“HELLO?” MAEVE DROPPED HER BAGS IN THE HALL. Peering across the foyer, she could just make out her husband’s shape slumped in his favorite old leather chair. She shrugged off her coat and tossed it. It landed over the banister. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“Why are you so far away?”

Her heels clicked on the parquet. “Bad day, darling?”

Devlin watched her cross the room, swirling his drink. “You’re wearing those boots again,” he said.

“I am.”

He turned away to concentrate on a long swallow from his glass. “Not all bad, then.”

She smiled at that, and brushed a hand over his hair, feeling his forehead as a nurse might check for fever. He twitched, meaning don’t fuss, and patted his knee.

Maeve arranged herself in his lap, her knees swinging over the rolled arm of the chair, and wondered what to do.

They both had bad days now and then, with all they’d been through. Dev usually went off alone and came back when he’d healed himself. Or close enough to healed himself. Rarely did he let her see the suffering, much less offer what small comfort she could.

He set his glass on the floor. His palm skimmed beneath the hem of her skirt. The skirt was a favorite of Maeve’s, a great sweep of charcoal silk velvet. Despite the steady rise of his hand, the skirt veiled boots, legs and his intent. Beginning at her ankle, he traced the fit of her boot as it climbed her leg.

“Jesus. Where does it stop?”

The smoke of aged, oaked whiskey on his breath, and leather in the air, whetted Maeve’s appetite. Dark and chilly as Dev’s spirits ran tonight, she felt the tingle of warmth they made between them spark, and begin to burn.

“Ahhh, there’s a good man.” She wiggled deliberately, settling more comfortably in his lap, and he pinched the tender skin above the boot’s cuff. “I knew you’d find your way.”

“What’s this you’re barely wearing?” Blunt fingertips tickled the edge of her lacy thong.

“Layers are the secret to a well-dressed woman,” Maeve replied with an invitational tip of her hips.

“Thinly spread layer.”

“Mille feuille cake,” she teased, hoping for another pinch.

“Naughty girl.”

“Think of it as a visual aid.”

“A visual aid? When you’re hip-high in these…” he whispered across her ear “…pirate boots,” making her shiver, another little retaliation.

“Pirates. Now, that reminds me of a story.” She shifted her butt in his lap deliberately, achieving precisely the result she’d hoped for.

“Do tell,” her husband answered, with enough growl in his voice to really make it worth her while.

The Pirate’s Tale

The only life Gertrude had ever known was the convent.

“The convent? I thought this was a lusty pirate tale?”

“Fine. Skip the convent. Straight to the bedroom.”

“That’s more like it.”

It was a cold, dark bedroom.

Gertrude wrapped the coverlet tighter around her and poked the fire. Two months at sea, two days in port and two hours in a carriage traveling streets that were worse than those on the island of Santa Ava, only to be deposited at the door of a respectable house and deserted.

She eyed the bed suspiciously. It was huge; big enough to sleep six orphans. Who else would be sleeping in there tonight?

The door banged open and in clomped a pair of dirty boys, a large brass tub and the housekeeper, Mrs. Allworthy.

“Right here.” The woman pointed to the space in front of the fire. “Carefully! Don’t slosh all over the Captain’s India rug.”

The water in the tub was so hot that steam rose into the air.

“Mrs. Allworthy?”

“A moment,” she answered, with a glance at Gertrude. “Back downstairs, you two, quick step! Bring up the other pails of boiling water from the kitchen. Run!” From her apron pocket she pulled a glass bottle and dumped the contents into the water. The room bloomed with the scents of rose and rosemary. “You had a question, missus?”

Gertrude tried to sound merely inquisitive. “Who is planning on bathing in my room?”

“You, dear.”

“I’ve already washed,” she said. “Thank you.”

“The Captain ordered you a bath.”

“He hasn’t seen me since we made port. How would he know I need a bath?” she grumbled. “Please don’t go to any more trouble. I prefer to bathe…standing. Thank you.”

“Standing? You mean a spit bath? With your clothes on?” An odd expression flickered over the older woman’s face. She arched her back and rubbed her distended belly. From where Gertrude stood, it appeared the baby might come before Mrs. Allworthy left the room. “Ever sat in a bathtub, my dear?”

“Why does that matter?”

“You haven’t! Ha! I’ll be a ripe tomato.” She barked a laugh that colored her face as red as the fruit, then she started to hiccup. “Pardon me. Where does he find ’em? Uuurp, there I go again!”

“Find who?”

“Well now, the Captain’s been married before, I’m sure you’ve heard?” The woman narrowed her eyes. “Don’t believe one word of the rumors. Captain wouldn’t harm a fly, much less his wives.”

“That’s a…relief,” Gertrude said. Wives?

“Don’t wait too long, poppet. Water’s best when it’s hot enough to turn you pink all over.” Mrs. Allworthy winked and rubbed her belly again. “I’m away. I’ve my own chicks and a husband to settle in for the night. Good luck, my girl.” She chuckled and burped her way out the door. “Never sat in a bath! Going to be a long night for both of them….”

Gertrude slumped. Long night? The Captain must be going out again this evening. Nothing was proceeding according to plan. She’d gambled on love, new experiences and a world beyond the locked doors of Santa Ava’s convent orphanage.

She’d lost. The Captain had been too busy to do more than stare at her across the deck during the crossing. Alone, confined to the ship, she’d found seasickness her only notable new experience.

Steam from the bath fogged the mirror over the mantel. Her reflection blurred. She dipped her hand in the tub’s water. The sweet-spice scent of rose and rosemary swirled around her. The water appeared clean enough. She’d been told baths were dirty. It smelled lovely.

Maybe she should try it? Many things she’d been told at the convent had turned out to be untrue. That certain private behavior caused spots, for instance. Or that women who were not virgins would never find a husband. Also—clearly—false.

Here she sat in a fine house, married. For the most part.

What sort of pirate was this husband of hers, two months at sea and all he did was watch her across the deck, staring with those intent blue eyes, as if she were the dangerous one?

She sat down on the rug, unhooked her stockings and carefully rolled them down her legs, one by one. Absent husband or not, she was capable of creating a new experience for herself. She wiggled her toes in the carpet. Carpet in a bedroom! A luxury right under her feet.

Shrugging off the coverlet, she reached beneath her dress to untie her drawers.

Why had Mrs. Allworthy asked about her clothes? Who dared to take off all their clothes to bathe? Gertrude unfastened the buttons down the front of her gown and lifted it over her head, leaving her shift in place. The last time she had taken off everything…well, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken off all her clothes at the same time. Not with fifty women and children watching every move.

