Free The Pirate and the Puritan by Cheryl Howe

in
the wearing of the things. The feminine undergarment concealed, almost
strangled, what it should have accentuated. Miss Kendall had a figure to rival
Venus. Her breasts were full, large and appeared enticingly firm. Her white
cotton chemise escaped the drenching of her dress, keeping her somewhat
concealed and teasing his imagination with what lay beneath. He tore his gaze
away before he burned a hole in the cotton. If he wanted to adhere to the
integrity of his role as nursemaid, he’d better move on to a less challenging
duty.
    Underskirts entwined around
Felicity’s legs, hiding those appendages from the world. Drew reached down to
remove the black boots peeking out beneath. Even with his gaze focused on
nothing but the laces of her shoes, he felt like a lecher taking advantage of a
helpless female.
    Fortifying himself with the
innocence of his intent and ignoring his not so virtuous urges, he pulled off
layers of muslin petticoats, refusing to touch the knee-length chemise. He
brushed his fingers along Felicity’s calf. Her stockings remained thankfully
dry. Reaching under her chemise to remove them would have sorely tested his
endurance.
    He got up from the bed to search
for something to dry her hair. When she regained her strength, something he
assured himself would happen, she’d be livid to find he of all people had
undressed her. He doubted she’d be satisfied with the fact that he’d had no
choice, or appeased by the knowledge that his skill in the area of undressing
women allowed him to do so quickly. Yet having a crewmember do the job was out
of the question. His men were self-confessed cutthroats, not gentlemen who
would respect a lady—no matter how angelic she might look at the moment. He
pulled his hot gaze away from where her light cotton chemise clung to the apex
of her thighs. He wasn’t much better.
    When he turned to the armoire,
hoping to find a towel, he noticed the wooden box that had spilled out with
Felicity. Seeing the tattered remnants of his life scattered across the floor
confirmed his worst suspicions. The little witch had been spying on him.
    And worse yet, she no doubt
thought she found what she was looking for. Two bills of sale bearing his real
name lay face up on the carpet. She’d have no trouble figuring out Drew
Crawford and Lord Christian Andrews were one and the same. Good. Let her think
the worst of him.
    He neatly folded the documents
and returned them to the box, before gathering the fragile items he’d sworn to
toss overboard a dozen times. A yellowed, returned and unopened letter his
mother had written to his father lay among the pile. Drew had never had the
courage to read the last letter his mother had written, and the thought of Felicity
doing so irritated Drew enough to chide himself for his compassion. That she’d
peered into his past bothered him more than her discovery of the papers which
she would interpret as his involvement in the slave trade. If he’d decided to
strip her naked and tie her to the bed until the storm passed instead of taking
such precious care with her, he’d be justified.
    He scooped up the sprig of purple
lilac, a few more of whose tiny petals had fallen off. He sniffed it, though he
knew the fragrance was long gone. He should just throw it away. Instead, he
gently returned the letter and the sprig to the security of the tattered wooden
box, the only baggage he’d brought with him from England.
    With the heirloom tucked under
his arm, he stalked over to the bed. He searched the features of the tranquil
figure in white for the conniving shrew who’d broken onto his ship and
ransacked his meager belongings.
    After he studied her still face
to assure himself her extreme condition wasn’t a ploy, he placed his palm
against the side of her cheek and traced her lips with his thumb. With his
other hand, he brushed her hair away from her face. He let his fingers stray
until they were enveloped in the golden brown torrent spilling over the