Trade Winds

by Angel Payne

  “I am not.”

  “If we were back home, I’d strap you for lying. Don’t push that chin at me, girl.” But for all the threat of the words, Maya’s fingers descended on Golden’s shoulders like gentle rain. “Sister,” she stressed, “you know it be all right to say how you feel.” As their gazes locked in the mirror, her dark-brown eyes were shadowed in deep maroon gravity. “Stop sitting on your heart like a lion protecting her young. One day, you going to suffocate it. The captain, he loves you. He not going to hurt you.”

  Golden rolled her eyes even as they filled with embarrassing tears. At least a hundred times in the last few days, she’d tried to give herself the same lecture she’d endured from Maya. But the words were too astonishing, too wonderful, to believe.

  “Now you going to let me finish your hair?” came the renewed crack of command. “We got no time to waste, aye?”

  “Aye,” Golden agreed quickly, swirling around in her new finery.

  Maybe this bloody party wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

  So many candles were aglow at the Marston residence, Golden had been able to see the grand structure before she’d left the front door of their villa. The setting for the ball shined out from atop the next hill like a star on a Christmas tree, sparkling with the promise of joy and music and laughter.

  And dancing, she thought anxiously.

  Nevertheless, she smiled bravely into Papa’s face as they stood in the foyer waiting to be announced, trying not to tap the uncomfortable high heels of her shoes against the polished wood floor. Lady Marston’s prized roses, which she’d heard about in huge detail during croquet this morning, spilled their redolent glory from urns and vases everywhere. They were complemented by smaller arrangements of hibiscus, heliconia, and freesia. The ball looked grand and opulent already.

  Golden clutched the folds of her gown against a wave of nervousness, trying to think of Mast waiting for her within.

  “Wayland, Lord Gaverly, Earl of Pemshire, and his daughter, Lady Golden!”

  The baritone voice still sounded like a death knell. Golden squeezed Papa’s arm as they entered to an onslaught of applause and faces. Was she remembering to smile? She was too numb to know for certain. Stiff neck stocks and jewel-covered necks floated by. The faces above them were vague and indiscernible. Only one countenance mattered; the features she searched furtively for…the cobalt eyes, the proud and prominent nose, the blue-black hair falling in graceful waves behind a tanned neck and strong jaw….

  Where was he?

  “Lord Gaverly, Lady Golden!” came a trilling matron’s voice. “Welcome to our home, as modest as it may be.”

  Golden snickered, despite Papa’s disproving glance. She dutifully tamped it as Papa turned on his own false charm. “Ahhh, the lovely Lady Marston.” He gallantly kissed the fleshy hand of the women standing opposite them. “And what a beautiful home it is. The gratitude of my daughter and I cannot find words for your generosity of this evening.”

  “Nonn-sense,” Lady Marston crooned as the musicians struck up the first lively melody of the night. “I haven’t felt so alive in years. Not since we left Boston, just before the Revolution. Oh, I know the independence issue seems to have worked out with the colonies now, but I abhor bloodshed. Thank God we got out before Johnny—you know, our handsome and available Johnny, over there between Alexander Sutcliffe and William Deveraux?—got his head filled with some foolishness to join the fight and went off into some dreadfully dangerous battle or another. Oh my!”

  “Come now, Lady Marston…”

  Papa moved to help the flustered woman to a chair next to the table filled with plates of imported English sweetmeats, along with local treats of fresh cassava and roti pancakes. Golden faltered, self-conscious and alone all of a sudden, so she turned to find her own chair.

  She whirled into a net of six extravagant waistcoats covering six proudly-thrust chests.

  “Oh!” she blurted.

  One of the youths in the pack stepped forward. His puppy-like eyes were warm, and his thin smile resembled a pink ribbon.

  “Our apologies if we startled you, my lady.” He squirmed and looked to his tittering friends for support. “’Tis just—well, we couldn’t bear another minute waiting to meet you. We’ve all been smitten blind for three days.”

  “Three days?” She was confused. She heard the puppy’s words but nothing connected in her mind. She felt hemmed-in and restless.

  “On the ship. The Athena,” another boy supplied. At least that word made sense. She turned toward the speaker, a boy with fuller lips than the first, but with beady eyes. “When you arrived on the island?” he prompted.

  “Oh, of course. I’m sorry, I—”

  “We were hoping you’d give us all the honor of a dance this evening,” the first puppy interjected.

  “I—I don’t think so. Thank you for asking, but—”

  “Just one dance.” He caught her elbow.

  Golden stared at the well-manicured paw on her arm. Her stomach knotted and she hated herself for it. She was incensed with Mast even more. Since they’d arrived, he’d engaged in a strange act of hide-and-seek, favoring the hide part entirely too much. Tonight, she was enduring all this falderal so they could get to the good part.

  Seek—and find.

  She passed another disheartened glance around the room, now searching the dignitaries at the back. If Mast was ducking out tonight as well, then Papa could spend some time telling her where the two of them had hopped off to last night.

  She jerked up her skirt to step off the dais. Then froze, hovering her pointy-toed shoe inches over the floor.