The door banged open.

The Captain, her new husband, entered the bedroom carrying a bucket of hot water in each hand. His shirtsleeves were folded up, revealing cords of muscles straining from the weight of water and pail.

For once, his look wasn’t full of apprehension. Admiration, perhaps? Appetite, most definitely. She was, after all, practically naked, the sheerness of her shift hiding all her flaws but none of her charms.

Gertrude panicked. She grabbed the coverlet off the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders like a tent.

The first time they’d met, she’d known immediately he was a captain of men in both form and function. Deep blue eyes and blue-black hair. A straight, sharp nose, unbroken, unlike many of his shipmates. Tall, but wiry. He could use a few good meals.

And that commanding voice. “I’ve brought more water.”

Several questions occurred to her. Don’t you knock? was the first. Will you stay? was the last.

The Captain stepped farther into the room and dumped one bucket of steaming water into the tub. The other he set by the fire.

“Nothing to say?”

His shirt was open. He had dark hair on his chest also. The room seemed smaller.

“Gertrude is a mouthful. Do you have another name?”

Old Gertrude. “No,” she told him.

“I thought I might find you in the bath already, Gertrude.” He pointed. “Water’s hot.”

She shuffled backward until her calves hit the bed. The convenience of her shipboard seasickness returned to her. New experiences were all well and good when you were in control of them.

She did not feel that the man standing in front of her was quite under her control.

“Actually, there are three other Gertrudes residing at the convent,” she babbled. “Gertie, who is fifteen and quiet. Trudy is seven and never quiet, but she wets the bed when she has a nightmare. The youngest is called Baby Gertrude. I’ll miss her.”

The first time they’d met, in the Mother Superior’s office, he’d looked at her exactly this way, as if he were gazing at a ghost.

A slow smile now curved his mouth with hints of fear and wonder.

She blushed everywhere. Thank heaven, all he could see was the red in her cheeks. How could anyone as ordinary as she was inspire such a look?

“An abundance of Gertrudes.”

“Tradition. All the baby girls left at the orphanage…” Gertrude stopped. Her nerves tingled in alarm. “What are you doing?”

“Can’t let a hot bath go to waste,” he answered, as he finished unbuttoning his shirt. “Go on.”

She turned toward the wall, as if suddenly fascinated by an etching of a sloop. “Girls are always christened Gertrude, after the patron saint of the West Indies.”

There was a snap of leather and the clink of a buckle. He was taking off his pants.

“Perhaps…I’ll wait outside.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

Water sloshed and the Captain exhaled an indecent sound.

She peeked over her shoulder. His head lolled against the back of the tub. His arms rested along the brass rim in one long line of flesh that stretched from earlobe to fingertip. Beads of water on his skin sparkled in the fire’s light.

His abandoned clothes lay beside the empty water bucket in a pile. Shirt. Pants. It was the white linen of his drawers that gave Gertrude her first palpitation. He was naked in that bathtub.

“Tell me. How did the sainted Gertrude make her name?” he asked, as if they were conversing over dinner.

“Virgin.” The word was impossible to say without squeaking. “In 1306. Educated in the convent, lived a life of great mental activity.”

“Great mental activity. You can be sainted for that?” He pointed to a small table without opening his eyes. “Pass me the soap, if you please.”

Pass me the salt, he might have said. Gertrude sidled over to where Mrs. Allworthy had left a pair of apothecary jars and a rough sea sponge.

“The sponge also, if you don’t mind.”

Gertrude angled her way toward the tub.

“How old are you?”

“Here’s your soap.”

“Put a little on the sponge for me? You didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s not a polite question. I’m giving you time to reconsider.” She dripped a little of the fancy liquid soap on the dry sponge. “It’s not soaking in very well.”

“Come closer. Dip the sponge in the water.” He didn’t move a muscle. His eyes remained shut, eyelashes curled on his cheek. She’d never noticed how pretty a man’s eyelashes could be.

Was he watching her through the curtain of those lashes?

Gertrude dunked her hand in the extra bucket of hot water. She squished the sponge until it bubbled. “Here you are.”

“If you wouldn’t mind—” the Captain sloshed forward in the tub, bracing his arms on his lifted knees “—washing my back, please? Piracy is not a trade that rewards politesse.”

Wash his back? Gertrude had to think for a moment. What was he talking about? What should she do?

The moment surrounded them, tingling with opportunity.

New experiences. She stepped behind him. With him leaning forward, the front of his body was hidden from her sight. But the view of his tender nape trailed all the way down his back to the shadowed split of his buttocks. Muscles arched across his shoulder blades and tensed along the valley of his spine.

Water everywhere, and all Gertrude could think was how dry her mouth felt.

“How old did you say you were?” he asked again.

Keeping the sponge as a barrier between her hand and his skin, she buffed his shoulder.

“More than twenty.” She scrubbed with broader strokes. “Quite a bit more. Closer to thirty, if you must know.”

He gave a snort. “I thought so. They told me you were nineteen. And married before.”

She nearly dropped the sponge. “Who told you that?”

“The old woman with the bad teeth,” he said. “The age was an obvious lie. No way to tell about the rest.”

No way to tell? Gertrude coughed. Hardly a subtle hint. “I was not married. Precisely. More like…betrothed. At least, I thought so. He seemed to think…well, never mind.”

Distracted by the conversation, and getting more comfortable in his company, she scrubbed lower. A corner of the coverlet dropped into the water.

“Bother.” Reasoning that he couldn’t see behind his back, she shook the blanket off her shoulders and onto the floor. Without the quilt she was able to move more freely. Scrubbing lower, she admitted, “I think perhaps the Sisters meant to warn you off.”

“Warn me?”

“I am not young and not…inexperienced.” Gertrude offered an honorable retreat. “It appears you’ve been misled, sir. Considering that we haven’t yet…” She had no idea what word to use, so she skipped it entirely. “I’m sure we can arrange for a proper annulment.”

He turned and glanced over his shoulder. “So eager to leave already? I heard you had a problem with locked doors.”

“They told you that?” She dropped the sponge. “Oh dear.”

“Allow me.”

Twisting to retrieve the sponge, he deliberately exposed the front of his body to her. Gertrude looked away almost immediately.

He offered her the sponge on his hand. Water ran between his fingers, dripping onto the rug. Dark hair created unexpected shadows and textures all down his body, even more so between his legs. She wanted to look again.

