by Angel Payne
“Oh, Caesar. You think I could teach you a magic word to unlock all your master’s secrets?”
The macaw’s deep-throated guffaw joined her giddy laugh. It wasn’t long before a heavy sigh took over again, as she stuffed a pillow behind her head and speared a morose stare at the ceiling. She was drained, disheartened, and now, more than ever, thoroughly confused. Taking the chance of leaping into the waves with Nirvana, as disastrous as her last journey with the dolphin had been, appeared an enticing alternative to the uncertainty she encountered each day at the whims of the Athena’s captain .
“Rrrrraaack!”
Golden giggled again as the bird preened. “All right, you flirt.”
She rose and lifted the latch of the cage. The macaw eagerly jumped to her forearm. She resorted to a little flirtation of her own, scratching him along the back of his neck. Caesar trilled softly, though she was certain her enjoyment rivaled the bird’s. Caesar’s soft trills, the exotic colorings of his plumage, and the feel of his heart beneath her fingers brought comforting images of Saint Kitts to the front of her ravaged mind.
“Oh, Caesar,” she said, “what I would give to be on Saint Kitts right now. The air is so cool, crisp, and fragrant at night. But it’s even more beautiful just at dawn. Maya and I would be able to get up and chase each other through the cane fields, or perhaps we’d get ready to go to Basseterre, if Papa had some business there. We’d tell him we were going browsing in the shops, but we’d really sneak away to the docks, where the ocean opens up to the whole world…”
She settled into the velvet chair, envisioning the brilliant sights and sounds of Basseterre. “Sometimes, if we get lucky, a ship pulls in,” she mused. “We always watch the town wenches parade by on their way to the grand vessel, dressed in their bright gowns, smelling like jasmine and lilacs, their faces powdery and beautiful. When the sailors disembark, everyone laughs and talks. There’s music and food. Everyone’s cares are blown away on the winds, and—”
“Rrrriccckk!”
Caesar’s perturbed screech was a dim burst in her ears. Golden absently put him back on his perch as she jolted up. Straight up.
Her own words echoed in her brain. Sweet star fire. The fancy-dressed village wenches…sitting with those besotted seamen…listening to hours and hours’ worth of conversation…
Finding out anything they wanted to know from those men.
Mast was a man.
And she had gowns. Plenty of beautiful gowns!
A slow smile spread across her face.
“Caesar, I have a plan.”
Chapter Nine
It was going to be a magnificent Caribbean twilight. The sunshine had aged through the afternoon like a fine wine, and the stars woke early to sup the bouquet. The breeze was warm and satiny, the water an equally lustrous texture. Puerto Rico shimmered like an emerald off the port rail, its hibiscus blooms kissing the air with their heady tropical fragrance. It was the kind of scene a man bared his soul to, hoping some of the brilliance rubbed off on him.
The last thing Mast wanted right now was brilliance.
Alone on the quarter deck, he rammed his hands further into the pockets of his vest, daring nature to shove any more goddamn “brilliance” down his throat.
His mind had done a well enough job of that, thank you. He hadn’t seen one lustrous hair of Lady Golden Gaverly today—not a surprising circumstance after he’d sent her skittering away from him like a petrified colt yesterday. But instead of welcoming the occurrence, even being thankful for it, all he’d felt was burning emptiness.
He wondered where she was. What she was doing. What kind of trouble she was getting herself into. And how adorable she was doing it, too.
It would have been easy enough to find out. But beyond Maya’s reassurance that the little hellion was aboard and safe, he commanded himself it didn’t matter. The less he knew of her mischief, short of burning the ship to driftwood, the better. That untamed, disrespectful, overly inquisitive creature was already more trouble than he’d dreamed possible—to his mind and body.
Brilliance? He’d had enough, thank you. Enough for a life full.
Enough for a heart full?
“Bloody fuck.” He turned from the rail as he spat it, determined to leave that insane thought behind, as well.
Another mistake. The sky was even more incredible off the starboard rail, the sun staining the clouds like luxury ribbons: coral and amber, deep orange, burnt copper. It took seconds for his mind to turn the most vibrant of them into the long ripples of her hair. Then another few before he saw his fingers twisting them as he angled her perfect face for his kiss…
“Damn it, Golden,” he grated. The name reverberated along every inch of his senses. Golden, Golden, Golden…
What the hell was happening to him?
