Page 149 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
“No, you won’t,” Alana whispered, her gaze sliding to the water. “A wife knows when her husband isn’t telling the truth.”
“We’ve been married less than three days,” he replied, leaning toward her and lowering his voice.
“We were married five years, Sebastian,” she said without turning. “And we lost a child.”
The argument he intended to make froze in his mouth. “You did?”
She nodded. “You died shortly after that.”
He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to his chest. His hand stroked over the back of her head.
“We will try again, if that’s what you want,” he murmured. “We can start today.”
“Actually, we can’t.” Alana pulled back, a sheepish expression on her face. Her eyes slid to Mrs. Parker. “I promised Louisa that she could sleep in our cabin, for protection, during the journey back.”
“And while you and Mrs. Parker are sharing the bed, where am I sleeping?”
“You did book a second cabin.”
She fluttered her eyelashes. She actually fluttered them at him!
“If you think you can ask me for such a favor and only compensate me with a pretty smile, you are quite mistaken, my dear wife.”
That rattled her. She swallowed, her eyes widening.
“How do you expect me to repay you?”
One hand slid down her back and over the roundness of her butt. He gripped it, jerked her hips into his, and pressed his mouth to her ear.
“For every night I’m forced to sleep in a different chamber than you, I’m going to restrain you to our bed and have you until you pass out,” he murmured.
His tongue darted out and traced the shell of her ear.
She shivered, then lifted her eyes to his.
“No cannonballs.”
“I swear.”
A flash caught his eye, the morning sun glinting off a pocket watch, and Sebastian raised his hand, blocking the light. When he lowered it, he nearly fainted.
“What is it?” Alana twisted around, her gaze searching the docks.
“That man,” —Sebastian gestured with his chin— “is Harold Ashmore. My father.”
He hadn’t laid eyes upon the man in eight years, but the familiar scowl, the only expression cast toward him since his youth, confirmed the man’s identity.
“Are you certain?”
“Quite.” Sebastian released Alana and walked toward the man as though in a trance.
“What is your father doing in Boston?” she asked, darting after Sebastian.
“He must have discovered Dinah was writing to me.”
“But how would he have known she was sending the letters to Boston?”
“He paid someone for the information,” Sebastian replied over his shoulder.