“You don’t know me.” Gripping the edge of the tub until her knuckles whitened gave a focus to all the nervous energy building inside. “I’m not who you thought. I’ll…leave in the morning.”

“Think you will simply walk out of here?” he asked, in a tone that rang skeptical.

“I’ve supervised the care of fifty orphans, sir,” she said. “I’m certain I can manage myself alone.”

In fact, she’d planned this moment for ages, ever since her last disastrous escape. Now, her trunk held a folio of carefully forged letters of recommendation on convent stationary. She had a change of clothing. Enough coin saved for lodging and food. She could manage.

“I went to the convent for help.” The Captain slowly squeezed the sponge with his fist. Gertrude began to sense…something was making him angry.

“For your soul?”

“No. Not that kind of help. I wanted a servant. And I was offered—you.”

Gertrude felt her throat close. “They told me you were a widower in search of a healthy wife. They told me I would be free to run your household, while you traveled at sea.” Finally she asked, “Who?”

“The one in charge, your Mother Superior. The one who insisted we marry.” He dropped the sponge into the water. “Whose soul do you suppose she was protecting, mine or yours?”

Neither, Gertrude guessed. Devious old witch. Couldn’t keep me locked in the convent, so she locked me in a marriage vow.

In one swift motion, the Captain emerged from the bathtub, steam rising off his skin, water splashing everywhere.

Showered in the drops off his body, Gertrude was treated to a shocking view of his privates, right in front of her face. “Good Lord!” she yelped.

She meant to close her eyes. And she would. Eventually.

The whole area looked nothing like what she’d expected. Everything appeared heavier, darker, redder, all softly secreted in black curly hair. Contrasted to his muscled thighs and the flat strength of his abdomen, here, he was vulnerable. At first. Even as she stared, a change began. His skin darkened in the very masculine opposite of a blush. No shame, no retreat implied by this rush of blood. He stretched and swelled as if his cock were reaching out for her, pointing at her, choosing her.

The Captain took full advantage of her inspection. He was out of the water and reaching for her even as she turned away. Pulling her to his chest, he caught her in his arms. His dripping body soaked the back of her shift.

Leaning over, he spoke into her ear. “Piracy taught me three lessons.”

She felt too much at once. Warm. Wet. The weight of him. The low rumble of his voice.

“One. To be a pirate is to take without asking.”

Each of his arms dampened an area across the front of her gown, hot where their skin touched, cool along the edges, where the air met bathwater. The contrast made her shiver. She lifted her chin and swallowed.

His finger traced a line down her throat to the tip of her breast. “Two.”

She jolted. Too fast for any objection, his palm cupped her breast completely. Hot. Hard.

“A wise pirate takes where there is excess, where something of value is wasted.”

Gertrude felt her heart pumping under his hand.

“Three.” His words whispered through her hair. “A good pirate never gives anything back.”

He released her so quickly she wobbled, eyes tightly shut.

“I may not know who you are, or how you came to be here, but this time—you will stay.”

This time?

The expression on his face led her to glance down at herself. Her gown hung, almost as wet as if she’d gotten into the tub. It clung to her skin, raising goose bumps. But worst of all, the sodden fabric was completely translucent. Without thinking, she cupped her breasts to hide the burning peaks.

He grabbed his clothes from the floor and pounded toward the door. At the threshold, he stopped. He fumbled for a moment, then pulled a ring of keys from the pocket of his trousers. They jingled, softly as a church bell. “I’m going to close the house for the night. Stay here.”

The sight of the keys made Gertrude tremble. “Do you think to lock me in?”

His back stiffened, as if he had some horrible decision to make. She tried not to stare. His naked torso made her think of statues—Greek statues. Ancient gods. Pagan rituals.

“For better or worse, you are my wife. These are the keys to my household,” he said softly. With thumb and forefinger, he singled out a small gold key, shinier than all the rest. “Use all but this one. This key is mine alone. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” She felt relieved and edgy at once.

He dropped the ring onto the credenza by the door. “You will wait here.”

The door shut with a snap.

Gertrude hurried over to where she’d dropped her gown. Quickly, she switched her cold, wet shift for the dry dress in her satchel, but her skin continued to prickle, her heart continued to flutter.

Pacing the room, window to door, fireplace to bed, she stepped into a damp patch on the rug. Everything came to a halt as she recalled the sensation of water from his naked body dripping over her. Her nipples tightened again.

The keys gleamed in the firelight.

Why get angry when she offered to release him from a forced marriage? Why expose himself to her like that, and then…walk out?

Her hands reached to comfort her breasts. Tentatively, she squeezed. Her palm was smaller, cooler. It soothed where the memory of his hand burned. She squeezed herself tighter, harder. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t enough.

What was taking him so long? It was completely irrational to think he’d left her for good, as the boy who delivered bread to the convent had done. This was the Captain’s home, after all.

She stared at the keys. Was it some sort of test? Ordering her to stay in her room, waiting for him? Clearly, this man did not know her.

Gertrude’s inability to follow the rule of confinement was Mother Superior’s greatest distress. As a girl, her tendency to cross forbidden thresholds was mostly curiosity; running away with the baker’s delivery boy had been her first outright attempt at freedom. His seduction was only disappointing, but his abandonment had infuriated her. Disgraced, disobedient, she’d spent two months locked in routines of penance.

Never again.

This wasn’t the convent. Keys to the household meant nothing if she was required to stay in her room. With careful fingers, she took up the ring.

Ting-a-ling. Again, the soft sounds of a bell.

The patron saint of the West Indies was welcome to remain in her room, with her mental activities. Gertrude had doors to open. Questions to answer. And a naked husband to find.

Room by room, floor by floor, she searched. The house seemed quiet as a grave.

How many wives had lived here? she couldn’t stop herself from thinking. And how many had died?

The dark wood floors creaked as she traveled the halls. No one took notice. None of the servants appeared to live in. Where could they have gone? Even the kitchen fire had been smothered. Moonlight over the transom windows was the only light in the house.

Most rooms held only a few spare bits of furnishing—a wooden chair, a candle on a table, a locked trunk. The house reminded Gertrude of her time on the ship, as if the Captain never really left the sea. No signs of children or guests or even servants’ lives. It was a lonely house.

Methodically, Gertrude opened every door, tried every key.

Except one.

There was one remaining door off the front hall. And one remaining key. The jitter of excitement pushed her forward.

The door appeared to lead to a parlor, or perhaps the Captain’s study. She pressed her ear to the door. Silence. Slowly, she turned the knob. Locked.

The Captain must have gone out, back to his ship, or perhaps the tavern. He had ordered her to stay in the room and then left the house? Infuriating man.

