Chapter Seven

 

Turbulent thoughts filled Marcus’ head the rest of the afternoon. Isabelle remained in his mind even though she wasn’t in the room. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her eyes glistening with tears of gratitude. His lips still tingled from the memory of her brief, but earth-moving kiss, and his arms still ached to hold her.

Isabelle would be here any moment with his dinner. Earlier, he’d sent word to the cook to have her bring two dinners so she could eat with him.

Now he wanted to say things that would make her happy. Perhaps he’d ask about her aunt and uncle. He wanted to know more about what made Isabelle the kind of woman she was, especially since she had such a rotten example in a father. Strange thing was she didn’t seem to think poorly about her sire. If she pursued her inheritance, Marcus had no doubt she’d discover what kind of man her father had been.

Hawk’s door opened and Isabelle walked in with a tray of food, enough to feed two. Good. He’d finally have some company.

He pointed toward the table. “Set it there and I’ll join you.”

Another of his men had replaced Gabe as Marcus’ watchdog and followed her inside. Marcus scooted to the edge of the bed, trying his hardest not to twist in any way that might tug at the stitches in his chest—since that’s what happened when he’d rescued Isabelle from Simon the other day.

Murmuring from the other two drifted to his ears and didn’t sound pleasant. Marcus looked up to find Timothy’s desire-filled gaze on Isabelle as he gave her a leering grin. The man stood behind her as he moved his hands over her shoulders and back, with Isabelle trying to push him away.

Anger shot through Marcus, making him want to rip his crewmember’s head off. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Timothy’s eyes widened as his gaze moved to Marcus. “I’m just havin’ a little fun with the wench, Cap’n. No harm in that, is there?”

If Marcus had more strength in him, he would have marched across the floor, grasped Timothy and beat him to a bloody pulp. “It is when she’s my servant. And she is not a wench, but a lady. You’ll do well to remember that.”

“But Cap’n, do ye know how long it’s been since I had me a feisty women—”

“Timothy,” Marcus barked. “You’re not to touch Miss Stanhope again. Is that understood?”

He straightened his shoulders. “Aye, Cap’n.”

“Leave us, and explain to the other men that Miss Stanhope is not for their enjoyment.”

Timothy nodded once then turned and left, shutting the door behind him. Isabelle’s eyes were wide as she stared at Marcus. Her chest lifted and fell in what must have been a large breath.

A small smile sneaked across her mouth. “Thank you. Again.”

She turned and set the tray on the table. He walked to the table and sat. The cook’s food always satisfied him, and tonight would be no different. His stomach growled for the fish and potatoes.

She cleared her throat and sat. “I—I must say I was surprised at the way you handled Timothy, and especially with Simon the other day.”

“Why?”

“Well, because I know how important your men are, and how you trust them with your life.”

He nodded. “I do, but I cannot abide when they disobey my orders. I had instructed Gabe to tell them you were not to be touched, but when Simon and Timothy went against what I’d asked, I had no other choice but to reprimand them. I would do that to anyone who ignores my orders.”

She took a bite of her potatoes, the smile remaining on her face. Why had he let a woman come between him and his men? Nothing had made sense anymore, and he blamed Isabelle for that.

“I want to thank you for asking me to join you.” She flipped the napkin in her lap. “It pleases me that you don’t loathe my presence.”

He chuckled. “My dear, I feel we have been growing closer. Don’t you agree?”

Her face flamed red. “I think so as well.”

“Can I assume we are friends now?”

“Yes, you can.” She smiled.

He took a bite of food, wondering what to talk about next. For some reason, he wanted to know about the man she was supposed to marry. Call him jealous, but Marcus didn’t want Isabelle with any other man but him.

“I recall you telling me the first day we met, that you are betrothed.” He tilted his head. “Have you given any thought to what might happen when your fiancé discovers you’ve been with a bunch of highwaymen for nearly a week; alone with the scoundrel who took you prisoner? Your wonderful fiancé may have second thoughts about your nuptials.”

She nodded and lowered her gaze as she moved her food around with the fork. “Yes, I have thought about that, and I pray it won’t happen. If it does, then I pray I’ll be able to sell my father’s estates to have enough money to live.”

He stabbed his fork into his fish and took a bite. “I see your reasoning. For your sake, I hope you’ll be able to collect your inheritance.”

“If not, I pray you’ll return the dagger to me so I’ll have some means of funds.”

“Very true.” He sipped his drink. “What will you do if you get your inheritance? Will you return to France?”

“Of course. That’s where I live—where my family resides.”

“Is that where your betrothed awaits?”

“No, Viscount Lockwood is in Devon somewhere. He was a friend of my father’s. I’ve never met the man.”

