My Timeswept Heart Read online

  He stole it.

  He was stealing her breath, her soul, she thought, as his lips rolled warmly over hers. Tess's head was spinning again, wilder this time, her insides tumbling. His tongue slid across her lower lip, slowly, then pushed inside, his warm fingers slipping into her hair to cup the back of her head. He cherished her mouth, coaxing her pleasure to a lush peak, and in one mo­ment showed her he was caring and loving and want­ing. Tongues battled languidly, a blaze spiraled through her already-weakened limbs, and she pressed a hand to his chest to steady herself.

  Assuming she was pushing him away, he drew back.

  "Wow," she whispered, sagging down on one elbow, breathless. I've never been kissed like that! she thought.

  "I apologize for my boldness, Tess." He stood abruptly, shoving his hands in his pockets to disguise her effect on him. "I shouldn't have—you're ill."

  She smiled up at him. He didn't look that apolo-

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  getic. "Now I wished you'd looked in my bag."

  He frowned, puzzled. "Whyever for?"

  "Because I searched your desk."

  "Is that so?" His lips twitched. God's teeth, she was

  priceless. „

  "And your closet."

  "Anything else?"

  "You caught me first."

  He nodded thoughtfully. "What is it that you wish to know, Mistress Renfrew?"

  So, they were back to that again. "Why I am on a— a-?"

  "Frigate," he supplied when she yawned. "Forgive me, but I am still at a loss."

  "Why didn't you just put me ashore, send me to a hospital?"

  He could see the tea was taking affect. "We are still days from land and I doubt there are adequate hospi­tals on those islands, if any." "Oh, be serious!"

  "1 have no cause to deal you half-truths, Mistress Renfrew. Believe me when I say I am quite serious." He was. Tess knew it from the look on his face. She mentally examined all she'd discovered—no modern conveniences. None. And the way he acted dumb when she spoke of anything remotely technical. His eloquent speech and formal manners, his clothes, this room, hell, this ship!

  "What year do you believe this is, Captain Black-well?"

  He scowled at the peculiar question and her supe­rior look, as if she was indulging a child she knew couldn't answer correctly.

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  "I do not believe, Mistress Renfrew," he fairly snapped. "I know it is the twenty-third day of June in the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred eighty-nine."

  Tess wanted to cry.

  He was an eccentric! That had to be it. He was rich and bored, and this was his "Fantasy Island," playing pirate on an eighteenth-century warship. And he was into it deep, God, real deep. She cradled her head in her hands. Oh, why did he have to be a space cadet?

  "And might I ask the same question of you?" Her head jerked up. "What do you believe is today's date?"

  She dropped her hands and sighed. "I'm not sure of the day, but it's June," she paused, gauging his ex­pression, "nineteen eighty-nine."

  His eyes sparked, and his lips thinned. "At least we agree on the month," he said, then walked over to the hutch.

  Disheartened, Tess fell back onto the mound of pil­lows, her eyes following his movements as he with­drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the cabinet. He removed a beautiful crystal decanter and poured a drink.

  "Would you care for a brandy?"

  Tess yawned, shaking her head. "That stuff's poi­son to your liver."

  He spared her a glance. "Since in your eyes, Mis­tress Renfrew, my liver is already two hundred years old, I do not see the harm."

  Tess smiled sleepily. "Touche, Captain Blackwell," she mumbled through another yawn. I'll indulge him, she decided. Why not? It could be fun. He was cer­tainly a change from any man she'd met before.

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  When Dane turned back to the bed, he found her asleep, curled on her side, hands folded primly be­neath her cheek. He remained there for a moment, absorbing her serene beauty, then strolled across the room to his desk, sinking into the soft leather chair, and propping his booted feet on the cluttered surface.

  Nineteen hundred and—he didn't want to think on her words. It confirmed his suspicions. He wanted only to recall the delicious feel of her firm body pressed against him when she'd nearly fainted, the long sleek legs draped over his arm. And God, the maddening taste of her. Like sweet energy. She was inexperienced, he deduced, perhaps even a virgin. Tess Renfrew was candid and strong and aye, desir­able, and he admitted enjoying her company. She was like no other lady he'd encountered in his thirty-three years. Dane tossed back the brandy and stood. He wanted her, but he knew she was insane.

