Kiss From A Rogue

Chapter 5-3

Sylvia made a small sound and sat on the footman’s bench with a soft thud.

Tony joined her. Several of the men began talking, their disjointed conversations washing over him as he sorted through the consequence of this little snag in their plans.

“What if we just told the captain it was a lie?”

“Are you daft?”

“The gent just has to stay here a few days. They’ll go away, and my lady will get a nice candelabra.”

“But the captain will expect to see the gent again. He’ll have to stay.”

“Only until the next delivery. Then we’ll just say he’s gone”

“Gone where?”

“Dead, gone. He fell off the cliff.”

“No, we could say he drowned.”

“Even better, we could say he died from—”

“Excuse me?” Talk of his untimely death jerked Tony from his thoughts. The men continued talking. “Gentlemen!” At last the conversation died down. “It’s late, and we’re all tired. May I suggest we examine this problem in the morning? Until then, I’m sure you know a back way so I can get to my room without the first mate seeing me.” Tony looked at the group expectantly.

“No.” He almost missed the quiet statement from the lady at his side. “We can’t risk it.” She turned to him. “You’ll have to stay here.” She stood, seemingly stronger than she had been just a moment ago. “Galen, what do we have available?”

The housekeeper stood on the stairs to be seen above the crowd in the hall. All eyes turned toward her. “I’m afraid the only other upstairs room fit for human occupation is the master’s, my lady.”

“My lady, you can’t be serious!”

“We can’t trust the bugger.”

Sylvia held up her hand, and the men quieted again. “Galen, please prepare the room for our guest.” The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy and went upstairs. “Doyle, please retrieve Mr. Sinclair’s luggage from the inn.”

“Aye, my lady.” One of the watchdogs detached from the crowd and exited the front door.

Tony exchanged glances with Sylvia — hers expressing trepidation — and reconciled himself to spending the night, alone, with a comely widow sleeping in the adjoining bedchamber.

Alone, except for three watchdogs, who produced pillows and blankets and sprawled in the doorway to his room, the doorway to her room, and on a cot in the dressing room that connected the two bedchambers.

Even a seasoned rake would have trouble getting past such a challenge.

But wasn’t the pursuit just as much a part of being a rake as the having? The chase could be almost as much fun as the catch.

* * *

Once everyone was finally settled for the night, Sylvia closed the door to her bedchamber, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the lit candle on the bedside table. Such indulgence, all the candles they’d had to light tonight.

She’d begun the evening wanting to act more like a smuggler, to think beyond the boundaries of her upbringing, and now she had a strange man sleeping in the next room. Uncle Walcott would be aghast. This situation certainly hadn’t been covered by her education as a genteel young lady.

Sleeping just next door was a handsome, charming man, not related to or acquainted with anyone she knew. A man with smoldering brown eyes and a warm smile that made her want to melt in his arms. She was too mature to indulge in such nonsense. Besides, he probably behaved that way with all women. She was not going to succumb to the charms of a rake.

But she owed him some measure of gratitude, because Mr. Sinclair had solved part of her problem in that Ruford’s crude advances had been completely circumvented. At least for now.

Murmured conversation from the adjoining chamber had her looking toward the dressing room door. She couldn’t make out the words, but knew Mr. Sinclair was probably speaking with Baxter, who had appointed himself guardian of her virtue, and claimed the valet’s cot in the dressing room for the night.

It was sweet, if a tad overprotective, for some of the men to stay the night to make certain the stranger caused her no harm. There was no real need for protection. A man like Mr. Sinclair might break her heart if she gave him the chance — which she wouldn’t — but she knew instinctively that he would never physically hurt her.

On the other hand, her instincts had also persuaded her to accept Montgomery’s suit, and look how well that had turned out. She tiptoed to the hall door and opened it.

“Do you need something, my lady?” Corwin rose up on one elbow from his pallet in her doorway.

“Just making sure the candles were all out,” she whispered.

“Like old times, isn’t it, my lady?” A dark shape farther down the hall shifted, and Sylvia recognized Monroe, sprawled in front of the adjoining bedchamber’s doorway. He and his wife and their five children had slept in the rose salon most of February after a storm had ripped away their roof.

“Fewer people in the house this time, though.” Hearing his answering chuckle, Sylvia wished both men a good night and closed her door again.

No one was going to get past Corwin or Monroe. From either direction.

She swiftly changed into her night rail and huddled under the blankets, suddenly chilled. Where was a warm male body when she needed it? “Macbeth!” she called softly. No answer. With so many people in the house, the cat was likely staying on the upper floors, away from strangers and nearer to the mice. Sylvia wrapped her arms around her knees, drawn up to her chest.

Most nights after landing a cargo, she fell asleep soon after getting into bed, exhausted. Tonight her thoughts were as relentless as the waves, tossing her one way and then another.

Not counting Ruford’s previous attempts, she had been subjected to more advances today than in the past year or more. She had been caught off guard when Mr. Sinclair tied her bonnet this afternoon, distracted when he kissed her wrist, and shocked breathless when he kissed her on the beach.

His lips on hers had been warm and yielding, and heaven help her, she’d wanted to yield to him. Touch him. Good thing there had been an audience present, or she might have lost her senses altogether.

She’d never lost her senses with Montgomery. Kisses from her husband had been rare. When he’d bothered, he tasted of tobacco, or fish. His lips were rough, chapped from long hours at sea. Like his hands. When he came to her, it was usually late at night for a hasty coupling, and then he’d go right back to his own room. Demonstrations of affection were limited to a gruff “Mind yourself,” said jointly to her and Jimmy as he left for another voyage.

Mr. Sinclair had already proven himself to be a demonstrative man, and if given half a chance, she had no doubt he would happily demonstrate much, much more.

But Mr. Sinclair did not hold her in any true affection. As soon as he realized she was not receptive to his advances, he would be on his way, forgetting all about her. In fact, he was probably annoyed, rightfully so, at being dragged into their mess, and was undoubtedly devising a way even now of escaping their company. He’d leave, and her heart would be safe from his onslaught.

Sylvia pulled the blankets up to her chin. Where was that blasted cat? She needed something warm to hold on to.