Trade Winds

by Angel Payne

  “I want to try.” She took the rope from him, noticing she made the big man laugh again. She carefully emulated the seaman’s motions, pulling on the line as hard as she could. She grinned in victory when it stretched taut and straight, just like his example.

  Just as suddenly, her lips dropped into a stunned O. Her hands halted on the rope as she stared across the deck.

  On the ship’s highest plateau stood the king of its forest. Indeed, he looked as lethal and graceful as a black panther. His long legs braced to the roll of the sea. His profile was etched powerfully against the sky. He was terrifying and sinewy and—

  Beautiful.

  He was utterly, unspeakably beautiful.

  Though the weather had been clement since the storm, Mast felt the silence take over the deck like a sweep of fog. His hands tightened on the spokes of the wheel. He was manning the helm for Rico, a duty taken on by his own request in hopes of loosening his senses since last night’s encounter with Golden. Yet as he watched Dink freeze halfway up a yardarm, then followed his first mate’s stare down to the main deck, he knew his gut hadn’t begun to know the true art of knot-tying.

  Bloody hell.

  “Good day, Captain Stafford!”

  She greeted him like simply calling across the lawn at a croquet match—only the woman held the buntline to the main sail, not a harmless wooden mallet. And Christ, she was still half-naked. The red chemise clung to her in all the right, yet horridly wrong places. Every man now swabbed the deck with his tongue as they gawked at her sleek shoulders, her muscled, tawny legs and the generous dip of her very uncorseted breasts. They were all waiting for her to turn the right inch that would expose even one perfect nipple, even one sliver of her lovely ass…

  And she was utterly mindless of it all.

  Forget twisting knots into his gut. His entrails got yanked out completely then strung tight across his ribs until he surely heard a few crack.

  He beckoned Rico back over. Then made straight toward her.

  “Great spirits,” she muttered as he jumped from his level to hers. Her lips attempted a friendly smile as he approached. Not effective. Not now.

  “Your ship is magnificent, Captain.” She wobbled out another smile. “Even the belaying pins.”

  “The what?” Both words were low and clipped. Very much on purpose.

  “The…belaying pins.” Her features crunched. “Why are you being such an uptight ape? Your gracious crew was just teaching me all about them. Mister—umm—”

  “Robert.” Hawkins punctuated the information with a friendly wink. Mast reminded himself to assign the man a double watch shift tonight. It got tripled when Golden returned the gesture with a grateful smile.

  “My new friend Robert even let me secure a line for you. I think I did quite well, too; don’t you agree, Robert?”

  He didn’t let her dawdle for a reply. Before she was through, he had a hand snaked around her arm. “Below,” he ordered.

  She looked down at his hand like it really had turned into a cobra. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ll beg my pardon below.” He motioned toward the hatch. “Get. Now.”

  Golden resisted him with strength that would have impressed him under other circumstances. “Stop your fruit cart there, Captain. You may think you can act the ogre to me just as you do your crew, but—”

  “I am not an ogre.”

  “The hell you aren’t!”

  “Below! Now!”

  As if taming a wild horse, he’d already picked up the instinct of watching her reactions start in her eyes. He was damn glad he’d remembered the practice this time. His dictate was barely out before he watched the fires in her eyes go from warm and happy to enraged and explosive. He braced himself for the dervish who’d be coming at him next.

  Here we go again.

  Did he really want her to do this again?

  She’d hoped a new day would bring a new Stafford. Things had started out wonderfully enough. He definitely looked a little less haggard, dressed now in a spotless white linen shirt and dark-brown breeches that hugged the contours of his mighty legs in a way that was certainly not horrid to gaze at.

  She couldn’t help it if he was an overbearing ox.

  He hadn’t even said good day! He’d glared at the ropes around her and Robert, scowled like a baboon, and snarled like a skunk, then slunk his dark look back up to her, inch by inch by way of her body, and made her think he’d tie her up with one of the lines any moment.

  The sot needed to be taken down again. She ran at him with nails bared and teeth set, already dreaming of the delight she’d take in scratching him hard and making him howl.

