The Songbird's Seduction (13 page)

She didn’t worry too much about Margery and her great-aunts. Margery would be reveling in his role. No, as long as her great-aunts didn’t tumble to Margery’s true gender, Lucy had no doubt that they would all enjoy themselves immensely.

She smiled at the ancient ticket agent still ensconced behind his grated office window as she approached. “Passage for one, please.”

“Missed your boat, eh? That’s too bad.” He started writing on his ticket stub. “When?”

“The next available.”

He put his pen down. “You’re not thinking of taking this afternoon’s crossing?”

“I’m not thinking of it. I’m intent on it.”

“Well, I hope you have more to wear than that, miss. ’Cause that coat ain’t gonna keep you dry in a squall.”

She followed the ticket agent’s pointed glance, looking over her
shoulder at where her few fellow passengers were already boarding the ferry. Behind them a huge anvil-shaped cloud loomed up from the horizon. The sight gave her momentary pause. All her clothing was in the luggage accompanying her great-aunts.

“I shall stay inside if it rains.” She pushed her stack of bills under the small space beneath the little grate.

He pushed them back. “No
if
aboot it, miss. It’s gonna rain. Pitchforks. You sure you want to go?”

She pushed the bills forward. “I’m sure.”

He ignored her money. “You ever been on a ferry, miss? It ain’t no punt. Great, unwieldy creatures ferries are, slopping about with every pitch of the channel.”

She tamped down her impatience, telling herself that he only had her best interest at heart. He couldn’t appreciate that she was no shrinking society miss, but a stout-hearted adventurer. A little water wasn’t enough to put her off her pace because, really, how bad could it be?

Besides, she
loved
storms: the sharp, pungent scent of an oncoming tempest, the electrical prickling across her bare flesh, the wind whipping her hair and clothing about. It was invigorating and exciting and, truth be told, she was actually looking forward to experiencing a storm at sea.

“Indeed, I have, sir,” she said, smiling. “I truly appreciate your concern, but I was actually
born
on a ship. My father was a merchant vessel captain and my mother traveled with him. I learned to walk on a”—oh, dear what was it called? Oh, yes—“
quarterdeck
in the Indian Ocean.” She smiled brightly.

His eyes widened in surprise that quickly segued to admiration. “Thought you had a bit of the sea in your gait.”

She dimpled modestly. Of course he’d bought what she was selling. She’d expected no less. She’d fashioned a career out of telling people what they wanted to hear. Or needed to hear. She
wouldn’t say she was a
liar
but sometimes she forged a more palatable truth.

He took her name, printed it on the ship’s manifest, and passed a ticket to her. “Safe passage, miss.”

She thanked him then made her way toward where the ferry was boarding its final few passengers. The wind had picked up. A freshening breeze tugged at her hat, threatening to lift it from her head. She clamped a hand atop her head, quashing down her hat’s crown. But the wicked wind found its way beneath her coat, sending it flapping about her calves.

Smiling into the coming storm, filled with the cheek and optimism that had been her companions since the day she was born, she flew across the gangway and onboard then up a short flight of stairs to the observation deck that perched atop the salon. There, she fell breathless against the rail, exhilarated, as, on the wharf below, workers hurried to untie the lines, worried eyes darting to the oncoming storm front. Beside her a smattering of her fellow intrepid passengers nodded a greeting, buoying Lucy with a shared feeling of anticipation.

She smiled back brightly, for the first time in months unencumbered by worry over Lavinia’s health or fear over the fate of Robin’s Hall. She felt free, bohemian, and adventurous. All she needed to complete her delight was a companion on her adventure . . .

At once an image sprang to mind, an image of a man with thick, blue-black hair and dark brows above lushly lashed black eyes, a wide, sensually shaped mouth, and a square jaw with a cleft in his chin. But what if Lavinia was right and Archie Grant was too staid to go adventuring? Perhaps he wasn’t a pirate after all. Perhaps he was just a stuffy professor, a stickler for rules and conformity.

No, not with that chin, he wasn’t. He might try to be, but The Chin would have out.
That
was the chin of an undomesticated ne’er-do-well, a scoundrel and a scallywag. A pirate.

She propped an elbow on the rail and cupped her chin in her hand, idly watching the last stragglers hurry aboard as her inner speculation grew increasingly more dramatic—and more gratifying. A pirate took what he wanted without a by-your-leave, through charm or by force, whichever best served his purpose. He would sneer at adversity and race headlong into the teeth of any storm . . . Like that fellow racing down the wharf.

A man was running pell-mell toward the ferry, his hand clamping his hat to his head, obscuring his features. In the other he clutched the handle of a leather valise. His unbuttoned mackintosh flew behind like him dark wings and the wind plastered his shirt to a hard, muscular chest—

Archie?

It
was
Archie. She snapped upright. Though closing fast, Archie was still eighty yards away. The gangway had already been pulled on board and the lines untied from the wharf cleats. The ferry was slowly pulling away, water churning between the pier and the boat’s port side.

“Don’t shut the gate!” she yelled at the pair of deckhands about to swing the metal arm shut at the top of the gangway. They squinted up at her through the salt spray.

Having spotted Archie, too, other passengers were adding their voices to hers. “Wait! There’s a man coming!”

“There!” Frantically, she pointed at Archie as she flew down the steps to the main deck. “You’ve got to open the gate!”

The sailors followed the direction of her finger to see the madman running down the wharf, clearly having no plan to stop when he reached the end. Feverishly, they hauled the gate back open and leapt to the side, waving him in.

His sprint had taken on the feel of a sporting event. The passengers on the deck above cheered him on as the sailors gesticulated wildly. Twenty feet from the end of the wharf he swung the valise
up and around, sending it twirling through the air. It landed dead center of the gateway and skidded across the polished deck.

