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part of himself, and now he wanted her to reveal something about herself in return. It was childish of him, really.
Jack returned to the sofa, set the glass aside, and took her hand again, pressing his palm against its silky warmth. “Forgive me for that. You needn’t answer.”
“My husband.” She swallowed hard and stared at him, as if she were determined to answer no matter the cost. “He… it was an elopement. I hardly knew him. At first, I was madly in love with him.” She took a deep swallow from her glass, finishing the last drops of the sherry, and then she lowered the empty glass to her lap.
He frowned at her. “But not later?”
“No. Not later. William wasn’t…” She looked away, and tendrils of deep pink crawled across her cheeks. “He wasn’t a good man.”
The effect of her words was instant. Red tinged his vision. His skin prickled hot as memories rushed through him like a flash flood, too quick for him to control. His fist clamped over her hand. “Did he hurt you?”
“Yes.” His hand tightened over hers, and her brows drew together in a frown. “What’s wrong, Jack?”
He loosened his fist and brushed the fingertips of his other hand over her twisted elbow. “He wasn’t responsible for this?”
“No. Not directly. The accident occurred a few days after he died.” She shook her head, confused. “Are you angry with me, Jack?”
He tried to smile at her, but he feared it emerged as more of a grimace. His reaction had nothing to do with her, really. Just with his memories. Why had his mind made that connection the instant she’d said William Fisk hadn’t been a good man? She was a different woman with a different husband in a different time.
“No, I’m not angry with you.”
“Why…?” Understanding dawned in her expression. “You’re angry with him.”
He knew nothing of what had happened between her and her husband. Becky was different from Anne. Becky was safe. Whatever William Fisk had done to her, the man was dead. Trying to calm his racing blood, Jack spoke through his teeth. “I cannot abide a man who abuses innocents.”
She gave a small, bitter laugh. “I’m no innocent.”
“Perhaps you’re more innocent than you think you are.”
“No. I am a widow. I have seen…” She paused, and her gaze grew distant. “Too much,” she finished quietly.
He rubbed tender circles in the fleshy part of her palm. God, he was being an ass. None of this was her fault. Whatever had happened to her, it was over. It was over for him, too. By now, he should be better able to control his memories.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“About what?”
“Whatever it was that hurt you. And I’m sorry for reminding you of it.”
She gave him a faltering smile. “I am sorry you were hurt as well.”
They sat in companionable silence for several long moments. With every minute that passed, his body grew in awareness of hers. In the past twelve years, he’d felt lust once in a while—especially when the Gloriana sailed into port after long months at sea. Yet the feeling Becky evoked in him was different. Lust was there, and it was more consuming than ever, but there was more to it than that. A tenderness. A longing to tuck her against his body, hold her close, and simply breathe her in, as if her sweetness and essence would filter through him and bring him peace.
Those thoughts were nonsensical, he knew that. The fact that he actually liked her was certainly a bonus, but there was no sense in fooling himself into believing anything but his desperate need for money had instigated their association.
He pressed gently on the soft pad of flesh below her thumb. “When I touch you…” He paused to search for the right word to describe the heady feeling touching her gave him. “It’s potent.”
“Potent,” she whispered. She released his hand and then took it again, lacing her fingers with his. “Yes. It is.”
She raised his hand, still tangled with hers, and pressed slow kisses to each of his