Page 37 of The Rogue’s Embrace

By the time Estela had polished off her bottle of 1874 Dom Pérignon, she was feeling significantly more optimistic toward life in general, and the whole Mathilde-debacle in particular. She had been so sure of retrieving the letters that it had come as something of a blow to find herself outmatched. However, instinct told her that hope remained, and the vengeful Contessa's plans had been thwarted in some way as-yet-unexplained. Estela reminded herself to trust in the guiding Fates, who mostly served her well.

However, although the champagne had done its job in taking the edge off her nerves, it had done nothing to quell the ache of desire deep in her loins. Quite the opposite, in fact, and she was determined to deal with that as soon as possible. It was doubtful that any of her fellow passengers would be suitable. From her observations upon boarding, most were either extremely elderly or were travelling in couples. Given the close quarters of their environment, a fling with one of the dining waiters might be the simplest solution, or possibly a member of the bridge crew.

In honor of the hunt, in which she fully intended to be successful, Estela had finally decided upon her rich red velvet with matching plumes in her hair, secured by a large ruby pin. The neckline was exceedingly low. The scant ribbon of black guipure lace, which threaded seductively at the top of the bodice, only increased the effect. No male between the ages of 16 and 106 would be unaffected.

The choker of smaller rubies about her throat sent a subliminal message, she liked to think. That she wore matching garters above red stockings was her own little secret, which she looked forward to sharing with the lucky recipient of her wiles.

The sleeves of the gown were no more than little swags of fabric and she wore her evening gloves high upon each arm, with a mere sliver of ivory visible above the black silk.

Entering the grand salon of the ship's dining room, Estela had never felt more confident of her allure, nor more determined to put it to good use.

The Ma?tre d' was just escorting her across the room towards the captain's table, having pocketed a guinea for his trouble. They were moving through the center of the room, past marble columns and potted palms whose upper reaches almost brushed the majesty of the glass-domed ceiling—when an excited female somewhere to the left trilled her name.

"Heavens be!"

exclaimed the voice, with its pronounced Scottish lilt. "Is that wee Stella? It is, I'm surely certain!"

"Hulloo!"

A second voice chimed in. "Stella, it's us! Margaret and Oona."

Estela stopped in her tracks.

"Och, she's seen us."

Oona's arm came into view, waving madly from behind the leaves of a fig plant.

Estela hadn't seen either of her godmothers for more years than she could remember, but they'd been close in the past. Her parents had been prone to gallivanting for long periods, leaving her brother Charles at Eton, and Estela buried in the Highlands with the two sisters for months on end. It had been long before Esther was born.

Only later did Estela see how the pair had provided her with a sense of stability, besides giving her freedom to climb trees and build dens and ride their cart ponies endlessly up and down. More than that. She'd known they were fond of her. With her own parents, she'd sensed her presence was tolerated. Her godmothers had always seemed genuinely delighted by her company.

Naturally, the relationship had become more distanced as she'd matured, and entered a world of dances and concerts and myriad other entertainments designed to present her for the perusal of potential suitors. She'd been little more than eighteen on her first wedding day, and immeasurably pleased with herself. Her parents seemed satisfied with her, at last.

Her husband had been twice her age and more, but she hadn't minded in the least. He'd been kindly and generous and had taught her a great deal. She couldn't say she'd actually been in love, but her sadness at his untimely death two years later had been heartfelt.

Oona and Margaret had attended the celebrations, but she'd given them only the briefest of embraces before letting herself become lured away. She'd thought herself so sophisticated, joining her new London set, and her godmothers far too provincial.

Through the years they'd corresponded with relentless regularity, despite Estela's far less frequent, hastily scribbled replies. Estela felt a pang of shame. When had she last written? A quick note in the last Christmas card perhaps?

Leaving the Ma?tre d' standing, she swiveled on her heel.

"How wonderful to see you."

Standing between the ladies, Estela dipped her head, kissing each upon the cheek. "I may join you, I hope."

"Aye, o' course ye must sit."

Oona took Estela's hand with shining eyes. "We were just saying how glamorous everyone looks, and how beautiful everything is, and that it's just the sort of place we always imagine ye to be—and here ye are, as if we summoned ye with our wishful thinking!"

There were two free chairs on the opposite side of the circular table, providing ample room for Estela to settle herself. The Ma?tre d' swept in to tuck her chair. A moment later, her wine glass was being filled and a plate of oysters made an appearance.

"You both look well."

Estela spoke honestly. Though the sisters were most certainly above the age of seventy, their appearance was sprightly. Their neatly curled hair was as it had always been, though now thoroughly silvered.

"It's the excitement o' travelling,"

said Margaret. "We decided to follow Cousin Flora's example and set off for an adventure. We took the train all the way doon to join the ship and have been having a guid old time of it."