She twisted the knob hard.

What could he possibly have to hide in a parlor? Visitors waiting in the hall would be able to see right into this room when the door was open, for heaven’s sake.

The ring of keys jingled nervously.

This one is mine alone. Is that clear?

Gertrude held her breath. What was the worst that could happen? What was the worst thing he could have hidden in the parlor? She sorted the forbidden key from the rest. Was it her imagination, or did it burn as she took it between her fingers and slipped it into the lock?

The bolt shifted with a soft click.

Easing the door open, Gertrude was surprised to see the glow of a fire. She hadn’t noticed any light around the edge of the door when she’d stood in the hall. Even more surprising was her view of the Captain, completely dry and dressed in fresh clothing. Strange. Gertrude tucked a lock of her own wet hair behind her ear and leaned farther into the door’s gap.

The Captain sat in a chair by the hearth, his legs spread wide as if he was bracing himself for trouble. The firelight emphasized shadows under his eyes and gaunt cheeks Gertrude hadn’t noticed earlier. He didn’t look at all like the healthy man who’d carried two heavy water buckets into her room.

Nudging the door a bit wider, Gertrude saw Mrs. Allworthy setting a tray on the desk nearby. There was a bowl of broth, a big spoon and a small biscuit. Sick-room food.

Gertrude blinked in confusion. Mrs. Allworthy appeared slender and straight as a girl.

What? How?

“Here now, Captain,” the woman said. “Eat to keep your strength.”

“Leave it, Anne. Leave me.” He looked past her to the portrait on the wall. The face of a pretty, soft-featured girl, haloed by a prim white bonnet, made a gloomy contrast to the black-crepe drape of mourning.

“You know I’ll not do that, sir.” With a generous sigh, Mrs. Allworthy tugged at the laces on her bodice. Dipping her shoulders, left then right, she let her shift slip down to her waist.

Gertrude’s mouth dropped open.

The Captain’s did not. “Anne. No.”

“Too many months alone, you are. It’s a widower’s comfort you need, sir. And I mean to give it to you.”

The woman’s breasts spilled over her bodice, practically bouncing with relief at their freedom. Her nipples, the size of sovereigns, dark as her eyes, popped to attention.

The Captain spoke directly to her décolletage. “I don’t think—”

“I do think. You’ll take your medicine without complaining.” Mrs. Allworthy’s arms scooped beneath her skirts. Gertrude watched her fingers fiddling under the cloth, as the woman leaned forward, offering her bosom to the Captain’s face.

“And your husband?” the Captain asked. “Mr. Allworthy?”

“Not married yet.” She winked.

The woman had introduced herself as Mrs. Allworthy, mother of three boys. She’d rubbed her belly and claimed to wish for a girl next.

What magic was happening here?

“My George has a generous heart. He’d hate to see you suffering, sir, when you’ve done so much for us. He knows I’m no blushing bride.” She straightened her back, wiggled her hips. Ties undone, her white ruffled drawers dropped to the floor. “After the vows are said, I imagine he’ll see it different. But tonight is tonight and tomorrow will take care of itself.”

Even Gertrude could see the Captain’s face was fully alert. His chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm that Gertrude realized her body was mimicking.

“Life goes on for the living, sir. You’ll feel joy again, when the memory of her leaving is less sharp.” Turning her back fully to Gertrude, Mrs. Allworthy hoisted her skirts and stepped close to the chair.

As if to be polite, the Captain shifted in his seat.

The woman climbed into the chair, one knee to either side of his lap. She dumped her skirts forward, flashing the white moons of her buttocks at Gertrude.

Her bottom was…astonishing. Plump and dimpled, Gertrude had the urge to pinch that muscled flesh and confirm it was entirely real.

The Captain must have had the same urge. He took each side in one hand, spread his fingers and squeezed. And squeezed again.

Gertrude clenched her own bottom cheeks at the sight. Goodness. What would it feel like to have a pirate’s hands squeezing her?

“Ahh. That’s it.” Mrs. Allworthy’s voice went from practical to a purr. She pushed forward, lifting her bosom. “I’m here tonight to remind you of the little joys.”

“Not that little,” the Captain mumbled.

“Pooh, you flatter me,” she said as the Captain opened his mouth for the breast served up before him.

His eyes closed. Mrs. Allworthy wrapped a hand around his head, threading her fingers into his hair as she cupped him to her. Gertrude thought her expression as gentle as a midwife with a new babe.

“There now. That’s right.”

Their bodies began to rock in a rhythm, with Mrs. Allworthy pressing forward, humming a low sweet note, and then rolling back on her haunches. The Captain spread his legs wider, as if they needed stabilizing.

His face was mesmerizing. His cheeks hollowed, he sucked the woman’s breast vigorously. His tongue must be licking her, wetting her nipple, making it tingle and harden, just as Gertrude’s had hardened in the bath. And still he sucked.

Gertrude clasped her hands beneath her chin, firmly pressing her wrists to her own burning breasts.

“Good lord,” she prayed. “What next?”

Mrs. Allworthy answered with glee. She wiggled one hand, then the other, beneath her skirts. Then she rose high on her knees, forcing the Captain to relinquish his hold with a sloppy, smacking kiss.

He moaned. Mrs. Allworthy’s hands, beneath the curtain of her skirts, were making the man moan. The rhythm of their bodies quickened.

Gertrude’s grip on the keys tightened. She wanted to see. She wanted to know what was going on under those skirts.

It was as if Mrs. Allworthy heard her plea.

“Let’s get these out of the way, shall we?”

The Captain groaned happily.

Skirt, apron and petticoat were suddenly hauled over the crook of her arm like the train on a rich lady’s dress. Mrs. Allworthy’s bottom was once again bare for all the world—or at least Gertrude—to see. One knee was planted on either side of the Captain’s lap and something new was visible.

The Captain’s pants had been opened. He still gripped one cheek of Mrs. Allworthy’s buttocks with his long fingers, but his other hand was gripping something else entirely.

The shadows of Mrs. Allworthy’s thighs made it difficult to see, but what Gertrude could see was huge. Definitely larger than what she remembered prodding into her on that one other sad occasion. And much larger than it had looked in the bath upstairs. How could he possibly…?

“Help a lady to her seat, if you please, sir?” Mrs. Allworthy crooned.

The Captain smiled for the first time since Gertrude had peeked through the open door. It was a reluctant smile, slightly stiff with lack of use, but heartfelt. Of all the things she’d seen so far, it was the smile that twanged a jealous string in her soul.

