The Cartographer's Reluctant Bride

**Chapter 1** The ink hadn't even dried on her father's death certificate before the creditors came calling. Thessa Harrington stood in the doorway of her late father's study, watching strange men rifle through twenty years of cartographic work with all the reverence of vultures picking clean a carcass. Maps that had guided ships safely through treacherous waters were being reduced to their monetary value—which, unfortunately, wasn't much. "Miss Harrington." Mr. Pembroke, her father's solicitor, cleared his throat nervously. "Perhaps we should discuss your... options... in private." Options. As if she had any. Thessa lifted her chin, channeling every ounce of aristocratic breeding her governess had beaten into her. "Gentlemen, if you would excuse us." The creditors filed out with obvious reluctance, no doubt worried she might abscond with something valuable. If only there were anything left to steal. "How bad is it?" she asked once they were alone. Pembroke fidgeted with his spectacles. "Your father's debts exceed the value of the house by... a considerable margin. There are outstanding loans, unpaid wages to the servants, and..." He paused. "There's the matter of the Blackthorne debt." Thessa's blood chilled. "What Blackthorne debt?" "Your father never told you? He borrowed heavily from Blackthorne Shipping to fund his last expedition. The contract is... unusual." "Unusual how?" Pembroke pulled out a document with trembling fingers. "If he couldn't repay the loan upon his death, the debt would be settled through... alternative means." Thessa snatched the contract and scanned the cramped legal text. The words seemed to swim before her eyes until she found the relevant clause. Then she read it again, certain she'd misunderstood. "A marriage contract," she whispered. "Captain Blackthorne was quite specific. Your hand in marriage would settle the debt in full, along with providing you with a... comfortable situation." "That bastard." The word escaped before she could stop it. "My father agreed to this?" "He was desperate, Miss Harrington. The expedition to chart the Northwest Passage would have made his reputation—and his fortune. When it failed..." When it killed him, leaving her alone and penniless at twenty-four, with no husband prospects and no marketable skills beyond an encyclopedic knowledge of nautical charts. "What if I refuse?" Pembroke's expression grew pained. "Debtors' prison is... unpleasant for women of breeding." The front door chimed, and Thessa heard her elderly maid's quavering voice greeting someone. Heavy footsteps approached the study—confident, purposeful steps that made her pulse quicken with an emotion she refused to name. Captain Dorian Blackthorne filled the doorway like a dark storm cloud, his presence seeming to suck the air from the room. Thessa had seen him only once before, at her father's funeral, where he'd watched the proceedings with unreadable green eyes and an expression of grim satisfaction that had made her want to claw his face. "Miss Harrington." He inclined his head with mocking courtesy. "Pembroke." Even his voice was irritating—a rich baritone with the faintest hint of an accent she couldn't place. Everything about him radiated danger, from his unfashionably long black hair to the scar that bisected his left eyebrow. "Captain Blackthorne," she replied icily. "How good of you to come collect your prize." His mouth curved in what might charitably be called a smile. "Straight to the point. I appreciate that in a woman." "Do you? How refreshing. I was concerned my forthright nature might not appeal to a man who prefers to conduct his business through extortion." Pembroke made a strangled noise. "Perhaps we should discuss the arrangements—" "There's nothing to discuss," Blackthorne interrupted, his gaze never leaving Thessa's face. "The contract is clear. We'll marry within the fortnight." "The contract," Thessa said carefully, "was signed by my father. Not by me." "Your father had the legal right to arrange your marriage." "Had. Past tense. He's dead, in case you hadn't noticed." Blackthorne stepped into the room, and Thessa caught a hint of his scent—salt air and something darker, more masculine. It made her stomach flutter in a way that had nothing to do with fear. "He is," Blackthorne agreed. "Which means you're now a penniless orphan with debts you cannot possibly repay. Your choices are marriage to me or a cell in Marshalsea Prison. Which would you prefer?" The casual cruelty of it stole her breath. "You're despicable." "I'm practical. There's a difference." "Is there? You're forcing an unwilling woman into marriage to collect on a debt. That sounds like despicable behavior to me." Something flickered in his eyes—anger, perhaps, or something deeper. "Unwilling? Tell me, Miss Harrington, what other options do you have? What skills do you possess that might earn you a living? Can you sew? Cook? Teach children?" Each question hit like a physical blow because they both knew the answer. She'd been raised to be an ornament, a gentleman's daughter whose only purpose was to make a suitable marriage. That she'd spent her time learning her father's trade instead of watercolors and French was a secret she'd guarded carefully. "I won't be your unwilling martyr," she said finally. "No," he agreed. "You'll be my wife." **Chapter 2** The wedding took place on a gray October morning in a cramped church that smelled of mildew and disappointment. Thessa wore her mother's yellowed wedding