Page 12 of The Heart of an Earl

His cock twitched.

It hadn’t done that of its own volition in more than ten years. Not since the last night he’d been with Corentine in the East Indiesbefore her ship had set sail back to England.

Not that he’d been a monk—but no woman, no bare slope of a chest had made him react without direct concentration on relieving himself of his baser needs.

His look snapped up to her face. Her eyes had narrowed at him, the stiff rod of resistance that had sent her defiant onto that pirate ship years ago shining in the green sparks of her blue eyes.

He cleared his throat, inclining his head to her. “Please, sit. I apologize that there is not more space.”

She shuffled to her right and sat on the foot of the bed.

He set the plate down on the bed beside her, then pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “Or you could eat at the desk.”

“This is fine.” She picked up the plate, setting it in her lap, her fingers breaking apart the biscuit. She popped a bite into her mouth, her look trained on him as she chewed.

She swallowed. “You are not going to eat?”

Des moved to the desk, setting down the bottle of brandy and the glasses. “I will later. My appetite is not yet back. Blood does that to me.”

Her right eyebrow cocked. “You’re afraid of blood? I saw how you fought on the ship.”

“And?” He turned around to her.

“Of all the men, you’re the one I didn’t want walking under me.”

“So why did you drop onto me?”

“I’m not stupid. You were also the one I waited for. I had to take a chance on the strongest one of your crew—you were my best hope, if there was any hope at all.”

She was shrewd—far too much so. No wonder she’d survived on theRed Dragonfor as long as she did.

His head tilted to the side as he studied her. “In battle I am fine. It is after. Seeing the blood on my mates’ limbs, on their faces, the deep cuts, the flesh inside.” He paled, shaking his head. “I don’t eat for a day.”

“How peculiar.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is.” His forefinger flung out to the plate. “But you still needed to eat and I wanted to talk to you.”

“About?”

He took two steps forward to stand in front of her. “Your father, the Marquess of Gatlong.”

A bite of the biscuit halfway to her mouth, she froze, her eyes closing for several long seconds. Her fingers with the biscuit dropped to the plate in her lap before she opened her eyes to him. “I—I haven’t heard his name in…forever.”

“I remembered him, but what I don’t remember is your name. I thought he mentioned it, but forgive me as I don’t recall it.”

“My father is alive?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “And my mother?”

“Yes. Both survived the attack. Your mother was grief-stricken, though. I recall that as we limped to port. It was obvious you meant a great deal to her.”

“I…I did.” Her eyes closed and a tear slipped down her cheek, but then her eyelashes flew open, her glossy eyes pinning him. “But you…you had that letter—Redthorn read it—he laughed. I remember him laughing at it.”

“Aye. I had just cracked the seal on it.”

Her head snapped backward. “You had just found out your wife had died? On that ship? Just before they boarded thePrimrose?”

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