Mrs. Allworthy could make the Captain smile.

“With pleasure,” he replied. His grip on Mrs. Allworthy’s buttock tightened as his other hand tilted.

Ever so slowly, Mrs. Allworthy found her seat. She appeared…relieved, grateful, perhaps even pleased by the whole experience. Gertrude watched closely, growing more and more certain. Mrs. Allworthy was enjoying herself just as much as the Captain! She wasn’t wincing; she was moaning. She wasn’t rigid, either. She was the lush, curling opposite of rigid.

It was difficult to say which bothered Gertrude more at that moment, the Captain’s dangerously blissful expression, or Mrs. Allworthy’s.

Would Gertrude feel that same bliss with the Captain? She leaned on the door frame. Her fingers clutched the fluted wood as Mrs. Allworthy began to undulate, forward and up, rising off the Captain’s lap and slowly pressing down. The Captain’s head lolled back against the chair, his eyelids heavy. Breathy gasps filled the room. Sweat began to shine on the Captain’s brow and in the valley of those bouncing breasts. Their breathing matched, flowing out with every downstroke of Mrs. Allworthy’s curvy bottom.

It shocked Gertrude to realize she was breathing exactly the same way.

Mrs. Allworthy moaned loudly, prompting a change in their rhythm. She angled her body forward, grabbing the back of the chair with white-knuckle strength. The Captain’s heels began to pop off the floor, tapping a beat in syncopation to the lady’s quickening pace. Tipped forward, Gertrude had a clear view of the deep red flesh of man and woman coming together. It shone in the firelight, slick with moisture. Rising and falling together, they made the sound of something juicy, of someone licking their lips…. Gertrude swallowed. She was the one licking her lips.

Awareness of her own body traveled head to toe before she could stop it. She was damp with sweat everywhere, but worse than that, she was melting, slick and hot, in the shadowy folds between her legs.

What Gertrude saw was nothing like what she’d experienced. She couldn’t stop wondering what it might feel like…sliding down around a man’s—that man’s—thick flesh…rising and falling, faster, faster….

Mrs. Allworthy parted her lips and gave an open-throated cry, pausing midstroke with a sort of shocked expression on her face. Flushed, panting, she let her eyes drift shut as a smile curved her mouth. Her spine softened and she relaxed her grip on the chair.

“Goodness, sir. I believe I have arrived at our destination prematurely.” She nuzzled her cheek against his hair, his thighs still bumping an insistent pattern against her.

“Perhaps I can encourage you to visit again?” The Captain’s hands became fully occupied with the woman’s rear, lifting her as he rose from the chair, while still attached.

The woman squealed with the glee of a child being tickled, and wrapped her legs round his waist. Two giant steps landed them at the parlor game table, with Mrs. Allworthy on her back, her ankles in the air and petticoats flopping.

“It’s a gentleman you are, sir, and the world’s a better place for it,” Mrs. Allworthy said, her voice catching as the Captain adjusted himself firmly to the new position. “Any woman would be lucky to have you. For a night, or a lifetime.”

Pushing away her kind words, the Captain squeezed his eyes shut and pumped his hips in a hard thrust.

…a night, or a lifetime.

Gertrude gasped. She couldn’t help herself. It was as if the Captain had pressed himself into her, driving all the air from her lungs.

She slapped her hand over her mouth. She wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t seeing some kind of ghost, a spirit of the past perhaps, but it seemed prudent to remain silent.

Too late.

The Captain’s eyes opened wide, his face taut with awareness. He looked directly at her.

That piercing glare shook Gertrude to the bone. She spun around, grabbed handfuls of her gown and ran up the stairs, two at a time. Her footsteps echoed in the oddly empty house.

With the bedroom door shut and braced behind her, she held her breath, waiting for heavy footsteps coming after her. Nothing.

After a long moment, she admitted to a small quantity of frustration. Relief, of course, but also, quite definitely…in the strangest way…disappointment.

Why didn’t he follow her? How could he look at her that way and not follow her?

She opened the door a crack. Silence. No creak of wood. No whistle of air across a chimney.

Gertrude shivered. At the orphanage she’d heard many tales of island magic and saints with visions. She’d never believed such things could be true.

Stepping into the hallway, she strained her ears for the tick of the cabinet clock. The motion caused a jingling in her pocket, the same bell-like sound she’d heard when the Captain had first laid temptation on the table.

The key.

Her hand scrambled in her pocket.

“No. Oh, no.”

She’d left the door unlocked.

He would know. There’d be no hiding the fact that she’d used the forbidden key.

Unless…she crept back downstairs and locked it, ever so quietly. Her mouth went dry at the thought, but her feet shuffled forward. Quickly; she must do it quickly, while the Captain was still…busy.

She crept back down the stairs. In the gloomy silence of the house, it was impossible to ignore her pounding heart. From the bottom stair, she could clearly see she’d left the door open. A sliver of light broke through, brighter than firelight. Had they lit more lamps?

Gertrude hardly hesitated. Instead of pulling the door shut, she pushed it open just far enough to see inside. She squinted against the dramatic change of light.

Sunshine?

The curtained windows of the Captain’s study filtered the cheerful midday sun. Gertrude looked back over her shoulder at the transom above the front door, not even ten feet from where she stood.

Midnight dark.

How was it possible?

Blinking quickly to adjust her eyes, she turned back to the study. Voices. Had someone else joined the Captain and Mrs. Allworthy? With a steady fingertip, she eased the door open wider.

“Piss-sakes, Captain, let her go. And good riddance! She was an infant. I doubt she even knew the word cock, much less how to use one.”

The man Gertrude knew as One-eyed Jack, the Captain’s first mate and friend, stood beside the desk. He’d been kind to her on the long voyage, repeatedly asking if she needed another blanket or something to warm the bed on cold nights. Gertrude had been wary of him at first. The scar that creased his face had taken his right eye and left him with a fierce expression. During the crossing, Gertrude had heard one story that he’d fed the eye to a shark, another that he’d fallen under the sword of a Queen’s Dragoon and a third in which a storm had dropped a burning spar on the poor man. The Captain had figured prominently as Jack’s savior in each version, which left Gertrude convinced that much of the tale was true.

The Jack standing in this sunlit study could not be called one-eyed. Hale and unscarred, dressed in a loose shirt and riding trousers, he was the picture of health. More than that, Gertrude realized, he was beautiful. His hair had soaked in the sunlight, and gleamed with gold. His skin glowed with vigor.

What strange thoughts these visions brought. Watching Jack, Gertrude wondered was it a life of piracy or merely life itself that scarred a man?