The memories rammed in, unwanted yet uncontrollable. He saw her standing here once more, as she had so many times over the last four days. She never just gazed at the water and clouds. She was a part of them, free, flowing, unashamed, uninhibited. The only element that ever seemed out of place were her clothes. She belonged up here naked as the elements, with every tawny, lush inch of her exposed for his eyes…and his own body. He’d bend her back over the rail so her sex was raised and ready for him. He’d grip her hard as he eased into her body, taking her by tantalizing inches while the wind whipped her hair and the mist moistened her skin. He’d claim her cry of release with his mouth, plunging his tongue to hers as his throbbing penis parted her sweet, tight core…
No. Never to be.
He forced his mind to dictate it to his crotch before he crushed the dream to dust. It shouldn’t have gone as far as it did, even in his mind. You made a promise. To her goddamn father. Have you forgotten that promises mean everything to men like Wayland—men of honor—the kind of man you want to become? Promises aren’t silly trinkets, you bastard. They’re your value. Your name. Your code.
Sometimes promises were even more. Golden carried one of those for her own. A vow of revenge for a hate so strong, she’d kill a man for it.
Goddamnit. He needed an ale. Nay, rum. A bottle of it.
He turned to descend to the hold, when he was jarred short in his tracks by a bone-jarring noise.
“Ooohhh, on Fridaaay morn as we set sail, it was not faarr from land; there I spied a fair pretty maaaid, with a comb and a glass in her haaannd!”
Mast wondered if His Majesty was in need of some new court criers. Hearing Dink’s off-key warble in the halls of Windsor might be the thing to lure him back for a visit.
“Stafford!” His first mate staggered up to him. “Been wonderin’ where ya were since eight bells.” The man wobbled a little before honing his green eye on Mast. “Almost thought I wouldn’t find ya, but I guess it was too much to hope fer, aye?”
Mast extended his long glass toward Puerto Rico. His mate was aiming for a point, and he wasn’t sure if he’d like it. “Too much, Dink? You?” he drawled.
The man prefaced his response by punching Mast’s arm. “Was hopin’ ye’d be takin’ supper with someone other than Caesar.”
Mast didn’t lower the tube from his eye. Lazy palm fronds teased him from the amplified circle of vision. “Mr. Peabrooke, you’re ordered to discontinue comments like that regarding Lady Golden.”
“Oooo; now he’s orderin’ me.” Dink cocked an elbow to the rail. “Well, blarst. The wench really has gotten to ya.”
“Fuck off. Her name is Lady Golden. Don’t make me dunk you in the brine barrel as reminder.”
The man’s chortle was long and hearty. “Have at it, kid. Never met a brine barrel I couldn’t make friends with.”
Mast shot a hand out and grabbed the front of Dink’s shirt. He didn’t need cavalier lip right now. He also didn’t need the piercing blades of his mate’s glare, all but daring him to try a couple of punches. Dinky’s eyes conveyed what they both knew: in a contest of raw fisticuffs, Mast would be the one bloodied, bruised, and groaning at the end.<
br />
His arms quivered as he released his friend.
“Sorry,” he snarled.
Dink gave him a glib hiss. As they both rested elbows on the rail, he offered, “No offense, kid, but nobody’s snagged your riggin’ like this since the day the countess—”
“Don’t,” he cut in, “proceed an inch in that direction. I’m bloody goddamn serious this time, Peabrooke.”
Dink waved a placating hand. “I know, I know.” Hell, the tone was practically jovial. But a sobering cough followed. “Listen, kid. Ya never told me what happened in Cornwall, and I don’t really desire to know. But damme, M, I wager you’ve been haunted by that bitch long enough.” There was an all-knowing pause. “I think, in that way of hers, that little spitfire wagers it, too.”
“That little spitfire, Dink, grew up on an island. She’s never seen anything beyond the beaches of Saint Kitts since she was a child. She’s just curious.”
“About you.”