dress, hastily altered to fit her smaller frame, and clutched a bouquet of wilted roses that Pembroke had thoughtfully provided. She'd spent the past week in a haze of fury and disbelief, alternating between wild schemes to escape (all impractical) and moments of paralyzing terror about what her future held. Blackthorne had been conspicuously absent, leaving the arrangements to his solicitors while he attended to mysterious business matters. Now he stood beside her at the altar, looking devastatingly handsome in a dark blue coat that emphasized his broad shoulders and brought out the color of his eyes. She hated him for it almost as much as she hated the way her traitorous body responded to his proximity. "Do you, Thessa Maryann Harrington, take this man..." The vicar's words seemed to come from a great distance. This wasn't how she'd imagined her wedding day—not that she'd spent much time imagining it. She'd always assumed she'd marry someone suitable, someone her father approved of, someone safe and boring and nothing like the dangerous man beside her. "I do." The words felt like shards of glass in her throat. Blackthorne's responses were delivered in that infuriatingly calm voice, as if he were conducting a business transaction rather than binding himself to another human being for life. Which, she supposed, he was. When the vicar pronounced them man and wife, Blackthorne turned to her with an unreadable expression. His hands were warm and callused when he lifted hers, and she caught another hint of that masculine scent that made her pulse stutter. "Wife," he murmured, and something in his tone made her shiver. The kiss was perfunctory, a mere brush of lips that shouldn't have affected her at all. But his mouth was softer than she'd expected, and when he pulled away, she found herself staring up at him in confusion. "Congratulations," Pembroke said, his relief palpable. "I do hope you'll be very happy." "I'm sure we will be," Blackthorne replied with that mocking smile. "Won't we, darling?" Thessa wanted to slap him. Instead, she smiled sweetly and said, "I can hardly contain my joy." The breakfast that followed was a dismal affair held in a private room at a coaching inn. Thessa picked at her food while Blackthorne discussed business matters with his associates, treating her presence like wallpaper. By the time they climbed into his carriage for the journey to his estate, her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. "Where exactly are we going?" she asked as London's smoke-stained buildings gave way to countryside. "Ravenscroft. My estate in Surrey." "How far?" "Eager to reach our wedding night?" His tone was sardonic. Heat flooded her cheeks. "I was making conversation." "Were you? How... wifely." She turned to glare at him, taking in the sharp angles of his profile as he gazed out the window. "Why did you do this?" "Do what?" "Force me into marriage. Surely there are willing women who would jump at the chance to become Mrs. Blackthorne." He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice held an edge she hadn't heard before. "Perhaps I wanted an unwilling one." The words sent an unwelcome thrill down her spine. "That's sick." "Is it? Or is it honest? Most marriages among our class are business arrangements dressed up in romantic nonsense. At least we're not pretending otherwise." "Some people do marry for love." "Do they? And how many of those love matches survive the realities of daily life? The disappointments, the betrayals, the slow erosion of passion into indifference?" There was something bitter in his tone that made her study his face more closely. "You sound as though you speak from experience." His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I speak from observation." They traveled the rest of the way in silence, but Thessa found her gaze drawn repeatedly to her new husband's profile. There were depths to him she hadn't expected, shadows that intrigued her despite herself. Ravenscroft appeared as they crested a hill—a sprawling manor house of warm golden stone surrounded by manicured gardens. It was beautiful in an austere way, like its owner. "Welcome home," Blackthorne said as their carriage rolled up the circular drive. Home. The word felt foreign on her tongue. She'd lived in the same London townhouse her entire life, surrounded by her father's maps and the comfortable chaos of their shared intellectual pursuits. This place looked like it had never known a moment's spontaneity. The household staff had assembled to greet their new mistress—a formidable-looking housekeeper named Mrs. Caldwell, a ancient butler called Griggs, and a small army of maids and footmen who stared at her with undisguised curiosity. "I'll show you to your rooms," Mrs. Caldwell said after the introductions. "The captain thought you might want to rest before dinner." "How thoughtful of him," Thessa murmured, earning a sharp look from the housekeeper. Her suite of rooms was elegant and impersonal, decorated in shades of blue and cream that probably coordinated beautifully with her complexion. The sitting room contained a small writing desk and a bookshelf filled with novels she suspected had been chosen because they were appropriate for ladies. Through an open doorway, she could see a sumptuous bedroom dominated by a massive four-poster bed draped in midnight blue silk. Her wedding night bed. The thought sent panic skittering through her chest. She was a virgin with only the vaguest understanding of what occurred between married