I can’t believe that,” he said doubtfully, and began to question Anne in detail as he started toward Anne’s rooms. By the time he set her on her bed they’d come up with four good things that had happened in London.
Katherine watched him brush Anne’s hair from her face with the same hands that had directed men to fire at the Merry Sea, and a deep yearning curled around her heart and squeezed.
* * *
HE WAS SINKING.
James stretched out on his bed, fully clothed, and stared up at the brown drapery while his valet fidgeted nearby.
“Your lordship, shall I—”
“Leave me. I shall take care of it.”
“Your shoes—”
“Will be fine. That will be all until I’m ready to dress for the evening, Polk. Thank you.”
A few more fidgets, a long hesitation and Polk left him in blessed solitude. The canopy’s fringe hung lifelessly, more beige than gold in the muted afternoon light.
James breathed in as much air as his lungs would hold and held it. Held it. Held it. Exhaled slowly. Inhaled again. Exhaled.
And wished, to his shame, that he had informed Katherine about the committee in a note. He could still feel Anne’s small arms winding a strangling sense of responsibility around his neck, even as his mind raced to think of something—anything—he might send her to add to her list of good things about London.
Katherine had been prepared to lie to keep him from Anne. That fact rankled more than anything. He pushed her from his mind, only to have her reappear, trickling inside him the way water seeped through a hull that needed fresh tar.
He’d lost control last night at Lady Carroll’s. It was inevitable that he would. A devil inside him had driven him to follow her into that arbor, knowing damned well what would happen. Wanting it to happen. He was no better than any of those whoremongers Honoria had dredged up.
Worse, in fact. Because he could see the smoke and the flames, the listing Merry Sea, the bloodthirsty corsairs wreaking terror on board. He could hear the screams. Smell the gunpowder. He knew what she’d gone through, how terrified she must have been. And still it didn’t stop the fire in his blood every time he saw her.
He needed to forget about the captain who studied the horizon with a practiced eye and knew when a line should be snubbed or cast loose and threatened disembowelment without batting an eye. He needed to forget about the woman who turned her face to the sun while the breeze molded shimmering Ottoman textiles to her body and toyed with the ends of her hair.
He didn’t want to see any of them. Not the frightened girl, not the shrewd captain and definitely—very definitely—not the woman. He didn’t want to care whether she married. Whom she married. He didn’t want to care if she bedded every damned lord in the House. He was damned tired of caring about her.
He stared at the underneath side of the canopy above him. If she were here now... God. He felt himself grow hard and tried to shove the thought away, but it was too late.
He rolled over and groaned into the mattress. A month ago, he’d thought only of escaping the sea. Now the thing he needed to escape was her.
How in God’s name would he find her a husband when he couldn’t stand the thought of another man touching her because he wanted to touch her so damned badly himself? Something had to change. Immediately.
He breathed into the bedding, and an idea resurfaced.
Maybe— No.
But—
God. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought of it before. Planned on it, even.
He lay there, perfectly still, while the idea came to life in his mind: a bride. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t need one eventually. Beginning the search now could be just the thing.
The right kind of bride could divert his attention. Cool his misplaced lust for a woman he as good as condemned to slavery and ruination. Let him do his duty, and give him a new sense of purpose. Give him something to think of instead of Captain Kinloch.
The idea propelled him out of bed, and he paced to the window. The right kind of bride—
Yes.
Yes, it was time. Past time. He would find a girl who’d been on the shelf so long she’d given up hope. Someone with the right skills to look after the household at Croston, who would happily give him an heir.
A girl who was thoughtful and quiet.
Who wouldn’t even know how to hold a cutlass.
A young lady who was biddable, and who would never, ever argue with him.
Yes. He would find Katherine a husband, and himself a wife. Then, finally, he would go to Croston and forget he’d ever set foot on a ship named Possession.
JAMES PUSHED THROUGH the crowd at Vauxhall that night, for once separated from Katherine, while the orchestra played a hellishly cheerful piece that only darkened his mood.
All of London had come to the garden tonight, and Honoria was determined to introduce her to every last one of them. He’d spent the past hour doing what he could on her behalf, but now he had other plans.
He worked his way through the crowd, pretending he didn’t hear the calls of well-wishers eager to foolishly proclaim his heroics. Let them regale each other with tales. He flexed his hands at his sides to ease the tension curling inside him. With so many people in attendance, this was the perfect opportunity to set his new plan into motion.
The crowd surged and eddied like a strong current through a strait, illuminated by countless globe lamps hanging above. He spotted two old friends, Vincroft and Berston, and headed straight for them. Neither one had married yet. Without a doubt they would have their fingers on the pulse of the marriage mart. Besides that, he needed liquor.
“You look like you’re about to do someone a harm, Croston,” Vincroft said when James finally reached them.
James grunted. “I’m going after a drink.”
“Do allow me!” Berston said jovially, already moving away. “Back in a moment!”
Through a break in the crowd a woman with near-black hair caught his eye. His pulse surged, but it wasn’t Katherine. Thank God. He flexed his fingers and forced himself to study the crowd in search of matrimonial possibilities.
“Looking for someone?” Vincroft asked.
“Mmm,” he replied. “Female, marriageable, on the shelf.”
“Good God! Don’t let that be known, or you’ll be crushed to death before anyone can finish celebrating the fact that you’re alive.”
“Forgot to mention mild-mannered, biddable and
