The Very Daring Duchess Part 17

"Quiet now," he said in a rough whisper. "You mind your captain, eh?"

She did, surprised but fascinated, too, by how carefully his large hands moved along hers, focussing all his attention on removing her glove. When the damp leather clung to her chilly skin, he gently eased one finger free at a time, his own fingers warm and sure around hers.

"You wished me to admire the stars, or the candlelight, or whatever other infernal sight you'd spied on sh.o.r.e," he said as he tugged carefully at the leather, "yet all I could see was you. Only you, Francesca."

"No one has ever said such a thing to me," she whispered uncertainly. "Not and meant it."

He smiled, still concentrating on the glove. "Then we are even. I've never said such a thing to anyone, either. And I wouldn't have said it now if I hadn't meant it."

"But you don't know me," she protested weakly. "You don't know me at all."

"I know enough," he said, turning her hand in his so her wrist turned up. "I'll learn the rest."

He raised her hand and grazed his lips over the sensitive place on her upturned wrist, there where her blood raced straight to her heart, and she caught her breath with astonishment and wonder, her wicked thoughts racing back to the wanton scenes of the Oculus. What he was doing to her-why had no other man thought to do such a simple thing? So simple, and yet so complicated, more than a kiss, and far, far beyond anything she might have imagined.

"Santo cialo," she said weakly, her knees so unsteady they felt as if they'd buckle beneath her. "You-you must not do that, Edward. You-you promised."

"If you insist upon tormenting me, Francesca, then I must do the same to you." He glanced up at her, his eyes shaded, still keeping her hand firmly in his possession. "You said we should see if we suited. How else are we to judge?"

"Through conversation," she said with quick desperation, fighting against her own weakness as much as his. "By sharing interests and confidences about our pasts, our families, and-"

"No," he said sharply, linking his fingers into hers to draw her from the step. "We shall not speak of families."

"But you promised that-"

"I know what I promised, Francesca," he said, "and I know what you promised, too. Now come. I will not keep Mr. Burdumy waiting."

He pulled her from the step, his grip so tight that she'd no choice but to follow him down the narrow companionway. He didn't look back, and if he didn't offer more explanation, she didn't ask for any, either.

What in blazes was he doing? Edward had wanted to be gallant, n.o.ble, to do the most honorable thing he could by saving her the one way he could, even making that fool's agreement to win her. But there was nothing n.o.ble or gallant about how he was treating her now. Arrogant and jealous, overbearing and unable to think beyond what his c.o.c.k was ordering him to do-h.e.l.l, his brothers would be proud. He couldn't recall ever feeling more ashamed, more confused, or more aroused by a single woman, a swirling, torturous purgatory of his own making from which there was no honorable escape.

He ignored the guard at his cabin, shoving open the door himself so forcibly it cracked against the bulkhead. Mr. Burdumy was already waiting, along with Lieutenant Connor and Major Harris, the two swiftly recruited witnesses, and as he entered all three stared at him with a happy expectation suitable for a wedding, but absolutely no match for his present mood.

"Proceed, Mr. Burdumy," he said curtly without looking down at Francesca beside him.

Her bare hand where he'd peeled away her glove was icy in his own, her little fingers twisting into his to seek whatever small comfort he was too d.a.m.ned boorish to give. He knew this hastily arranged ceremony in his day cabin would not be the wedding of any girl's dreams. There were no flowers, no silk gown, no wedding cakes or fancy iced sweets, no well-wis.h.i.+ng friends or teary-eyed parents. Instead of joyful music, the s.h.i.+p's timbers and rigging were creaking and groaning uneasily with the coming weather like unwelcome guests, and the deck rocked back and forth on a queasy swell. With the deadlights in place over the sweeping stern windows to protect the gla.s.s from the rising rough weather, and the only light coming from the whale-oil lamp swinging overhead, even Edward would admit it was a gloomy excuse for a bridal bower.

"The lady's not ill, my lord captain, is she?" asked Mr. Burdumy anxiously as he peered at Francesca's face, his chubby, chilblained fingers fidgeting with his prayer book. As a navy chaplain, his duties were much more given to reading the service for the dead after a battle than performing weddings. "No maidenly qualms, I trust?"

"None," said Edward with frosty conviction. She wasn't about to change her mind now, not with so much at stake.

Unless he'd gone too far peeling back her glove like that, breathing deep of her scent as he'd kissed and nipped at her wrist, teasing and testing them both in the name of that wretched promise...

Uneasily the chaplain cleared his throat and pursed his lips, a sure sign of trouble. Mr. Burdumy was the single man on board who did not always respect Edward's absolute rule as captain, the only one who regarded the Archbishop of Canterbury as a higher and more worthy authority than the Admiralty.

"I am most sorry, my lord captain," he asked hesitantly. "But might I ask the young lady's name?"