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  CHAPTER SIX

  Dane muttered a curse, raking his fingers through his midnight black hair. "You must be wrong, Dun-can."

  "Nay, sir."

  "How can this be?" he hissed, keeping his voice low. "To commit such a cruelty against one so lively and beautiful." Dane spun away from the man, star­ing at the moon-danced ocean.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but it must be the reason." Duncan felt his own kind of rage at the injustice. "Renfrew, 'tis a noble name. There's even a shire of the same name."

  Dane sighed deeply, looking to the stars. "But to set her adrift in a storm?"

  "Them nobles an' richies would do it." He scuffed a bare foot on the smooth planks, darting a look at the sleeping men sprawled around the deck. "See, sir, ah, sometimes if a relative, ah, be touched in the head they—" His words were sliced off when the captain's head snapped to the side, cold rage contorting his shadowed features.

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  "Damn you, McPete!" he snarled softly. "Damn you to hell!"

  Duncan lifted his chin a notch, his pale eyes nar­rowing. "I'm rather fond of the lass, Captain Black-well. An' I'd not besmirch her nor cause her a moment's distress.'*

  They stared at each other; a black cloak, thick with the current of resentment, hung between them. Then like a slow ripple across cool waters, the tension melted out of Dane.

  "I know." He nodded, then braced his hands on the rail, dropping his head between outstretched arms. "Forgive my rashness, Duncan," he muttered to the deck. When he didn't accept the apology, Dane lifted his head, glancing to the side.

  Duncan was grinning.

  "Unusual creature, isn't she, sir?"

  Dane's lips quirked, remembering the effect of her kiss. "Aye, that she is."

  "Miss Cabrea doesn't—"

  "Nay," Dane cut in sharply, straightening. "She does not compare. Lady Renfrew is neither weak, nor prone to tears—" His lips twisted in disgust. "Nor to dramatic swooning simply for attention."

  "Nay, the lady stirs your blood, lad."

  Dane leveled a look at the amused servant. "Get you to bed, old man. I'm tired of your endless prat­tle."

  Grinning hugely, Duncan saluted smartly and spun about, trotting off to his bunk, a hearty chuckle fol­lowing in his wake.

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  Tess climbed from the bed, testing her muscles. She had to work out. Her legs were stiff and it was driving her nuts. She shrugged out of the heavy robe and slipped into an extremely large shirt that had been discarded over the back of a chair. A scent filled her nostrils as she buttoned it. His scent, of wind and sun and—man. She smiled, remembering how he'd kissed her, how she'd felt: warm, sexy—hungry for more. Nice, she decided. Very nice.

  Tess had never been close to many men. Except her father. Her sport had taken up too much time in her life until the accident, and then she'd become a coach. Her one and only affair had been a humiliat­ing disaster. Before she got depressed, she clasped her hands over her head and stretched, then swung down, resting her palms on the floor. God, this feels great. She straightened, propped a heel on the edge of the desk and began her ballet workout.

  Dane entered the cabin, freezing in his tracks, his eyes greedily traveling up and down the shapely calves revealed beneath his shirt. She resembled a swan, one arm up and curved, back
straight, her bending de­scent, slow and graceful. God's teeth, but that gar­ment never looked so enticing! He heard voices in the passageway and stepped inside, closing the door be­hind him.

  Tess jerked at the sound, glaring back over her shoulder. "Don't you ever knock?"

  He brushed aside his rudeness with, "I hardly think 'tis necessary, considering this is my cabin," then moved across the room to the chiffonnier, soaking up the delicious sight of those gorgeous limbs.

  "Your cabin?" she squeaked, dropping her leg,

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  "Wh-why didn't you tell me that?" She darted behind the desk chair, suddenly aware she was naked beneath the thin shirt. "I thought this was a stateroom."

  He glanced up from perusing his wardrobe; the dusky outline of her nipples briefly drew his gaze. "This isn't one of your four-hundred-foot vessels," he quipped, then selected a fresh shirt.

  "Very funny, Blackwell." She scooted out of his way and grabbed the robe, slipping it on and belting it tightly. "I'll move to another room."

  "Cabin," he corrected. "And there are no others." Tossing the fresh clothing over his arm, he faced her. She was nearly at the door. "And if you so much as step one foot outside this cabin, Lady Renfrew, I shall bodily carry you back."

