The Devil's Necklace. Kat Martin

respectable, though even with the black lace fichu, the bodice was extremely low. The gown was high-waisted, with an edge of black lace beneath her breasts and a slender skirt slit modestly up the side, thanks to her handiwork.

      “You look lovely. I don’t believe the dresses were a waste after all.”

      She felt the pull of a smile. “Perhaps not. Thank you for the compliment.” She had washed and dried her hair but the fire was out, though the storm was beginning to lessen, and the strands were still slightly damp. She had used the mother-of-pearl inlaid combs she had been wearing the night she had been taken from the Lady Anne to sweep the heavy mass up into curls atop her head, and his gaze lingered there before moving back to her face.

      “I usually dine in the salon.” He offered his arm and Grace rested her hand on the sleeve of his navy blue tailcoat. “Tonight, Cook has gone to extra trouble in honor of my guest.”

      He was dressed as a gentleman, a white stock perfectly tied beneath his lean jaw, an expensively tailored coat fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders. His waistcoat gleamed with faint silver threads, and snug black breeches outlined his long legs and flat belly. He was incredibly handsome and yet he still looked every inch the pirate that he was.

      A little shiver of awareness went through her as he settled a hand at her waist and led her toward the ladder leading up on deck. She had never been invited into the formal salon, a room that seemed to belong solely to him.

      She found it even more elegant than his cabin. Lamplight flickered behind crystal chimneys in gilt sconces on the walls, which were paneled in smooth dark wood halfway up then papered in watered silk. There was a built-in, marble-topped sideboard, and a lovely oval Queen Anne table and chairs. A dark green brocade sofa sat before the tiny hearth, which she noticed had been relit and flickered with low-burning flames.

      “For a pirate, you certainly have expensive tastes.” She cast him a sideways glance. “Then again, perhaps that is the reason you are a pirate.”

      His mouth faintly curved. “I don’t plunder enemy ships for treasure, if that is what you think. I collect information. In a way, I’m in the same business as your friend, Lord Forsythe. Except that I am loyal to my country.”

      She blanched at the venom that had slipped into his voice. “Whether or not you believe it, I, too, am a loyal English citizen. Helping Lord Forsythe was a personal matter.”

      A muscle jumped in his cheek.

      “Please, you have invited me here to enjoy the evening. I have no wish to spoil it by speaking of unpleasant subjects. Could we not call a truce, Captain Sharpe, at least for tonight?”

      There must have been something in her face. She didn’t want to fight with him; she owed him her life. Had she not vowed secrecy in the matter of her father, she would have told him why she had arranged the viscount’s escape. At least he might have understood her motives. But she simply could not break her word.

      Some of the tension left his features. “A truce. I believe that is a very good idea. On one condition.”

      She arched a brow. “And what might that be?”

      “From now on we dispense with formalities, at least while we are alone. You will call me Ethan, as you did this afternoon. And I will call you Grace.” As he had done that afternoon. Her skin prickled with heat at the memory of the fiery kisses they had shared. Even now, she found the recollection disturbing. There was something about Ethan Sharpe, something that attracted her as no man ever had.

      The thought was as dangerous as it was intriguing. But then, Grace had never been afraid of danger.

      “I suppose, considering I would not be standing here now if it weren’t for you, there is no longer a need for us to be formal.” And in truth, she had begun to think of him that way, as Ethan, not Captain Sharpe.

      His eyes ran over her, came to rest on the soft swells of her breasts above the neckline of sapphire silk. Inside the bodice, her nipples tightened. She caught a glimpse of hunger before his gaze became shuttered once more.

      “Would you like a glass of sherry?”

      “Thank you, yes.” Anything that might help defuse these odd sensations just looking at him stirred in her body. She watched him walk over to the sideboard and pour the amber liquid into a glass for her, then a brandy for himself. The cuff of his white shirt appeared beneath the sleeve of his coat as he returned and handed her the drink.

      Grace took a sip, praying it would help dissolve her building nerves. She didn’t know exactly what was happening, but she had a feeling she was experiencing her first physical desire for a man.

      “As I said before, you look exceptionally lovely this evening, yet something seems to be missing.” He set down his brandy glass, walked over to a small ornately carved silver box on the top of the Queen Anne table, and opened the lid. When he turned, her beautiful pearl-and-diamond necklace dangled from his long dark fingers.

      “The gown needs something. I think these will do.” He moved behind her, draped the necklace round her neck and fastened the clasp. His fingers brushed her nape, lingered a moment, and tiny goose bumps appeared on her skin.

      As he stepped back to look at her, she reached up to touch the pearls, testing their smoothness, their familiar warmth as they absorbed the heat of her body.

      “Yes…” he said, “much better.”

      Her fingers traced the facets of the glittering diamonds, the single stones set between each of the pearls. There was something about the necklace, something strangely comforting in wearing it around her neck. And yet she knew the disturbing legend that accompanied the jewelry.

      “They’re quite magnificent,” he continued. “A gift, you said.” A faint edge crept into his voice. “From Forsythe?”

      She shook her head. “They came from my dearest chum. We went to academy together. She hoped it would bring me good fortune. There is a legend about it, you see. Per haps you would like to hear it.”

      “I would, indeed.” He took a sip of brandy, his manner once more relaxed. He led her over to the dark green brocade sofa and both of them sat down.

      Grace fingered the pearls. “The necklace—the Bride’s Necklace, it is called—was commissioned in the thirteenth century by a wealthy lord named Fallon. It was a gift for the woman he loved. The pearls were sent to his bride to be worn on the day they were wed. But that fateful day, on his way to the ceremony, Lord Fallon was set upon by brigands and he and his men were killed. When his bride, Lady Ariana, heard the news, she was so distraught she climbed the castle parapet and leaped to her death.”

      “Not a pleasant tale.”

      “She died wearing the necklace. It was later discovered she was enceinte.”

      He sipped his drink. “And the legend that follows?”

      “It is said that whoever shall own the necklace will receive great happiness—but only if his heart is pure. If not, great tragedy will befall him.”

      One of his black eyebrows went up. “You own the necklace. You believe your heart is pure?”

      Except for a few of the impure thoughts she had been entertaining that evening. “I hope that it is. Though I am certain you would disagree.”

      He studied her with speculation, but made no further comment. “It’s getting late. Perhaps we should dine.”

      Maintaining his polite facade, he helped her up from the sofa. Grace pasted on an equally polite veneer and let him guide her over to the table.

      They supped on a table covered with fine white linen, ate off gold-rimmed porcelain plates, and drank expensive champagne. The conversation returned to less volatile subjects and little by little, both of them relaxed. They talked about his ship, obviously his most prized possession, and about her interest in astronomy.

      “I have a friend named Mary who shares my passion,” she told him. “We