HE WAS.
Hamilton caught her before she reached the top of the stairs and lifted her with his arm around the waist.
She screamed, loud and shrill, but the sound echoed down the stairs and through the obviously empty taproom.
Hamilton held her there long enough to confirm his prediction.
Ernest wouldn’t rescue her. Ernest believed she was Hamilton's wife, the wife of his lord, and Ernest would leave her to the gentle mercies of the man he thought to be her husband.
“Satisfied?” Hamilton growled in her ear.
She kicked at him, but her heels bounced on his thighs, and without flinching, he swung her around in the narrow hall and headed back for the bedchamber. She twisted, desperately trying to knock him with an elbow, a fist, anything, but she couldn’t get to him, and they swept back into the room. Kicking the door shut with his foot, he carried her writhing form to Henry the Eighth’s bed and dropped her into the two-thousand-goose-feather mattress. Its softness billowed up around her, stifling her as she tried to leap back at him.
He landed on her.
Her foot twisted under her and she gave a yelp of pain.
“Foolish girl,” he growled, lifting himself and adjusting her leg.
She rammed her knee into his midsection.
He doubled over.
She scrambled over him toward freedom. He caught her again and rolled, tucking her under him as he went. “Foolish, headstrong girl,” he said.
She took comfort in the fact that he sounded winded.
Then he kissed her.
Last time, she realized, had been playacting. This time, he was angry. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and when she tried to close her teeth on him again, he lifted his head. Looking right into her eyes, he said, “If you bite me, I will retaliate.” She flinched and he felt it, lying on top of her as he was, and he smiled using all his white teeth. “I never make promises I don’t keep.”
When he put his lips to hers again, she desperately wanted to defy him, but he had made her aware of him and his fury. He was doing it on purpose, she thought, weighing her down with his large body until everywhere she turned, he was there. The scent of fresh air, rain and heather filled her nostrils, and that was him. The heat of an iron forge covered her, and that was him. The sound of a heartbeat filled her ears, and that was surely him. It couldn’t be her own heart that raced so madly, and certainly not because of the way he kissed.
Because she wasn’t susceptible to such physical entrapment — at least she never had been before. When he penetrated her mouth with his tongue, she kept her eyes open and her teeth firmly shut.
He didn’t seem to mind. He closed his eyes as if she were no threat to him, and it irked her to know it could possibly be true. He explored the inner wetness of her lip, finding untouched places and touching them. His tongue ran the ridges of her teeth and when she tried to shake her head and rattle him out, he snapped out one word. “Laura!”
As if she were a child!
Doubling up her fist, she swung at him for his impertinence, but she’d taught him respect, it seemed, for he caught her wrists in one hand and placed them over her head. She tried to flail away, but the feathers ensnared her and her struggles carried her deeper into the mattress. Her legs churned in useless protest, and panic rose in her. She’d never been so helpless, so out of control, and she didn’t want this kiss.
Then he touched her breast.
The kiss seemed innocent in comparison. The wool cloth of her bodice might have been cambric, so little did it protect her from his caress. He explored the lower curve. With each contact, her breath caught. She closed her eyes at last, too embarrassed by such blatant intimacy and the eminent stroke of his fingers against the peak. The nipple must have retained memory of the cold, for it had puckered into that hard little knot. His hand covered it, but not even that warmed it. Then she realized both his hands were busy with constraining her, and she couldn’t imagine … she ventured a peek and he had his mouth there. She froze into immobility. She could scarcely speak, but she managed to choke, “What are you doing?”
He didn’t raise his head, but sucked on the cloth until it turned dark and damp. “I’m making myself happy, and you too, I hope.”
“Impertinent!” She took an outraged breath, but that pushed her bosom closer to his face and she hastily tried to make herself as small as possible. Then Hamilton, and curiosity, nipped at her, and she asked, “Happy? Why would this make me happy?”
Transferring both her wrists to one of his large hands, he used the other to torment her further. He took the cloth, and the nipple beneath, between his fingers and rubbed until the friction made her twist to get away, or perhaps to get closer. The lower halves of their bodies pressed together and changes happened in hers. Changes she didn’t want to admit or to have him recognize.
“Can you feel that?” he asked.
“Of course I can,” she said crossly, pressing her legs together to relieve a sudden, unexplained pressure. “How can I help but feel it when you pinch me?”
“Not here.” He cupped her breast in his free hand, then slid it down the length of her body to rest between her legs. “But here. Doesn’t it tingle?”
Thicker petticoats. She needed thicker petticoats. Oh, God, why hadn’t she worn her winter petticoats? Her wool gown and linen petticoats were not enough to block the sensation of his caress.
He pressed his fingers on the mound over her bone, then adjusted them to fit closer. If he weren’t careful, he’d have one finger in her slot and she’d have to shake him … if only she had her hands free.
She dug her heels into the mattress, she arched her back, and Hamilton murmured, “Deep inside, the muscles should be clamping down, and here, between your legs, you’re growing damp.”
“Damp?” She sucked in a breath. “Why would I be—”
A mere adjustment of his fingers brought the dampness of which he spoke.