couples, gained from whispered conversations with more worldly friends and a few scandalous novels she'd hidden from her father. "Will there be anything else, ma'am?" Mrs. Caldwell asked. "Where are the captain's rooms?" "Through there." She nodded toward another door Thessa hadn't noticed. "Connecting doors are quite common in married couples' suites." Of course they were. Alone at last, Thessa explored her new domain with growing trepidation. Her trunks had already been unpacked and her few possessions arranged with military precision. Everything had its place, everything was proper and correct and completely alien. She was standing at the window, watching shadows lengthen across the gardens, when she heard the connecting door open behind her. "I trust everything is to your satisfaction?" Blackthorne's voice was closer than she'd expected. She turned to find him leaning against the doorframe, having changed from his wedding clothes into buckskin breeches and a white shirt open at the throat. The casual attire should have made him less intimidating. Instead, it emphasized the athletic build his formal coats had only hinted at. "It's lovely," she said carefully. "You sound thrilled." "Should I be? This is a beautiful prison, but it's still a prison." He pushed away from the doorframe and moved into the room with that predatory grace she was beginning to recognize. "Only if you choose to see it that way." "Is there another way to see a forced marriage?" "You could see it as an opportunity." "For what?" He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "To discover what kind of woman you really are." The words sent heat spiraling through her belly. "I know what kind of woman I am." "Do you? You've been sheltered your entire life, protected from every harsh reality by your father's love. Now you're free to be whoever you choose." "Free?" She laughed bitterly. "I'm your property now." "Legally, yes. But I'm not your father, Thessa. I won't try to mold you into some perfect ideal of feminine virtue." "What will you try to do?" His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there for a heartbeat too long. "That depends entirely on you." Before she could ask what he meant, he'd turned and walked back toward the connecting door. "Dinner is at eight," he said without looking back. "Don't keep me waiting." **Chapter 3** Thessa spent an hour choosing her dress for dinner, finally settling on a deep green silk that brought out the amber flecks in her brown eyes. She told herself it was armor, not an attempt to look attractive for her husband. The dining room was as formal as the rest of the house, with a table that could easily seat twenty. Blackthorne had chosen to sit at the head with her to his right, close enough for conversation but far enough away to emphasize the vast emptiness of the space. "Do you always dine in such splendor?" she asked after the first course was served. "Usually I eat in my study while reviewing shipping manifests. I thought you might prefer something more civilized for your first evening." "How considerate. Though I suspect most wives would prefer their husband's company to grand gestures." He set down his fork and studied her with those penetrating green eyes. "Is that what you prefer?" The question caught her off guard. She'd expected him to remain distant, treating her like an unwelcome obligation. This hint of genuine interest was unsettling. "I prefer honesty," she said finally. "Very well. Honestly? I have no idea how to be a husband. My experience with women has been... limited to certain types of relationships." Heat flooded her cheeks, but she forced herself to meet his gaze steadily. "What types?" "The kind that involve mutual pleasure and no expectations beyond the moment." "Ah. Prostitutes." His mouth quirked. "Among others. Women who understood exactly what was on offer and wanted nothing more." "And now you're stuck with a wife who wants... what? What do I want from this marriage?" "I was hoping you could tell me." The admission surprised her. She'd expected demands, rules, expectations about how she should behave. Not questions about her own desires. "I want respect," she said slowly. "I want to feel useful. I want..." "What?" "I want not to be invisible." Something shifted in his expression. "You could never be invisible." "You'd be surprised. I spent most of my life as an extension of my father's work, valued only for how well I could assist his projects. I was never... seen. Not really." "I see you." The words were quietly spoken but they hit her like a physical blow. There was something in his voice, something warm and genuine that made her chest tighten with unfamiliar emotion. "Do you?" she whispered. "You're intelligent. Probably more intelligent than is comfortable for most men. You have a sharp tongue and a sharper mind, and you're brave enough to use both even when you're terrified. You're beautiful, but you don't seem to know it, which makes you more dangerous than any woman who trades on her looks." "Dangerous?" "Devastatingly so." The air between them seemed to thicken with tension. Thessa felt her pulse quicken as his gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower to the modest neckline of her dress. "The second course, sir," the footman announced, breaking the spell. They finished dinner with careful conversation about neutral topics—the estate, the weather, London gossip. But underneath the polite words, Thessa was acutely aware of her husband's every movement, every glance, every