Read Online I Kissed an Earl: Pennyroyal Green Series by Julie Anne Long - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Anne Long
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forcibly open it. Please do don a cloak if you are in a state of undress.”
Corcoran coughed in surprise, forgetting this was a tantalizing possibility. Flint scowled at him. An indecisive silence crept by.
He heard the woman inhale at length. Likely gathering courage. But then she coughed out the breath again. Perhaps unable to tolerate the “vile stink” of the cabin entering her nostrils.
“Very well,” she agreed at last with elegant dignity.
The door began to move. She pushed it slowly all the way open. Creeeaak. Thunk.
A dumbstruck silence followed.
“Mother. Of. GOD,” Corcoran said reverently. He plucked off his hat and placed it over his heart again.
For the doorway framed a tall, dark-haired, startlingly clean Englishwoman dressed in a gold-braided deep red walking gown and pelisse, which hung in the kind of effortless lines Flint recognized as both fashionable and bogglingly expensive. Her hair was dark, glossy. Blue eyes set deep beneath two fine very black brows. A ruler-straight nose. A pale, full mouth, fine, sharp jaw, a stubborn chin.
She was even wearing a bloody bonnet, albeit hanging on ribbons down her back. They all stared at each other in a nonplussed silence.
Well, Flint thought. She was certainly different in this context. She’d called him a savage. She’d been bored at the ball. She smelled of lavender, faintly, when she’d stood on toe and asked him to guess whether she was an innocent, and he’d known an instant of temptation, an infinitesimal sizzling sense promise, during which the veil of boredom and niceties had been dropped and they’d enjoyed an honest, if not entirely comfortable, exchange. But he’d known then she was merely testing herself. She was an innocent, indeed, one who could likely be urged to be wicked and reckless.
And there would also likely be a grave cost to any man who did urge her to do it. Oh. And her brother resembled Le Chat. His nemesis.
The reason he was on this voyage at all.
“Miss…” He could barely get the word out for incredulity. He could hardly believe he’d even said the word miss. On his ship.
There was a miss on his ship.
Oh, God. A very unwelcome turn of events.
“Redmond,” she supplied with glacial dignity. As though she were accustomed to saying that name and then watching as everyone dislocated their spines in bows of obeisance. Oh dear God.
Now he remembered. She was a Redmond. He’d been introduced to Isaiah Redmond last night; he’d learned all about the man’s wealth and influence and reach. Isaiah Redmond would have an armada sent after The Fortuna.
If he knew where she’d gone.
Flint stole a desperate glance in the direction of London, as though wondering whether he could plop her into a long boat and have one of his men row her straightaway back to shore. They were emphatically at sea, of course. And the nearest port was days away. She curtsied. He bowed.
It all seemed very ridiculous.
“Name’s Corcoran, madam,” said the midshipman behind him reverently.
“Delighted to meet you Mr. Corcoran.” Her voice was aristocratic and mellifluous. She seemed sound enough, though she was definitely pale, and faint shadowed rings of sleeplessness curved beneath her eyes. He wondered if she’d been seasick in the chamber pot, but surprisingly she didn’t seem to be suffering unduly—her skin would have been more green than white. In fact, one would have thought she’d simply enjoyed a standard night of dancing and debauchery, apart from shockingly crisp clothing. And the bonnet. A woman who had taken great care, even in the absence of a maid, to groom herself scrupulously. He peered beyond her.
He saw a trunk, a cloak draped over a chair and that lumpy uninviting mattress that appeared undented by a sleeping body. It was one of only two traditional beds aboard. His was the other. The rest of the men slept in hammocks.
Behind her the cabin exhaled the singular aroma of a space in which legions of sailors
Corcoran coughed in surprise, forgetting this was a tantalizing possibility. Flint scowled at him. An indecisive silence crept by.
He heard the woman inhale at length. Likely gathering courage. But then she coughed out the breath again. Perhaps unable to tolerate the “vile stink” of the cabin entering her nostrils.
“Very well,” she agreed at last with elegant dignity.
The door began to move. She pushed it slowly all the way open. Creeeaak. Thunk.
A dumbstruck silence followed.
“Mother. Of. GOD,” Corcoran said reverently. He plucked off his hat and placed it over his heart again.
For the doorway framed a tall, dark-haired, startlingly clean Englishwoman dressed in a gold-braided deep red walking gown and pelisse, which hung in the kind of effortless lines Flint recognized as both fashionable and bogglingly expensive. Her hair was dark, glossy. Blue eyes set deep beneath two fine very black brows. A ruler-straight nose. A pale, full mouth, fine, sharp jaw, a stubborn chin.
She was even wearing a bloody bonnet, albeit hanging on ribbons down her back. They all stared at each other in a nonplussed silence.
Well, Flint thought. She was certainly different in this context. She’d called him a savage. She’d been bored at the ball. She smelled of lavender, faintly, when she’d stood on toe and asked him to guess whether she was an innocent, and he’d known an instant of temptation, an infinitesimal sizzling sense promise, during which the veil of boredom and niceties had been dropped and they’d enjoyed an honest, if not entirely comfortable, exchange. But he’d known then she was merely testing herself. She was an innocent, indeed, one who could likely be urged to be wicked and reckless.
And there would also likely be a grave cost to any man who did urge her to do it. Oh. And her brother resembled Le Chat. His nemesis.
The reason he was on this voyage at all.
“Miss…” He could barely get the word out for incredulity. He could hardly believe he’d even said the word miss. On his ship.
There was a miss on his ship.
Oh, God. A very unwelcome turn of events.
“Redmond,” she supplied with glacial dignity. As though she were accustomed to saying that name and then watching as everyone dislocated their spines in bows of obeisance. Oh dear God.
Now he remembered. She was a Redmond. He’d been introduced to Isaiah Redmond last night; he’d learned all about the man’s wealth and influence and reach. Isaiah Redmond would have an armada sent after The Fortuna.
If he knew where she’d gone.
Flint stole a desperate glance in the direction of London, as though wondering whether he could plop her into a long boat and have one of his men row her straightaway back to shore. They were emphatically at sea, of course. And the nearest port was days away. She curtsied. He bowed.
It all seemed very ridiculous.
“Name’s Corcoran, madam,” said the midshipman behind him reverently.
“Delighted to meet you Mr. Corcoran.” Her voice was aristocratic and mellifluous. She seemed sound enough, though she was definitely pale, and faint shadowed rings of sleeplessness curved beneath her eyes. He wondered if she’d been seasick in the chamber pot, but surprisingly she didn’t seem to be suffering unduly—her skin would have been more green than white. In fact, one would have thought she’d simply enjoyed a standard night of dancing and debauchery, apart from shockingly crisp clothing. And the bonnet. A woman who had taken great care, even in the absence of a maid, to groom herself scrupulously. He peered beyond her.
He saw a trunk, a cloak draped over a chair and that lumpy uninviting mattress that appeared undented by a sleeping body. It was one of only two traditional beds aboard. His was the other. The rest of the men slept in hammocks.
Behind her the cabin exhaled the singular aroma of a space in which legions of sailors
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