Kiss From A Rogue

Chapter 5-1

Chapter 5

Husband?

There was a buzzing in Tony’s ears, or was it just the men talking amongst themselves? A few hours ago he’d been trying in vain to learn the widow’s identity, and now they wanted him to pretend to be her husband. A broad, satisfied grin right now would probably not be wise. He bit the inside of his lip.

“This is insane,” Sylvia said. “We don’t have any idea who this man is. We don’t even know his name.”

“Well then, lad, what’s your name?” one of the watchdogs said.

“It don’t matter,” the eldest codger interrupted. “Have you gone daft, woman?”

“You’re not thinking this through, you old fart.” The housekeeper leaned forward. “If he goes down to the beach with you tonight, pretending to be my lady’s new husband, the captain won’t touch her. And if this lad is the one handing over the purse, he can’t exactly bear witness against us, now can he?”

“She has a good point.” The redheaded lad stroked his chin.

“Would it hold up with the magistrate, if it came to that?”

“Don’t matter, we can’t trust him.”

“Might be worth a try.”

“I say we cut off his ears and gouge out his eyes. Won’t see nothing, won’t hear nothing.”

Tony’s head began to swim again as all the men continued to talk at once.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Who’s your family?”

“Where are you from?”

Tony looked at the housekeeper in exasperation. “Shut yer clacks!” she shouted.

The sudden silence was deafening.

Sylvia rested her hands on her hips, though she hadn’t moved away.

Tony took a fortifying breath, inhaling more of her sweet lavender scent. “My name is Anthony Sinclair, and I come from a respectable line but, alas, am the younger son. If we were to perpetrate this hoax, madam, you would become simply Mrs. Sinclair.” He tried to gauge her reaction. She gave him the same look she might to yesterday’s fish.

He turned back to her watchdogs. “I have no desire to be a smuggler, but I am rather partial to my features in their current arrangement. I would be willing to assist in your endeavors – tonight – if that would assure you that I have no intention of informing the authorities of your activities.” Though he did have every intention of using the opportunity to woo the widow. She was melting toward him, he could tell. Now she looked more intrigued than affronted.

Someone moved, his cutlass blade glinting in the candlelight.

Had he really just agreed to act as a smuggler? It couldn’t be much more dangerous than climbing about on rooftops with Alistair. Though one couldn’t be hung for doing what Alistair did.

The men grumbled and mumbled. Galen and Mrs. Spencer beamed. Sylvia furrowed her brow.

Tony glanced at each of the men. “Do we have an agreement, gentlemen? Tonight we work together, and tomorrow we each go our separate ways. Unmolested.” Well, he’d separate from the men, but he planned to have Sylvia begging him to stay.

“It’s up to Lady Montgomery.”

Her brow still furrowed, she sat on the arm of the sofa. The men also seated themselves, rearranging the various chairs and sofas so they could see her and still keep an eye on Tony. She raised her hand to her temple.

For his part, he would have no trouble whatsoever pretending to be married to the comely young widow. Gentleman’s honor practically demanded it of him, if the housekeeper’s assessment of the smuggling captain was accurate. It meant Tony would have to stay close by Sylvia’s side, tuck her dainty hand in the crook of his arm. Look longingly into her green eyes. Smooth a dark blond curl, the color of wet sand. Kiss that delightful rosebud mouth.

And later, when they were alone, remind her how much physical pleasure was to be had between husband and wife.

He would have no trouble playing the role of doting husband, with the lovely Sylvia as his wife.

* * *

Sylvia stared at the stranger, her mind racing. An hour ago she’d simply wanted to go have a drink with her men. Half an hour ago her men had wanted to m**m or kill the stranger. And now she was supposed to pretend to be married to him?

He gazed back at her, the smoldering heat in his brown eyes making her feel flushed. She remembered the touch of his bare hand on her throat when he’d tied her bonnet, his fingers hot against her chilled skin.

Perhaps she should move farther from the fire. The room was getting too warm.

She shifted her thoughts to her coming meeting with the captain. Mr. Sinclair’s scent was not offensive. True, he had tried to take liberties with her person, but nothing like what Ruford aimed for. Sinclair’s hand had been on her lower back only because she’d been sitting on his chest.

She remembered the feel of his muscles. He had strength, vitality, intelligence. And yes, drat him, charm. “Mr. Sinclair, have you ever dealt with a nefarious person before?”

“One of my friends has his own ship. While Nick may be a gentleman, his crewmen are not. I assure you, I can handle your smuggling captain.”

So he was comfortable around ships? That had to be in their favor.

“My lady, this is the best way to be rid of the captain’s advances.” Galen patted Mr. Sinclair’s knee again. “The lad’s willing, and the men will keep an eye on you both.” There was a chorus in the affirmative. Her men sat straighter, their hands once again going to their weapons.

Her men would keep her safe, as they had always done. They may have lost some of the spring in their step, but with so many of them, what could go wrong?

Mr. Sinclair would be the one to deal with the captain, with Ruford’s malodorous person and putrid breath, his roaming hands and leering gaze. Not her. She almost sagged with relief.

Was it wrong to use Mr. Sinclair as a shield? He didn’t seem averse to the idea. Indeed, he was staring at her as a starving man would a buffet.

The important men in her life – father, uncle, husband – had all let her down at a crucial time. Could she trust Mr. Sinclair to uphold his end of their bargain? He certainly seemed eager to hold her, at any rate.