“About everything.”
Dink snickered again. Mast glowered. “Don’t you have a loaded gun to go clean?”
“Captain Stafford, that’s no manner in which to speak with your first mate.”
There was no mistaking the chastiser. But as the two men turned, they were certain Golden’s musical voice had bewitched the shell of another.
The hellion was gone. Completely. In her place was a vision that would make any seasoned courtesan wither with spite. Where wild tresses once roamed free, now a sophisticated golden coil framed a clean and exquisite face. Soft tendrils hugged the proud slope of her neck. A bow of emerald green satin encircled her throat that matched the gown she wore. Or more aptly, had poured herself into.
His jaw and tongue attempted to form words. ’Twasn’t so simple, when all his mouth wanted to learn right now was her. Those creamy shoulders. Those half-exposed breasts. Those swan-like arms. Christ, even her ankles and calves, provocatively peeking from beneath the gown…
The only thought, the only sensation, the only word he could comprehend was fire.
A blaze he longed to ignite to every thread of those forest colors she wore.
What the hell was she thinking?
What in the world was he thinking?
Nervousness had always been so trivial to Golden. What was there ever in life to be nervous about?
She learned the answer to that right now. The horrifyingly hard way.
She sensed the sun on her face but didn’t feel it. She didn’t feel anything…especially from Mast. She followed his dark, riveting stare as he studied her up and down. She contemplated his mouth, the firm angles seemingly frozen in their half-parted state. Still, she could determine nothing.
She smoothed the front of the gown with shaking hands, and tried to keep from scratching her breasts, which chafed already from the stiff gold lace along the low-scooped neckline.
Mast still said nothing.
Uneasy twisted into uncomfortable. Stars, this was ridiculous. Did she truly think that she, backward island girl, would appeal to a worldly, sophisticated seaman like him? She wanted out of this dress! She wished she had the outfit Guypa had made for the celebration of her bara, her first woman’s blood. She’d looked magnificent in the shells and beads of that!
No time for wistfulness now. Whether she regretted it or not, she came up here to expose Mast Stafford, the man. This was about tearing down his frowning, silent walls and finally discovering why he’d come into her life, precisely what this voyage and she meant to him…and how, oh how he’d turned her into such a confused mess of feeling. If she had to go another damn day of this wild mix, swerving between hot and cold, fury and longing, loathing and lust—
She couldn’t do it anymore. The whirlwind had to be stilled. The secrets had to be revealed. The moment for boldness and honesty had arrived.
She forced her legs to move across the deck, despite how they sweat beneath the gown’s layers.
“Captain.” She tried to address him steadily but made the error of looking up his tall body as she did. He was windblown and rugged, breaches scuffed with dust from the day’s work, vest and shirt plastered to his chest. His dark-skinned beauty, along with the breath-squeezing limits of her clothing, made her languid and dizzy and wobbly.
But that was only the beginning. True helplessness was looking at the man’s face. He was power defined, his midnight gaze now nearly black, his jaw seeming to wrestle itself, his nostrils flaring on deep, bull-like breaths.
Great Puntan. She’d exposed something in him, all right. And she was drowning in it.
“He’s a poop, girl, never mind him.” As Dinky cut in, he yanked her hand into his and plopped a kiss on the back of it. “He was goin’ to say ya look ravishin’. Whallop-me-in-the-gut ravishin’, Golden. Crimey, that frock looks better’n you than it did on Bessy Greenquist, and she was—”
“She was a tramp and that’s exactly what you look like.”
Never mind that Mast uttered it in a tone as flat as sailcloth. It slammed her heart backward until the thing collided with her spine, smashed apart, then slid into her stomach. But she still couldn’t break her gaze from the sight of him. She couldn’t stop staring, no matter how merciless his glare or hardened his features. Her chin stayed up as if held by an invisible string, torturing her. And now, it seemed, him as well.
“Thank you, Captain Stafford.” Her voice surprised her. Her words were clear, even composed. “Now I can stop guessing at how much of an unfeeling ass you are.”
Her body congratulated her on the stand by finally cooperating with her mind again. With a dizzying spin, she was freed from the sight of him. Not that she could see much else as she made her way back to the cabin. She had no idea that tears could be so damn blinding.