“The bakery boy would disagree,” the Captain answered.

“A boy. Doubtful he knows how to use one, either.”

Gertrude leaned in. Did she hear that right? Bakery boy? Had she… She searched her memory. No, she had never said… Who’d told him?

The Captain kept his head down, focusing on the piles of stationery, maps and ledger books that covered his desk. Jack turned his attention to a painting on the wall. In this room, Gertrude noticed, the black drape had been removed from the pretty portrait, which now hung near the window. The place of honor over the mantel held a different picture, of a wide-eyed shepherdess in a standard pastoral setting.

Posing beside the painting, Jack imitated the girl’s bovine expression. The Captain ignored him, until he grabbed a long breakfast bun off the tea tray and held it to his cheek, stroking the bread with his fingers.

“Admit it,” Jack said. “They’re perfect for each other.”

“Do you mean to comfort me—” The Captain’s voice started softly. “—for the loss of a second wife—” Gradually, its edge sharpened. “—by congratulating her on her good sense—” And finally became something lethal. “—at leaving me?”

He fixed Jack with the glare that gave Gertrude pal pitations.

Jack bit off a hearty chunk of bun, then perched himself on the corner of the Captain’s desk. He smiled. “I can think of better ways to comfort you.”

And the strangest thing happened.

The Captain blushed.

Gertrude thought at first he’d become volcanically angry. The color rose up his neck into his cheeks, as though he were about to explode. But no. Instead, he looked away, flustering over some papers on his desk.

“Go home, Jack.”

“I’ve no home at port. You know that.”

“Go back to the ship, then. Go find a pub and get drunk. Go find a woman and get—”

“Not in the mood.”

“Fine. I have work to do here.”

“How long till the ship is repaired?”

“They can’t say yet. I’ve another ten men to bribe before I can even start the repairs.” Gertrude heard the tension singing in his voice, and her palpitations beat harder.

“It’s not your fault, you know. The damage to the ship, that dim-witted, unfaithful little wife—”

The Captain cut him off with a slam of his hand on the desk. “Then whose fault is it?”

“No one’s, you bloody idiot!” Jack jumped up. He was a seaman with arms like muscled logs. He shoved the heavy desk sideways like a pocket door. Momentum cleared the top, scattering paper everywhere.

Without the barrier of his desk, the Captain stood.

Gertrude sucked in a breath. A spicy scent prickled the air.

Jack didn’t back away. He stepped in closer, closer, and growled, “Fate happens to us all, my friend. Good and bad.”

When he butted his chest against the other man’s, Jack’s open shirt slipped off his shoulder. Gertrude could see the glowing curves of pectoral muscles and arms. Poised before the Captain, he reminded her of an old painting she had seen copied in a Bible. David and Goliath.

“I’m sick of standing by and watching you mope about.” He raised both hands and grabbed the Captain by his shirt. Gertrude heard the sound of cloth ripping. Chest to chest, eye to eye, Jack shouted, “It’s enough, you hear me?”

It lasted all of a heartbeat.

Gertrude bit her lip this time before she gasped.

The fight was on.

The Captain swung. Jack ducked. With a shoulder to the Captain’s middle, Jack knocked the other man flat to the rug. Grunts and thumps followed. She glanced away. Rolling, twisting bodies forced both men’s shirts to fall away. She looked back. They were both dressed in the close-fitting pants preferred by horsemen. Gertrude could see every muscle of their thighs and bottoms outlined as they wrestled.

She ought to turn away. But she didn’t.

The men’s upper bodies grew shiny with sweat. Jack groaned loudly, although the Captain maintained a silent, grim-faced determination.

With a sudden thump, he managed to lock Jack beneath the full stretch of his body. He held him facedown with one arm tight around his throat, the other pressing his wrist to the floor.

The Captain was breathing hard, his body rocking with each sharp exhalation. Jack bucked against him, but the Captain would have none of it. He slammed the man back into the rug with a thrust of his pelvis.

Jack groaned again, low and long, as the Captain punished him with several more pushes—again, and again, and again. Gertrude stared without blinking, watching as his buttocks hollowed every time he clenched them and pressed Jack deeper into the carpet.

A hot blush rose to Gertrude’s cheeks when she realized she’d let it happen again. She was clenching her own buttocks in time with the Captain’s, unconsciously mimicking his body’s motion. With a shaking inhalation, she forced herself to relax.

Jack keened a wail of surrender. His face grimaced with resistance before he dropped his forehead to the floor. All the tension released from his muscles at once.

The Captain fell onto the other man, panting heavily. They lay pressed together for a long moment.

“Sorry, I—”

“I’m not,” Jack responded clearly. With a laugh, he easily pushed the other man off him and rolled to his side. His face was flushed, his lovely sunlit hair tousled, and Gertrude noticed with a reverberating shock that the front of his trousers appeared darkly stained.

“Clears the humors, doesn’t it? Oh dear, you still appear to be a bit blocked,” he added.

The Captain braced his back against the desk, spreading his legs wide. Gertrude thought he seemed to be moving rather stiffly parts that only moments ago had appeared quite athletic. She blinked and looked more closely. The placket of his own trousers bulged, as though he’d stuffed a fist in his pocket.

“Well now.” Jack propped himself up on one arm and smiled winningly. “Whatever shall we do about that?”

“Enough, Jack.” Weariness still frayed the Captain’s voice, but Gertrude heard the edge of something else, as well. Something a little rueful. Amused. “Give it up, my friend. You can’t fuck my troubles off my mind.”

“Actually, I was considering another course of action.”

Jack’s words held both Gertrude and the Captain bespelled for a moment, long enough for the golden-haired man to lean forward and rub his face against the other man’s swollen crotch.

This time, the groaning sound came from the Captain. His hand rose and hovered inches away from Jack’s golden head. Gertrude couldn’t tell if he meant to push him away or clasp him tighter. Jack opened his mouth and hummed a hot breath Gertrude could almost feel. Then he dragged his tongue over the swelling beneath the cloth.

The Captain hissed.

“Like that?” Jack laughed. “Wait until I get you bare….”

Bare.

The word alone made Gertrude shiver.

Everything she’d seen this night was a heady mix of the perverse and the sublime. How easy they all were with their bodies. Fierce and gentle, they gave and received, fighting for what they wanted. She wanted to feel that strength. Ride the power of the moment. Sweat until every muscle was slick. Lick bare skin. Make him cry out….

She must have made some sound despite every good intention, because suddenly, the Captain’s eyes were once again staring into hers.

