Destiny's Magic by Martha Hix

gentleman.”
    â€œWe’ve been over that before. I’m no gentleman.”
    â€œI expect you to respect the invisible lines between bachelors and married women.”
    Burke took the knife from her hand, then went to shut the hatch with it. The creak matched the jump in Susan’s nerves. What did he plan? Don’t be naive. He wants you. And he means to have you.
    Unfortunately, the wild part of Susan wanted him too, despite her avowals and fright, and his erratic nature.
    Shallow Susan could no more have slapped the advancing captain than she could have turned Orson around. Heaven help her, she longed to find out if Burke’s kisses and caresses were up to the scratch of gossip—and eyewitness.
    With easy, slow strides he returned to her, his lips twitching, almost into dimples. His eyes glinted with sin. “You smell sweet. Like vanilla. Heavenly.”
    His scent wasn’t heavenly. It certainly didn’t come from the spilt bottle of vanilla she’d mopped up a few minutes before Burke interrupted her. He smelled of soap, but also slightly of sweat. She didn’t find it offputting.
    A forefinger played across her collarbone, then swept from the mound of one breast to the other. She shivered deeply, all too aware of his sensuality. And her own.
    Cocking and lowering his head, he traced his tongue along her chin. “Shall we find out just how good you are in a galley?”
    â€œDon’t . . .”
    â€œThat’s what you should’ve said to Paget. Before he did this to you.” He laid five fingers gently against the curve of her neck, the stitches in his palm pricking her skin. “Did you enjoy quarreling, then making up? Perhaps between the sheets?”
    She shivered. “I never enjoyed stepping over the line from argument to savagery. It’s none of your business, but since you delight in goading facts out of me, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know my husband is impotent. There was no making up between the sheets, as you so ineloquently put it.”
    â€œNo wonder he was vile. Being near you yet knowing he couldn’t perform. It would make a beast out of me. But I’d never strike you.” Burke’s lips touched the fading mark on her chin. “The way I see it, the only time a woman ought to have a mark on her flesh is when her lover’s lips have gotten too greedy . . . during lovemaking. If the lady prefers.” His breath, hot and rousing, melted down her throat. “What do you prefer, Susie Black-Eyes. What have you been missing?”
    She almost told him. “You’re much too forward. And much too blasé about my husband’s reaction, should he catch you making untoward advances.”
    Eyes half-lidded, Burke allowed an easy smile to travel over his sensuous mouth, the near-dimples appearing. “Ah, Black-eyed Susan, how you must enjoy tantalizing menfolk.”
    â€œStuff and nonsense,” she said caustically.
    â€œTell me, why do you wear this blouse?”
    â€œI dressed for baking. For comfort. I was burning up in that high-collared dress.”
    The strictures of fashion and propriety were just that, strictures. Here in the South, where summer temperatures hovered at steam-bath levels, the fewer clothes she wore, the easier it was to abide the climate. “I’m English. Even after ten years in this part of the country, I’m not accustomed to the heat.”
    â€œI think you like the heat.”
    â€œOn the contrary,” she lied, not mistaking his meaning. “And since I can’t stand the heat, I shall leave the kitchen.”
    â€œNot so fast,” he said, as she tried to skirt around him. “What kind of woman allows her son to keep a cobra? Furthermore, that blouse makes me speculate on where you got it. Not from the Natchez dry goods store. This is the kind of garb I’ve seen at carnivals. Like the Best Ever Traveling Show.”
    He knows! Burke