  The scream burst out of her, instead.

  In a swoop, she was whipped through the air, the sky and deck careening until her cheek whumped against Stafford’s broad back. With no more than a grunt and a step for balance, he’d thrown her soundly over his shoulder.

  “You requested an escort, my lady?” His stubble was rough and his breath a hot rasp against her thigh—two sensations she refused to recognize as remotely arousing. Or any other hot, tingling sensation, for that matter.

  “Agghhh! You bastard!”

  In horror and humiliation, she lifted her head one last time in hope of rescue, but all she saw were a collection of male gargoyles, staring as Stafford hauled her down to his cabin like a sack of flour.

  Once he hit the bottom of the stairs and yanked the hatch shut, he rearranged his hold so she fell to the side. Golden yelped as she fell but discovered he wasn’t dropping her, only rearranging her. He now had her ensconced in his arms, tight against his solid torso.

  She went still. And forgot all about fighting him. Or for that matter, being furious with him. Or anything else except the continuation of what he’d started by breathing on her leg. Sweet stars, he was so big. And hard. And close.

  She bit her bottom lip before lifting a tentative hand toward the open V of his shirt.

  Just before he dumped her over onto the berth.

  She flipped to her back and ground her fists into the sheets, barely containing a desire to spit into his haughty, gorgeous face. “Ape!” she spewed instead.

  Not an inch changed in his implacable glare. Silence seemed to stretch into eternity as he kept looking at her, as if convinced she’d vanish if he blinked. She felt exposed as the flesh of a banana, peeled and exposed at the mercy of his scrutiny. He didn’t help things at all by widening his stance and folding his massive arms. ’Twas if the bastard knew he’d draw her attention right back to his wide, breathtaking chest—and the proximity she’d had to it thirty seconds hence.

  She squirmed and backed against the wall.

  He snorted and leaned closer. When he opened his arms again and braced them to the berth, she cursed her flip-flopping stomach and jolting nerves. What was he preparing for? Was he going to grab her again and toss her someplace else? Or was he going to push his lips to hers again? No matter what the choice, even the mouth-mashing thing, she wasn’t sure she’d like it this time. Not with his fury so clearly pushing the edge of his composure.

  “My lady.” He spoke it with low, deliberate inflection. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear last night. You are on the Athena now. Certain laws must be obeyed here, without fail or question.”

  Before she could halt it, a sneer slid across her lips. “And I suppose you shall apprise me of them now?”

  “You apprise correctly.”

  “This should be a merry lark,” she grumbled.

  He earned a modicum of respect for smirking at that.

  The respect catapulted to terror again as he came nearer, hiking both knees to the bed and planting them there. She skidded into the corner. Across the room, even a few feet away, she was able to handle the man. Barely. When he got this close, making it impossible to take a breath without inhaling his masculine spice, she wasn’t able to remember her name, let alone keep perspective about him.

  “Number one,” he intoned, “a
ny fire on board will be attended and controlled at all times.”

  She blinked. Then almost laughed. Then made the mistake of looking up at him. How about starting with the cobalt fires in your eyes, Captain? Can you put those out for me, please? Those maddening, mesmerizing, dark-blue blazes that enflame me in strange places every time you look at me like that?

  If he had a number two, and she was certain there was one of those and a hundred more, he took his hellish time about getting to it. His dark features seemed lost in a power play. His jaw clenched and his scar turned an angry white. His brow and temples fought back, furrowing with intensity. His neck joined the fray, the tendons tightening like Robert’s ropes on their way to a hard knot.

  She gnawed her lip at the thought of those ropes again. And the way Stafford had looked at them on the deck, before raising his gaze back to her face by way of her body.

  Looking at her much the same way he did now.

  Dear stars, the room got hot. And quiet.

  She was quite certain the man could hear her war drum of a heartbeat. Especially the way it pounded in the flesh between her legs, too. Would he touch her there, now that they were alone? What else would he do?

  He huffed once. Then bolted off the bed.