"How marvelous."

To Estela's knowledge, the pair had never been further than Inverness, though their famous cousin, Flora McTavish, was quite celebrated for her expeditions into wild territory. She'd spent considerable time in the Wadi deserts of Jordan and Syria. Estela had managed to catch one of her lectures, on Ms. McTavish's return to London, detailing her time spent living among a Bedouin tribe.

"Have you been touring the cities at each port of call?"

Oona looked slightly sheepish. "We did take a turn about the place when we reached Cádiz, but it was fairly hot enough to roast. We decided it would be a deal more convenient to stay aboard and view the sights from the comfort o' the lounge chairs on deck."

"Very sensible."

Estela smiled inwardly as she tipped back one of her oysters and swallowed it down. She supposed the warmth of the Mediterranean must feel a tad overwhelming after near-continuous Scottish mizzle. "Though perhaps I can tempt you ashore on this return leg. Our first stop is Bari. We might go together and find a nice shady piazza in which to sit."

"That does sound pleasant,"

Oona looked hopeful. "We could watch the world go by from a nice quiet spot."

"Aye!"

Margaret jumped in hurriedly. "'T'would be just the thing. We didnae fancy having to traipse round with a group, and we were a might apprehensive to go wondering off."

"Then it's settled."

Estela raised her glass, encouraging them in a small toast. "I'll be your chaperone. No one shall bundle you into a laundry basket while I'm watching out for you."

Oona shot a look at Margaret, before turning her gaze back to Estela. "We did worry it was a possibility, after what happened to Flora on her last trip."

Three waiters chose that moment to sweep in, replacing their empty oyster shells with a selection of cold hors d'oeuvres: olives and pickled artichokes, thinly sliced meats, and caviar perched on crackers, in addition to a selection of tiny fish. There was a pause while they all tucked in, but Estela was too intrigued to let pass the reference to Flora McTavish's escapades.

"Do tell me more. I hope your cousin wasn't inconvenienced in some way."

Margaret lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner. "Captured by pirates and sold into a Turkish harem!"

Estela nearly choked on the sardine she'd just popped into her mouth.

"'T'was awful!"

Her other godmother leaned forward. "Although quite thrilling in a way."

"Naturally, Flora insisted on a marriage ceremony before she'd allow this sultan of hers any truck with her person,"

Margaret went on, "though such a ritual could hardly be recognized by the good Christian Church."

"She said she'd only do his bidding if he gave her the position of first wife,"

added Oona, "which might count for something, but it rather put out of joint the noses of his other seventeen wives."

"Goodness!"

Estela savored the bresaola. One did hear of such things happening. "Was she rescued by someone from the British Embassy?"

"Och no, not at all, though some overtures were made,"

answered Margaret. "Flora made it clear she was perfectly happy where she was, though the sultan was quite demanding. She insisted she was learning things she might never have otherwise—from within the lion's paw as it were. She said she owed it to her sister-explorers to take full advantage of the opportunity."

"How noble of her."

Estela bit at her lip.

"Absolutely,"

went on Oona. "'T'was a crying shame that the Royal Geographical Society refused to let her present her papers—though her findings were, admittedly, somewhat beyond the usual scope."

"But if some diplomat didn't intervene on her behalf, how did she escape?"

Estela couldn't begin to imagine.

"Quite against her will, apparently. She persuaded the sultan that his wives ought to be educated and volunteered her own services, beginning with Latin and the early philosophies of the Greeks, as well as a course in mathematical theory."

Margaret shook her head. "The poor things tried poisoning her several times."

"Well, Pythagoras isn't for everyone."

Estela conceded.

"Fortunately, Flora's heightened nasal capabilities alerted her in good time,"

Oona tapped her nose.

"They then left a deadly asp under her pillow, but Flora has a wonderful way with animals of all sorts, and made it her pet. The women were left with no choice but to pounce upon her one night and gag her. Then it was only a matter of concealing her in the linens sent for washing. After an arduous few hours, she found herself deposited on an outgoing cargo ship and—"

Margaret stopped in mid-flow, her eyes fixing upon something behind Estela.

Oona, similarly agog, blinked and stared.

Twisting about, Estela understood why. If she hadn't been sitting, she'd have been at risk of her knees giving way.

A shiver overtook her.

Her pulse sped.

Desire took hold of her, deep inside, sending a flood of wetness between her thighs.

To cap it off, her nipples shot to attention, as if someone had given them both a sharp tweak.

The man striding across the plush Persian carpet of the ship's dining salon was the most god-like specimen she'd ever laid eyes upon. He exuded raw, delicious sex-appeal, and he was headed straight for their table.