"Yes, I believe I would," she said, her voice grave. "Ithink it must be a most gratifying profession. A heartbreaking one, but ever so worthy."

"Very true," he said, remembering Smith, the surgeon on the Gloriana. He'd drowned last autumn in a gale off the coast of Jamaica, along with three other sailors. Smith was his friend, and a good man. It took a special kind of man to be a surgeon.

Becky brought her knees close and wrapped her arms around them, gazing at him. "Why didn't you return to England sooner?" she asked finally. "Twelve years is such a long time."

"I wasn't welcome. My father, as you know, is a member of Parliament, and my brothers have their own ambitions. They didn't want their scapegrace of a youngest brother ruining their chances for success."

"That's so cruel."

"I understand their hesitation in allowing my return, and I cannot blame them."

That wasn't a lie, not really. After twelve years, he was as distant from his closest family members as anyone could be. He'd seen his father and eldest brother once since his return, and the meeting had been stiff and formal, and eminently uncomfortable. He had no wish to repeat the experience. "My father was sworn to the Privy Council last year, so my absence was certainly not detrimental to his career." He took a breath. "England is my home, though, and I intend to make a life here now that I have returned."

She nodded. "Yes. Of course."

He fetched his glass from the side table. Rising, he went to the sidebar to refill it with brandy as she sipped at her sherry.

As the amber liquid streamed into his tumbler, he said, "Tell me about your husband."

She recoiled, and he instantly regretted the command. He couldn't fathom why he had brought up her husband-except, he thought ruefully, for the fact that he had revealed a part of himself, and now he wanted her to reveal something about herself in return. It was childish of him, really.

Jack returned to the sofa, set the glass aside, and took her hand again, pressing his palm against its silky warmth. "Forgive me for that. You needn't answer."

"My husband." She swallowed hard and stared at him, as if she were determined to answer no matter the cost. "He... it was an elopement. I hardly knew him. At first, I was madly in love with him." She took a deep swallow from her glass, finishing the last drops of the sherry, and then she lowered the empty glass to her lap.

He frowned at her. "But not later?"

"No. Not later. William wasn't..." She looked away, and tendrils of deep pink crawled across her cheeks. "He wasn't a good man."

The effect of her words was instant. Red tinged his vision. His skin prickled hot as memories rushed through him like a flash flood, too quick for him to control. His fist clamped over her hand. "Did he hurt you?"

"Yes." His hand tightened over hers, and her brows drew together in a frown. "What's wrong, Jack?"

He loosened his fist and brushed the fingertips of his other hand over her twisted elbow. "He wasn't responsible for this?"

"No. Not directly. The accident occurred a few days after he died." She shook her head, confused. "Are you angry with me, Jack?"

He tried to smile at her, but he feared it emerged as more of a grimace. His reaction had nothing to do with her, really. Just with his memories. Why had his mind made that connection the instant she'd said William Fisk hadn't been a good man? She was a different woman with a different husband in a different time.

"No, I'm not angry with you."

"Why...?" Understanding dawned in her expression. "You're angry with him."

He knew nothing of what had happened between her and her husband. Becky was different from Anne. Becky was safe. Whatever William Fisk had done to her, the man was dead. Trying to calm his racing blood, Jack spoke through his teeth. "I cannot abide a man who abuses innocents."

She gave a small, bitter laugh. "I'm no innocent."

"Perhaps you're more innocent than you think you are."

"No. I am a widow. I have seen..." She paused, and her gaze grew distant. "Too much," she finished quietly.

He rubbed tender circles in the fleshy part of her palm. God, he was being an ass. None of this was her fault. Whatever had happened to her, it was over. It was over for him, too. By now, he should be better able to control his memories.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"About what?"

"Whatever it was that hurt you. And I'm sorry for reminding you of it."

She gave him a faltering smile. "I am sorry you were hurt as well."

They sat in companionable silence for several long moments. With every minute that passed, his body grew in awareness of hers. In the past twelve years, he'd felt lust once in a while-especially when the Gloriana sailed into port after long months at sea. Yet the feeling Becky evoked in him was different. Lust was there, and it was more consuming than ever, but there was more to it than that. A tenderness. A longing to tuck her against his body, hold her close, and simply breathe her in, as if her sweetness and essence would filter through him and bring him peace.

