Free Surrender To A Scoundrel by Julianne MacLean

“Stuffy, I’d say.”
    “I hope you are referring to the quality of the air, Lord Martin, and not the company?”
    He leaned a little closer and spoke in a hushed tone. “Well that wasn’t a very proper thing for a proper widow to say.”
    He was teasing her again as he had in the hotel corridor and trying to get a rise out of her. It was as if he somehow knew that she wished to break out of her shell, and he was poking at her. She wasn’t sure if she loved it, or was completely unnerved by it.
    “I wasn’t the one who said it,” she replied with mock effrontery, followed by a slightly flirtatious sidelong glance.
    He smiled. “Oh, but you were. I simply said it was stuffy. You implied that your companions were dull.”
    Evelyn clasped her gloved hands together over the rail and pursed her lips. Honestly, he was like no other gentleman she’d ever encountered, and he made her want to laugh—something few men even attempted to accomplish. It was exactly what she needed right now—complete and utter audaciousness.
    After a moment, he faced forward, too, and stretched to look straight down at the water. “We’re dreadfully high up, I daresay.”
    “We are indeed,” she replied with a soft chuckle. “It’s a tremendous ship. In fact, Lord Breckinridgeinformed me earlier that I was standing on twenty-four-hundred tons of pure luxury.”
    Martin’s eyebrows lifted, then he stepped back and stomped his foot on the wooden deck. “My God, I believe he might be right.”
    Evelyn relished the playful sarcasm in his tone. “He said a ship like this was every man’s dream,” she added.
    “Not every man’s,” he softly said, leaning his forearms on the rail again. “I dream of other things. And when it comes to being out on the water, I prefer the power of the wind.”
    A breeze lifted his dark hair, and Evelyn admired the classic beauty of his face, bronzed by wind and sun. “Why is that?”
    “It’s peaceful,” he told her as he gazed out over the dark sea, “and a sailboat doesn’t smell like an engine room. It smells like fresh air and freedom.”
    “That can’t be the only reason,” she said. “Surely there must be a greater allure for you. You like the speed, don’t you? The danger and excitement? You enjoy taking risks and winning trophies?” Surely that was the more relevant motivation.
    He turned to face her, looking as if he found her opinions surprising. “Have you never been sailing before?”
    “I’ve been on boats,” she replied, feeling rather naïve all of a sudden. “But they’ve all been steamers.”
    “Well, that’s not the same at all,” he explained.“To be on a sailboat is to be as close to heaven as anyone can get.”
    Close to heaven . She’d never heard anyone speak that way before—with such genuine, open passion.
    Nevertheless, she could not quite give up her view on the subject. “I’m sorry, but I simply do not understand the appeal of being on a boat that is tipping so severely that the sails nearly touch the water and the passengers have to rush to one side to keep it from capsizing. That is not my idea of ‘peace.’”
    He threw his head back and laughed. “You’ve got it all wrong, my dear. A good skipper has everything under control.”
    “But where’s the ‘heaven’ you describe?”
    He paused a moment, looked up at the stars while he contemplated his answer, and when he spoke there was a hint of melancholy in his voice.
    “The simple act of hoisting the sails puts me in a wistful mood,” he told her, “and when I feel the wind in my face and I’m focused on the waves and the trim of the sails, my troubles seem to disappear, and sometimes I even forget who I am or where I’ve been.”
    The murmur of laughter and music from below seemed to fade away as she listened to Martin speak, wondering why he would ever need to forget who he was, for he was the most celebrated sportsman in En gland, envied by every man,adored by every woman. But then