Free Rake Beyond Redemption by Anne O'Brien

mistress.’
    ‘Then I make my own decisions. No one has given me a good reason why I should not have Mr Ellerdine as my friend. Why should a sail in the Spectre be a subject for any man’s disapproval?’
    ‘It’ll cause trouble. I’m not saying as I agree with what’s said against him—but don’t say I didn’t warn you, mistress.’
    ‘I won’t. I see no cause for trouble.’ A trip of anger surprised her. ‘And do I not have you or Meggie as permanent mentor and chaperon? There’s nothing inappropriate in what I do. I am a respectable widow.’
    She knew bright colour surged in her cheeks, nothing to do with the effect of the brisk wind. Nothing inappropriate? There was everything inappropriate in the line of her thoughts as her attention moved to Zan when he loped across the little vessel to secure a rope with those clever, long-fingered hands. Marie-Claude’s belly became mellow and liquid with longing. The glamour of his loose-limbed grace and handsome face struck home once more.
    ‘I will have him as my friend if I choose to,’ she said. ‘I’ll hear no more from you.’
    The old fisherman’s lips shut with a hearty smack. ‘Aye, aye, mistress.’ He saluted. ‘You’ll do as you wish, I expect.’
    Yes, she would.
    But George’s words would not go away, spoiling the moment, forcing Marie-Claude to grasp at honesty. What was she doing?
    Flying in the face of her upbringing, certainly. Of all she had been taught, all the principles instilled in her.
    A daughter of the de la Roche did not engage in casual affairs. Did not throw aside all ideas and tenets of morality and good breeding. A well-mannered husband, marriage, family—that was as her upbringing dictated, that should have been her expectation in life.
    ‘But it is not enough!’ she informed a passing gull.
    Nor was the life she was leading. Comfort, indeed luxury, a choice of houses in which to live, a thriving son, a loving family. An assured future. She must be the most selfish creature alive to cast all this aside in her mind as unsatisfactory. But it was. It was all enveloping, endlessly suffocating. Restricting every thought, every movement to fit with what the London ton considered respectable.
    ‘Respectable!’ She issued the word as a challenge as the gull circled and dived into the waves.
    She lived, breathed, dressed in the most fashionable of garments, enjoying the pretty clothes that her jointure allowed her. When in London she danced, rode in Hyde Park, laughed.
    But was smothered by it all. Stifled by respectability.
    She was grateful to Harriette and Luke. Horribly grateful. And always would be. But she was only halfalive. Was this it for her, for ever? To exist, only half-awake?
    ‘I have a half-life. And I want to live!’
    Marie-Claude gripped hard on the glossy wood of the Spectre ’s gunwale. After Marcus’s death, she had escaped death, dishonour, appalling fear for herself and her baby son. Of course she would never wish to return to those days, but she recalled how her blood had run hot in her determination to break free from Jean-Jacques Noir and his evil plans. In the intervening years herblood seemed to settle into a dull sluggishness that horrified her. Was she now to sink into tedious oblivion, a widow, a doting and ageing aunt to Luke and Harriette’s children?
    ‘No! I won’t!’
    Although the wind snatched her words away, they still lingered to echo in her mind as her eyes again sought the man who stood by the mast in utmost mastery of the vessel, shirt billowing at sleeve and neck. This man had come into her life, had awoken her. Had stirred her senses into flame. Until that moment in the inn parlour she had not fully understood how desolate her heart had become.
    At that moment he turned his head, shouted an order to George Gadie to reef the sail as they would tack into the wind. What did he offer her? Ah, that was the problem. He offered her nothing. Nor ever would, she suspected. He was an enigma.