Captain Of Her Heart Read online

  “This was your idea.” She snatched his plate. “And I will do it right, or I shall cede the fight.”

  And so Jason adjourned to his comfortable chair, lit a cigar, sipped his favorite brandy, and pretended to read the latest edition of The Mariner’s Mirror. But Alex captured his attention to the detriment of all else.

  Humming a flirty little ditty as she tarried, his not-so-pampered princess washed, rinsed, dried, and stowed the dishes and utensils. And as she toiled, she attacked, albeit unknowingly, every reason he had composed for delaying their betrothal—and of that there were many.

  Never had Jason shared his concerns regarding marriage and war, as he believed the two inextricably intertwined, given his father’s occupation, subsequent demise in battle, and Jason’s mother’s related heartbreak and death, soon after.

  At the ripe old age of twelve, Jason had been orphaned. An elderly uncle had liquidated the humble estate and purchased a midshipman’s commission in the navy, aboard the HMS Perseus, and Jason had gone to sea and never looked back.

  But Lady Alexandra Seymour had changed everything from the moment he spied her in the Richmond’s ballroom, bedecked in red velvet, as an enchanting seraph. Never had he seen anything so lovely, in his life, and the incomparable Lady Seymour had struck a blow from which he might never recover.

  “What is it about dishwater that makes my skin so dry?” With a grimace, she rubbed her hands. “And my nails may never be the same.”

  “Complaining already?” Jason chuckled, as he could not resist baiting her. “You may quit your campaign and return to London, at any time.”

  “I make an observation, you horrible man. Am I not allowed a measure of protest, given the circumstances? And I would remind you that Seymour’s are made of sterner stuff.” Alex sorted the clothing, assessing her various mishaps, and groaned with each new unfortunate discovery. “How could I have made so many mistakes? It will take all night to set it right.”

  “Shall I massage cream on your palms?” How he ached to touch her, and the mere suggestion woke the beast below his belly button.

  “No, thank you.” Alex plopped onto the sofa, grabbed the scissors, and attacked the stitches on a shirt. “I can take care of myself.”

  “My dear, I do not doubt you in the least.” And then he flinched and shifted in his seat, as she ripped apart two haphazardly joined swaths of fabric with violence of which he had not presumed her capable.

  With renewed focus on the quarterly maritime journal, Jason compressed his lips against laughter, as his heretofore-prissy debutante swore a blue streak that could make the crustiest sailor blush. The remainder of the evening passed in an awkward mix of uncomfortable, tension-filled silence interspersed with spontaneous invective. After a couple of hours, he yawned, stood, and stretched.

  “The hour is late, and I am for bed.” To his surprise, she portrayed no outward sign of acknowledgement, so he bent and placed a kiss on the crown of her head.

  In an instant, Alex gasped and peered into his eyes, and what he spied in her blue depths had him reconsidering his intent to retire, as his loins erupted in flames. Tempting fate, he nudged her nose with his, and she trailed her little pink tongue along the sumptuous flesh he loved to suckle.

  The walls fell away, the floor tilted beneath his feet, and the light from the fireplace and candles dimmed, as desire enveloped them. Alex glanced at his mouth and then returned her gaze to his, in an unspoken invitation. And how he longed to take what she offered—and more, without hesitation.

  Warning bells pealed in his ears, and Jason retreated. “You should put down your mending and rest, as I have other shirts, thus my need is not pressing.”

  “I will sleep as soon as I complete my work.” She frowned, and disappointment weighed heavy in her countenance, as she gave her attention to her task. “Goodnight, Captain of my heart.”

  And there it was, the familiar endearment he relished more than he was willing to admit. “Pleasant dreams, Alex.”

  With that, Jason found safe haven in his modest quarters, as he threw the bolt, not that he expected his errant society miss to accost him in the middle of the night—he should be so lucky. As a man on a mission, and he was most definitely of a singular mind, in seconds, he stripped naked, snatched a small towel from the washstand, and slipped between the sheets. Reclining amid the pillows, he draped the cloth over his crotch, blew out the candle, closed his eyes, envisioned his lady, and put four fingers and a thumb to most excellent use.

