Surrender

He looked very directly at her now. “I have considered it.”

She trembled, taken aback as never before. A terrible silence fell. It was thick with tension—and his relentless stare never wavered.

Couldn’t she convince him to help her? Men were always rushing to her side, to help her across the street, to open doors for her, to see her into her carriage. She had never paid much attention to her power as a beautiful woman before, but she was not a fool—Henri had fallen in love with her because of her beauty. It was only after he had become further acquainted with her that he had loved her for her character and temperament.

Greystone hadn’t recognized her, but she was certain of his interest. When he looked at her directly, it was a glance any woman would recognize.

Her heart lurched. Henri was surely turning over in his grave now! Going into this man’s arms would be the last recourse! “Mr. Greystone, I am desperate,” she said softly. “I am begging you to reconsider. My daughter’s future is at stake.”

“When I set sail, I not only risk my own life, I risk those of my men,” he spoke, now seeming impatient.

She could barely breathe. “I am a widow in great need, without protection, or means. You are a gentleman. Surely—”

“No, I am not.” He was abrupt and final. “And I am not in the habit of generously rescuing damsels in distress.”

Did she have any other choices? Aimee’s future was at stake, and he did not seem about to bend. She had to get that gold; she had to secure a bright future for her daughter! Evelyn lifted her hand; somehow, she touched his jaw.

His eyes widened.

“I am in mourning,” she whispered, “and if France is as dangerous as you claim, then I am asking you to risk your life for me.”

His thick, dark lashes lowered. She could not see his eyes, and another silence fell. Evelyn dropped her hand; it was trembling. He slowly lifted his lashes and looked at her.

“Aren’t you curious, Countess? Don’t you want to know why I came here?” he asked very softly.

She felt her heart slam. “Why?”

“You have a reputation, too.”

“What does that mean? What reputation could I possibly have?”

“I have heard it said, often enough, that the Countess D’Orsay is the most beautiful woman in all of England.”

It was suddenly so silent, that she could hear the rain, not just pounding over their heads, but running from the gutters on the roof. She could hear the logs and kindling, crackling in the hearth. And she could hear her own deafening heartbeat.

“And we both know that is absurdly false,” she said thickly.

“Is it?”

Evelyn wet her lips, oddly dazed. “Surely you agree… Such a claim is absurd.”

He slowly smiled. “No, I do not agree. How modest you are.”

Evelyn did not know what to do, and she couldn’t think clearly now. She had never been in any man’s arms except for Henri’s—and he hadn’t been young or good-looking or sensual. Her heart raced more wildly. There was alarm and confusion, there was even some dismay, but mostly, there was excitement.

She hesitated. “I was sixteen when I married my husband.”

He started. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She had been trying to tell him that she wasn’t really experienced, but now, it didn’t seem to matter. Jack Greystone was the most attractive man she had ever come across, and not just because he was so handsome. He was so utterly masculine, so brazen and confident, and so powerful. Her knees were buckling. Her heart was thundering. Her skin prickled.

She had never felt this way before.

Evelyn stood up on her tiptoes and as she prepared to kiss him, their gazes locked. His was wide, incredulous. But then it blazed.

Her insides hollowed in response and she brushed her mouth once upon his. And the moment their lips met, a shocking sensation of pleasure went through her.

Standing there with her mouth open was like being on fire!

He gripped her shoulders and kissed her. Evelyn gasped, because his mouth was very firm and even more demanding; he began kissing her with a stunning ferocity.

And Evelyn kissed him back.

Somehow, she was in his arms. Her entire body was pressed against his, enveloped by his, her breasts crushed by his chest. For the first time in her life, she realized she was in the throes of desire. It was maddening—senseless.

And then he stepped back and pushed her away from him.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

He looked at her, breathing hard—his gray gaze on fire.

Evelyn clutched her robe to her body. She reached for the sofa so she could continue to stand upright. Had she just been in his arms? The arms of a veritable stranger? And since when did anyone kiss that way—with such hunger, such intensity?

“You are trouble, Countess,” he said harshly.

“What?” Evelyn cried. Some sensibility was returning, and she could not believe what she had just done!

“I am sorry you are desperate, Countess. I am sorry you are destitute. But one night in your bed isn’t enough to entice me to France on your behalf.” His eyes blazed with desire, but she saw anger, too.

Evelyn started. She had kissed him—she hadn’t suggested an affair. “I do need your help,” she heard herself cry.

“You are a dangerous woman. Most men are fools. I am not.” Giving her a grim look, he strode past her. At the door he paused. “I am certain you will find someone else to do your bidding. Good night.”

Evelyn was so bewildered that she could not move, not until she heard the front door slam. She collapsed upon the sofa. She had found Jack Greystone. She had dared to kiss him, and he had kissed her back, with fervor. And then he had refused her pleas and walked out on her!

She told herself that she was crying for Aimee—and not because Jack Greystone had had her in his arms only to reject her.

* * *

JACK WAS STILL IN A VERY foul mood. The sun now high, he slid from his mount, tied it to the rail in front of the inn and patted its rump. He had just dropped anchor on one of the beaches below the village of Bexhill, and as it was half past noon, he was late.

The Gray Goose Inn was a dilapidated white stucco building with a shingled roof, a dusty courtyard, and a great many suspicious patrons. Just north of Hastings, set in rolling green meadows, it was his preferred meeting place because he did not wish to pass through the Strait of Dover, just in case he was boxed in there by his enemies. He could outrun a naval destroyer and a revenue cutter, and he had, but there was not a great deal of room to maneuver in the Straits.

He sighed as he entered the dark, somewhat malodorous and smoky public room. It had stopped raining well before dawn, when he had been hoisting sail and leaving the cove near Fowey, but he was somewhat chilled from the entire damp, cold night. At least it was warm inside the inn, but it was a far cry from his uncle’s home on Cavendish Square in London, where he would greatly prefer to be now.

The bounty on his head had begun to truly restrict his movements. He had been amused when he had first learned of its existence a year and a half ago. But instead of meeting his brother and uncle in the comfort of the Cavendish Square townhome, he was confined to a clandestine meeting in the cramped back room of a foul, roadside inn. It wasn’t as amusing now.

Jack had been engaged with smugglers since he was a boy of five years old, when he had insisted on standing watch with the village elders, on the lookout for the preventive men. Nothing had pleased him more than to watch the smugglers drop anchor in Sennen Cove and begin to unload their wares, except when the night was lit up with the torches carried by the revenue men as they rushed down the cliffs and invaded the beach, guns blazing. Casks would be dragged into secret caves, while others were left behind for the authorities. Some smugglers would turn tail and flee, others would fire back at the customs agents. He would join in the fighting—until an adult would espy him and drag him, protesting, away.