Those thoughts were nonsensical, he knew that. The fact that he actually liked her was certainly a bonus, but there was no sense in fooling himself into believing anything but his desperate need for money had instigated their association.

He pressed gently on the soft pad of flesh below her thumb. "When I touch you..." He paused to search for the right word to describe the heady feeling touching her gave him. "It's potent."

"Potent," she whispered. She released his hand and then took it again, lacing her fingers with his. "Yes. It is."

She raised his hand, still tangled with hers, and pressed slow kisses to each of his fingers. "I love your hands. They're so large, and your fingers are so long." She stroked along the calluses on his fingers. "Hardened by work, yet graceful. So masculine."

He closed his eyes, thoroughly seduced by her simple touch.

This was business, nothing more. A seduction, nothing more. He required something she possessed, and he knew how to go about obtaining it. Certainly there would be some side benefits to the arrangement, he thought, breathing in her blossoming essence. He liked Lady Rebecca Fisk, and he respected her. He'd take good care of her, and he'd never deliberately cause her pain.

But if he hadn't needed her fortune, he never would have made the effort to meet her.

Chapter Three.

Cecelia had counseled her to be practical, so Becky would grit her teeth and be practical. She had not come to Sheffield's Hotel tonight to hear proclamations of love-in fact, such a proclamation from this man would scare her to death and would likely have her fleeing to Yorkshire before dawn.

The fact of the matter was, she wanted him. Desperately. She'd never have him, though, if they continued to discuss such dour, depressing topics. Since he seemed so hesitant to seduce her, it fell to her to do the seducing.

Staring at his rugged face, she lowered his hand and brought it to her lap. "I like your taste."

He raised a brow. "My... taste."

"Yes."

"What do I taste like?"

She sat back, considering. "You taste clean, like soap."

He grimaced.

"Not like lye," she reassured him, then took a moment to consider. "Like velvet."

"Does velvet have a taste?"

"I think it must. Soft and smooth."

"I see. I think." He frowned.

"There's a bit of male in there, too. Brandy. And something salty, that reminds me of the sea."

"Not such pleasant things?"

"Things that remind me I'm kissing a man," she corrected. "Which I'd much prefer to kissing a woman, after all."

She smiled a little, and so did he. Their gazes met, and they both sobered. The smile slipped from his face. "Becky, I..."

She pressed a finger to his lips. "I am glad you told me about your past. It means very much to me to know that you have been forthcoming and honest with me."

He didn't meet her eyes. Instead, he raised his hand to trace the plunging neckline of her dress. She sucked in her breath as his skin rasped over the curve of her breast, the sensation rough, his touch gentle. She stared at his face, but he stared at the place where his finger dragged over her flesh, his eyes dark with intent.

He paused at the bottom of the vee where the fabric gathered between her breasts. His lips curved, and he took on the sinful expression of a pirate about to plunder a treasure-filled ship.

She'd kept herself locked up so tightly for so long. Now she was releasing one of the locks-just the one that had to do with her carnal longings. Several locks still remained, however, and she checked over them systematically. There was the one that kept the glass case enclosed around her heart-that one was shut tight. There was the one that protected her trust-her guard-and that, too, was safe. And there were the ones standing sentinel over her soul, her mind, and her brain. Those wobbled a little, and she took a moment to reinforce them.

What happened between her and Jack would only be skin deep. What she wanted tonight was simple. She wanted him to touch her. All over. She wanted those rough fingers to rove over her body, to graze every square inch of her.

Currently those fingertips traced the exposed skin of her upper breast. She closed her eyes, focusing on the heated trail of his touch. His hand rounded over her breast, his fingers pressing against the delicate flesh, his palm over the thin layer of muslin that separated her skin from his.

Her nipple responded in an instant rush of sensation, tautening, seeking more. Becky grasped her sleeve and pulled the gown off her shoulder, sliding the fabric from between them.

His palm was burning hot. He shifted his hand, his skin gently abrading the sensitive puckered tip of her breast, and she gasped.

"You like being touched here," he murmured.

She couldn't lie to him. She couldn't pretend to be some demure maiden. She couldn't pretend to be anything but what she was.

"Yes."