  #

  It was early the next morning when Jason, preparing to depart for the docks, entered the great room and found Alex sound asleep, sitting in the same position on the sofa. With her delicate features relaxed in repose, she could have passed for one of Botticelli’s angels. But he knew better.

  At her side, in a neat stack, his clothing had been sorted and folded. Without waking her, he picked up a shirt and examined her handiwork. Though he fancied himself no authority on sewing, never had he enjoyed such expert repairs, and it pleased him beyond words that his lady had taken such pride in her work. After pulling on his greatcoat, he bent, rested his palms at either side of her head, and studied the only woman who had ever inspired serious contemplation of a trip to the altar.

  Her long brown hair had loosened from the severe topknot she had sported the previous night. The fine-boned, heart-shaped face, serene and sublime in slumber, often occupied his dreams. Classical features, finely arched brows, and a cute little nose had snared his interest at first sight, as had her curvaceous figure. And her mouth—now that exemplified perfection and begged for a kiss, something he had indulged on occasions too numerous to count.

  But it was her blue eyes, piercing in their potency and fringed with the thickest black lashes, which had never failed to set him on his heels. With a single glance, regardless of intent, Alex could turn the most stalwart of men into a blithering idiot, and she quite took his breath away.

  It was, perhaps, his uncontrollable reaction to the chestnut-haired beauty that had fascinated him from the moment they met. At the age of one and thirty, he had thought himself immune to feminine wiles. Given Jason had spent the greater portion of his youth at sea, his education in the sexual arts had taken place in dockside taverns, in the arms of some of the most hardened doxies in London and Jamaica.

  As he amassed a sizeable fortune in prize money, which he had invested with care, he purchased the favors of more refined courtesans. But the attachments never extended beyond expensive brandy, fine cigars, raw lust, and sordid acts no gently bred virgin would provide in her lifetime.

  Or so he thought.

  Alex had not simply altered his views but had blown his preconceived notions of society maidens out of the water. She pursued him with an unrivaled aggression and openness many men would kill to possess. And she would be his bride, but not yet.

  Moved by a power impossible to deny, Jason pressed his lips to her forehead. “I am so proud of you, Alex.”

  As he retreated, he paused. Asleep, his lady appeared so innocent—so helpless. Temptation beckoned, even as he reminded himself no gentleman would take advantage of her oblivion. But he held no title, as he was a man of the sea.

  So he bent and stole a kiss.

  #

  “Oh, this is terrible.” Alex rubbed the back of her neck and winced. “I ache everywhere.”

  “You poor thing.” Molly perused the various garments. “Your work is very fine, but why did you not wait for me to help you?”

  “Because I wanted to do it.” And so she had, completing the repairs in the wee hours of the morning. But Alex would not complain, as the ensuing short rest included a most vivid dream, which featured Jason and a delicious kiss that gave her shivers whenever she thought of it. “Besides, given your extensive list of chores, I loathe compounding your tasks.”

  “Nonsense, as it is no bother, and this is my light day.” The charwoman carried Jason’s clothing into the dressing room. “I have only to wash the lin
ens, scrub the floors, haul firewood into the bedchamber and kitchen, replenish the preserves, carry in fresh water for your bath—”

  “That is quite enough.” Alex stretched and yawned. “I should clean the floors, if you will teach me how to use a mop, and then I will assist in all your chores. And if I have overlooked anything, you must tell me, as I intend to assume my fair share of the labor, for the length of my stay. What’s more, this afternoon, I shall fetch the water for my much-deserved bath.”

  “Do you think that wise, Alex?” The maid put away the last of Jason’s garments. “You are new to housework, and you may not be able to move, tomorrow.”

  “Fear not, fair Molly.” Alex lifted her chin. “I am stronger than I look.” Of course, she had no idea what joy awaited her, as she commenced her toils.

  First on her agenda was a date with a broom, and she swept a good dust storm in the small cottage, while the cook-maid boiled preserves. By the time Alex wrestled with the mop, blisters had formed on her palms, and twice she stepped into the bucket of water.