“Between your legs. Can you feel it?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
She was a liar, but she didn’t understand what her body was doing or why, and she didn’t understand why he remained unaffected.
Or was he? He kept pushing his hips forward in a slow rocking motion, as if he needed to scratch an itch or massage a sore place.
She shuddered as some ancient knowledge fought its way up from primal depths she didn’t suspect that she possessed. She wanted to move as he did, as though she’d danced to that very rhythm before. When she murmured his name, the way she crooned embarrassed her. “Hamilton.”
“Keefe,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s my first name.” His voice resonated with fierce resolution. “Freely I give my name to you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
FROWNING, LAURA tried to understand why Hamilton sounded so … intent. Determined.
But he distracted her. He placed his mouth close to her ear. His breath stroked her cheek and neck.
She shivered.
He was no longer so aggressive.
She was no longer so outraged.
He released her hands.
She put them on his shoulders and pressed the warm, strong, corded muscles beneath his shirt.
Gently, he asked, “Laura, why are you here? In Kent? Why now? What do you know?”
Her eyes fluttered open, then closed, as she struggled to answer him.
Then she caught sight of his face.
His sharp, intelligent gaze was at odds with the passion he pretended.
Duped. She had been duped. He’d been playing her, seeking information, and she’d let him. She’d nearly betrayed Ronald for a sense of security and a moment’s pleasure.
What was it about Hamilton that made her want to kiss him when all evidence pointed to his guilt? No matter what she knew with her mind, her body still yearned for him.
Did she imagine she could find sanctuary in his arms? Did she dream he would protect her from the truth?
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Or worse, did she see herself as the tiger’s mate?
Not true. For if she were not careful, she find herself nothing but a passing meal for this hungry beast.
“I know you killed him,” she whispered. “You killed my brother.”
He reared back, half off of her. “Are you mad?” he demanded. “Why would I have killed Ronald?”
She didn’t make the mistake of trying to run this time. Instead, with ferocious intensity, she said, “You’re the leader of the smugglers.”
“Is that what you think?” Carefully, he lowered himself back down to her and stroked her hair back off her forehead. “Dearest, I’m not the leader of the smugglers. I’m the man who’s commissioned to capture them.”
She mocked herself for half-believing and said sarcastically, “I would have thought so, once. Brilliant, ambitious, cunning and brave, Ronald called you.”
He half-smiled. “Your brother was an intelligent man.”
“You’re all those things Ronald said. When I was notified of Ronald’s death, I never doubted you’d help me. He simply never realized that you’re also wealthy, powerful, well-bred and” — merciful heavens, she’d almost said handsome — “patronizing.”
“I am not patronizing!” Very good. Hamilton sounded outraged.
“Of course.” She mocked him with her tone. “I should have guessed that your campaign to discourage and frighten me was nothing but your way of showing concern for my grief at Ronald’s death.”
“My campaign to —” He raised himself again and glared. “You’ve been having delusions.”
“Your secretary sneered at me every time I came to you.”
His mouth tightened. “Farley sneered at you? I’ll reprimand him. What else?”
“When I waited to speak with you, I always saw those young gentlemen going in and out of your office.”
“Were they rude to you, too?”
“No, they were most respectful, but sometimes I recognized them skulking about in my neighborhood, and my neighborhood is not a place respectable men visit.”
He winced. “You identified them?”
Triumphant, she nodded. “Even in their disguises.”
Looking as uncomfortable as she’d ever seen him look, he admitted, “They had instructions to watch over you and make sure nothing occurred which would threaten your safety.” He tapped her nose with his forefinger.
“Patronizing,” she said.
With a frown, he pulled his hand back. “You don’t live in a desirable location, and I intend to change that.”
She laughed, her amusement bright and sharp with pain. “Your young men have sold their souls for a cut of the smuggling profits, more likely. Smuggling that takes place on your land.”
“Do you credit me with no sense? I’d not be so stupid as to use my own estate.”
She stared at him, pressing her lips together and ignoring the tenderness that plagued them. The tenderness he’d caused with his false kisses.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Now he sounded surprised. “What did you think I was going to do to you?”
A vision of Ronald’s tortured body flashed through her mind, and she physically felt Hamilton wince.
“Kill you? You thought I wanted to kill you?” Cradling her head, he demanded, “Look at me. Really look at me. Do you really think I could ever hurt you?”
She saw that the tiger still lurked in his eyes. He wanted to consume her, yes, but for the first time she confronted the fact his meal would be a sensuous one. She swallowed.
He watched her throat move and his hunger invoked a like hunger in her.
He wasn’t going to kill her. Worse, she no longer believed he killed Ronald. Oh, in her mind she knew he was guilty, but his one flimsy reassurance had lodged in her heart, and she believed in him.
Maybe that explained why she had desired him. She had always believed in him.
He groaned. “Laura.” His mouth swooped; he placed a necklace of kisses across her throat and jeweled kisses on each ear.