"You might ask me, signor," said Francesca swiftly, answering before Edward could, "and I shall answer: Francesca Maria Giovanna Robin."

"Ah," said the chaplain, his gaze s.h.i.+fting back to Edward as if Francesca hadn't spoken. "My lord captain, might I ask if the young lady is, ahem, English?"

"She is," said Edward firmly, more than enough answer than such a question deserved. Yet Edward knew what Burdumy was truly asking, the same question that Admiral Nelson had asked, and scores of others would as well.

It wasn't simply a matter of Francesca's English father or her Neapolitan mother, but whether she was Anglican instead of Roman Catholic, whether she was a proper virtuous woman from a proper virtuous country instead of a slatternly product of immoral Naples-whether she was, in short, worthy of the enormous honor of marrying into one of the oldest, most n.o.ble families in England. They were protecting not only Edward and the rest of the Ramsdens, but also the purity of Britain herself.

And Edward wanted none of it.

He'd spent his entire life fighting to be accepted for who he was, not what he'd been born, and he didn't want that same standard turned against him again now. True, he'd decided to marry Francesca on an impulse-an honorable, gallant impulse, but an impulse nonetheless-but he'd given her his word that he'd be true to her, and that, for him, was more than enough. He would marry her, and as his wife he would stand beside her as her champion against all challengers.

Finally he looked down to her standing beside him, her shoulders squared, her hood tossed back, her jaw set, a rare mixture of innocence and determination, beauty and fierce pa.s.sions and courage that was every bit a match for his own: his wife.

"Her father was English, aye," he continued firmly. "Though if her heritage is of no importance to me, Mr. Burdumy, then I wonder that it is to you. I trust you are not questioning either my word or my choice?"

"Oh, dear, no, my lord captain!" said the chaplain, the starched bands on his neckcloth quivering below his chin. "I should never presume-never! Marriage is a holy sacrament, and I only wished to be a.s.sured that, for the sake of your brother His Grace, everything is as it should be."

"It is, Mr. Burdumy," said Edward. "Except for you."

Quickly the chaplain snapped open his prayer book. "You would be so good, my lord captain, as to hold the lady's hand-just so, just so."

Just so, indeed. He wondered if she realized how much her hand revealed: the ink-stained fingertips, the knuckles roughened by the cold, her palms endearingly moist from nervousness, and the same want and need roiling through him.

He scarcely heard the ceremony, his responses automatic as he listened for hers, muted but sure. None of the witnesses would be able to report any hesitation, or undue eagerness, either, though the gossips would say what they pleased. At least the admiral would be satisfied, and for now his opinion was the only one that mattered.

"The ring, my lord," prompted the chaplain. "If you please, my lord, the bride's ring?"

Oh, h.e.l.l, how had he forgotten that? Swiftly he looked down at his own hand, to the ring he always wore himself. It was more of a lucky talisman to him than ornament, a gold band engraved with dolphins and anchors that he'd had cast from the first Spanish delar he'd received as prize money, back when he'd been a lieutenant. Since then he'd never taken it from his hand, but now, for her, he stripped it off.

"Santo cialo, I cannot take your ring!" she whispered, scandalized, looking up to him for the first time since Burdumy had begun the service. "It wouldn't be right, Edward, not-"

"Second thoughts at the last, Francesca?" he demanded, keeping his voice low so the others wouldn't overhear. "Are you the unworthy one, or am I?"

"Neither," she said fiercely, her eyes so dark they looked black, "or both. Or perhaps we simply deserve one another."

A captain and a mutineer: Oh, they deserved each other, all right. "Then you are not turning fickle?"

"Not fickle, Edward, nor cowardly, either!"

"And if I believed you were, I would never give this to you now," he said, sliding the ring on her finger and folding her hand closed to keep it from dropping off her finger. "Wear the ring, Francesca. I want the world to know that you are mine."

She gulped, a deep breath. "They already do, don't they?"

"The ones that don't will know soon enough," he answered, "and the rest don't matter. With this ring, Francesca, I thee wed. There. Another word or two from you, Mr. Burdumy, and the deed is done, is it not?"

Hurriedly the chaplain looked back down at his prayer book. "I, ahem, I now p.r.o.nounce you man and wife. Those whom G.o.d hath joined, let no man put asunder."

Another word or two, yes, and the deed was most certainly done, and to his surprise Edward felt those same words settle upon him with a finality he hadn't expected. A glance at Francesca showed she felt the weight, too, her lovely, mobile face more solemn than he'd ever seen it before, her lips slightly parted. For a marriage born of purest convenience, they each were certainly taking its consequences seriously, the silence between them stretching awkwardly, painfully long. Beyond duty, necessity, and the French to the north, perhaps they genuinely did deserve one another after all.

"Well done, Captain, well done!" boomed Major Harris, unaware that there was any discomfort to the silence. "Best wishes to you and your bonny lady-wife!"