Chapter Ten
Mast vaguely heard a low, appreciative whistle from Dink’s direction. But it was background drizzle to the din in his head, in his body. Lust and need, awe and bewilderment, anger and God yes, fear, all raged at him at once, an army of raiding emotions.
Christ. Emotions.
He’d tried to stop her. He’d gotten one step in after she’d whirled from him, but his hand stayed locked at his side, a prisoner of his inner chaos. She’d bolted away without a glance back. Now he stood staring at the spot where she’d just stunned the hell out of him, wondering if he hadn’t just been sent to the banks of Styx for Fate’s twisted amusement.
“Well.” Dink smacked his lips in irritating time to the sea against the hull. “That was smashin’, kid, just smashin’. What I wouldn’t give to see ya do that all over again. The finesse, the—”
“Lash it, Dink.”
He made the deck shudder as he yanked open the hatch to his cabin. He closed the thing with a more violent whump, scattering the papers on his desk and rattling the glass in the lamps.
And making the woman on the bed jerk up.
Golden’s face widened then froze. Her teary topaz gaze ripped into his chest like a spiked flail. Half her elegant coiffure had tumbled free, now teasing her cleavage. The ribbon choker lay tangled beneath the mess, only one loop still intact. She looked small and sad in the ocean of satin that now billowed around her and the bunk.
“My lady,” he finally grated. “What the—” Planting his feet was useless. “Why the hell—” Lifting a stiff-fingered hand was even worse. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Damn it.”
He turned and rammed his forehead against a stair. You’ve never been a poet. This sure as hell won’t turn you into one.
That was the dismal reality here, wasn’t it? Damn it was about all he had at his disposal to encompass this aching frustration, this purgatory between honor and desire in which he was trapped. And aye, damn it that it was Wayland Gaverly’s god-blasted daughter who’d fastened the lock on the cage, then thrown away the bloody key. Damn it for her ingenious little mind in concocting this “dress up” scheme, and her entrancing body for carrying the strategy out so well.
Damn it to every lovely, resplenden
t inch of her.
He rolled his head and looked at her again, helpless against the pull of her beauty. If the key was gone, then the key was gone.
The shutters let in the last glow of the day, puddling her in soft amber light. For a moment, Mast swore she truly was a goddess. She was ethereal, lovely…adorable. Her gut-stopping, soul-stripping eyes glittered like a gold mine as she looked up at him in shock and even a little fear, but most of all, hurt.
“Is that all, Captain?”
The query was such a contrast to the hellion he knew, so quiet and potent, reaching to the last vestiges of control inside.
Before he knew what he was doing, he swooped and pulled her up next to him.
“Nay,” he growled lowly. “That’s not all.”
“I don’t want you to touch me.”
He ticked up one side of his mouth. “And I punish people for lying.”
“You’re an insensitive bastard.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She wriggled as he lowered his hands, playing them across the small of her back, molding her against him. She fit him so perfectly. She felt so damn good.
“Don’t.” She tried to pummel his shoulders. He increased the pressure of his hold. “Oh!” she gasped. “D-Don’t…”
“Your voice is weak as day-old soup.” He started gathering the fabric in his hands, shifting it back and forth against her backside and upper thighs. Beneath his touch, her muscles quivered. He increased the friction. “Are you sure you mean that, my lady?”
“N-No. I mean yes. Oh, my stars…”
He curled his hands beneath her buttocks, rubbing her there before venturing deeper, toward the beckoning grotto where her darkest desires lay.
“Isn’t this what you wanted, sweeting?” he said it in a rough, demanding breath at her ear. “Wasn’t this the result you were seeking?”
“I—I don’t know—”
“Of course you do. Answer me. This is just what you hoped for, wasn’t it?”
“Ahhh!” She cried it as he tenderly bit the edge of her ear. Her head lifted and she pressed her own lips to him, nipping the column of his neck. His whole body pulsed in awakening. He battled to slow down the tsunami that surged his veins, breathing in and out against her hair. She smelled like sunshine and pomegranates…and something else. Something new. Tangy. Musky.