Nicole Jordan - The Passion

"I see they at least summoned a doctor. I was afraid they wouldn't. No, please don't get up on my account," she added when he tried to rise. "You are in no condition to stand on formality."

"What…" His voice came out too hoarsely, so he cleared his throat and began again. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to make certain you were all right."

Nicholas frowned, trying to sort out the confusion in his aching head. Perhaps the blows had indeed rattled his brain.

No lady would risk her reputation to enter the bowels of a prison on behalf of a stranger. And she was every inch a lady, he knew – blue-blooded to the core. In fact, hadn't she claimed to be a duke's daughter when she'd dressed down that seaman this morning?

Nicholas stared at her, wondering if he'd missed some vital clue to the enigma she presented. Then a sudden thought struck him.

Was it possible she was here to deceive him? Was that bastard Gerrod up to some sort of trickery, using her to ferret out information?

Nick's eyes narrowed in suspicion. His ship was still at large in the Caribbean, for he'd gone alone to Montserrat to fetch his sister – aboard a Dutch fishing ketcli – not wanting to risk the lives of his crew on his own personal mission. But Captain Gerrod was fiercely set on determining the American schooner's whereabouts.

It could greatly advance the captain's naval career to capture an enemy ship – which was a likely reason, Nick suspected, that he'd been spared immediate hanging. That, and the fact that Gerrod hadn't wanted to make any political missteps by offending his prisoner's illustrious connections.

Grimly Nicholas contemplated his beautiful, unexpected visitor. Was she somehow in league with Gerrod? Her compassion had seemed entirely genuine this morning, and so had her animosity toward the captain. But perhaps she'd somehow been persuaded to work with Gerrod against him.

Had she been sent here to torment him? To tempt a condemned man as if holding out the promise of water to a man dying of thirst in a desert? The stark possibility that such beauty and kindness could be a ruse stabbed Nick with anger.

His jaw tightened. He would do well to remember their nations were at war. As an Englishwoman, she was his enemy, and he had to be on his guard.

She seemed uncomfortable with the way he was watching her, and when he deliberately dropped his gaze lower to linger on her breasts, he thought he saw her flush in the dim light.

"I don't believe we were properly introduced, madam," he prodded.

"No. There wasn't time. I am Aurora Demming."

An appropriate name, he thought irrelevantly. Aurora was Latin for dawn. " Lady Aurora. I remember. You made mention of it on the quay."

"I wasn't certain how conscious you were of your surroundings."

At the reminder of the assault, Nicholas raised his hand to feel his bandage. "You find me at a disadvantage, I fear."

An awkward silence stretched between them.

"I brought some items you might need," she said finally.

When she took a tentative step toward him, he focused on the bundle she held in her arms. She seemed oddly nervous as she set her offering down on the cot and glanced around the dim, spartan cell. "I should have brought candles. I didn't think of it. But here is a blanket… some food."

Her gaze met his briefly and then slid away. "I also borrowed a shirt and jacket from Percy's overseer. You seemed larger than my cousin…"

It was his state of undress that was tying her tongue, Nicholas realized. If she was like other gently bred ladies of her station, she would hardly be accustomed to visiting a half-nude man or estimating the size of his physique.

"How did you get past the guards?" he asked cautiously.

She seemed grateful for the change in subject. "I prevailed upon the garrison commander, Mr. Sabine." Her smile was fleeting. "Actually I resorted to a slight deception. I implied that my cousin Percy sent me."

"And did he?"

"Not exactly."

"I thought Gerrod would have forbidden me any visitors."

"Captain Gerrod has no authority over the fortress garrison, nor is he much liked here on the island."

"Then he didn't send you to question me?"

A look of puzzlement drew her fine brows together. "No. Why would you think so?"

Nicholas shrugged. If she was dissembling, he would be much surprised. But if she had an ulterior purpose for coming here, he couldn't fathom what it was. Did she want something from him?

When he reached for the bundle she had brought him, she retreated a step, as if fearing his proximity. He withdrew the shirt and carefully pulled it on, wincing at his aching muscles.

"Forgive me, my lady," he mused aloud, "but I fail to understand your reason for championing me, a stranger, and a condemned prisoner, at that."

"I didn't care to see a man murdered before my eyes. It seemed the captain was far too eager to find an excuse to kill you. At the very least his men would have beaten you senseless."

"That still is no reason for you to play Lady Bountiful, bent upon kindness and good deeds."

The cynicism in his tone made her chin lift a degree. "I wasn't satisfied that you would be cared for."

"And you wish to make my final days more comfortable? Why?"

Why indeed? Aurora wondered. It was impossible to explain the affinity she felt for him. Even harder to deny. He was a privateer at the very least. A violent man. One with blood on his hands.

And now that he was no longer defenseless, his effect on her was even more forceful. He'd been given a chance to wash off the blood, and his handsomeness was astonishing, even with the stubble on his jaw. That rough growth along with the strip of muslin wrapping his head gave him a rakish appearance, making him look very much the lawless pirate.

She could well see why her cousin called him dangerous with the ladies. He had the sinful allure of a fallen angel, with hair the color of amber, and a face whose planes and angles were beautifully sculpted. The brazen sight of his bronzed shoulders and hard-muscled arms, too, had stirred an odd fluttering in her stomach.

Yet his face could have been carved in stone now, and the cold insolence of his stare took her aback. He seemed highly mistrustful of her motives – which was not so surprising, since she wasn't certain of them herself.

Her reaction to his beating this morning had been purely instinctive, perhaps because intervening in violent disputes had become an ingrained habit with her. More times than she cared to count she had stepped in to shield defenseless servants in her father's household from his irrational fury.

But that didn't explain the urgent need she'd felt to reassure herself of his well-being. Perhaps her affinity for this stranger – this inexplicable familiarity – was simply because his coloring so closely resembled that of her late betrothed, a man she had loved dearly.

"I expect I came because you remind me of someone who was very dear to me," Aurora replied rather lamely.

When he raised a skeptical eyebrow, she averted her gaze from the expanse of sun-warmed flesh on his bare chest where his shirt remained open.

She stood stiffly as she felt his eyes moving down her body, touching her breasts in insolent perusal. He seemed to be assessing the gown beneath her cloak, a severely cut day dress of charcoal gray bombazine.

"You wear half mourning," he observed. "Are you widowed?"

"No. My betrothed was lost at sea some eight months ago."

"I don't recall seeing you on St. Kitts before."

"I arrived last summer. My cousin and his wife were visiting family in England shortly after the tragedy occurred. They thought a change of scene might help me to forget my grief and so invited me to return with them to the Caribbean. We set sail before word reached England about America's declaration of war. Had I known, I never would have come. And in fact, I will be returning in a few days."