Well, it was only for tonight, and tomorrow Mr. Sinclair would be on his way. The captain would mind his manners in the future if he thought she had remarried.

“You’ll need different clothes.” Sylvia stood up. “Those fine garments you’re wearing will only make the captain want to charge us even more for each load.”

“He only brought but one little bag with him,” Mrs. Spencer volunteered.

“Traveling light.” Mr. Sinclair brushed some flour from his sleeve. “I didn’t expect to be taking part in a theatrical production.”

“I could fetch some of my husband’s things.” Mrs. Spencer pointed over her shoulder.

Aside from the incredible difference in size and build between the two men – Mr. Sinclair’s trim frame would be adrift in Spencer’s tent-sized shirt – the innkeeper’s coarse working-class clothes wouldn’t suit their charade. “Thank you, but I don’t wish to inconvenience you any more than we already have,” Sylvia said. “I think Hubert’s clothes might be a closer fit for the role.”

The smug look on Mr. Sinclair’s face acknowledged that she’d taken note of his person. Would he be so self-satisfied if he knew she’d not only looked her fill, but felt along his limbs, as well? Her hands burned.

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour.

“We best be getting up to the manor house, then,” Trent said. “Ain’t enough time to go fetch clothes, bring ‘em back here, and still get down to the beach.” He turned to Mr. Sinclair. “Can ye walk, lad, or did the boys hit you too hard?”

Mr. Sinclair stood up to his full height, shoulders back. “Lead the way.”

“Good luck, my lady!” Mrs. Spencer called as everyone headed out.

The seven men surrounded Mr. Sinclair as they walked up the hill to the manor, with Jimmy and Galen on either side of Sylvia.

“We’ll be right beside you the whole time.” Jimmy patted the hilt of his cutlass. “We won’t let the bugger get away with anything.”

Sylvia wasn’t sure which bugger he was referring to, but it didn’t really matter.

Gerald opened the front door when they arrived, his white hair sticking up in tufts around his nightcap. He clutched his dressing gown closed. “I suppose there’s no point asking how the cribbage game went.” He looked only vaguely surprised to see so many people on the doorstep.

“Let us in, you sleepy twit.” Galen shouldered her husband aside and entered the house first.

The men swarmed in behind her and headed for the staircase. Galen reached between them and snagged Mr. Sinclair’s sleeve. “If you want to pull off this charade, you’ll need rings. Give me your hand, lad.”

“But I thought Lady Montgomery was to be my pretend wife, not you.” He winked.

The housekeeper cuffed his shoulder. “Don’t sass me, lad.” Her tone was gruff, but Sylvia could swear she saw the housekeeper blush before she ducked her chin to note Mr. Sinclair’s ring size.

Within minutes, Mr. Sinclair had been taken to an upstairs bedchamber, dressed in Montgomery’s plain clothing, and returned to the foyer, accompanied every step by all seven of her men. Galen left when they did as well, and had just returned before Mr. Sinclair and his entourage descended the staircase.

“I don’t wish to alarm you, my dear,” Mr. Sinclair said, still adjusting the slightly too large shirt, waistcoat, and breeches, “but if your watchdogs continue to follow my every move, I may not be able to perform at my best on our wedding night.” He drew out the last two words.

Sylvia felt her cheeks heat, but before she could reply, Galen cuffed him on the shoulder again.

“Mind your manners, laddie. Hold out your hands, both of you, please.”

Sylvia twisted the narrow gold band on her finger. “But I’m already wearing a ring.”

“New husband, new ring. Off it comes.” Galen held out her hand.

Sylvia stared at the ring that Montgomery had placed on her finger just over four years ago. She hadn’t taken it off since. She’d been tempted, especially after she found out how badly she and her uncle had been misled about Montgomery’s finances. There had been seven little screaming horrors in her charge before she married, but the roof at her uncle’s home did not leak.

Now Uncle Walcott had ten children.

Sylvia yanked off the ring and handed it to Galen. She received a heavy gold band in exchange.

Galen placed a smaller ring on Mr. Sinclair’s palm. “They belonged to my parents,” she said. “I’ll want them back when you’re done.” She cleared her throat. “Go on. Exchange rings.”

Mr. Sinclair gave a rakish smile. “A pretend wedding for a pretend marriage.” He held her hand and gently slid the ring onto her third finger. “With this ring, I thee temporarily wed.”

Sylvia stared at the wide band, with an engraved pattern worn smooth in places. Anything to keep from staring at his hand holding hers. She remembered what had happened just hours after the last time a man had slid a ring on her finger. Mr. Sinclair’s hands were strong, but not roughened from years at sea. Rakes were supposed to be highly skilled in the bedroom. Against her will, her breath quickened.

Well, she wouldn’t be finding out how skilled he was. She wasn’t going to fall prey to a handsome face and charming smile. Men had caused her nothing but grief.

She looked up and was hit dead center with the full force of said charming smile. Mr. Sinclair — should she call him Tony now? — was holding out his left hand, waiting. Reluctantly, she entered into the game. “With this ring, I thee temporarily wed.”

“Finally!” Jimmy stepped forward. “If we don’t leave now we’ll miss the signal, and all this will have been for nothing.”

“Ceremony isn’t over yet. The bride hasn’t been kissed.” Before anyone could protest, Mr. Sinclair leaned forward. Sylvia braced herself, torn between annoyance and curiosity. Very mild curiosity.