Marcus arched a brow as he sipped his wine. Lockwood. He’d never heard of the lord. Poor woman, having a heartless excuse for a father made Marcus relieved he wasn’t part of England’s aristocrats anymore. Not that he ever was, since his old man had ignored him as a child then tried to kill him as a young adult.

He nodded. “I hope Lord Lockwood is all you wish him to be.”

She shrugged. “If I collect my inheritance, I don’t plan on meeting Lord Lockwood. Why should I? I will not have need of him.”

“Wise thinking.”

“Captain? May I ask where you grew up?”

He nearly choked on his food. Why did she want to know? Or was she merely searching for conversation? As long as they talked about themselves, what harm would it do? “France, actually. My father was an earl, and married a fine woman of nobility. She bore him two sons.” He took another drink of his wine, wishing rum filled his cup instead. Every time he thought about his past, he wanted to get rip-roaring sloshed.

She cocked her head. “If you were born in France, than why are you against Napoleon? What happened in your life to make you hate France?”

“Life has a way of throwing sharp curves in my path whenever I think things are blissful.” He downed the remainder of his wine. Indeed, something stronger was necessary soon. “My mother died when I was young. My father sent me to live with my maternal grandmother in Manchester while he took my brother and moved to London so he could assume the role as Commodore, meanwhile putting my brother through the best schools to make him the earl he’d eventually become.”

“Why did your father not groom you the correct way as the second son? You should have been sent to Eton, as well.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t important enough. My father looked upon me as the weaker son, and he couldn’t tolerate having a child like that. I was a hindrance to him because of my sickly state. He’d once told me that having a weak son embarrassment him greatly.”

She gasped and her hands dropped to the table. “You cannot be serious. Why… What kind of father… He needs to be horsewhipped.”

Her cheeks reddened as her expression hardened. It pleased Marcus to know how much this upset her. “Not to worry, my dear. I’m quite certain I was raised better without him than if I had lived with the man.”

She frowned, leaned her elbows on the table, and sighed. “Isn’t it remarkable how we have similar lives? Although I lived in my father’s house until I was twelve when my mother died, my governess was really the one who raised me until I went to live with my aunt and uncle. I rarely saw my father.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“She was ill quite a bit, and I was never allowed to visit her as I’d wished. She died right after my twelfth birthday.”

His heart twisted. Why did he have to sympathize with her? He couldn’t help but relate, and in the process, it softened his drive for revenge.

“Indeed, it’s remarkable.” He reached across the table for her hand, which she willingly gave. He twined his fingers with hers. “So tell me about your aunt and uncle. From the way you have talked, they sound like such loving people.”

She finished chewing what was in her mouth before dabbing the linen cloth to her lips. “They are wonderful, but Captain, I don’t want to talk about them. I want to know more about you. Tell me about your childhood.”

It bothered him that she wanted to know so much. It couldn’t possibly be because she cared about his life. So what was her motive? Yet by the softness in her eyes, it appeared as though she did care. A foreign emotion tightened in his chest. Although he’d never experienced this before, it made him feel more comfortable and at ease with Isabelle. It’d been a while since he felt this secure.

“There’s little to tell. My grandmother raised me the best she could under the circumstances. When I was old enough to visit my father, his servants sent me away from the house, treating me as if I was some kind of disease. Others who hob-knobbed with my father refused to acknowledge me for the son I was, calling me a fraud.”

Painful, rejected feelings resurfaced from his past, causing a knot of emotion in his throat. He pushed away from the table and stood, walking to one of his trunks. He opened the lid, knelt on one knee and pretended to sort through his clothes.

He couldn’t tell Isabelle the truth—that when he’d returned the second time to his father’s estate, he’d caught the old man killing another nobleman. Marcus couldn’t believe the monster his father had turned into. Agony filled Marcus, reminding him what pain he’d suffered as a boy since he was never good enough. In the earl’s eyes, Marcus’ twin, Matthew, had always been the cherished one.

Marcus had suffered even more at the age of eighteen. His father knew Marcus had witnessed the murder and so tried to poison his own son. The so-called nobleman had poured something in Marcus’ tea that afternoon, not realizing Marcus could see what he did through the mirror on the wall. When his father wasn’t looking, Marcus dumped the tea in a nearby potted plant then left the estate, vowing never to return. More than likely, his father must have realized he’d killed his son. Hurt and anger had made Marcus change his last name from Winston to his grandmother’s name, Thorne.

Marcus couldn’t allow Isabelle to see what he still suffered when thinking about his past. “From then on,” he continued the story, “I knew I had to make my own way in life without the influence of my so-called noble father.”

Isabelle’s chair scratched the floor before soft footsteps came his way. He stood and turned. She stopped in front of him. Droopy eyes and her lips pulled into a frown tugged at his heartstrings. When she laid her hand on his chest, he nearly groaned with the pleasure it brought.

