Lord of Temptation Read online

  Lord of Temptation

  Lorraine Heath

  Dedication

  To Matt, Sienna, Shelby, Shannon,

  Dr. Ratna Sajja and the staff at North Dallas Radiation Oncology Center,

  and to Dr. William C. Mitchell and staff.

  For your calm, your kindness, your devotion to healing,

  your ability to make us believe that everything would be all right …

  And then for making it so.

  This one is dedicated from my family and me

  With our heartfelt gratitude

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Romances by Lorraine Heath

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Yorkshire

  Winter 1844

  They were running for their lives.

  At fourteen, Tristan Easton was well aware of that fact as he scampered behind his twin brother along the creaking docks. They wouldn’t be together much longer. It was far too dangerous. They were matching bookends with pale blue eyes—“Ghost Eyes” the gypsies called them—that made them easily identifiable as the lords belonging to Pembrook. And when they were within each other’s shadow, they became an easy target for the one who wished them harm.

  Through the midnight haze, barely illuminated by the occasional lantern or torch, Sebastian led the way because he was the older by twenty-two minutes. As such he was the eighth Duke of Keswick, now that their father was dead—murdered, no doubt, by their vile uncle who yearned to gain the titles and properties. But three lads stood in his way. Tristan was of a mind to see that it remained that way.

  Even though his heart was galloping madly at the sight of the monstrous ship looming ahead of them, rocking on the water, fog swirling ominously around it. Bitter bile rose in his throat as the stench of brine mingled with decaying fish assaulted his nostrils.

  Sebastian staggered to a stop, swung around—his black hair flopping into his eyes—and grabbed Tristan’s shoulders. “You understand that I have no choice. We must do this.”

  He’d said the same words to their younger brother, Rafe, when he delivered him to a workhouse. But Rafe hadn’t understood. Not really. Four years their junior, he’d reacted the way he usually did when the twins formed plans that didn’t include him: he whined, blubbered, and begged not to be left behind. What a sniveling little pup!

  Tristan was above putting on a similar disgusting performance, even though he could barely breathe with the dread of what awaited him churning in his gut, even though he had to clamp his teeth together so they didn’t betray that he was shaking with fear. Tiny chilled tremors that somehow seemed far worse than outright trembling. But he wouldn’t add to Sebastian’s burdens. He’d be a man about this, prove his worth.

  He wished Sebastian hadn’t stopped, hadn’t given him time to think about what was happening. Their uncle, Lord David Easton, had locked them in the cold dark tower at Pembrook as soon as all the mourners had left following their father’s funeral. Their mother was long dead. They were in their uncle’s care now, and it seemed he intended to rid himself of them.

  They’d still be shivering in that prison if Mary, their neighbor’s daughter, hadn’t helped them to escape. Tristan had wanted to use the opportunity to slay their uncle then and there, be done with the troublesome bastard, but Sebastian favored waiting until they were men, better able to command the situation. Unfortunately that plan involved going into hiding. Where better than far from England’s shores?

  Tristan gave a brisk nod in response to his brother’s earlier words. He clenched his hands into balled fists to keep them from reaching out and clutching Sebastian’s shirt in a last vain attempt to avoid the impending separation.

  Sebastian’s fingers tightened, digging painfully into Tristan’s shoulders. “Remember, ten years from now, on the night we escaped, we meet at the old abbey ruins. We’ll get our revenge, I swear to you upon mother’s and father’s graves.”

  He nodded once again.

  “All right then.”

  Sebastian continued along the dock until they came to the hulking ship. It groaned in the darkness of the night. A large man stood near the plank that led onto the ship. His greatcoat barely stirred in the breeze coming off the water. A scar along the left side of his face brought the corner of his mouth up into a mockery of a smile. His eyes were as black as sin.

  A shiver skittered down Tristan’s spine. He wanted to turn on his heel and head to the stable where they’d tethered their horses. He wanted to climb onto Molly and gallop away, never stopping. Instead he forced himself to stand beside his brother as he faced the captain to whom Sebastian had spoken in a tavern earlier.

  “Have you the coins?” Sebastian asked.

  “Aye.” The captain tossed a leather pouch into the air, caught it. The coins jingled. “You sure you be wanting this, lad? To be me cabin boy?”

  Tristan nodded.

  “Hard life on a ship. Neither of you look like boys accustomed to a hard life.”

  Tristan fought to find his voice—

  “He’s not afraid,” Sebastian announced confidently.

  Tristan was grateful for his brother’s words, glad he was successfully hiding that he was truly terrified.

  “All right then.” The captain tossed the pouch to Sebastian, who caught it with both hands, as though it weighed far more than it did, as though it carried the burden of his conscience. “Let’s get aboard.”