  Tess whirled about. "Lady Renfrew! Aren't you spreading it on a bit thick, Captain?"

  "You are Scottish, are you not?" He held his breath.

  Smoke gray eyes narrowed. "Yes." Somewhere, she thought. "How did you know that?"

  He ignored the question, his gaze claiming her. "Come here, Lady Renfrew."

  Tess stiffened. "No way, Blackwell." Who did he think he was anyway?

  Feisty little wench, he thought, keeping his features impassive. "Then by all means—"he waved—"de­part." She turned to the door. "One hundred eighty hearty souls who haven't been near a woman in months will undoubtedly consider your alluring attire their good fortune."

  Her shoulders drooped. "Anyone ever tell you you can be a real creep?"

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  "Pardon?" Then he chuckled softly, guessing at her meaning.

  She faced him, hands on her hips, "If this is your cabin, where have you been sleeping?"

  Dane folded his arms over his chest, crushing the clothes. "That needn't concern you."

  But it did? "Where?"

  "Lady Renfrew," he warned.

  Something snapped in her. "It's Tess, damn you! Plain, ordinary, Tess. No Mistress, no Madame, no Lady anything! Don't make me someone important when I'm not!" She turned sharply, pressing her fore­head to the door, angry at the sensation of losing con­trol—of everything and so quickly. Improvise with what's available to survive; adapt to the customs, the environment; overcome each obstacle, one at a time. Tall order, Tess straightened, willing back the wetness stinging her eyes.

  Dane eyed her dejected appearance. Why would she deny her heritage? he wondered, coming up be­hind her. His hands rose to grasp her shoulders, sud­denly aching to hold her close and offer a haven from her secret troubles. But he let them drop to his sides when he saw her spine stiffen, his fists clenching against the urge to touch.

  "Are you unwell?" His voice was near her ear, the husky tone soothing her. "No, I'm fine. Or I will be when I find something

  to wear." "Duncan will provide you with adequate clothing,

  post haste."

  "Thank you. I'm going stir crazy in here. I need fresh air and—freedom."

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  "Promise you will not leave this cabin without me." He still had her safety to consider.

  "Am I a prisoner?"

  "Of course not." •

  She turned. "Then why?" He was standing close. So close she could see the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes, each incredibly thick lash, his five o'clock shadow, A bead of sweat made a lazy trickle from the base of his throat down his chest to vanish beneath the deep vee of his laced shirt. She suddenly wanted to follow the path of the droplet. Ridiculous.

  "What I said was true, Lady Renfrew." He smiled at her sour face. "My crew has been at sea for months. Our last port forbade them leave ashore—"

  "Okay, okay." She put up a hand. "I get the pic­ture." A hundred and eighty confirmed horny devils.

  "Duncan will bring water for you to bathe if you wish?"

  "Why, do I smell?"

  He blinked, taken back. "I beg your pardon, m'lady. 'Twas not my intention to insinuate—"

  She rolled her eyes. "Good gravy, do you ever relax, Blackwell? Do anything just for yourself?"

  Something flashed in his frosty eyes, turning them nearly white. It was a scary thing to see.

  "Nay, not anymore."

  He bodily moved her aside, opened the door, and walked out. Tess closed it softly behind him. That man was hurting and angry—and hiding it.

  "Just like joining the cast of a play," she said, star­ing at the incredible array of clothing laid carefully

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  on the bed. "Improvising and adapting made easy." An old-fashioned gown, corset, stockings, yards of petticoats, and Tess hadn't the vaguest idea how to get inside them and stay there without female help. Well, it had to be easier than rinsing that harsh soap out of her hair in a narrow hip bath with one pitcher of lukewarm water. But she was still the only woman aboard with over a hundred and eighty men. And it was the ship—a reproduction, she'd deduced earlier, sort of like the Naval Academy used for midshipman training—she wanted to see. And Richmond. Duncan said the dolphin hadn't been far from the bow since she'd been rescued.