“Come on!” the sailors shouted encouragingly. Six feet separated the wharf and ferry.

“You can do it!”

Eight feet.

Ten feet.

“Jump, Archie!
Now!
”

He never paused, never broke stride. One minute he was on the wharf, the next he was sailing through the air, his arms pinwheeling as he landed, his momentum pitching him straight toward her.

Archie’s eyes widened with horror as Lucy set herself squarely in his path, her arms outstretched as if—good God! She was going to try to
catch
him!

Before he could react, he catapulted into her. A whoosh of air exploded from Lucy’s lungs as she flung her arms around his waist. Terrified he might fall on her he grabbed her around her waist and at the last second wheeled around. His back crashed against the salon wall. “Ow.”

A smattering of applause broke out around them. From the corner of his eye he saw one sailor glumly peel off a bill from the wad in his hand and pass it to another. They swung the gate closed. The show over, people scurried out of the elements and into the enclosed salon.

He barely noted them, too intent on running his hands over Lucy to see if she was broken. Quickly and forcibly he discovered she was not only whole, but wholly female.

Her slender form flattened against him, her unexpectedly strong arms holding tight around his torso. A potent surge of physical
awareness drilled through him. He took a deep, steadying breath, but that only made things worse since he inhaled her scent, a thought-disrupting combination of electricity and verdant earth and . . . and orange blossoms? Why would she smell like orange blossoms?

What was he thinking? He wasn’t even sure he knew what orange blossoms smelled like; he only knew they ought to smell like her.

She made a sound.

He released her at once, only to take hold of her shoulders and anxiously search her face. “Are you all right?”

He needn’t have asked. She’d let go of his waist, too, and now clasped his lapels, trapping him a foot away as she tipped her head back, laughing. Her rich brown hair had come undone and rippled in the wind, skimming across the backs of his hands, silky and cool.

“That was spectacular, Archie!” she exclaimed, green-gold-brown eyes sparkling with admiration. “Where did you learn to do something like that?”

He probably should release her. “Public school.”

She smiled. “I didn’t realize jumping was a standard part of a public school curriculum.”

Yes, he really should let her go, but . . . “I was an unruly student. The headmaster concluded that a physical outlet for my energy would aid my attention in the classroom.” Why had he said that? What could she possibly care?

“Oh.” She nodded wisely. “They thought to wear the unruliness right out of you, did they?”

“Something like that.” He could not imagine why they were having such a conversation on the deck of a ferry while a storm brewed all around. Yet here she stood, regarding him with as much fascination as if he’d just discovered a Neanderthal skull. And a good deal more approval. It was a little unnerving. A little heady.

“You must have liked it.”

“Yes,” he allowed, more interested in watching her fingers slowly uncurl from around his lapels than his twenty-year-old memories.

She stepped back. It was just as well. He found having his arms empty of her much more conducive to clear thinking.

For instance, until now he hadn’t realized that she hadn’t asked him what he was doing here or why. In fact, just like the morning he’d come to Robin’s Hall, she didn’t appear particularly surprised to see him. She was either the sort of come-what-may, come-what-will type of person who simply followed whatever path showed up under her foot or she considered his presence predestined. Neither possibility was reassuring.

The steam ferry had left the wharf behind, its engines churning mightily as it headed toward the white-capped water beyond the harbor. It was bound to be an uncomfortable crossing. Particularly for the older ladies . . . He’d forgotten all about them. Damn!

“Are your aunts inside?”

“Hm?” Lucy was industriously putting to rights his abused coat, smoothing the crumpled material.

“Your aunts.” Whether she required a reason for his presence or not, he felt compelled to explain himself. “I came because I thought you might . . . they might . . . I couldn’t just let you . . . them . . .”

“Of course not, Archie.” She agreed with his unfinished statement as if she knew perfectly well what he meant—which was impossible because he wasn’t sure that
he
knew what he meant.

“I assume you’ve already tucked your great-aunts into a safe corner in the salon? I hope so because it’s going to be a nasty crossing.” He frowned. “Frankly, I’m surprised the agent even sold you tickets considering the ladies’ advanced years.”

She finally seemed satisfied with her ministrations, for she gave a short, approving nod. “Oh, he didn’t. Lavinia and Bernice took the morning crossing. They should have docked in France hours ago.”

“They did?”

“Yes. Honestly, Archie, what are you thinking? I would never expose them to unnecessary discomfort.”

“Why aren’t you with them?”

“Aunt Lavinia left your grandfather’s letter back at the hotel and discovered it was missing just before the ferry was to leave. There wasn’t time to fetch it and still make the earlier crossing. So I sent them on ahead and went back for the letter myself. Good thing I did, too,” she confided. “Because otherwise you wouldn’t have found me. How
did
you know where to find me, Archie?” She beamed at him.

He stared. She was twisting things around again. She had a positive talent for it. “I didn’t find
you
, Luc—Miss Eastlake.”

“Of course you did.” Her confidence was absolute.

“I meant I wasn’t
looking
for you. I was looking for your great-aunts.”

“But you found me,” she said brightly. “How did you know where to look?”

“Because the girl at your house, Polly, told me your plans.”

“And so you followed me here.”

“I did not follow—” He should just give up. She meant to be deliberately obtuse. “Do you think it was wise to let your great-aunts cross unaccompanied? Of course I trust your judgment, but—”

“You do?” Her eyes widened with gratification.

She really did have extraordinarily pretty eyes. But he would not be distracted by them
or
her pleasure in something as simple as his vote of confidence in her. Which might have been bending the truth since he didn’t actually trust her judgment. In fact, his complete lack of trust in her judgment was the primary reason he was here right now.