  The captain turned and began to walk up the gangway. Tristan took a step—

  Sebastian grabbed him, hugged him tightly. “Be strong.”

  Tristan’s eyes burned. Dammit. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t going to be a baby like Rafe. With a nod he slapped Sebastian on the back, broke free, and ran up the ship’s corridor. He leaped onto the deck.

  When he looked back all he saw was Sebastian’s retreating shadow disappearing into the darkness. Tristan wanted to go with him. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want this.

  The captain’s huge paw of a hand landed on his shoulder with enough weight to jar him.

  “I’m called Marlow. Have you a name, lad?”

  “Lo—” He stopped. He couldn’t tell anyone that he was Lord Tristan Easton, second in line for the dukedom of Keswick. Until they reclaimed their birthright he was only a commoner. He cleared his throat. “Tristan.”

  “Well, Lo Tristan, who you be running from?”

  Tristan pressed his lips tightly together. The captain had caught his mistake, was mocking him. He would never be so careless again. If he was to be nothing else, he would become a master keeper of secrets.

  “So be it,” the captain said. “I’ll call you Jack.”

  Tristan jerked his gaze up to the towering man. “Why?”

  “When you’re seeking to hide, lad, you hide everything.”

  Tristan looked back toward the looming black void into which his brother had vani
shed. He could do that. He could deeply bury everything about himself. He could become someone else. He would become someone else.

  He only hoped that when the time was right, he could find himself once again.

  Chapter 1

  I had always heard that the eyes were a window into one’s soul. As I stared into his, I could not determine if they were merely shuttered or if the rumors about him were true: that he possessed no soul to speak of because he’d traded it to the devil for immortality. By all accounts, the life he pursued was one that should have led him to an early grave. Yet, there he sat, his ghostly blue gaze unwavering, challenging … dangerous. A time would come when I would question the wisdom in not walking away, but I longed for more than I possessed and so I stood my ground, refusing to be put off. I often look back on that stormy night and wonder how different my life might be now had I realized that the journey he would take me on was one that I would soon discover I had little desire to travel.

  —The Secret Memoirs of an Adventurous Lady

  London

  April 1858

  He didn’t look at all like a hero.

  Lady Anne Hayworth had expected him to be … well, at least tidy. She’d never seen a man so unkempt, with three buttons on his shirt undone to reveal a narrowing V of chest that to her surprise seemed as bronzed as his hands. He sat alone at a table in the corner of the tavern as though he owned the establishment, although she was well aware that he didn’t. Or at least she didn’t think he did. The particulars about him were as difficult to find as the man himself.

  Standing before him she was sorely tempted to take a pair of sharp shears to the ebony hair that hung to his shoulders and a razor to the stubble darkening his jaw.

  She was accustomed to gentlemen rising when she approached. Instead, he continued to slouch in his chair, leisurely trailing one long thick finger up and down his mug, his gaze fastened on her as though he were imagining what it might be like to stroke that finger along her throat. It was an absurd thought, and she had no idea from whence it had sprung. She was not used to men openly looking at her as though they were contemplating doing wicked things with her.

  No, no, this man wasn’t hero material at all.

  Perhaps the gentleman at the door, the one she’d questioned, had directed her to this man as a cruel prank. If so, she would demand he return the sovereign she’d paid him for his assistance. Still, on the off chance …

  She cleared her throat and said, “I’m searching for Captain Jack Crimson.”

  “Crimson Jack. And you found him.”

  “I see. Captain Crimson Jack, the adventurer?”

  One side of his mouth curled up slowly into a mocking smile. “Depends. What sort of adventure are you looking for, Princess?”

  “I’m not a princess. My father is an earl, not a prince or a king. He—” She halted. The particulars of her heritage—of anything at all actually—were none of his concern. “I was told you are a man who could help me.”

  As he raked his insolent gaze over her, her stomach quivered, and she balled her white-gloved hands into fists at her side to stop them from trembling.

  “Depends on what sort of help you’re needing,” he said. “If it’s an adventure between the sheets—”

  “Definitely not!” she snapped at the arrogant cad.

  “Pity.”

  Pity? Obviously the man had no standards. She knew she was not a beauty. She lacked color. Her hair was a ghastly white, her eyes silver. Her nose too small, her lips too plump. She knew she should seek help elsewhere, but he had come so highly recommended. Instead, she heard herself ask, “May I sit?”

  The chair in front of her wobbled a bit, and she realized that he’d nudged it with his booted foot. Mannerless jackanapes. Still, she could not discount the fact that she had been assured that he was a man she could trust not only with her life, but with her virtue. He wasn’t in the habit of forcing women, but then based on his handsome features alone—not to mention that wicked smile—she suspected women stumbled over themselves clambering into his bed. She, however, would not be one of them. She pulled out the chair farther and sat. “I am Lady Anne.” She halted there. Her father and brothers would not approve of her plans, which was the very reason that she’d chosen to be secretive. “I wish to hire you to take me to Scutari.”