  He didn’t stop until he got to the stairwell. He braced one boot to the bottom step while whipping his stare back her direction.

  “Rule number two,” he growled. “If I ever see you on my deck in that kind of attire again, I assure you I’ll do more than embarrass you in front of my crew.”

  After he stormed up the steps and disappeared above, she listened to that iron tone gain the volume of an enraged roar. “Mr. Peabrooke! Get this savage some proper clothing, damn it.”

  After that horrifying meaning sank in but not long enough to move on it, the miniature Viking she’d first seen in Papa’s study appeared, his arms laden with a pile of satin and brocade.

  “Fit fine mood he’s in,” the man grumbled, dumping the lavish heap next to her on the bunk.

  Golden slid him a dark glare. “Mood? You mean he’s any different than this? Ever?” Though he chuckled at that, the sound confirmed more than denied her statement. It bubbled all her frustration back to the surface, making her shove at the clothes. “Tell His Majesty I don’t need a lickspittle lady’s maid. And I certainly don’t need his hand-me-down wardrobe help, either!”

  The Viking sighed. “Is that so, darlin’? All right then, what do ya mean to dress in? That chemise is charmin’, if ya ask me, but I don’t think Mast is fond of it. Do you really want to see what he’ll do if ya take to the main deck in it again?”

  She took a second to shake her head. Even then, she realized it was only to give the man his expected answer. What would Stafford do if she pushed him like that, openly defied his high-and-mighty orders? And why did even thinking about it remind her of the days Guypa warned her about poking hornet nests?

  “All right, all right,” she finally mumbled. She fingered an embroidered hem on one of the gowns. A little bolt of awareness shot up her arm. It was a nice feeling. Very nice. It made her want to touch more of the dresses. She lifted her head and smiled into the startling two-toned gaze of the Viking. “They are lovely.”

  They really were. It was an unexpected treasure trove. Though she couldn’t name all the styles, her simple clothes at home often bowed to the demands of tropical heat rather than the latest dictates from court. Frills and finery had never been a part of her world, but all of her female instincts responded to them now. There were bodices with embroidered ribbon and lace, then more daring necklines with rich silk fichus to tuck into them. And the fabrics! Jewel-hued satins…intricate flowered brocades…feather-soft silks…they all flowed through her hands like the milk and honey of Mummy’s Bible stories.

  “Ohhhh!” she gasped, unearthing a pair of delicate lace gloves.

  “Well,” Dink interjected, “’tis not the absolute finest selection, but—” He chuckled when she cut him off by smacking his arm. His odd dual-toned eyes aside, Golden decided she liked the little man.

  “Where did you get all this?” she asked him as she slipped on the gloves.

  The rings in the man’s beard clinked as he smiled. “The spoils of the sea are curious at times, missy. Let us say they were gifts.” His eyes did a jig of blue and green mirth. “Aye, ‘gifts’ is a fine way of phrasin’ it.”

  Golden wasn’t sure how that was the whole story, but she also knew some stories were best left untold. “Well then,” she said, “you have generous friends, Mister…um…”

  “Peabrooke. But don’t insult me by callin’ me that. It’s just Dinky, my lady. Ship’s first mate, at yer service.”

  Golden couldn’t help giggling as Dinky tugged on his breeches, acting the stalwart seaman. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that the pile of fripperies at his feet was an interesting addition to his point.

  “I thank you for your kindness, Dinky. And please don’t insult me by using that ‘my lady’ rubbish. My name is Golden, just Golden.”

  “’Fraid not, darlin’. My apologies, but Captain’s orders are—”

  “As good as gull droppings to me, Dinky.” She gave him a serene smile. “Does that clear things up?”

  His golden brows hunkered over the long stare he shot her, until he shook with a new chortle. “Hell. Yer a passionate lick o’ fire, to be certain. No wonder M’s smolderin’ like a live coal.” He picked up a pink brocade dress. “Go now, and try this on. It matches yer coloring.”

