She shivered in response. He examined her face and then focused on the image within the locket of a woman with similar features. Perplexed, he closed the silver casing, then eased Constance's body under the coverlet and rose from the bunk.

As captain, his men now assumed Lady Constance was his.
His!
An invigorating thought. Blonde, courageous, the vixen had tried to defy incalculable odds forced upon her. Her wit, courage, and size were perfectly suited to him. Frink was dead. All hope of finding Celeste's killer, gone. Yet, neither of them was out of danger. For this reason, and this reason alone, his charade had to continue until they reached port. He had to do everything in his power to make sure his men believed Constance belonged to him in every way. It was the only way to keep her safe, from his men — Frink's men — from himself
.

Still, Constance's slumbering form drew him like a moth to a flame. He would return her to Simon in due course. Once in home port, the
Striker
would be handed over to the war office and catalogued. His men would be dispatched to their own vices and Thomas Sexton would fade into obscurity until called for by Nelson's Tea again. But none of the particulars held meaning now. He was physically exhausted after not having slept a good night's sleep in too long a time. There was no need to keep watch. Frink was dead. His men would see to it that he wasn't disturbed.

Percy scanned the cabin for a place to sleep. Dissatisfied by the thought of sleeping on the floor, he shrugged out of his wet shirt and cast off his pants, wincing as the wet fabric brushed against the forgotten wound at his side. Testing his bloody flesh, he returned to the desk and rummaged through it until he found some bandages. He poured brandy on the wound, untwined the gauze, and wrapped the fabric around his abdomen. Wincing as he stood, he glanced back at the bunk, and then to the floor. He was in no condition or frame of mind to sleep on the floor. He needed a real bed, no matter that it was already occupied. The fact that he'd have to share it with Simon's niece pricked his conscience. But the opportunity to share his body heat with someone who could reciprocate, especially if that person was a beautiful female, was irresistibly appealing.

What would Lady Constance do if she awoke and discovered him lying naked beside her? She already thought him a monster, a debaser of women. He chuckled softly. As captain, he had rights. Rights he was more than eager to exact if his moral compass allowed him.

Constance shivered. He slipped under the covers and pulled her against him. She shifted, positioning her upper leg over his. The intimate gesture ignited his senses, filling his loins with undeniable fire.

Sleep would elude him — again.

Percy lay awake for four torturous hours, ever mindful of the slightly shivering form at his side, Lady Constance, the untouchable female that helped him understand the error in baiting a dog. Except, he was the dog and she was the tempting morsel.

He lay there in the stillness agonizing over each breath she breathed, feather-light, tickling hairs on his chest where her head relaxed against his skin. The seconds felt like hours as they ticked slowly by. Every now and again, her fingers would flex, grazing his stomach, shooting sparks of pleasure from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Still, he lay there, unwilling to move should the leg, draped over his lower regions, make him all the more eager to sample her angelical flesh. He was hungry. Hungry for what he could not take. Hungry for what every ounce of his being knew he could not have. He was not used to waking up next to a woman or, for that matter, sleeping with a woman of rank. As a general rule, his dalliances had been quick, impersonal. Here, in his arms, however, lay the conundrum. Constance made him face the truth. He was a man with needs and vengeance had denied him the one thing a man should have at his side — a good woman.

Under Simon Danbury's service for nearly ten years as a member of Nelson's Tea, Percy could not fault his commander for the predicament he found himself in. Simon was an excellent leader, well-known, especially to those who defied the law. Under his tutelage, he'd become a force to be reckoned with. Indeed, he owed Simon his utmost allegiance. And he'd shown it. For Simon's sake, for Lady Constance's sake, he'd killed Frink, severing ties that lead him to those responsible for Celeste's death. Though he'd been chastised for pursuing Frink's benefactor for nearly a year, he'd also been given the authority and leave to do so. Simon backed his mission. He trusted Percy's instincts even though he did not approve of the risks Percy took to find absolution.

Now, in this bed, within his arms, he held the one person Simon cherished above all others. Though he wanted to wake her, seduce her, make her his, to do so meant destroying Constance's future and fracturing Simon's trust. But, he was just a man. A man who'd followed men into hell. A man who'd mutinied and jeopardized the lives of his men for a blonde-haired angel. Didn't he deserve a reward?

Constance moaned against him. Percy glanced down at her tussled mane and touched her golden hair. The filaments streamed across his chest and entwined within his fingers, foreign as silk, reminding him that he knew nothing at all about the lithe woman in his arms, but her name.

Who was Lady Constance Danbury? What led her to lie about her name? What made her think pretending to be Admiral Duncan's daughter would spare her life? And what had she been doing on board the
Octavia
without protection?

The stubborn woman couldn't even swim. In fact, she was afraid of the sea. What had happened to justify her presence on board ship? What would drive any woman to face her worst fears head on?

“Henry,” she mumbled.

Percy tuned in to her voice. Was Henry her lover's name — her husband's name? Lieutenant Henry Guffald had been aboard the
Octavia
. Was she calling out for him as a woman would a lover? Percy thought more in depth on the subject, which somehow rankled him, though he had no idea why. Guffald was a good man. The lieutenant had certainly fought long and hard in the
Octavia
's defense. But did Henry have other reasons for protecting her? His old friend had certainly never given him cause to doubt his honorable intentions before, but even the thought of Henry protecting Constance displeased him. He did not want to think of the vulnerable woman in Henry's arms, curled against his body like she was now, or with any other man, especially not in the throes of passion.

