Mishap Marriage. Helen Dickson

knowing full well that riding astride, dishevelled and showing a fair amount of bare leg, was hardly how young ladies in England behaved. But then, the four years she had spent in one of the best schools in that country, which had dealt with tedious niceties and courtly manners, had bored her to distraction.

      And here she was being stared at by a thoroughly magnetic and compelling man, a man whose direct and confident gaze made her heart beat faster—though that, in small part, might have been due to the hot tropical sun having addled her wits.

      As she held his stare, unable to look away, she marvelled at what fascinating eyes he had. They were lively and a piercing silver-grey—eyes that seemed to trap and hold the light. She detected a sparkle of amusement in their depths as he perused her, not quite successful in masking his roguish astonishment.

      ‘My dear young lady.’ Stepping back, he swept her a negligent bow—which Shona thought a tad mocking. ‘Zachariah Fitzgerald at your service.’ One brow arched, his eyes remained on hers. ‘May I say you are a sight for sore eyes.’

      Shona stared at him. His voice was deep and throaty, like thick honey, a seductive voice that made her think of bodies and those erotic engravings in the French books she and her friends had loved to pore over at school, and all kinds of highly improper things. It seemed to caress each word as it came out, she thought, and there couldn’t be many women who could resist a voice like that. If it met her mood, she could enchant and charm any man, but instinct told her this man was not one of the insincere young roués seeking to extend their reputation at her expense.

      ‘I am?’ she said warily, tilting her head. ‘And how is that, pray?’

      Zack frowned. Her self-possessed response surprised him. Her face was perfect, so stirringly beautiful and young. Her eyes were clear green, brilliant against the thick fringe of jet-black lashes. They stared back at him, open, yet as unfathomable as any sea he had ever gazed into. To find herself confronted by a group of ogling sailors who hadn’t laid eyes on a woman in weeks—and certainly not one who looked like she did, which brought home to him the starvation of his own long and forced celibacy—he’d expected her to blush and lower her gaze at the very least. She did neither.

      ‘By the Holy Blood, young lady,’ he murmured, moving close to her horse and giving it a friendly stroke, his hand suggestively brushing the bare flesh of her leg, ‘you’re a handsome enough piece to tempt any man. I’m mighty flattered to have made your acquaintance. Had I known Santamaria was inhabited by such beauty, I would have made a point of sailing into its harbour sooner. I would like to invite you on board my ship so that we might become better acquainted.’

      Amused in spite of herself by his high spirits, yet disliking his attempt at flirtation, Shona raised a full, arching brow at him. ‘That would be highly improper, I’m afraid, Captain. I also think that you should remove your hand from my leg before I find yet another use for my whip.’

      The roguish glint that must surely be what had charmed half the females in the Caribbean made his eyes dance with silver lights. ‘I am disappointed that you are so unaccommodating. What can I do to make myself more agreeable to you?’

      ‘I told you. Take your hand off my leg.’

      Reluctantly he slid his hand away, but he continued to stand there, appraising her.

      Shona’s flesh burned from his hand’s caress. Suddenly, his direct masculine assurance disconcerted her. She was vividly conscious that all eyes were upon her and of his close proximity to her. She felt the mad, unfamiliar rush of blood singing through her veins, which she had never experienced before, not even with Henry Bellamy, the handsome son of a duke back in England whom the whole school had been in love with. Instantly she felt resentful towards this captain. He had made too much of an impact on her and she was afraid that, if he looked at her much longer, he would read her thoughts with those brilliant, clever eyes of his.

      ‘You have a smooth tongue, Captain, but save your breath. I am not so easily won over. Santamaria belongs to my brother, Antony McKenzie,’ she said, giving him a haughty look. ‘I am Shona McKenzie, his sister.’

      ‘Then I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss McKenzie.’ Zack was familiar with the name and this young lady’s fabled beauty. Her father had been known in most circles. In that of young men, Shona McKenzie was often the topic of heated debate. She was the ice maiden, unattainable, the heartbreak of many a youth and the professed goal of many more.

      He was unfazed by her identity and his smile widened across his beautifully chiselled lips, his white teeth flashing against the bronze skin. His dark eyes gleamed with devilish amusement as he contemplated her as if seeing her anew. Shona could only mark the resemblance he bore to a swarthy pirate.

      ‘Your island is most beautiful and extremely fertile, I hear. Your brother seems to have made the most of it.’

      ‘The credit is down to my father—Colin McKenzie. He made it what it is today. When he died my brother carried on his work.’

      As if on cue, at that moment the crowd separated to make way for an elegant barouche occupied by Antony McKenzie and his Spanish wife, Carmelita, her face shaded by a dainty parasol. Carmelita was the only daughter of a wealthy Spanish merchant. Spoilt and overindulged all her life, while Shona was in Europe Carmelita had met Antony when she had visited Santamaria with her father. After a brief courtship they had married—which Shona considered was Antony’s undoing.

      The carriage halted beside Shona’s horse and Antony, wearing a conspicuously well-cut coat and immaculate linen, climbed out, his expression as he glanced at his sister one of severe disapproval. Finding her on the quay without a chaperon, with tarts and men who had rolled out of the taverns, her hair and dress in disarray, he considered her behaviour unworthy of her birth and breeding and with total disregard to his position on the island.

      At thirty-five years of age, Antony was tall and fair-haired, distinguished-looking rather than handsome. He was shrewd and calculating and unbending, a man who would do anything to wrest what he wanted from life. In four months’ time Carmelita was to be delivered of their first child—a boy, Antony hoped, to carry on after him.

      Antony’s stern features were set in an unsmiling expression of severe disapproval as he regarded his sister.

      ‘Might I suggest you go home, Shona. It is unbecoming for you to be in town unattended.’

      Meeting his exacting eyes, Shona felt her face burn at his public censure. ‘I was about to do just that, Antony, until I saw the ship. I simply had to be here when it docked.’

      Antony turned from her and faced the newcomers, his disagreeable scowl quickly replaced by a smile of welcome.

      With sharp, cold eyes Carmelita surveyed Shona’s flushed face, taking in her unbound hair and dishevelled appearance at a glance. She leaned over the side of the carriage to speak to her with her eyes narrowed like a cobra about to strike. ‘Just look at you, Shona—you are inappropriately dressed and your hair is all over the place,’ she said with quiet reproach, her voice heavily accented with Spanish and her eyes as dark and cold as a Scottish loch.

      ‘That’s because I’ve been riding, Carmelita.’

      ‘Madam,’ Captain Fitzgerald said coolly, ‘the young lady is not deserving of criticism. She is by far the comeliest maid I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.’

      Carmelita opened her mouth to utter a harsh rejoinder, but seeing the hard look in the captain’s clear eyes, she closed it quickly. She smiled a bitter smile, tempted to inform him that Shona McKenzie was the Devil’s own child, but thought better of it. Shielding her face from him with her parasol, she continued scolding her sister-in-law. ‘You’re growing quite impossible, Shona!’

      ‘I’ll try to be better,’ she promised in a matter-of-fact way.

      Carmelita’s cold stare stabbed Shona with deadly equality. ‘Are you mocking me?’

      ‘Of course not, Carmelita. I wouldn’t dream of it.’ The best way to deal with her sister-in-law, Shona found, was to ignore