He lowered his dark head, tugged her closer, cupped her breast in his hand, and closed his mouth over the tip.

She grabbed his shoulder, pressing him more tightly against her. The movement of his lips on her was exhilarating. She was so sensitive here, and the strong movement of his lips bordered on painful, but, oh, it was such an exquisite pain. A pain that made gooseflesh break out on her forearms, sent tingles to her toes, and made her whole body shudder with delight.

He pulled down her other sleeve, revealing her other breast. Closing a hand over the one he'd just taken into his mouth, he moved to the opposite side, suckling, licking, moving his mouth over her flesh in ways she hadn't known were possible. Sliding up his shoulders, her hands wove into the softly curling hair at his nape. His thumb brushed over the nipple still damp from his kisses, sending bolts of light through her to coalesce at her center.

A certain feeling welled deep within her-it was an elusive feeling, a sensation of rising toward some pinnacle, some height she couldn't describe and had experienced only a handful of times.

Jack closed his teeth over her flesh and tugged. The feeling within her tightened, burned hotter, a ball of light condensing, contracting, preparing to explode and flood her veins.

He soothed with his lips, feathering kisses over the place he'd just nipped, and Becky sighed. The light simmered, its flame low and pleasurable deep within her.

As if he knew she could not bear to be abandoned there, his lips left her breasts but his hands didn't. He cupped them both, his fingertips plucking, stroking, as his mouth traveled upward, over her chest and collarbones, and finally her neck.

Becky threw her head back to offer her flesh to him, and he took it, all of it, just as she'd wanted. Alternating between gentle brushes, licks, and sharp sucks and tiny bites that left her gasping, he left no inch of her neck unexplored by his lips.

He traveled upward, explored her jawline, and finally returned to her lips, pressing a tender kiss at the corner of her mouth.

"Becky. I do want you. Never forget it."

"Why-?"

But the assault of his mouth cut off her words. No longer gentle, his lips took her on a careening journey of sensation. Hard, commanding, and thorough, he took her mouth under his control.

In response, she squirmed, she pushed, she pulled. She kissed him back, then retreated as his touch overwhelmed her senses. His body covered hers, heavy and hard, so manly, so large, so dominant. The fabric of his shirt, his trousers, and her dress tangled between them, but the hard ridges of his body touched her everywhere. A firm thigh, a strong arm maneuvered her down onto the sofa. The solid bulge of his erection pressed against her leg.

All of a sudden, Jack's body heaved up, and Becky realized she lay on her back, her skirts twisted around her thighs, her hair sagging from the coiffure Josie had spent so long arranging.

He gazed down at her, his dark eyes narrow with desire. Cool air whispered over her bare breasts, tightening her nipples even more.

Becky felt no impulse to cover herself. She stared up at him through half-lidded eyes, heated arousal swirling within her. She wanted him to look at her like that. She wanted him to stare at her bare breasts with lust in his eyes. Lust he felt for her.

His chest rose and fell. "God. What you do to me."

"What's that?" She meant the question to emerge like silk, as if she were an experienced seductress, but instead it rasped out, sounded raw and full of longing.

"You make me forget..." His words faded. Becky watched in fascination as his fingers worked to untie his cravat.

"Forget?"

The linen slid over his neck as he drew it away and tossed it over the back of the sofa. "You make me forget myself. Forget who I am, where I am, what I'm doing..."

"Isn't that how it should be?"

"Is it?"

"I..." Her chest went tight as his lips twisted into a wicked curve. That crooked smile would be her undoing. "I think it is."

She gazed at his fingers, rapt, as he slid free the buttons at his stiff, high collar. All at once, he pulled the shirt over his head, and all the air left Becky's body in a whoosh.

His torso was a thing of beauty. She'd never seen anything like it. Rippling with muscle, the skin deeply tanned, every inch taut and lean. The muscles in his abdomen expanded as he inhaled, and she dragged her gaze to his face.

He watched her with a bemused expression, and realizing she was gaping, she snapped her lips shut.

"You were married?" His voice was soft.

"I was." He raised a brow in question, but shedidn'twant to talk about William, about how different a specimen of man he was. She wanted to consider nothing but the man before her. "But I never saw you before."

"Do you like what you see?" His voice slid around her senses like a strip of satin.