A Rendezvous With a Rake, page 1
A RENDEZVOUS WITH A RAKE
LORDS OF TEMPTATION
TAMMY ANDRESEN
Copyright © 2023 by Tammy Andresen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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CONTENTS
A Rendezvous with a Rake
Laws of the Liberty:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
A Deal with a Duke
About the Author
Other Titles by Tammy
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Hugs!
A RENDEZVOUS WITH A RAKE
“I’ve got one rule and it’s no women on board. Ever.”
When the youngest brother of the rough and tumble Smith family turned to smuggling, Fulton Smith knew he had to keep his operation simple to avoid getting caught.
But a beautiful stowaway, Sophie, makes his life anything but easy. His smuggling self knows he ought to drop her at the nearest port and follow his own damn rules. It’s a dangerous business. The lord in him, however, can’t help but protect the fragile beauty who has demons of her own.
But when his past begins to haunt them too, danger lurks around every corner and not even his boat is fast enough to outrun it.
Keeping her safe will push him to the breaking point.
Keeping his hands off her…
Impossible.
LAWS OF THE LIBERTY:
No women on board the boat when we’re out to sea. Ever. For any reason.
No drinking during a storm. If we’re sinking…then there is drinking.
No stealing…from each other. We are thieves, but we are thieves with honor.
No poking in other people’s business. We are not women.
No shirking your duties. Each man pulls his weight, or his weight can sink him to the bottom.
CHAPTER ONE
Nothing turned a stomach like the smell of day-old fish.
Despite spending his adult life at sea, Lord Fulton Smith despised the odor. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as the salty stench of the fish market filled his nostrils.
Normally, he could tolerate the scent without any outward sign of discomfort. But as he’d gotten falling-down drunk last night, an event that had been happening more often of late, the smell made his stomach roll. He knew excessive drinking wasn’t the answer, but the pressure seemed to be building on all sides. He needed some sort of escape.
It was a plan he regretted this morning as the memory of his problems made his stomach pitch all the more. He swallowed the rising bile back down and took a fortifying breath.
Mistake.
Breathing in only made his mouth fill with the acrid stench, a gag climbing up the back of his throat and nose.
This was unlike him. No matter the circumstance, Fulton kept an air of rakish charm about himself. It was his cloak and, like armor, it was his disguise.
Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he looked at his second in command, Mr. Jack Mate, and tried to hold his chin high while he issued an order. “You’re going to need to stock the fucking ship with fish. I’m leaving.”
Jack, always shrewd and never one to be cowed by any man, not even the boss, curled his lip. “Had too many cups last night, didn’t you? Finish off the wine?”
Jack was one of the only men Fulton would tolerate such an insubordinate comment from. At over six feet tall, the second in command was built like an ox, with a shaved head and a bushy black beard. He frightened nearly everyone he met. Fulton respected that, as well as the man’s tireless work ethic, which was why he let the comment pass.
Well, perhaps for that reason and the fact that he didn’t have the stomach to fight this morning. “Mind your fucking business and the rules,” Fulton snapped, not because he cared that Jack knew he was hungover. Men of his ilk didn’t admit weakness, ever. It was part of the acknowledged code the men all followed on the ship.
A ragtag group of sailors that Fulton had picked up in various ports across Europe, the men under his employ had one thing in common…they’d needed a chance at a new life, and he’d given it to them.
And in return, they minded their own business and stayed out of his. He’d made that part of their rules. After all, they weren’t gossiping women.
He’d spent his life keeping up with four older and tougher brothers, the sort that never approved of anything and always found him lacking. Consequently, Fulton ran a tight ship.
And he didn’t share feelings—a weakness that was never to be acknowledged. Ever.
Jack snorted. “Fine. I’ll get the fish. Northville is acquiring the swine and beef.” Jack had been enhancing his vocabulary through a series of cheap novels that Fulton heard the man reading to himself at night. Acquiring was a new word the man had…er…acquired.
In accordance with their code, however, Fulton hadn’t asked why, and Jack hadn’t volunteered information on his newfound interest in words. It was none of Fulton’s concern provided the man continued to perform his duties.
“Norton is picking out produce.” Fulton nodded.
Jack shook his head. “And likely having a great deal of fun. That man doesn’t have a sad bone in his roly-poly body.”
It was the truth and Fulton cracked a smile, the rolling of his own stomach easing.
“And you?”
Fulton waggled his eyebrows, taking on his more usual persona. The control pulled his shoulders back. This was how he should always act. “I’ll get the wine.”