Frozen. Time froze, as did she, right where she stood.

The look on her Captain’s face flashed like lightning, changing from astonished to avid. Desire galvanized his hovering hand. He clasped Jack’s head firmly to him and, rocking hard against that busy mouth and tongue, he never took his eyes off her.

Encouraged, Jack reached to free the buttons in his way.

No. She couldn’t watch another moment.

Gertrude grabbed the doorknob and jerked the door shut with a bang. Breathing fast, she fumbled in her pocket.

“The key. The key, I must…”

Trembling fingers made it harder to fit the key into the lock.

It wouldn’t turn!

“Please, no!” She crouched to the height of the lock and jiggled the key from side to side. That sweet, bell-like ting-a-ling rang in the metal opening. “Please, please turn!”

The door swung wide. With her hand braced on the knob, Gertrude fell forward, landing on her knees.

“What are you doing?” the Captain boomed in his on-deck voice.

This was the same Captain who had helped himself to her bath. His feet were bare. His shirt was damp, his blue-black hair dripping in wet curls over his collar. The room was dim, lit only by a small fire in the hearth.

“The fire…you…I…” She looked up at him, key in hand.

His expression was incredulous. “I told you not to use that key.”

She sat back on her heels. “Sorry?”

“Hardly good enough,” he said. He grabbed her by the arm and jerked her to her feet.

Gertrude’s palpitations amplified. This was a grown man, used to being obeyed. Her heart, her stomach, and lower, between her legs, fluttered with anticipation. After everything she had seen this night, she should have been horrified, terrified, humiliated.

Maybe she was, a little. But…she liked the feeling.

“I also told you to wait upstairs for me.” His hand was gripping her arm so tightly it hurt. She pulled and he released her, only to back her against the wall, caging her with his arms.

“Why?” Gertrude tilted her chin.

“Why? Why what?”

“Why give me that key if you didn’t want me to use it?” It wasn’t easy to meet his burning stare without spontaneously combusting. Her eyes obliged with cooling tears. “It made me wonder, were you setting a cruel trap, or merely mistaken?”

“Mistaken?” He sounded incredulous. The Captain was never mistaken. He was only obeyed. He pressed toward her; she could feel the warmth of his body through her dress. “You are the one who is mistaken if you think you can disobey me without consequences.”

Whatever he planned he had to step back to maneuver. Gertrude immediately ducked under his arm and jerked the knob of the front door.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he growled, obviously insulted. Who dares to run from the Captain? But his tone implied something else, as well—that he was game.

He slapped one hand against the door, preventing Gertrude from opening it more than an inch before it banged shut again. He cocked an eyebrow, as if to say care to try again?

Gertrude wasn’t sure whether to scream or…giggle. This was a battle, like the one he’d had with Jack. That thought made it hard to concentrate. She ducked under his arm once more and dashed toward the chair by the fireplace, thinking to put a large piece of furniture between them.

She got as far as the tea table. The painting of the shepherdess was gone. In its place was a pencil sketch of a young woman with dark hair and round eyes, standing at the threshold of the parlor. Stock-still with embarrassment, Gertrude recognized herself, as she might have looked only moments ago, her expression focused, yearning…and full of desire.

The Captain took full advantage of her hesitation. Catching her from behind, he wrapped his arms around her and carried her flat to the floor, pinning her beneath him. Crushed against the carpet, slightly breathless, she found that the weight and heat of a grown man’s body on hers made it difficult to sense many particulars.

Except one. The long line of his—Gertrude was not afraid to use the word cock—was pillowed against her bottom.

“Ready to accept your punishment?” He nuzzled her temple, the threatening words drifting softly across her cheek.

Gertrude squirmed. “No.”

“Oh, good.” He chuckled while his fingers danced a come-hither tickle beside her knee, rucking up the hem of her gown, inch by inch.

When she felt cool air hit her thighs, she began to wiggle in earnest. She’d tossed the dress over herself without a chemise, or an apron or even drawers, for goodness’ sake. The farther up he pulled the dress, the harder she squirmed to keep it down. The more she struggled, the more tightly tangled the dress became.

His hands began to touch her everywhere—her hair, her neck, her waist, her hips. The carpet abraded her breasts. His body trapped hers in a cave of warmth, but allowed her to move. The more she wiggled, the more he enjoyed it. The moment her dress twisted over her waist, exposing her bottom, Gertrude gasped. Time stopped.

The moment bubbled through her, intoxicating as wine.

What next?

It was the essence of every forbidden door she’d ever opened. Vulnerable and curious, she couldn’t stop the moan of feeling that spilled over.

“At last,” he murmured.

Smack! His hand slapped against her bottom. She spluttered with shock. It didn’t hurt, but the sound was so loud it mortified her. Someone might hear them!

“Stop! What—?”

His hand interrupted with another smack!

This time, heat bloomed. Stretched alongside her, he restrained her with nothing more than the arch of his foot curved against the back of her calf. Gertrude pushed herself up to her hands and knees, resisting for the sake of pride.

“I won’t—”

“Ahh. Better and better.” His voice oozed every satisfaction of the conqueror.

This time she knew what was coming, and that little moment before it happened was…just as good. The sound and feel of his hand landing smartly on her rear made her head snap up. Desire and embarrassment seemed to complement each other, the feelings winding more tightly inside her. Her skin was burning with awareness.

Too much. It had to… “Stop,” she moaned. Even Gertrude could admit it wasn’t a very clear statement of her wishes.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, wondering what emotion she’d see in his face. Frustration? Determination?

Wonder. Longing.

Meeting her gaze, he raised his hand to the curve of her bottom and gently caressed her with his palm, stroking, soothing, squeezing. His hand seem to change temperature, warm on her back, cool where he’d spanked her bottom, warm again as he explored the softness of her thighs. Gertrude relaxed, first lowering herself to her elbows, and then her knees slid back, her bottom coming to rest last of all on the carpet.

“You will not leave me,” he said, his words direct but his tone concerned.

“Can you make me want to stay?”

Gertrude matched his glare and the Captain ruefully shook his head. “What a fierce thing you are.” The complaints didn’t affect his hands-on enjoyment of the view. “I should have seen that.”

She rolled away, mirroring him, shifting her dress to modesty. There were too many feelings inside to speak.

“I see why the old woman wanted you gone.”

“Wanted me gone?” Gertrude repeated indignantly. She studied the hollow of his elbow. “Maybe.” She licked her lips and the truth slipped out. “I planned to leave. I think the Reverend Mother found out. You were her last chance.”