  “Not a very nice place for a holiday. What say I take you to Brighton instead?”

  “My fiancé isn’t in Brighton,” she snapped. She squeezed shut her eyes as they began to sting. Her family had told her it was a bad idea to go to the place where so many soldiers had died during the Crimean War, to visit the hospital and grounds where Florence Nightingale had fought to save so many lives. But it wasn’t so much that she wanted to go there. It was quite simply that she had to.

  She opened her eyes to the expressionless man sitting across from her. If he thought anything at all about her outburst, he didn’t show it.

  “You don’t need me to get you to Scutari. You can purchase passage—”

  “I wish to journey on my schedule. I want to get there quickly. I don’t intend to stay long, but it’s imperative that I—” Damn the tears that once again threatened. She was stronger than this. She would be stronger than this. She swallowed. “—visit with my fiancé and return home before the Season begins.”

  A handkerchief, surprisingly white and pressed, appeared before her, held in a large roughened hand. She took the offering and dabbed gently at her eyes. “Thank you.” She looked down at the scarred table, then lifted her gaze. “I didn’t expect this part to be so incredibly difficult.”

  “How long has it been since you saw him?”

  “Four years, almost to the day. I saw him off at the railway station on the morning that he and so many others in service of the Queen began the journey to the Crimea. He looked so incredibly dashing, so confident. Promised to be home in time to go pheasant hunting …” She cleared her throat. “I’m frightfully sorry. I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this.”

  Especially when his eyes held no compassion, no warmth. She didn’t know why he’d bothered to offer her the handkerchief unless it was simply that he couldn’t abide tears.

  “Have you ever been separated from anything, anyone you held dear?” she asked.

  He clenched his jaw, and she quickly shook her head. “I’m sorry. That was a silly question. You’re a seaman. I’m certain your life is filled with separations.”

  “Where I’m concerned, don’t be certain of anything, Princess.”

  “I told you that I’m not—”

  She saw triumph light his eyes. He’d baited her, and her anger had shoved her sorrow aside. What sort of man was he? Compassionate one moment, distant the next?

  Very primly, she folded the handkerchief and extended it toward him.

  “Keep it.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve not handled this encounter at all well. As I said earlier, I wish to hire you to take me to Scutari. I’ve heard you have a remarkably fast ship and you are an exceptional captain.”

  “True on both counts. But I transport cargo, not people.”

  “I’m willing to pay handsomely for your ship and services: two hundred pounds.”

  She’d shocked him. She could tell by the way that he slowly trailed his gaze over her, without insolence, but with a new measure of respect, as though truly seeing her for the first time.

  “That’s a good deal of money,” he finally said.

  “Enough to make you go to Scutari, Captain—” She shook her head. “What is your last name, if not Crimson?”

  “Jack will suffice.”

  “I couldn’t be so informal.”

  He plopped his arm down on the table, palm up. “Give me your hand,” he ordered.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Your hand.”

  His eyes held a challenge that she couldn’t mistake. She saw no harm in doing as he asked. She was wearing gloves after all. Taking a deep steadying bre
ath she placed her hand in his.

  Before she could blink he curled his long fingers around her wrist. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he began releasing the buttons on her glove with his other hand.

  “Captain—”

  “Shh.”

  She watched in horrified fascination as he leisurely peeled off her glove and set it aside. With no request for permission, he lightly trailed his fingers over hers, then circled them around her palm, following the various lines as though he expected them to guide him somewhere. His fingers were callused, rough, scarred. She doubted he ever wore gloves.

  “Your skin is like silk. Your fiancé is a very fortunate man,” he said, his voice scratchier, rougher than it had been moments earlier.

  “Not as fortunate as you might think.”

  He didn’t question her further, but rather he seemed enthralled by her hand, by the lines that traversed her palm. “There is very little room on my ship for formality,” he said, returning to her earlier comment regarding how she was to address him. “You would have to sleep in my cabin.”

  “But surely you would not be there.”

  With no rush, he lifted his hooded gaze to hers. Her heart was pounding so hard that she wondered if he could feel it in the throbbing of her pulse at her wrist. “Not always, no. But I would eat my meals there. Study my charts there.” A heartbeat of silence. “Bathe there.”

  She swallowed hard. She could be on deck when he was bathing. Besides, how many baths would the man need in the week or so it would take to reach their destination? “I’m sure we could work out a suitable arrangement.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “It’s bad luck to have a woman onboard. My men would not be particularly pleased by your presence. You would have to remain very close to me so that I could offer you protection.”