  “Oh, and I have always considered myself a graceful sort.” Alex wrung the hem of her morning dress. “And I fear I have ruined my slippers.”

  “That is why I remove my boots, before I clean.” Molly stowed the preserves and rested hands on hips. “And we need only put your slippers at the hearth to dry them.”

  “Will they not stain?” She could not wear soiled slippers.

  “I know not.” The charwoman shrugged. “Does it matter, as they are still serviceable?”

  For the umpteenth time, Alex checked her opinion. Was it possible? Could it be true? Was she a snob? “I suppose not.”

  “And you brought several pairs, so you should designate these as your housecleaning slippers.” With that, Molly slapped her thighs. “Now we should strip the bed, and wash the linens.”

  Once again, Alex plunged into the seemingly endless, dark vortex of misery and pain polite society had the nerve to call domestic work. After laboring over a large basin and a rather strange board contraption, which rendered her knuckles raw and her lower back a bottomless pit of hellfire and torment, Alex and Molly hung the sheets on a line to dry. Then the efficient maid explained how to make preserves, trim the wicks on candles to reduce smoke, and clean the windows.

  “May I ask a question?” Weighted with a third load of logs, Alex huffed and puffed, as her arms screamed in protest from such foreign drudgery.

  “Of course.” Molly kept a brutal pace and whistled as she tarried.

  “Why does Jason not collect his own firewood?” The man had better sing her praises, given her efforts.

  “Cap’n usually does for himself.” The charwoman all but bounced with energy, as they rounded the side of the house. “But the stores are quite low, and it is my duty to maintain the cottage.”

  “I know not how you manage it.” Alex checked her footing, as she almost tripped on an exposed root. “As God is my witness, when I return home, I shall give every member of my staff a raise in pay and a full day of rest, per week. And never again will I take them for granted.”

  Molly laughed and kicked the front door, which she had left ajar, and walked into the bedchamber to deposit her load. Following in her wake, Alex bent to relieve herself of her burden. When she stood, she snagged and then tore the hem of her dress on the wood.

  “Oh, no.” The cook-maid smacked her forehead. “How could I be so forgetful?”

  “No worries.” Alex inspected the damage. “After mending Jason’s clothes, I can repair this, myself.”

  “That is not what I meant.” With a frown, Molly disappeared into the great room. When she returned, she carried a garment. “I brought you one of my frocks, which I intended to give you before we commenced our chores. You are a bit thinner than I, so it should suffice.”

  “Then I should put it on, after my bath.” Alex wiped her brow and sighed. “So, what is next?”

  “We need only to replenish the kitchen barrel, boil some water, and fill the tub. Once you have enjoyed a good soak, which you have more than earned, I will braid your hair and teach you a recipe, as we cook dinner.” With a mischievous grin, Molly asked, “So, are you familiar with a shoulder yoke?”

  Alex gulped.

  The odd looking contraption consisted of a wooden plank, which spanned the width of her shoulders, and buckets suspended from ropes at either side. Weighted with water drawn from the well, Alex engaged in a wicked waltz with what she would describe as a rudimentary torture device.

  “The trick is in the timing and balance.” Molly retreated but maintained close proximity, as if teaching Alex to walk. “Go slow.”

  “All right.” Alex stepped gingerly, but the yoke was heavy and clumsy. She weaved left and then right, and then she surged forward. In an attempt to stabilize the contraption, she lurched. One bucket swung behind her, knocking her backward, and she landed hard on her bottom, just as the other pail soared, tipped upside down, and covered her head.

  “My goodness.” Molly freed Alex from the vicious contrivance. “Are you injured?”

  “Just my pride.” Alex squeezed the water from her hair and assessed the damage. “Well I may not require a bath, after my impromptu shower. Really, I am soaked.”

  The charwoman reached for the yoke. “Let me—”

  “No.” Holding the plank, Alex stood. “I made you a promise, and I intend to keep my word. Now, shall we try again?”

  “As you wish.” The cook-maid clucked her tongue. “My, but you are stubborn.”

  “Molly, you have no idea.”

  The second time proved the charm, as Alex navigated the deuced yoke with success, although she almost crashed at the doorstep. But the third rotation she navigated with nary a glitch, and at last the chores were completed.