“Forgive me for making you relive such terrible memories. I shan’t do it again.”

He slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her closer. She sucked in a breath, her eyes turning a dark blue.

“No need to apologize, my dove. They were bad memories, and I’d like to leave them in the past where they belong.”

She nodded. “I understand fully.”

Of course she did. That was probably the reason he felt connected to her. As much as he fought the unknown emotion budding in his chest, he had to admit, he enjoyed the way she looked at him. So much better than when she’d hated him.

He cupped her chin and stroked her bottom lip with his thumb. He wanted to kiss her badly, but he couldn’t. If he got started, he might not want to stop. Ever.

“Isabelle? Why are you doing this?”

She licked her lips. “Doing what?”

“You’re too curious for your own good, and not only that, you care too much about things that shouldn’t concern you.”

She gave him a lazy smile as she lowered her eyelids half-mast. “Captain? Are you worried I have started to like you?”

He chuckled. “Mayhap a little.” He glanced at her luscious mouth. “Why? Do you?”

“Mayhap a little.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

He moved his hand from her chin and cupped her head, bringing her closer to his mouth. “Perhaps you shouldn’t, my dear. Highwaymen have wicked reputations, or have you not heard?”

“I’ve heard. But I think your bark is worse than your bite.”

And speaking of biting… He would love nothing better than to nibble on her neck. “What if I’m pretending?”

“I think not, Captain. You’ve had plenty of chances to prove otherwise, but you’re not mean and cruel as rumors have dictated.”

Why wasn’t he? Having Isabelle as his prisoner definitely made him do things he’d never done before. He fought the urge to kiss her all the while staring at her parted lips. Her hand slid up his chest and hooked around his neck as she leaned into him. Cussing under his breath, he allowed her mouth to cover his, but still he struggled with his emotions. When gentle lips slid over his, he nearly came apart.

Growling, he wrapped her tight in his arms and answered her with demanding kisses. He wanted her in the worst way, but she wasn’t like the doxies he was used to seducing. Isabelle was a true lady, and he couldn’t ruin that for her fiancé, no matter how badly Marcus wanted to.

He pushed her away and stepped toward his bed. When he kissed her, he didn’t feel like he was in control. Captain Hawk wasn’t like that. What kind of spell had she cast over him to make him so weak?

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he raked his hands through his hair, careful not to move his mask. Confusion swam in his head.

“Captain?” She stood between his opened knees and stroked his hair. “Did I do something wrong?”

He lifted his head to look at her. “Nothing is wrong, my dove.” Shaking his head, he grabbed her waist to move her away. She grasped his hands and stood still. Stubborn woman. “Isabelle, do you have any idea what will happen to you if you don’t move away from me?”

She twirled a lock of his hair around her finger. “I’m not worried, Hawk. I trust you.”

Those three little words melted his heart, and he groaned. “You shouldn’t, my dear.”

“Why did you stop kissing me?” she asked.

His heart leapt to his throat. “Why? Do you want me to continue?”

Slowly the corners of her mouth tugged upward. “Will you hate me if I confess to enjoying the way you kiss me?”

She shouldn’t have told him that. “No. Hate is the emotion that doesn’t come to mind.”

Isabelle stepped closer and cupped the side of his face. “What emotion comes to mind, then?”

He knew she’d ask that, but he also knew he could not let her know the answer. So, instead of lying to her, he tugged her arms until she fell into his lap then captured her mouth for another kiss. He turned and laid her on the bed, covering the upper part of her body with his. Warmth spread through him, faster—and hotter—than it had ever done before.

Sighing, she wrapped her arms around his neck. When he slipped his tongue into her mouth, she moaned and answered back with great urgency, suckling his tongue the way he was doing hers. Never in his life had he enjoyed kissing a woman as much as he did this one. Once again, the feeling of losing control washed over him, and he cursed his weakness.

He broke the kiss, shaking his head. “Isabelle, you cannot kiss a man like that without him wanting more.” He caressed her cheek. “I’m a highwayman or have you forgotten?”

“I have not.”

“Then I suggest you return to your room before something dreadful happens between us that I can never undo.”

“But—”

“No, don’t argue. I mean it.”

Her breaths were as ragged as his. Her gaze searched his masked face as her fingers played with the ends of his hair. After a few silent moments, she nodded. “If you wish,” she whispered brokenly.

“Very much so, my dear.”

With a frown, she rose from his lap and walked to the door. When the door closed behind her, he released a relived sigh and lay back on the bed. Under no circumstances could he let that happen again.

Indeed, the next few days until he returned her to Plymouth were going to be pure hell.