“The wine!” Jack slapped him on the back. “Why didn’t you say so? Go. I’ll take care of this.”
With a parting salute, he swiped a hand through his tousled hair, left Jack, and started around the outskirts of the French seaside village where they’d stopped to restock his boat, Second Chance.
He and his crew, along with a family friend, Viscount Northville, had been on the hunt for a fugitive. Leaving England in the dead of night on the first tide that would carry them out, they’d been chasing a man named Lord Gyla.
A rival club owner, he’d terrorized Fulton’s family for months. The king had gotten involved and with the help of his soldiers, the criminal had been chased from England. And Fulton had been in hot pursuit.
He might be the youngest, but he’d prove to his family that he was just as good as the rest of them. Or so he’d hoped.
But three days ago, they’d lost the man, and with supplies running dangerously low, they’d found a large village just south of Bordeaux, France, to stop and resupply—and for Fulton to lick his wounds. Much like the smell of that fish market, the stench of failure had followed him of late, a scent he was trying very hard to escape.
First his winery was failing, and now this…
Not that he’d given up hope on either endeavor. They’d restock, head back out to sea, and attempt to find Gyla. There were only a few options as to his whereabouts. The man had either gone north, south, or inland.
But they’d checked several ports and there was no sign of the schooner Gyla had left on. He doubted they’d gone north, which was still in the midst of winter and that would mean rough seas. Which meant they’d be going south.
He could be wrong. It was entirely possible. And if he was, he’d use the southern journey to stop at his own winery and see how much damage he could repair there. But two bad seasons and the constant running back and forth between London and Italy had left the winery in disarray.
He could sell, and he likely would, but then he’d lose money and Fulton hated to lose. Not even he’d be able to cover that failure.
He ran another hand through his chin-length locks as he slowed his pace. Up ahead was the local vineyard that a fisherman had mentioned. A stone chateau sat atop a small hill, the grapevines spilling down the landscape in neat rows of lush green.
It was the picture of what his winery ought to look like. Swallowing down the bitter bile that had filled his throat, he pasted his usual smile on his face.
Fulton strode to the center front door. His French was lacking, but he’d find a way to negotiate. He always did.
Knocking on the door, he waited for several minutes before an older woman finally came to answer. She frowned at him and asked, “Puis-je vous aider?” Can I help you?
“Oui,” he started, giving her his most charming grin. “Je veux…” He paused, attempting to remember the French word for wine. He should know this… He stopped in France often enough and of late, French wine had been supplementing his own business. But the hangover had muddled his thoughts.
Giving up, he lifted his hand to his mouth, and mimed the act of drinking, but the woman just scowled more fiercely. “Wine,” he finally said, still pretend ing to drink. “S'il vous plaît.” Please.
She tossed up her hands and turned away from the door. “Sophie,” she called inside and then let out a voluminous amount of rapid, angry-sounding French. Was she talking to him? To this Sophie? Whoever she spoke to, she didn’t like them very much.
She finally left the doorway, though the door was still open, and he ceased miming long enough to scratch his head. Was he supposed to come in? Leave?
Could he purchase any wine?
But he as he waited, another set of skirts appeared. His gaze traveled up the deep red burgundy-colored gown to a trim waist, over an ample set of breasts, and up to the delicate column of a lovely neck.
From there, his eyes rose higher, over ridiculously full lips, a tiny little nose, to large blue eyes. The sort that might pierce a man’s soul. Framing her face was a halo of thick blond hair.
He’d met Venus herself, tucked away in the French countryside. His hangover forgotten, he gave her his most dashing bow. “Hello.”
He might be a fighter and a criminal, but he could charm when he wished. And he wished…
“Hello,” she replied, giving him a wary stare. So much for charm. “May I help you?”
English! Excellent. “Yes. I’d like to purchase some wine for my ship.”
“My father only sells by the barrel,” she answered as the older woman once again appeared behind her, still speaking in rapid, angry tones.
Sophie—at least he assumed that was her name—answered in equally quick French. Just a few short words, her gaze cast to the floor.
“I’ll take four,” he said, ignoring the other woman. “Can he deliver? Today?” And he held out a bag of coins he knew would suffice.
The older woman stopped speaking abruptly, stepping around Sophie and snatching the bag from his hand.
“He’ll deliver your four barrels within the next few hours,” she said, her lips pursing into a frown. “Which pier?”
Quickly, he gave her all the details as his gaze swept over Sophie again. She was the loveliest woman he’d seen in some time, and he’d like to spend a bit of time with her. He’d gone a very long time without the company of a beautiful woman. Too long.
