Beth Henderson - Reckless

Unless, that is, his wretched reputation was known by someone aboard, which, considering a good many of the passengers enjoying the luxurious accommodations were British, was quite possible. It was only a matter of time before news of his past escapades buzzed in the plushly appointed saloons, flitting first in the men’s lounges before flying fleetly to that of the ladies’, where it would be tat-tered even more thoroughly. Perhaps even embroidered upon.

It certainly had been in the past.

Ah, his wretched past

When she learned who he was, would it change the way Winona Abbot looked at him? The memory of her darkly lashed deep green eyes lingered in his mind as strongly as the vision of her shapely form teased it.

It was only their first day at sea. Surely word would not spread this quickly. Surely he could remain anonymous for a brief while longer. Until she learned who—what—he was, Garrett intended to enjoy every moment he could steal with Winona Abbot.

It was a simple matter to lie in wait for her when it drew near to the hour for dinner. Fortunately, she was alone when she left her stateroom, rather than accompanied by her companion. The helpful steward had given him a name, but all Garrett recalled now was that the other woman was a widow, nothing more. She, after all, hadn’t been the subject that held his interest. He was relieved the widow appeared to be keeping to the cabin rather than join the company in the dining room, for sharing the blond beauty was not on his itinerary.

Winona didn’t notice him lurking in the shadows near the companionway. Her attention was on a contrary button on the wrist of her long ivory glove. Even with her head bent, Garrett found she was far more beautiful than his memory had painted her. No longer tossed by a sea breeze, her flaxen locks were upswept to a knot that spilled artful curls to tease her creamy shoulders. Delicate drop earrings danced as she moved, the cut of the crystal stone catching the light of each lamp she passed along the darkly paneled corridor, creating quickly flashed prisms of color. She wore no other jewels, but Garrett was too entranced to question why. His attention was drawn instead to the neckline of her bodice as it dipped low over a bosom that was both full and cleverly concealed by a swath of fine pale blue tulle. Silk a scant shade deeper molded to the rest of her torso, accenting her narrow waist, and swept in a shimmering apron around her generous, womanly hips. Fabric cascaded behind her in a graceful train, rustling with every gliding step she took. As he watched, she finished with the button and bent slightly to catch up her train before descending the stairs.

Garrett waited until she lifted her slimly cut skirts before he stepped forward. The delay allowed him a glimpse of her delicately turned ankles and high-heeled satin slippers.

He doubted there was another woman aboard to match her for beauty and grace.

She noticed him just as the ship dipped slightly, gently tipping the deck upon which they stood. Ever-alert to opportunity, Garrett took advantage of the situation.

“Good evening, Miss Abbot,” he murmured, slipping his hand beneath her elbow to steady her. The scent of her perfume teased his senses, a mixture of rose water that hinted of vanilla and clove. Its effect on him was erotic, titillating. And yet when she looked up at him, her very expression was one of innocence. “It is Miss Abbot, not Mrs.?” he pressed.

She didn’t pull away from him but paused, as if considering whether to accept his escort or not. Rather than answer his question, she posed one of her own. “And it is Baron Blackhawk, rather than Mr., is it not, my lord?”

Garrett grimaced wryly. Obviously he had been too wicked in the past to merit a respite from fate now. “Found me out already?” he asked as the deck righted once more.

Winona seemed little aware of the ship’s movement. “You needn’t feel flattered,” she said lightly, and proceeded down the staircase. “I did not go seeking the information, sir.”

Far from appalled at whatever rumors she had heard about him, she appeared to be far more miffed that he hadn’t told her of them himself. Garrett grinned to himself, pleased she cared that he hadn’t. “I am crushed,” he murmured.

“Yes, I can see you are,” she answered dryly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were titled, my lord?”

“Actually, it was to avoid having you call me my lord in just that tone of voice. I’d much rather hear you use my first name, which, if you recall, is Garrett,” he said.

She stepped away from the touch of his hand as they reached the bottom of the stairwell. The glow of the setting sun reached them through the glass of a nearby porthole, casting a pink glow around her, coloring her cheeks a warm, blushing peach.

She turned slightly to face him, her chin lifting in resolution. “I think not. I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression of me earlier on deck,” she said. “I really am not interested in a shipboard romance, or a brief flirtation. You would do much better to set your sights on another lady if dallying is your goal, my lord.”

“And if it isn’t?” he asked.

“Forgive me if I doubt your word, but what other reason might you have for lying in wait for me?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she smiled knowingly. “Believe me, sir, where men are concerned, I am far from an innocent as to their intent when they seek me out”

“You would convict me without a trial? My dear Miss Abbot, surely that goes as much against an American’s grain as it does an Englishman’s,” Garrett insisted. “Do you not believe that I enjoyed your company this afternoon and wished to continue our conversation?”

She shook her head slightly. He was pleased to note the corners of her mouth still curved upward in amusement. “What I believe is that you don’t enjoy taking no for an answer, my lord.”

The hatchway to the outer deck swung open. “Ah, my dear!” a voice greeted loudly, interrupting her. Although Garrett had only met the man once upon boarding, captain Kittrick’s gravelly baritone was quite distinctive. “Thought I’d come along to see you safe to our grand galley. I see someone else’s had the same idea, though, eh, Baron?”

Garrett held back a snarl of frustration. “Quite,” he agreed, allowing his voice to drop into the sarcastic drawl he had perfected in London a lifetime ago. “We shan’t have to duel over who wins the honor of escorting the lovely Miss Abbot, shall we?”

Winona’s eyes widened in surprise then clouded with a hint of confusion at his metamorphosis from determined flirt to bored aristocrat. Garrett couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t even been conscious that he was doing it. Donning the role on cue had become so natural over the years.

Kittrick chuckled as if he’d heard a great joke. “A duel? By George! You’ll find me quite game—ha-ha. What shall we use? Shuffleboard cues? Ha-ha.”

Before Garrett could respond, Winona slipped her gloved hand onto Kittrick’s proffered arm. “Nonsense, Captain,” she insisted lightly. “Lord Blackhawk was merely asking for directions to the dining room. I’m sure he won’t mind tagging along behind us.”

She glanced back at him over one shoulder, issuing him a steady green-eyed challenge. “Will you, my lord?” she purred.

Although Hildy and, no doubt, the captain believed Blackhawk was wealthy, Wyn maintained her belief that he was nothing more than a fortune hunter and thus a cad. She had surmised it earlier, and had seen no evidence that he was anything else yet. But he was an awfully attractive one. She only hoped that Hildy would see past his hand-some exterior to the true man beneath. That she would realize he was not the man she had hoped he would be.