Page 4 of The Pirate's Stolen Bride
His cousin had opened a storefront, of all things. Much of its stock came from Rémy’s frequent runs between France and Cornwall. Still. Running a shop and going home every evening to a wife and baby sounded tedious in the extreme.
No, Rémy would take the sea and the wind on his face, and all the danger that came with it. Not once in his twenty-seven years had he envied Thierry, and he wouldn’t start now.
He wouldn’t mind having a few just like Lilou one day. Siring children, however, required settling down. On land—where everything always went wrong.
He’d come to Cavalier Cove to drop a shipment of brandy and to see his cousin. His visit to Thierry would have to wait for a more fortuitous time. The Riders had shown up while he was still moving tubs into the Cock and Bull’s secret passageways.
And then, he’d seen her. Miss Turner, the pretty earl’s bride. What a spitfire she’d turned out to be.
“Arrête de sourire comme un idiot et cache-toi,” Benoit whispered.Stop smiling like an idiot and hide.
Right.
Rémy yanked back a corner of the sailcloth and gestured to Miss Turner. She shook her head. Her bonnet was askew and a few strands of blond hair had escaped, dancing in the breeze. Her pale cheeks were downright crimson, and those fascinating dots fanned out across her throat and down her bosom.
Smack.
His cheek stung.
He laughed. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”
They didn’t have time for surprises, however intriguing, so he captured her slender wrists and made her lie down in the bottom of the boat. Benoit covered them with the tarp and rowed them out into the churning bay.
Beneath the flimsy cover of the canvas sailcloth, Miss Turner’s breasts rose and fell with panicky force. Her spencer covered up any hint of cleavage, sadly for him, but her bosoms filled out the short-waisted, long-sleeved jacket pleasingly. He imagined slipping free the buttons and exploring those mounds with his…
Her wide hazel eyes hardened as if she could read his thoughts.
“I’ll scream.”
“If you do, I’ll be forced to kiss you.”
Her lashes flared in shock. Tellingly, her gaze fell to his mouth. She could lie to herself, but Rémy had years of experience with decoding ladies’ subtle cues. They rarely came out and said directly that they desired a man. Such things were frowned upon for women. Pity. How much easier would relations be if everyone spoke honestly of what they wanted?
But they didn’t, and so he learned to see past the lies ladies told themselves to maintain their virtuous self-image. If it was his fault they tumbled into bed, so be it.
“You are an utter scoundrel,” she seethed.
“I am a smuggler, after all,” he shrugged.
“Practically a pirate.”
“Not quite the same, chérie. I do not board ships and take their cargo. I don’t steal. That, chérie, is the key difference. Now be quiet, lest you force me to taste those sweet lips.”
Her cheeks turned crimson again. This time, her blush crept down her throat into the collar of her jacket.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Anywhere you wish to go.”
“To Ireland?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because any fool can see that you don’t want to marry that man.”
“He is myuncle.”
