The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(61)

He reached out, his heat burning through the sleeve of her spencer. “You can trust me.”

“I can’t trust any—”

“Aye. You can.” He leaned over, captured her face with his hands, and kissed her.

Oriana welcomed John’s touch, his lips on hers, if only to feel something more than the despair that clawed at her heart. But in spite of the danger and her fear for Nicholas, she wasn’t prepared for how easily her body reacted to him.

When he finally broke away, he gazed down at her sadly, absorbing the turmoil raging through her as he searched her soul. She stilled instantly. Who was he? Why wasn’t John like those other callous, selfish, loathsome men only interested in their own gain? She knew how to deal with their lot. But this . . . She was at a loss.

“I don’t understand.” Oriana blinked. “Why would ye—”

“I have so much to tell you, to confide in you, my sweet. But I cannot. Not here. Not yet. You must be patient.”

The weight in her chest lightened, and her pulse raced, nearly stealing her breath. He’d called her my sweet. But his other words didn’t make any sense. “Patient?” She pressed her lips into a fine line. “Nicholas is gone! How am I supposed to be patient?”

John lifted her face to his. “Trust me, Oriana. That’s all I ask.”

She trembled. Whether from the wind, the cold, the sun setting behind them, she couldn’t be sure. She hated feeling weak, hated that John’s touch did things to her that made her question her own plans or the danger befalling them.

“I am here because of you,” he explained. “I came . . . to protect you from Charles.”

“Charles!” She jerked hard on the reins as her survival instincts sprang to life. “Did my brother send ye to humiliate me, to hurt Nicholas and trample my heart beneath your feet?”

“No,” he said, reaching out for her. “Please, Oriana. Come here. You’re too close to the cliff’s edge.”

She ignored his warning. “Have ye been spyin’ on me all this time, just like the others?” She looked around, lost and confused, trying to figure out where Nicholas might have gone.

She glanced back at the inn, the only home she’d ever known. For all she knew, Charles’s men lingered there, waiting like buzzards for scraps, to escort her to her nemesis. But Girard and O’Malley waited for her at the inn, and they had been proven trustworthy time and again. She prayed they were safe.

“By the saints, I am flesh and blood.” Her mind spun. She had no one else to lean on. “Is this . . .” She pointed between them. “Is what we’ve shared a game to ye?”

“You know it isn’t.” His expression was as incomprehensible as Druid stone. His rapier stare cut through her. “Think clearly. Deep down you know I would never hurt you.”

He reached out for her again, but she swatted his hand away.

“But ye will.” His silence nearly undid her. “I have lived in darkness my entire life. I’ve felt its brutal and timely sting long enough. If ye think,” she said, choking back a sob, “waxin’ poetic will warm my heart, ye are mistaken.”

He snatched her arm, clinging to her. “The truth . . . Is that what it will take to win your heart? Is that what you want?”

Her heart beat an erratic rhythm, and a knot rose in her throat. Honesty was what she’d always craved, not to mention love. “I have always wanted the truth, John. I told ye so.”

Tenderly, he raised her gloved hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, one by torturous one. The heat of his lips seared through to her skin, making her want to throw off her gloves and feel his lips on her bare flesh. Remembrances of what his lips could do to her stirred an ache that arrowed its way to her belly until it pulsed between her thighs.

“I tell you truly,” he said, glancing at her over the top of her hand, “I am a man with no name, no home, no family, no country, and no shame. I have nothing to offer a courageous, sassy wench like you, except my body and soul.” He lowered her hand, his stare clinging to hers as he made another confession. “I would give it gladly, Oriana. You need only reach out and take it.”

“You have no family?” Her spirit stirred as the door to John’s heart opened, but she dared not believe anything he said without fear of shattering like glass. “Am I to believe what ye said about your parents is a lie, as well?”

“No.” He shook his head repentantly. “That much is true. My parents believe I am dead. And dead to them I must remain until I bring your brother to justice.”

“Charles . . .” She sucked in a breath, despising herself for still holding on to a smidgeon of hope that her brother would change. She was a fool playing with fire. “Life always revolves around my brother. Are ye a revenue man, then?”

“No.” His jaw worked, and he shuttered his eyes, releasing a hissing sound. “Not anymore.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Charles would kill him in front of her—just to terrorize her, to break her—if he guessed John was an excise man or that she cared for him at all.

She lifted her face to the wind, drinking in its energy to calm her mind. “Why are ye really here?” Lowering her gaze to him, she blinked back tears. “What is it ye intend to do? Charles is the devil, beyond reckonin’.”