  Again, she knew better than to press how he knew that. Instead, after trudging behind the dressing screen, she called out, “So how long have you been putting up with Captain Bull Whip?”

  “Now, spitfire,” Dinky admonished, “I know he hasn’t given ya much cause to think elsewise, but M’s not so terrible. He’s just been very…hrrmmm…”

  “Overbearing? Belligerent? Tetchy?”

  “Tetchy?”

  “Better than what I was going to use.”

  Dinky grunted as she struggled into a silky chemise and an underpetticoat. “How ’bout we agree on tired?”

  “Tired,” she snapped. “Really? Tired enough to haul me up like a potato sack and throw me down into this dungeon?”

  There was a telling pause. “Ya mean down here into his own cabin?”

  “His—”

  What?

  Her hands froze in the middle of her back, where she’d been fumbling with the dress’s hooks. Her arms dropped completely when she started to study her surroundings.

  “Oh, hell,” she muttered. The man’s presence was everywhere and she’d never even noticed. The desk with all its papers. The whole stack of books she’d hurled at him. And right here, next to her behind the screen, was a gleaming porcelain wash basin atop a very clean shaving stand. At its side were a bronze razor and matching comb, laid out together on a neatly-folded drying towel. Even the man’s toilette was a command.

  This sure as stars is his cabin.

  “Hell!” she repeated.

  “Crimey. ’Twasn’t like he couldn’t put ya anywhere else, spitfire. Everyone was rantin’ ‘n’ railin’ when he pulled ya aboard that night, carryin’ on about ‘la Say-rene’ this, and ‘sea witch’ that. Ya weren’t lookin’ too chipper, to the point I almost believed all that codswallop myself. Mast was havin’ none of it. He marched straight down here with ya, and that was that.”

  She erupted from behind the screen without finishing the damn buttons. The petticoat was still a disaster too, forming a haphazard train behind her, but she didn’t care. Astonishment and chagrin shot at each other over the ramparts of her self-control.

  She dropped into the burgundy velvet reading chair, again looking around the cabin as if seeing it for the first time. “Where…where did he sleep, then?”

  “We didn’t think ye’d weather it through the night, darlin’. It was the fever, ya see. Wasn’t very high, but blarst me if ya didn’t thrash like it was a blacksmith’s bellows ins
ide. Mast insisted on stayin’ with ya. Just stretched out that very chair you’re in and—”

  “What?” She jumped up and gaped at the chair with new eyes, too. No, not the chair. The man who’d made that stiff contraption his bed, while she took up his real berth. “Damn,” she whispered. “After everything I—” She plunked back on the bed, curling her hands in her lap. “I nearly sent him over Barbe’s Falls. Oh, God!”

  “Praise God,” Dinky murmured.

  “What?”

  She shot a horrified gape at him, only to find the man looking as intently back at her. And grinning. By the saints, he was an odd creature.

  “All I’m sayin’,” he explained, nodding with the same cryptic knowingness that Guypa used to throw at her, “is that the kid could use a little throwin’ over. In a not-so-craggy-rocks-at-the-bottom kinda way.”

  Before Golden could grill him to unravel that bloody riddle, the stairs shook once more with an all-too-familiar bellow.

  “Mister Peabrooke!” Down the steps came those distinctive black boots, too. “I said to give her the blasted things, not press and tailor them for—”

  Mast froze halfway down the stairwell. His fingers went white around the bulkhead and his upper arms went taut beneath his shirt. But the grooves of tension in his face, the lines that seemed so indelible at the corners of his mouth and eyes, fell away as soon as his gaze fell on her. He cocked his head a little, and something strange played at his lips…something resembling a small smile.

  Golden stood and fidgeted with the dress’s neckline. Her thoughts felt like the twisting pattern of the embroidery there. Well, blast the man. She’d just gotten used to his stomping, growling, and scowls, and now he threw this brick of behavior at her?

  “You…look better,” he stated.

  She knew the proper response to that. Papa had taught her that much, at least. Better yet, her murmur of thanks would be genuine. Basking in his admiration felt a lot better than burning in his ire.