  Trial and error, she supposed, studying the assort­ment of silk, lace, and ruffles, then slipping on the chemise. Certainly was an awful lot of clothing for this kind of weather, she mused, skipping the corset and pulling on the transparent old-fashioned panties, then tying on the lace petticoats. She felt strange in the garments, delicate and feminine, and that was new to her, having spent a considerable portion of her life in leotards and sweat suits. Plopping onto the bed, she slipped a stocking over her foot. They were heavy compared to pantyhose, seamed, and scarcely reaching beyond her thighs. The garters were nothing but ribbons with lace and bows. Sexy. She stepped into the gown and pushed her arms into the sleeves. It was heavy and belled out for yards in the back. Tess glanced over at the contraption lying on the trunk and assumed it was a hoop to support the fabric, like Scarlet O'Hara's. No way was she going to be har­nessed into that thing. Not even for Act One. Besides, she thought, stepping into soft kid slippers, the gown

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  barely hit the floor as it was.

  Tess was out of breath and perspiring with the ef­fort to fasten the first few hooks in the back. Sighing, she blew a wisp of hair out of her mouth. What I wouldn't give for a tee-shirt and cut-offs right now. Then she caught her reflection in the mirror and stilled. This gown looks like it belongs to Glinda, the Good Witch of North, she thought with a grin, her gaze absorbing the crisp muslin in deep rose trimmed with pale, silver gray lace. The full skirt draped open in the front to show the pink-ribboned petticoats be­neath, its waistline coming to a point in the front and back. Stiff ruffled lace circled behind her throat to slope into the neckline, and she tugged at the plung­ing fabric, trying to cover the cleavage it exposed. I look like I'm offering myself on a doilied platter, she judged wryly, sighing at all the skin revealed. It's either this or nothing, she realized, plucking at the sleeve caught snug at her elbow, the soft lace cuff fluttering downward in a long, wide funnel.

  Twisting and turning before the mirror, Tess sud­denly itched to play out Captain Blackwell's little farce. Looking down at the extra ribbons and pearl pins, she shrugged. Why not? Then picked up the brush and comb laid out for her. She wove a rose pink ribbon into her hair as her fingers swiftly created a French braid down the back of her head. Years of managing long hair for meets made it quick work. Tess let the braid drape over her shoulder to her waist and secured the end with thin silver ribbon. The pearl hair pins were unnecessary, she decided, and a bit much. The gown still gaped open i
n the back, and she wondered how a woman managed to get dressed in a

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  rush if she had to do this every time.

  Dane opened the door and smiled as she wrestled with the dress. "Having a little difficulty, m'lady?"

  Tess yelped, holding up the material as she whirled about.

  The hot anger in her eyes told him what he sud­denly realized. He hadn't bothered to knock. "Please, forgive my old habits. But I didn't mean to startle you." A ghost of a smile played on his lips.

  "Oh, yes, you did," she replied, attempting to fas­ten the dress.

  Dane came up behind her, brushing away her hands. "May I?"

  "Please do," she gritted over her shoulder, sensing he was laughing at her. Dane unfastened a few hooks.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, jerking away. "I want to stay in it, Blackwell, not fall out!"

  He grabbed her arm, turned her so her back was to the mirror, then with his hands twisted her head for a look. "Oh, sorry about that," she muttered, her cheeks staining pink upon seeing the cockeyed job she'd done. Obediently she faced the mirror.

  Dane's gaze caught briefly on the canvas corset and panniers lying across the sea chest, and he marveled at the tiny waist concealed in thin batiste, finding no need to tug the fabric to fasten it. Most women wore the constricting garment to disguise an overindulged figure, but this woman, though slim, was shapely, her skin a tight sheath over muscles. Muscles! The notion was as strange as the lady herself. He glanced at her reflection. Utterly breathtaking. Pale creamy skin and those dark eyes and hair. The contrast was enchant­ing, and he had the sudden urge to drape her in jewels

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  and silks —and himself. Erotic images flooded his mind; hot damp skin, delicate fingers moving over his body, those shapely legs entwined around his hips, pulling him deeper inside. . . . His hands began to shake as he secured the hooks, his fingertips grazing her smooth skin.

  Tess's eyes shot to the mirror, meeting his in the silver glass. The innocent touch sent a burning ripple of goose bumps up over her shoulders and neck. She could smell the spicy scent of his cologne, feel his warm breath on her bare shoulder. Her heart slowed to a heavy thud, each pound vibrating up to her throat. She swallowed it down. God, he was hand­some. There was something unusual about Captain Blackwell, not just the fact he was an eccentric, but as a man—he was like a caged panther standing be­hind her. Dark, predatory, anxious to be set free. To do what? she wondered.