But he had a ship to stock and a villain to catch. Perhaps someday, he’d come back this way…or not.
Life had a way of sorting itself out. A least he hoped it did. As a younger man, he’d always believed so, but the past few years had left him wondering. With a nod goodbye, he started back down the road toward his ship.
Out of habit, he began to whistle. If life had taught him one thing, he faked it until he figured out what to do next. That had always worked for him in the past and it would do so again. He hoped.
Miss Sophie Dupont watched the handsome ship captain make his way down the hill from her home, whistling as he went.
She’d like to hate him, coming here all arrogance and self-confidence, miming like a fool, and still getting his way.
Life wasn’t that kind to everyone, certainly not to her… What must it be like to be so happy? So free?
She wouldn’t know. Despite the shining sun and this picturesque home, the noose was tightening about her neck.
“Sophie,” her stepmother called out in the same biting tone she always used, “finish making the pastry dough. We’re hosting one of the most prominent families in Bordeaux tomorrow and there is much to do before they arrive.”
She said nothing as she made her way back to the kitchen.
There was little point in saying that she’d rather not cook the food in order to host the DeLongleys. She’d like to see the lot of them just go to the devil. Mean, self-important, and rude, they’d be bad company.
And worse family.
Which is exactly what they were about to become. Her father had signed a marriage contract between Sophie and the oldest DeLongley son, Pierre.
She shivered in revulsion, thinking of his hot breath on the skin of her neck when just yesterday, he’d managed to corner her by the well off the kitchen.
It had been as repugnant as his stench. “You will be mine, Sophie,” he said and nipped at her neck. “I always get what I want.”
She snorted as she made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. Not this time, Pierre DeLongley.
Not this time.
But she didn’t share any of this with her stepmother, who wouldn’t give a whit. So instead, she dutifully returned to the kitchen and, retying her apron, continued to roll out delicate pastry shells, layered with butter to create a flaky crust. Her stepmother worked alongside of her, silence settling between them.
And there was little point crying to her father, either. She’d tried, but her once-loving parent had grown distant and cold. His new wife and his son, Dimitri, Sophie’s younger brother, were his only loves now and he’d do nearly anything to please them. Even sacrifice Sophie’s future.
Sophie, hurt beyond measure, had spent a great deal of time attempting to regain his affection, but she’d given up. It was no use. He’d only ever told her why once when, after several cups of wine, he’d muttered, “You’re too much like her, you know that, don’t you?”
Sophie could only assume that he meant her mother. She’d not answered then, just as she didn’t speak now.
Silence had been her only weapon of late.
But if she wasn’t mistaken, she’d just discovered another.
Instead, she did as she was asked, baking and cooking a mountain of food as though she’d actually attend the dinner they’d planned. As though she’d marry Pierre. “Il est un homme abominable,” she muttered under her breath. He was truly detestable.
“Qui se?” her stepmother asked, lifting her head.
“It’s nothing,” she answered and kept working. It was late in the afternoon before they finished. Finally free, Sophie stepped outside, giving her stepmother time to collect food and meet her father on the edge of the field. She doubled back into the kitchen the moment she heard the other woman leave. Working quickly, she placed cheese, bread, and pastries into the pocket of her apron. Fruits and vegetables went into a large basket, and she stuffed it until full, tying the lid down.
Then, going to the well, she filled a bladder with water that she slung over her shoulder. And last, she took a metal box from behind the sack of flour, opened the lid, and pulled the sailor’s bag of coins from the top. She added the money to the pocket of her apron and replaced the container.
It was wrong, she knew it, but desperate times called for such measures…
Leaving out the front door, she started down the road. She knew the schedule of the house well. Her stepmother and father would spend the evening together, hopefully not even noticing that Sophie had slipped away until the morning.
When it would be too late.
She walked to the village with the setting sun, careful not to be seen by anyone.
By the time she reached the village, darkness had fallen. Still, she stayed out of sight, making her way down side streets until she reached the piers.
She had a little less than an hour until the water would be high enough for the boats to start leaving. With that in mind, she slipped into the bustle of sailors, pulling her bonnet low over her eyes. It was too easy for someone to recognize her here.
Torches burned everywhere as people went to and fro delivering all manner of goods to the boats along the shore. Le Petite Nice made most of its money off the port and the ships that they resupplied and so the residents worked with the tides always.
For all the world, she looked like another resident making a delivery, which was how she crept onto the deck of the Second Chance.
She knew precisely where it was, thanks to the captain.