She remained still, horrified by her compliance. Then he kissed her mouth, and it became more than compliance. She kissed him back, opening her mouth willingly. She dared to push her tongue in his mouth and he let her, urging her with his hands as they caressed her shoulders. Her clothing became too tight, then too thick, and when he pushed the sleeves off her arms she helped him.
The cool air of the room struck her overheated skin above her chemise and sanity struck her at the same time. She’d never even been alone with a fully clothed man before, much less one who’d shed his boots and coat, whose scarf had been discarded over the edge of the bed, and whose shirt had miraculously opened all the way to his waistband. “My lord,” she whispered.
“My lady.” He mocked her.
“This is not proper.”
“Most certainly not!” He reared back as if offended. “If it were proper, I would be doing it incorrectly.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, but when he stripped off his shirt she said, “I will not be a nobleman’s toy.”
“I have never played with toys. I was always too responsible for that.” He touched his finger to her bare chest. “But I think I could learn to play with you.”
She stopped breathing. How could she allow her chest to rise and fall when his palm hovered just above, waiting to encourage her.
“We are not married. We cannot share this bed.”
His mouth curved in a tender smile. “We will be married.”
“Do you think I’m bird-witted?” She laughed shortly, bitterly. “I’m far too poor and you’re far too noble.”
“Darling, didn’t you know? I’m rich enough for the both of us.” She didn’t believe that for an instant, and he seemed to realize it, for he said, “Look at it from a smuggler’s point of view. When we’re married you won’t be able to testify against me. A wife can’t testify against her husband.”
She didn’t know what shocked her more, his blatant assurance or the speed at which he untied her chemise.
“You are the first woman ever to doubt my integrity,” he said.
Hopefully, she inquired, “Does that inhibit you?”
Pausing in his assault on her virtue, he thought, then answered, “Not at all. It liberates me.”
She held herself stiff as he stripped her chemise down to her waist and looked on her.
His lips opened slightly as he viewed her.
Totally without her volition, she imagined his mouth there, and her nipples tightened sharply.
He didn’t take his gaze away from her breasts. If anything, she more clearly saw the tiger that lurked behind his facade. But he said, “However, I would not like to think you’ll put barriers up against me, not even in your mind.” In a tone that disguised the significance of his pronouncement, he said, “I’m the Seamaster.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
LAURA JUMPED as if Hamilton announced Napoleon fought for England — and indeed, that seemed more likely. Ronald had mentioned the Seamaster over and over again in his diary. The Seamaster directed all the operations in which Ronald had participated. The Seamaster had been bold and daring, intelligent and canny. He was the man Ronald had emulated, the man Ronald had worshipped, and Laura could not imagine that Hamilton, with his conservative manner, could possibly be so dashing a figure as the Seamaster.
Then she looked at the man before her. He hadn’t been conservative tonight. He’d been as bold as a smuggler, or as the Seamaster himself. The Hamilton she’d met in London had been subdued, at least for tonight, by this Hamilton. This man who used any weapon to get his way.
Yes, this Hamilton could be the Seamaster.
Or he could be Jean.
As she finished her contemplations, she realized he now viewed her face with all the interest he had shown her bosom. “You know who the Seamaster is. Your brother wouldn’t have told you, so how do you know?”
“I’m an eavesdropper.” She lied without a hitch, and she
was proud of her smooth delivery.
But he wouldn’t stop staring, using his gaze to scour her mind for guilt.
He found it, of course, and she blushed from her waist to the hairs on her head.
Instead of interrogating her, though, he shook his head admiringly. “An eavesdropper. I should have guessed.”
“What do you mean by that?” she demanded indignantly. Then she could have groaned. Of course she didn’t want him to think her dishonorable, but better he should think that than realize Ronald’s diary rested in her pocket close to his hand.
“I mean” — he pressed a kiss on her mouth — “that you’re an incredible woman.”
“Please.” She pushed at him. “I don’t want this.”
“Don’t you?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“As you wish.”
He moved off of her and she covered herself with her hands, watching him warily. He’d given up too easily, this man who claimed to be the Seamaster. The Seamaster, according to Ronald’s diary, had much in common with his namesake. Once he sank his teeth into a situation, he never let go.
Ronald’s diary. She glanced down at her skirt and saw the red leather peeking out of her dark blue skirt.
He saw it, too. His eyes widened and he lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “What is that?”
His hand reached for it, and she caught his wrist. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? It’s a book.” He pulled a long face. “Laura, what are you hiding from me?”
“What do you mean?”
“That book will tell me all your secrets, won’t it?”
“No!”
“Everything I desire to know is there.” His fingers twitched closer. “It’s a novel, isn’t it?”
She was so stunned, she could only parrot his words. “A novel?”
“One of those wicked romances.” She couldn’t restrain him, and he laid his palm on it, preparing to draw it out. “Let me read it, and perhaps next time I’ll learn enough to seduce you successfully.”
If he read it, he’d learn enough that he wouldn’t have to seduce her ever again. If he read it, he’d have all his questions answered, and she still didn’t dare trust him. Not with Ronald’s diary, nor with the information inside.