Percy closed his eyes, realizing his mistake too late. Images of Constance in Henry's arms tormented him with abandon, sending an unruly amount of energy surging throughout his limbs. There was no mistaking the new sensations stirred when the woman in question shifted positions, making him ache for what he dared not take.

Constance fit
him
to perfection. She was a tempting creature and Percy wanted to believe that her innocence wasn't a façade, that he had every right to claim her as his own. If he wanted to believe his men, he'd won that right by saving her life, by casting aside his purpose in finding his sister's killers to shield her from Frink's demonic amusement. She was in
his
cabin. She was his to do with as
he
pleased. She was part of
his
world now.

Reality returned and logic prevailed, even as Lady Constance moved, draping her hair across his chest when she turned her head. She moved her hand across his abdomen to readjust her position and rubbed her inner thigh against his groin. Percy's agony amplified. Lustful thoughts burned a fiery hole in his mind. Guilt accused him of being a cad for becoming aroused by an innocent.

Another feminine moan caressed his ears.

Lady Constance was Simon's niece, God save him. It took every ounce of his will to restrain himself from turning Constance onto her back and simply taking what he wanted —
needed
— now.

In a perfect world, she would be married to a notable member of the ton, preparing to offer her virginal buffet to an eager, rutting husband. But this was
his
world and it was an imperfect place. She was with
him
, not a mealy mouthed lord. She was in a pirate's bunk on a pirate ship, not a dandy's bed. Though he was a member of the peerage and could make her a good husband, he would never surrender his identity, cut off his ability to chase after something no woman would ever understand or allow. God's truth, he'd even hidden his activities from his own father.

When he'd joined Nelson's Tea, he'd been sworn to secrecy, sworn to uphold the King's edict. Serve when called, no matter the mission or the lives left behind. The men of Nelson's Tea gave up the duties of first son in order to weave their way into the underbelly of the nation's resistance so that Nelson's war would be successful at home and abroad. No one, they'd been told, would suspect first sons of accomplishing such feats. No one would get in their way.

Percy had answered every call Nelson had ever made and he'd done so without question, until his sister's untimely death — until now.

“Henry,” Constance whimpered.

The fact that she called for Henry disturbed him. Had she been seduced by Henry Guffald aboard the
Octavia
, promised something Henry could not give? He gazed upon the fingers of her left hand. She wore no ring. The knowledge that she was unattached pleased him, howbeit oddly.

“Lieutenant,” she murmured, shaking.

Percy smiled. Henry was not her lover. Lady Constance had been through an unconscionable ordeal and relived the moments in her dreams, calling out to the first capable man she knew could save her. But Henry had failed to answer her prayers. It had been
Percy's
prowess,
Percy's
quick reaction that had kept her from being ravished by Frink. To take advantage of the woman he'd championed now would only align him with the likes of Frink and his men, in her eyes.

Percy closed his eyes and directed his thoughts to his sister, willing her petite form to reappear, just as he'd done a thousand times before to fuel his anger. Long black hair, dimpled cheeks, and trusting purity — Celeste. Nearly a year ago, when he'd been called away to duty, his young sister had been forcibly taken from the family landau, leaving his father badly crippled, never to recover. Unrelenting in his pursuit of her attackers, Percy had tracked Celeste to the docks, where he'd discovered that she'd been forced aboard a ship and ill-used. Much to his dismay, he would later discover her abused and left to grovel in the streets like a common doxy, hovelling in the shipyard, uttering nonsense, professing one word —
fox
— over and over again. Consumed by disease, spirit broken, Celeste had lasted but a few months after she'd been found. Percy had been forced to watch her die a slow, agonizing death. And since that time, he'd been consumed with a hatred yet to be staunched. Even now, thoughts of Celeste's suffering fired up his rage, a rage that had served him well under Frink's command.

Body tense, his goal in place once again, Percy opened his eyes. The dawn of a new day filtered through the ornate window occupying the back wall of the cabin. The fiery glow cast a golden haze upon all he surveyed — all but his heart. Frowning, longing to ignore the call to rise because he took great pleasure in the feel of Constance's tender flesh against his own, Percy knew he would never get another chance to be so intimate with a lady of her worth. Days of trivial pursuits were gone. Nothing and no one existed now but Thomas Sexton and those who would pay with their mortal souls for what they'd done to Celeste.

No longer able to prolong the inevitable, Percy eased out of the coverlet, rose from the bed, and stepped away from the bunk. Naked and stiff, in more ways than one, he reached for his discarded trousers, shook them out and yanked them on. He then picked up his shirt but noticed, as he retrieved it from the floor, it had experienced the worse for wear during his battle with Frink. The garment was a holey, ruined mess. His gaze settled upon Frink's trunk. Though the man was shorter than he, and more rotund, he crossed the distance, opened the lid, and rummaged through the contents, casting aside one garish selection after another until he found a plain black shirt wadded in the bottom. For a slight moment, he wondered who the shirt had once belonged to, for it certainly did not fit the captain's size or style. Then, casting off the question, he slipped his arms into the flowing, ruffled sleeves and tucked the long ends of the shirt into his breeches, leaving the laced front gaping open across his chest.