subtle shift in his breathing. When they retired to the drawing room for brandy, she found herself studying his hands as he poured the amber liquid. They were elegant despite their obvious strength, with long fingers and neat, short nails. She wondered what they would feel like on her skin. The thought made her stomach flutter with nerves and something else—something heated and unfamiliar that pooled low in her belly. "You're staring," he observed without looking up. "I'm trying to understand you." "Understanding is overrated." He handed her a snifter, their fingers brushing in the exchange. "Sometimes it's better to simply... experience." "Is that your philosophy? Experience without understanding?" "It's served me well." "Has it? You seem like a very lonely man, Captain Blackthorne." The observation seemed to hit its mark. His jaw tightened and he moved to stand by the fireplace, one hand braced against the mantel. "Loneliness is a luxury I can't afford." "Why not?" "Because lonely men make poor decisions. They trust the wrong people, reveal too much, allow their hearts to rule their heads." "Speaking from experience again?" His smile was sharp-edged. "Always." Before she could probe deeper, he drained his brandy and set the glass aside. "It's getting late. Perhaps we should..." The words hung in the air between them, loaded with implication. The wedding night neither of them had mentioned but both had been thinking about all evening. Thessa's heart began to race. "Perhaps we should." They walked upstairs together in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the grand hallway. At her door, Blackthorne paused. "Thessa." His voice was rougher than usual. "Yes?" "I won't force you. Whatever happens between us... it will be your choice." The gentleness in his tone nearly undid her. She'd steeled herself for demands, for the brutal claiming she'd heard whispered about in scandalized tones. This careful consideration was more seductive than any command could have been. "What if I don't know what I choose?" He reached out and traced one finger along her jawline, the touch so light it might have been her imagination. "Then we'll discover it together." **Chapter 4** Thessa dismissed her maid and spent a long time staring at herself in the mirror. The woman looking back at her wore a white silk nightgown that revealed more than it concealed, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looked like a stranger—or perhaps like the woman she'd never allowed herself to be. A soft knock at the connecting door made her heart leap. "Come in." Blackthorne entered wearing a dark blue banyan that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. His hair was damp as if he'd recently bathed, and she caught the scent of sandalwood soap that made her want to move closer. "You're beautiful," he said simply. "So are you." The admission slipped out before she could stop it, making him smile—a real smile this time, not the mocking expression he'd worn all day. "Men aren't beautiful." "You are." She lifted her chin defiantly. "Beautifully dangerous. Like a storm at sea." "And you're not afraid of storms, are you?" "I should be. Any sensible woman would be." "But you're not sensible." "Apparently not." He moved closer, stopping just within arm's reach. "Are you afraid now?" Thessa took inventory of her racing heart, her shallow breathing, the heat building low in her belly. "Yes. But not... not the way I expected." "What did you expect?" "I thought you'd be cruel. I thought you'd take what you wanted without caring about my feelings." "I am going to take what I want," he said softly. "But I want your feelings very much. I want your pleasure, Thessa. I want you to come apart in my arms and cry my name when you do." The explicit words sent shock waves through her system. She'd never heard a man speak so frankly about intimate matters, never imagined that her own body could respond so strongly to mere words. "I don't know how," she whispered. "I'll teach you." He reached out and touched her face, cupping her cheek in his palm. His skin was warm and slightly rough, unmistakably masculine. When his thumb traced her lower lip, she couldn't suppress a soft gasp. "So responsive," he murmured. "I wondered if you would be." "You wondered about me?" "Constantly. From the moment I saw you at your father's funeral, standing there with your chin up and fire in your eyes, furious at the world and everyone in it. I wanted to know what you'd look like with that fire turned to passion." "You wanted me then?" "I've wanted you from the beginning. The debt was just... convenient." The admission should have made her angry—he'd manipulated her father's desperation for his own purposes. Instead, it sent a thrill of feminine power through her. This dangerous, self-contained man had wanted her enough to trap her into marriage. "Show me," she said impulsively. His eyes darkened. "Show you what?" "What you want. What you've been imagining." For a moment she thought he might refuse. Then he slid his hand into her hair and drew her closer, angling her face up toward his. "This," he said against her lips. "I've been imagining this." The kiss was nothing like the perfunctory brush at their wedding. This was heat and hunger and barely leashed demand. His mouth moved over hers with skillful intensity, coaxing her lips apart so his tongue could sweep inside. Thessa had been kissed before—chaste, stolen kisses from inappropriate suitors that had left her cold. This was different. This was fire racing through her veins, making her press closer against the solid warmth of his body. When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard. "And this," he said, trailing his mouth down her throat to the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. The touch of his lips against her skin made her knees weak. She gripped his shoulders for support, feeling the solid muscle beneath the silk of his banyan. "Dorian," she gasped. "Say it again." "Dorian." His name on her lips seemed to snap the last thread of his control. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, laying her down on the midnight silk coverlet with surprising gentleness. "Are you certain?" he asked, his hands braced on either side of her head. In answer, she reached up and untied the sash of his banyan, pushing the silk from his shoulders. The sight of his bare chest—broad and muscled, with a dusting of dark hair—made her breath catch. He was magnificent, like a sculpture come to life. "Touch me," he commanded softly. She placed her palms flat against his chest, marveling at the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingers. When she traced the edge of a scar that ran from his collarbone toward his shoulder, he sucked in a sharp breath. "How did you get this?" "Sword fight. Naples, three years ago." "Was it terrible?" "I won." His matter-of-fact tone made her smile. "Of course you did." "Are you finished with your exploration? Because I have plans for you that don't involve discussing my battle scars." Heat flooded her cheeks, but she met his gaze boldly. "What plans?" "Wicked ones." He lowered his head and kissed her again, deeper this time, more demanding. His hands skimmed her sides through the thin silk of her nightgown, mapping the curves of waist and hip with reverent attention. When his palm cupped her breast through the fabric, she arched against him with a soft cry of surprise. The sensation was unlike anything she'd ever experienced—pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. "Do you like that?" he murmured against her ear. "Yes." "And this?" His thumb found her nipple through the silk, circling the sensitive peak until she was writhing beneath him. The nightgown felt like a barrier now, keeping her from the full heat of his touch. As if reading her thoughts, he sat back and began gathering the silk in his hands, drawing it up her legs with agonizing slowness. Cool air kissed her skin as inch by inch, she was revealed to his hungry gaze. "Exquisite," he said when the gown finally joined his banyan on the floor. Thessa had never been naked in front of a man before. She expected to feel shame, embarrassment, the maidenly modesty her governess had drummed into her. Instead, the way Dorian looked at her—like she was something precious and desired—made her feel powerful. "Now you," she said boldly. He stood and stripped away the rest of his clothing with efficient movements that spoke of long practice. When he was fully revealed, Thessa couldn't suppress a gasp of appreciation mixed with trepidation. He was beautiful everywhere—lean hips, powerful thighs, and between them... She'd heard whispered descriptions from married friends, but the reality was far more impressive than anything she'd imagined. "Second thoughts?" he asked, noting her wide-eyed stare. "No. I just... will it fit?" His laugh was rough with desire. "I'll make sure it does. Trust me." He returned to the bed, settling beside her with predatory grace. This time when he kissed her, his hands roamed freely over her naked skin, learning every curve and hollow with thorough dedication. When his mouth followed the path his hands had traced, Thessa thought she might die from pleasure. He lavished attention on her breasts until she was gasping his name, then moved lower, pressing hot kisses to her ribs, her belly, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. "Dorian, what are you—oh!" His mouth found the most intimate part of her, and rational thought fled. This was beyond anything she'd imagined, pleasure so intense it was almost frightening. She tangled her fingers in his hair, not sure if she wanted to pull him away or hold him closer. "Let go," he commanded against her heated flesh. "Let me have this." She couldn't have resisted if she'd wanted to. The tension building inside her reached a crescendo that shattered her into a thousand glittering pieces. She cried out, her body arching off the bed as waves of sensation crashed over her. When the storm passed, she lay boneless and trembling while he pressed gentle kisses to her thighs, her hip, the curve of her waist. "Beautiful," he murmured. "So damn beautiful when you come apart for me." Before she could catch her breath, he was moving over her, positioning himself at the entrance to her body. She felt the blunt pressure of him against her sensitive flesh and tensed despite herself. "Easy," he soothed. "I'll go slow." The first breach of her body made her gasp. There was pain, but it was overwhelmed by the strange pleasure of being filled, claimed, made completely his. He held perfectly still, giving her time to adjust, his face a mask of barely controlled desire. "All right?" he asked through gritted teeth. "Yes. More." He sank deeper, inch by careful inch, until he was fully seated inside her. The sensation was indescribable—they were joined so intimately that she couldn't tell where she ended and he began. "Move," she whispered. He withdrew almost completely before sliding home again, setting a rhythm that