  When Alex sank into the tub, she could have cried, as the heretofore-simple pleasure had never felt so good. Enveloped in soothing warmth, she closed her eyes and conjured fanciful visions of her life as the wife of Captain Jason Collingwood. But she comforted herself in the knowledge that the blisters and muscle aches would be worth it, in the end, when she looked back on her adventure into housekeeping hell and what she had done for love. Wiggling her toes, she giggled. “I wonder where we will live?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Molly inquired.

  “Sorry.” The fantasy Alex had woven with such care had vanished, in an instant, when she opened her eyes. “I did not know you were there.”

  “I hate to disturb you, but you must come out, now.” Molly retrieved a towel. “That is, if you still hope to prepare Cap’n’s dinner, under my direction.”

  “Oh, I do so wish to cook for Jason.” Alex stood and stepped from the bath. “And I shall impart sage advice on how to attract a man.”

  “Do tell, dear Alex.” The charwoman all but bounced.

  After donning the well-worn printed muslin dress Molly had brought, Alex sat at the end of the bed and braided her hair in the maid’s usual fashion. Later, she assumed an altogether foreign position before the stove and stirred delicious smelling gravy, which she had produced with valuable guidance.

  “All right.” Alex bent to check the bread in the oven. “So how shall you approach your Mr. Penniman, when next you meet?”

  “I should incline my head, ever so gently, dip my chin, and gaze at Tom through my lashes.” Molly demonstrated her newfound prowess. “How was that?”

  “Perfect.” Alex wiped her hands on her apron. “Such tactics have served me well, as I have often rendered Jas—I mean, gentlemen incapable of forming a coherent sentence.”

  Once Molly had departed for the day, with a gifted gown from Alex’s belongings, Alex collected dishes and utensils from the cupboard and set the table. “Jason had better sing my praise for the effort I have expended today.”

  And no sooner had she uttered the statement than the man in question strode through the door.

  “Good evening, Alex.” Jason shrugged from his greatcoat and hung it on a wall p
eg. “How was your day?”

  “Very enlightening.” Not to mention painful, but her travails were worth their weight in gold in anticipation of his commendation regarding her hard work.

  “Upon my word.” He surveyed the surroundings. “Everything looks shipshape. Molly outdid herself.”

  Alex could have strangled him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  How was it possible for a woman to possess provocative toes? As Jason entered the little cottage he shared with Alex, he found her standing, bare-footed, before the stove.

  Wearing one of Molly’s old dresses, a modest frock with a frayed lace collar, and with brown locks woven in a single braid and draped over her shoulder, Alex could have passed for a servant to the undiscriminating eye. Until she cast a charming glance and favored him with a coy smile, which underscored her patrician features and never failed to set his heart racing.

  “Good evening, Captain of my heart.” How he loved her welcome, delivered in the sultry tone that ignited a raging inferno in his loins. “Are you hungry?”

  Oh, yes.

  But not for food.

  The well-honed control he had spent Sunday afternoon fortifying with the best ale at the Blood and Swash tavern fled him in a scarce second. Gazing heavenward, he doffed his greatcoat and prayed she would not notice his animated Jolly Roger, as it was dangerously jolly and only too ready to lay siege to her virgin field.

  Six days had passed since the inimitable Lady Seymour had arrived on his stoop, and he had yet to bed her. Either his halo shimmered, or he had lost his mind, as both were possible, given the circumstances.

  Temptation personified, he considered Alex a prime piece, bedecked in the latest fashions money could buy. With her hair coiffed atop her head or in a fountain of carefree curls, and an expensive gown accentuating her generous curves, the society maiden’s attire served as a potent reminder of her status and kept the beast at bay.

  But the new Alex, the provincial ragamuffin, tested the limits of his sanity and his breeches, as he found her unutterably irresistible. Had she paraded about the ton’s ballrooms in such garb, she would incite a riot. The thick braid evoked images of his Alex, sans clothing, engaged in a tantalizing impersonation of Lady Godiva, and he vowed, right then and there, to one day enjoy that fantasy, in truth.