Page 5 of A Tempest of Desire
Chapter 3
Off the Cornish Coast
April 1879
Upon opening her eyes, Marlowe’s first thought was that demons—for surely her sins would prevent her from being welcomed into heaven—had the most gorgeous bare buttocks. Firm, round, and... begging to be squeezed. Or at least the devil standing near the wardrobe with his back to her did. A quick image raced through her mind of how his butt cheeks would flex, tighten, and loosen with each powerful thrust he delivered. He would move with such grace and beauty that she would be mesmerized.
Her second thought as she watched him cover up that lovely backside with a pair of black trousers was that she might not be dead. For surely, once released from this mortal coil she would experience no pain. However, she ached in places she didn’t even know a person could ache. Her face hurt most of all. And her head. Now she knew how a piece of iron felt when the blacksmith’s hammer banged away, forging it into something useful.
Just as she’d been forged.
As the devil drew on a shirt, she couldn’t help but admire his broad shoulders as well as the way his back tapered down to a narrow waist and slim hips. He really was lovely, should pose for a statue. Then he turned and silently she cursed.Damn it all to hell.
She knew him. Indeed, he was the very last person she wanted to set eyes upon, much less be in his lofty and irritating presence in such close quarters. Her hands tightened on a blanket draped over her, and she was hit with the sudden realization that she was naked beneath it. How she had come to be in that revealing state was cause for some consternation. She remembered divesting herself of her pelisse, frock, and shoes when the prospect of going into the water was looming before her. But the remainder of her clothing... Oh, Lord. She had her suspicions, and she drew the warm woolen blanket more closely around her, even as she pushed herself upright to a sitting position so she wouldn’t be at a disadvantage for what was certain to become a confrontation.
He lifted a dark brow that rested over incredible silver eyes, eyes she’d always feared saw far too much. “Back to the land of the living, I see. Marlowe, as I recall.”
Irritated with the snide tone of his voice, she saw no point in confirming what she suspected he knew to be true. All of London identified her by only a single name, so famous was she. Whether it was her first or her last remained a mystery, and she preferred it that way. It prevented herfrom being truly known, even though she was a regular in the gossip columns, disliked by wives, unmarried lasses, and widows who feared she might snatch away their husbands, betrotheds, or lovers. Although why in the world she would want a disloyal scapegrace in her bed was beyond her reckoning. “Viscount Langdon,as I recall.”
A muscle in his cheek ticked. Apparently, he didn’t like her haughtily using his words or his tone. Neither did he fancy her any more than she fancied him. As though she gave a tinker’s curse regarding his opinion of her. He was not hers to please. She could irritate him as much as she liked, and she was going tolikedoing so very much. She glanced around. “How did I come to be in what is apparently a bedchamber?”
“You washed up on my shore.”
Ah, that would explain the gritty sand that clung to her the way some men wanted to. But she had a protector who didn’t tolerate any such foolishness. Although she’d never had a problem putting a man in his place when his hands wandered to where they ought not. But then she’d never had to deal with anyone who bothered her as much as Langdon did, in ways she didn’t quite understand. From the moment she’d first seen him—
She shook off the thought. Now was not the time to let the past intrude. Now was for dealing with the present, and a lord who believed he could own pieces of the earth that were impossible to cordon off. God, the arrogance. “Yourshore?”
“This tiny island is part of my family’s holdings. The main estate is across the way, along the Cornish coast. You muttered that there were no others.” With his brow deeply furrowed, he looked to the window. Blinding lightning briefly blocked the darkness beyond. A second or so later, the thunder roared its anger.
A shudder of fear rolled through her with the reminder she’d been out in it. She tightened her arms around herself, knowing she’d been blessed to survive. In all of her twenty-two years, she’d never been caught in a tempest such as the one she’d encountered earlier. While being tossed madly about, she had believed down to the depths of her soul that she was doomed. Had anyone else, even a drunk, odorous stranger been standing there, she might have asked to be held so she could weep for a few seconds and bask in the knowledge that she was alive to do so. But she wanted Langdon no nearer than he already was. Besides, she very much doubted he’d offer any sort of comfort.
“Are you certain no one else went overboard from the ship?” he asked, suspiciously, as though she’d have no interest in saving anyone who had. As though she was selfish, thinking only of herself and her own needs. Although she really couldn’t blame him for having that opinion when she’d spent the past few years cultivating such a persona, when in truth she was no more than a sow’s ear determined to be mistaken for a silk purse.
“I wasn’t on a ship.” Not a classic one anyway, not what she suspected he was envisioning. She shouldn’t take any sort of pleasure in proving that he had the wrong of things, and yet she did. He thought he knew her. All of London thought theyknew her but all they truly knew was what the ink in the gossip columns revealed and it was shaped by those who resented her.
He swung his gaze back to her. “Hollingsworth’s yacht, then.”
With that, it became evident he knew her protector quite well. Not that she was surprised. It certainly wasn’t a secret that the Earl of Hollingsworth saw to her care. Nor was it a secret that he possessed a yacht. “I wasn’t in any sort of boat.”
“Then how the devil did you get here? You’re certainly no angel with wings.”
She smiled, or tried to, but her mouth protested and when she touched her tongue to the corner of her lower lip, she felt the small laceration and tasted the slightest tang of blood. “But I am an angel with a hot-air balloon.”
He looked as if he wanted to protest at her daring to refer to herself as an angel. A bit of sarcasm had threaded through the word when he’d used it. Before he could object or say something else to irritate her, she rushed to continue. “Hung on for dear life. Swells took it under, me with it. I don’t remember much after that, I’m afraid.” Which she suspected, all in all, might be a blessing.
He narrowed his eyes and a deep crease appeared in his forehead. “But you wouldn’t have been alone. A pilot would have been flying it. I should be out looking for him.”
His assumption annoyed her beyond reason. She thought him young enough to be more enlightened. On the other hand, it wasn’t uncommon for people to believe the worst of a woman in herposition—or her inability to do anything except lie on her back. “I was flying the thing myself. I’m an aeronaut.”
“You’re a woman.”
“I’ve always heard you’re brilliant, and it’s a challenge to get anything past you.” Inwardly, she cursed. She was accustomed to flirting, but now was not the time and he most certainly was not the man. “Ballooning is a rather common hobby among women.” And had been for almost a century now. The sky was the one place where a woman could be completely free of societal constraints. Where she wasn’t chattel. Where she wasn’t dependent upon the kindness—or in most cases the tolerance—of men. Where she could go her own way, do as she damned well pleased. Not that she felt a need to educate him regarding the craft’s history. In fact, she wanted as little conversation between them as possible.
“Daft women apparently,” he stated succinctly. “Did you not notice a storm was afoot?”
He stared at her as if she hadn’t a sharp knife in her cutlery drawer. Perhaps she hadn’t. She’d seen the darkening sky but hadn’t cared. She’d wanted to be someplace where she had more control. Where she was the mistress, the queen, the ruler. Where she could think. Where perhaps she could recapture those dreams she’d clung to when she was a young girl and her father would take her up in his balloon. She longed to reclaim the peace and absence of doubts she’d held then. When she’d believed her future was hers for the taking, could be anything she desired. Instead, ithad been fashioned by circumstances beyond her control. And of late, she was simply so damned weary of disappointments.
“Sometimes battling it out with a storm is the better choice.” It looked as though he was going to make another point about her dunderheadedness, but she cut him off before he could form a word. “I appreciate the rescue, Lord Langdon, but I’m certain I’ve been enough of a bother. Perhaps you’d be good enough to direct me to the village where I might be able to secure a room in a tavern until the storm passes.”
