Nicole Jordan - Desire

He could have taken her right there on the couch, perhaps. In truth, he’d actually considered it for a fleeting moment. If he had summarily seduced her, it would have removed any chance that she would refuse his offer of matrimony. But he didn’t want to begin their marriage mired in scandal.

Lucian’s elation swelled. He’d thought his stay in Cornwall would be devoted strictly to business, but he intended to return home with a bride.

A fiery, green-eyed beauty who could stir his blood and give him the son he so fervently wanted.

The dream was different this time. He lay wounded, dying, as usual, but he was no longer alone. A woman stood over him-an enchanting beauty with flaming hair and flashing eyes, her hands dark with his blood. His killer?

Lucian woke in a cold sweat, not knowing where he was at first. Searching the gray shadows, he felt the tension ease from his body.

He was lying in bed, the sole occupant of the prime guest chamber in the duke’s sprawling castle. It was early morning, if the faint light stealing beneath the gold brocade curtains was any indication. There was no sign of his prospective bride, even though in his dream she had seemed so vivid…

“It wasn’t real,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp. She hadn’t tried to kill him.

Sitting up, Lucian rubbed a hand down his face. All her talk of curses had evidently affected his intellect. His sea siren had somehow become entwined with his visions of death. His own death.

With an oath, he threw off the covers and rang for his valet before striding naked over to the wash-stand and splashing cool water on his face.

There was a simple explanation for his recurring nightmare, Lucian knew. During his last foray into France, on a mission to search for a missing Englishman, he’d had a near brush with death. He’d been forced to kill a man he considered a friend-a stark choice of kill or be killed. Guilt had eaten at him ever since. Guilt and a bleak premonition of his future. He’d been haunted by the same nightmare. He saw himself dying alone, desolate, unlamented, and unmourned.

He was not afraid of dying, precisely, Lucian acknowledged. Better men than he had given their lives in the decades-long struggle to rid the world of the Corsican tyrant. But the experience had undeniably shaken him.

For the first time he’d had to face his own mortality. He was not invincible, as he had somehow believed. The charmed existence he’d always taken for granted would not last forever. Life was, he’d suddenly realized, fragile and precious.

The incident had also made him aware of how little he had to show for his thirty-two years of living. True, he’d played a small role in trying to make the civilized world safe from French domination, working for the Foreign Office, advancing intelligence gathering for Britain. But if he died tomorrow, he would have no real legacy to leave behind.

That was what he wanted most now: a legacy. An heir. A son to carry on his name. The feeling had taken on increasing urgency in recent weeks. It was now a yearning, a hunger deep in his soul.

To sire an heir, however, he must first have a wife.

Lucian’s mouth curled wryly as he drew on a robe and pulled the sash taut. This was a novel experience for him, searching for a bride. He’d always fervently resisted the chains of matrimony, preferring instead the dalliances and seductions and brief affaires that had titillated society and earned him notoriety as something of a libertine.

He took great pleasure in his lovers, but the pleasure was mutual, he made certain of that. And the game at which he was so expert was understood by his partners, with no expectations of matrimony. He’d become quite deft at eluding the pursuit of those eager ladies who coveted his title and fortune.

Suddenly changing course-pursuing a marriage partner instead of being the pursued-had felt strange. Moreover, finding the ideal bride was not at all as easy as he expected. Regrettably, the women he most admired and respected were already wed or in a profession that society deemed unfit for nobility. Until he had happened upon Miss Brynn Caldwell…

A quiet rap sounded on his bedchamber door. When Lucian bid entrance, his valet stepped into the room.

“You require assistance, my lord?”

“Yes, Pendry. I have an important call to make this morning, and I wish to look my best. The green coat, I think.”

“Certainly, my lord,” Pendry responded, lifting an eyebrow at his master’s unusual concern with his appearance.

Flashing a grin, Lucian settled in a chair so the valet could shave him. His dark mood had shifted rapidly-from disquiet at his nightmare’s strange permutation to agreeable anticipation.

This morning’s call would be duty as well as pleasure, hopefully dispatching two birds with one proposal. For some time now he’d wanted a pretext to further his acquaintance with Sir Grayson Caldwell. This stretch of Cornish coast was a smuggler’s paradise, and Sir Grayson reportedly was the leader of the local ring.

