willed it, my luck has changed. I mean to stay with Paganino and work while I’m still young and save the indulgences and the fasts for when I’m older. As for you, go celebrate as many holidays as you wish, for if I squeezed you all over, you couldn’t come up with even a thimble of juice.’”
Blushing furiously, Alanis bit her lip. “Not very admirable for a married lady, was it?”
“The lady preferred her lover.”
“Do you think so little of the sanctity of marriage, then?” she inquired.
An angry spark lit his eyes. “On the contrary,” he rasped softly. “I bear the highest respect for the sacred vows of matrimony, but I’m not that much of a fool to enter this snare. Indulging in adultery is a common diversion for highborn married ladies.”
“So you prefer assuming the role of the corruptor?”
“One can only corrupt she who wishes to be corrupted.”
Interesting, she thought. Judging by his reaction, she suspected he’d been cuckolded once.
“Who is Tom, Alanis?”
His question took her completely by surprise. “What? How…who told you about him?”
“You did.” He produced a suspiciously familiar journal from his coat pocket, flipped open the cover, and read, “‘To my dearest Tom, who has the best place in my heart. I miss your sweet face and everything wonderful about you. As I bathe in sunlight, I recall idle days spent together on the banks of…’ Your tears blurred the following lines.” He glared at her reproachfully.
“My voyage journal!” Furious, she leaned over the table to snatch it from his hand, but he held it well out of her reach. “Give it back! It’s private and you stole it!”
“My dear lady,” he snarled. “Your journal puts Ovidius’s The Art of Love to shame.”
“How dare you! Ovid’s book is…indecent. My journal isn’t…” She pursed her lips. “You had the gall to read something private and you expect me to explain it? Where did you find it?”
“My men brought it to me. They found it in your cabin while clearing away the trunks.”
“You ransacked my cabin?” Her eyes rounded in disbelief. “What were you hoping to unearth—secret missives forwarded to the French?”
“It was a mix-up. So who is he, Alanis? Your lover?” he demanded.
Her silent smile infuriated him even more; he seemed to take it as an admission of guilt.
“Poor Silverlake,” he bit out. “A cuckold and not even married yet. And gullible me, here I thought you were an innocent little baggage, too pure to sully with my gory, wicked hands. You don’t deserve the respect a professional courtesan does!”
The passionate resentment simmering in his eyes made her laugh. “One would think you were the one being cuckolded and not your enemy. Don’t you find it absurd? Or perhaps you are jealous? Does it pain you to think me in love with another although you are not my betrothed?”
“I thank the Good Lord I’m not your betrothed,” he muttered crossly. “I should give this to him, though, enlighten him as to the true nature of his bride to be.”
“Please do.” She laughed at his shocked expression. “You’ve no idea how silly you look, considering that…Tom is my brother.”
That decked him. “Your brother?” He slowly slid the journal across the table.
She took it. “Tom is my younger brother. He died five years ago in a foolish, tragic duel.”
Eros looked dully rueful. “My condolences. He was your only sibling? And your parents?”
“They died when I was twelve. My grandfather took us in.” Why was she telling this pirate her entire life story? The answer eluded her.
“Must have been lonely,” he remarked, his eyes not leaving her face.
“Not lonely. Alone. But I had Tom and Lucas when they were home away from school.”
“Silverlake was acquainted with your brother?”
“They were famous friends. So you may imagine how idiotic you’d look presenting this bit of incriminating evidence of my infidelity to Silverlake.” She smiled.
He stirred uncomfortably. “I never intended to. I apologize. Please forgive my rudeness.”
“I forgive your rudeness. I do not forgive your reading my private journal! You had no right to snoop! You should have returned it once you realized the error.”
“Perhaps I should have contained my curiosity,” he admitted, not without a visible toll on his pride. “I’m willing to make it up to you. Tell me how.”
She eyed him circumspectly. “Excuse me from dining with you tomorrow.” Their last day.
Eros tensed. “No.”
“You cannot choose the reparation that pleases you,” she muttered.
“Ask for something else.”
She considered the implacable set of his jaw, the resolute glint in his eyes. “No.”
Annoyance crossed his features. “D’ accordo. Va bene. You’ll have your wish.”
“Thank you.” The less time spent in this ruthlessly appealing Italian’s company the better, she told herself.
“Your grandfather seems very soft when it comes to his granddaughter,” he remarked after long moments of silence. “Does he know you read Ovid?”
The reason she was familiar with the Roman poet’s works was her grandfather’s eccentric views on female education. No refined English lady was allowed to read what she did. “You read Ovid. Why shouldn’t I?” she pointed out tersely, annoyed that her cheeks were on fire again.
“Why indeed?” Eros grinned. “When the reason men prohibit women from improving their education stems from fear and stupidity? Women already wield so much power over us poor males, we are terrified that once you know everything, you’d have us completely at your mercy.”
His comment quelled her belligerence, and she found herself smiling again. “I find it hard imagining you brought to your knees by a woman.”
“You’d be surprised.” The dark smile he sent her made her feel tingly all over.
Feeling shy and daring at the same time, she said, “Everything I heard about you concerns stealing, torturing, and murdering. Tell me one thing that is not a vicious rumor.”
“Why do you believe they’re but vicious rumors and not the truth?” he inquired, amused.
Disappointed by his smooth evasion, she replied, “I have had four meals in your company and I have yet to see you gnaw on raw organs or suckle fresh blood.”
Eros burst out laughing, deeply, freely. “Is that what you’ve heard about me? And here you are, snatched from a world of decency and finesse and forced to dine with a cesspit monster.”
“You are not from the gutters. You are exceptionally well educated, your manners—when it suits you—are excellent, your tastes are expensive…”
“Any person with a good eye can have a taste for the better things in life. My not being a viscount”—his hand sketched a flourish—“doesn’t suggest I’m illiterate. Reading is a convenient method to pass time at sea, Carissima.”
His softly spoken Italian endearment thrummed her heart. “It’s more than that,” she said. “It’s the way you carry yourself, it’s—” She searched her brain for the right word. “Princely.”
She could have sworn he flinched, but when he spoke, his voice was calm and even. “You deduced this after two days of observation?