was both tender and demanding. Each thrust sent pleasure spiraling through her, building toward another peak she hadn't known was possible. "Touch yourself," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "What?" "Your breasts. Touch them the way I did." The suggestion was scandalous, but she was beyond caring about propriety. She cupped her breasts in her palms, rolling the sensitive peaks between her fingers the way he'd shown her. "God, yes," he groaned. "Just like that." The combination of his body moving inside hers and her own caresses sent her over the edge again. She cried out his name as the climax took her, her inner muscles clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. Her release triggered his own. He drove into her one final time with a harsh groan, his body shuddering as he spilled himself deep inside her. Afterward, they lay entwined in the tangled sheets, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Thessa felt fundamentally changed, as if she'd discovered a new version of herself in the circle of her husband's arms. "Are you all right?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Better than all right." "No regrets?" She considered the question seriously. Twenty-four hours ago she'd been a virgin spinster trapped in an arranged marriage to a man she barely knew. Now she was a wife in truth, intimately connected to someone who had shown her pleasures she'd never dreamed possible. "No regrets," she said finally. "You?" "Only that I waited so long to claim what was mine." The possessive words should have irritated her. Instead, they sent a fresh wave of desire through her already sensitized body. Perhaps being Dorian Blackthorne's possession wouldn't be such a terrible fate after all. **Chapter 5** Thessa woke the next morning wrapped in her husband's arms, his large body curved protectively around hers. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, and she could hear birds singing in the garden below. For a moment, she simply lay still and marveled at how different everything felt. Her body ached in unfamiliar places, sweet reminders of their passionate night. More than that, though, something fundamental had shifted. The angry, trapped woman of yesterday had been replaced by someone she didn't quite recognize—someone who had discovered her own sensual power and wasn't afraid to use it. "Good morning, wife," Dorian murmured against her ear, his voice thick with sleep. "Good morning, husband." She could feel him smile against her skin. "Any regrets in the cold light of day?" "None. You?" "I regret that we have to get up at all." His hand skimmed down her side to rest on her hip, and she felt his arousal stirring against her back. The knowledge that he wanted her again so soon sent heat spiraling through her belly. "Do we have to get up?" she asked boldly. "Minx." His teeth grazed her earlobe, making her shiver. "Are you sore?" "A little." "Then we should wait." "What if I don't want to wait?" He rolled her onto her back so he could see her face, his green eyes dark with desire. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying that last night opened my eyes to a great many things. And I find myself... curious to explore further." His expression grew predatory. "Careful, Thessa. I'm not a particularly civilized man. If you keep tempting me, I might forget to be gentle." "What if I don't want gentle?" The question seemed to snap his control. He captured her mouth in a kiss that was pure demand, his hands roaming her body with possessive hunger. This time there was no careful preparation, no tender coaxing. He claimed her with a fierce passion that left them both breathless and shaking. Later, as they lay tangled in the sheets again, Thessa traced patterns on his chest with her fingertip. "Tell me about your ships," she said. "My ships?" "Blackthorne Shipping. How many vessels do you own?" He was quiet for a moment, as if considering how much to reveal. "Twelve currently. Everything from fast sloops to heavy freight carriers." "What do they carry?" "Whatever pays well. Spices from the Orient, tea from India, sugar from the Caribbean." "And other things?" His hand stilled in her hair. "What other things?" "I'm not naive, Dorian. I know there are... less legal cargoes that can be profitable." "What makes you think I deal in illegal goods?" "The scar on your chest, for one thing. The way you carry yourself, like a man accustomed to violence. The fact that you were able to trap my father so neatly into that contract." He sat up, studying her with an unreadable expression. "You don't sound shocked by the possibility." "Should I be? My father spent his entire career charting waters for merchants and naval officers. I know how the world works." "Do you?" "I know that good men sometimes do questionable things to survive. I also know that the line between legal and illegal commerce is often thinner than people pretend." Dorian was quiet for a long time, clearly weighing his options. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "There may have been occasions when I've transported goods without strictly legal documentation." "Smuggling." "Among other things." "What other things?" "Information. People who need to travel discreetly. Items that certain collectors prefer to acquire without government interference." Thessa absorbed this, trying to reconcile the dangerous picture he was painting with the passionate lover who had been so careful of her comfort the night before. "Are you shocked?" he asked.