“So which am I, mistaken or cruel?” His hand reached for the hem she’d adjusted, skimming the fabric, pulling it up, one finger at a time, giving her plenty of time to object.

Her bottom tingling, her heart thumping again, Gertrude could hardly speak. “The paintings near the window. Are those your wives?”

“How did you…?” His hand stopped.

“Is that why you didn’t want me in here?” she asked, knowing the answer. “You cared for them. You still do.”

“Maybe.”

Her dress was fully above her waist, but he did not look down until a silent understanding flowed between them. She would not judge his past, if he did not judge hers.

When he reached for her again, Gertrude blushed. What a picture she made—completely clothed above the waist and bare skin below.

“A cruel man would give me the key as an excuse for punishment,” she reasoned as steadily as she could. “A mistaken man might think I was not ready to know his past.”

A wicked smile spread over his face. “So I must be…” skimming a hand up her leg, he pressed inward “…both.”

Gertrude felt that little whirl of anticipation.

He would know. He would feel her. Wet.

No door to hide behind here. At the last moment, she grabbed his wrist and swallowed so hard it hurt. He kissed her throat, his hand thwarted in the act of reaching for her.

“I must know,” Gertrude said. “Why did you marry me? Why agree to her demand?”

“You’ll never believe me.” His lips to her ear, he trusted her with his confession. “I knew you. The moment I saw you in the convent.”

Startled, Gertrude released his arm. He took hold of her hip in a solid grip.

“Visions and dreams,” he whispered, pulling her close. “I’ve seen you a hundred times. You saw the picture above the mantel. I drew it months ago.”

“In this room? Did you see me…here?”

There was a flicker of alarm in his eyes when he answered. “Yes.”

“Tell me,” she whispered, impossibilities weaving together in her mind. “What did you see?”

“You watching, so beautiful, so curious.” His hand resumed its journey toward her center. “Your face…you were glad to see me happy. I thought you were an angel.”

Her spine curled to meet him. Slipping her hand around his nape, she guided him into a kiss, her mouth as wet and open as the rest of her. They kissed as his fingers began to play in the slippery mess she’d made of herself.

What strange magic had brought them together?

“Mother Superior warned me I’d be sorry if I didn’t change my ways.” Gertrude closed her eyes to better enjoy the sensation of hands where they didn’t belong.

“And are you sorry?” He slid one finger, then another, inside.

“No, I don’t…” She found it difficult to think in words. “Oh…my…heavens.”

This felt better and worse than being touched on the outside. It was somehow exactly what she craved, but quickly insufficient. The intimacy, the fullness of his fingers was more than anything she’d ever felt, but less than enough. She rocked against his wrist asking for more. His thumb waved in answer, again, and again.

Sorry? How could she be sorry to have used the key?

“I’m…not at all…sorry.”

He pulled his hand away. Nearly drunk on new sensations as she was, it took Gertrude a moment to understand. He’d lifted his glistening fingers to his mouth and was licking them clean.

“Salty, sweet. L’eau de Gertrude,” he said with a grin. “Don’t be sorry. Be yourself.”

Everything she’d seen that night—Mrs. Allworthy’s generosity and Jack’s fierce affection, every door she’d ever opened—made her ready for this, for him.

“I will.” She reached down and popped the button covering the rise in his trousers. “And you will be my pirate.”

He lifted so she might ease his pants over his hips.

“I’ve heard a pirate takes without asking.” She wrapped a hand around his cock, and experimented. A squeeze here, a tug there, the upward brush of her fingertips…it felt as strangely wonderful as she’d imagined. “Something of value.”

Half choking, half laughing, he pressed her onto her back and opened her thighs with the spread of his knees. “And a good pirate?”

Now she was the one making odd sounds, as he pushed in deep. “Never gives anything back.”

Pressing farther, locking them together, he answered, “Take it. Keep it.” His voice dropped to a rasp. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything.”

Visions of memories flashed through her mind.

“Bare. Let me see all of you.”

“Yes.” He reared up, pulling her hips into him, and she inhaled sharply. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. “Right here in this room, where you’ve haunted my dreams.”

He leaned over and kissed her, his lips softer than ever. Would every kiss warm her this way? Would every touch melt her?

“Now you,” he demanded.

He tugged and twisted at her dress until, finally, they were skin to skin. Gertrude basked in the warmth of his body so close to hers.

Gliding together was another kind of magic. The Captain’s eyes drifted shut and then suddenly flew open. The light of the fire made his body shine, damp everywhere with exertion. Their rhythm insisted, like a knock at the door. He pushed harder to be let in, to be welcomed. Gertrude arched her back, rising into the moment, opening to the gripping blissful moment of what next?

Afterward, they lay wrapped together in quiet. But Gertrude could not rest. “That key. Where did you get it?”

For a long moment, there was no reply. “Your Mother Superior gave it to me.”

“What?”

“She told me it was the key to happiness.” He pulled Gertrude closer, and rubbed his chin across the top of her head. “And I must forbid you to use it. When you spoke of leaving, I remembered her words. You’d made me a little desperate, and she knew you better than I.”

Indeed she did.

“But…I opened your door with that key.”

“Impossible,” he told her. “The study has a dead bolt. It locks from the inside, when I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

She pushed herself up and turned to look at him.

“I opened the door,” he insisted, “when I heard you jabbing away at the keyhole.”

Gertrude considered the possibilities. In a very careful voice she asked, “How many times have you seen me in this room?”

His fingers played with the curtain of her hair, falling toward his face. “Many. So many…”

Many?

The ring of keys lay abandoned near the fire, the smallest one shining brighter than ever. Gertrude tried to look away, but couldn’t. “And am I still forbidden from using that key?”

“She did say it was the key to happiness,” the Captain said as innocently as a man might with a hand lurking over a lady’s behind.

“Well, then.” She smiled like the saint she would never be. “Be sure to lock your door.”

 

“Dreaming of two handsome men, are you?” Devlin asked.

“If one is good, two are—” Maeve yelped, then sighed, conveniently forgetting her next words.

“Better?” he snarled, nipping lower, loosening her shirt.

“Never better, my love.”

Maybe they would start in the chair? It was convenient. Maybe later, he would let her play the part of One-eyed Jack.

“There’s none better.” Maeve shifted, and lifted, and both of them moaned. “Moods and all, you’re the key to my heart.”

“Moods? What have I got to be moody about, with a practically pantieless pirate in my lap?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“You’ll be leaving the boots on.”

“Absolutely.”

“And I’ll be locking the door.”