Ordinarily Lucian wouldn’t concern himself with simple smuggling, no matter how illegal. The ring he sought, however, posed a far graver threat than usual. The contraband was not brandy and silk, but stolen gold.

Lucian’s challenge was to prevent government shipments of gold bullion-payments intended for Britain’s allies-from being stolen and smuggled to France to fund Napoleon’s armies.

He’d recently received intelligence that Sir Grayson was possibly involved in one of the thefts. If so, the baronet might eventually lead them to the ringleader, one of a dozen suspects who thus far had eluded England’s best agents.

That was the sole reason Lucian had come to Cornwall. Ensconcing himself on the duke’s estate gave him the opportunity to investigate Sir Grayson Caldwell.

Meanwhile, proposing marriage to Caldwell’s beautiful sister would certainly provide an excellent pretext for searching out his secrets.

Brynn woke suddenly, a cry on her lips. She lay there in bed, her heart thudding as the dark remnants of her dream faded. The image had been so vivid. A man-tall, lithe, dark haired, pulse-stirringly handsome-lay dying at her feet. Lord Wycliff? Was that his blood staining her hands?

A feeling of horror washed over her. Freeing her arms from the bedcovers, Brynn stared down at her hands in the early morning light. They were clean, white, unstained. Yet she couldn’t shake the needles of alarm crawling over her skin.

Dear God, was it happening again? The one time she had dreamed so vividly about a man, he had died, drowned at sea. Her suitors were often plagued with dreams of her, a result of the Gypsy’s curse, but rarely did she reciprocate.

A clammy chill swept her. Was her dream of Wycliff merely a grim illusion? Or was it a deadly premonition?

“You wish to court my sister?” Sir Grayson Caldwell asked, clearly surprised by Lucian’s request for permission to pay his addresses.

“Not court, precisely,” Lucian replied, sitting across from the baronet in the Caldwell drawing room. “I fear I haven’t the time for a lengthy courtship, since I must return to London within the sennight. No, I would prefer to settle the matter as soon as possible. I should like Miss Caldwell’s hand in marriage.”

Sir Grayson appeared to choose his words with care. “I can understand why you might be attracted to her, my lord. But in all honesty, I feel I must warn you… make you aware of what is driving your fascination. Brynn has a strange effect on gentlemen, causing them to lose their heads over her.”

“So she advised me.”

“She told you of the Gypsy’s curse?”

“Yes. Although I must say I find it hard to credit. Men are bound to pursue a beautiful woman. And your sister is extremely beautiful.”

“True, but with Brynn, the attraction is inexplicably forceful.”

“Then you give credence to her tale of a curse?”

Grayson hesitated a long moment. “I think it unlikely the curse is mere coincidence. Certainly our mother never doubted its power and stuffed Brynn’s head full of warnings from the time she was a child. After Mama’s death, however, the admonitions faded from Brynn’s mind-at least until she lost her first suitor to a tragic drowning at sea. She blamed herself for his death. Ever since she has virtually lived the life of a recluse for fear of repeating the tragedy.”

“I am willing to risk the possibility of a curse.”

“But she may not be. You should know that Brynn has turned down any number of proposals thus far. I doubt she will receive yours with any more eagerness.”

“I’m prepared to make her an extremely generous settlement. And her family as well,” Lucian added, glancing around the shabby if immaculate drawing room.

“I admit an infusion of funds would not go amiss,” Grayson said with a faint flush of embarrassment. “But you will not find it easy to convince Brynn-or to persuade her to leave our youngest brother. She has the raising of him, you see.”

“You have no objection to my suit, though?”

“No, not in the least. I would consider it an honor to claim a nobleman of your consequence as my brother-in-law. I am simply saying that I cannot force her to accept you. My sister has a mind of her own, I fear.”

Lucian smiled faintly. “So I have discovered,” he murmured to himself.

He found Brynn Caldwell in the unkempt garden where she sat on a bench with a boy who must be her youngest brother, Theodore. For a moment Lucian paused beside a linden tree and watched the two of them.