  Certainly the reason Mast looked like an oasis to her parched sights was the tormenting absence he’d made her endure. It certainly couldn’t be the way his shoulders seemed especially forceful beneath his ink-black coat, the sinful way his breeches hugged his long legs, the allure of his dark skin against his white satin stock, or any of the other tiny things Golden had never seemed to notice about him before. The few rebellious curls of his hair around the bottom of his ears. The way one eyebrow, just like one side of his mouth, tilted higher than the other.

  But then her gaze expanded.

  And she gulped down a stab of pain.

  Now she saw. As a matter of fact, she should have seen long before now. It wasn’t his coat, his breeches, or even his eyebrows that made him. It was the way he stood out like a warm coal upon a blanket of snow among the powdered faces of the dozen women who surrounded him.

  She lifted self-conscious fingers to the unhindered waves of her hair. Damn. Maya had, as usual, been right about doing something with her coiffure.

  But her fingers clenched at her temple as a particularly stunning face from the crowd leaned up and murmured something into Mast’s ear.

  Golden recognized the beauty immediately. Her name was Penelope Farsquith. And if a fraction of the rumors flying about the girl were true, she’d have Mast out of his breeches and into her bed before the moon peaked in tonight’s sky.

  Golden swallowed again. The momentary lull of the music only made the moment more agonizing, as if the rise of all her self-doubts at one time didn’t leave enough room for sound. The orchestra eased a soft, romantic tune into the air, and time began its excruciating surge forward again.

  Golden watched Penelope tap her hands together delightedly. “’Tis is my favorite!” she seemed to exclaim, and yanked Mast toward the dance area.

  He didn’t budge. Penelope’s high powdered wig swayed precariously as she was taken aback. The beauty burned a glare into him as she settled the wobbling collection of hair and pearls and bobbles.

  He didn’t flinch. Then expressing all the dispassion he’d give a clinging lobster, he pried loose the shapely fingers around his arm, letting them drop.

  Golden erupted with the laugh she couldn’t hold in as Penelope gaped at Mast. Mast stunned her yet again by turning and grinning at her—the full, joyous grin she’d only seen him give Caesar befor
e now. The charismatic power of that look bolted across the room and into her waiting heart. It was a joyous feeling, though it paled to the thrill of watching him push through the rest of the made-up faces without a backward glance.

  His eyes hadn’t left her.

  He headed for her with a determined stride that had her senses tumbling.

  “Lady Golden,” he murmured, stopping before the dais.

  She swallowed. His hands were fixed at his sides in polite decorum, but the low tone of his greeting was like a thousand ardent caresses on her body.

  “Captain,” she responded in a murmur.

  “I take it you find the ball enjoyable?”

  “Aye. At least the last few minutes.”

  He lifted one sardonic black brow at her, but his tone was commanding and serious as he extended his hand. “Come here.”

  She purposely arched her own brows at him. “Well, I don’t know, Captain. It could be dangerous. You’re very…” She threw a pointed glance at the gaggle of maids still gaping at him. “Popular this evening.”

  “And you’re breathtaking.”

  Her gaze sprinted back to him. He wasn’t smiling any more. The carved cliffs of his face intensified and the blue of his eyes heated into smoky gray desire. Mast stepped closer to her. His bold move made her heart fly…and her sex clench. His spicy scent wove through her senses, not helping the cavorting desires of her body.

  “I believe this is the dance I had reserved, my lady.” He bestowed a soft kiss on the back of her hand. But his head didn’t rise from the courtesy. He continued to nip and linger at her skin until Golden was forced to expel a shivering gasp.

  “Dance?” she repeated in a daze.

  “Aye. It’s called a waltz. It’s the height of fashion in Vienna, though it’s still causing quite a scandal elsewhere.” He finally gazed back up at her. “You see, one dances it very closely, with one person only.”

  “Leave it to the Viennese,” she managed to stammer.

  He showed no sign he’d even heard her. His lips parted and his stare grew hotter. “Dance with me, Golden.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t dance.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He slid his other hand around her waist, pressed his legs into the folds of her skirt and whirled her off into the sweeping colors in the middle of the room.

  Panic struck when they were nearly enveloped on all sides by other swirling couples. Golden stiffened and darted her sights around for escape. Mast just gripped her tighter. His thighs prodded hers harder. “Sweet,” he said quietly, “haven’t you learned to stop fighting me yet?”

  She turned her face up. Blast him, he looked perfectly at home out here, his features a flawlessly correct set of composure—except his stare, which still heated its way to her core.

  “No,” she stammered, fighting the intoxicating warmth even as her body bent to his will and cried its blissful pleasure. “No,” she repeated more firmly.

  His expression didn’t change. But his touch did. He started a gentle, yet maddeningly sensuous massage to the small of her back. “I’m certain I could teach you. We both know what an excellent pupil you can be.”

  “No.” Merciful gods, the nearness of his long, hard body and his smooth, intimate words only made it harder to stand her ground. But he wasn’t going to tear down all the confusion and anger of this day so easily. “Not when you disappear without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ Captain, then reappear a near full day later with”—she pursed her lips in hesitation but blurted her first choice of words anyway—“with your harem.”

  “My…what?”

  “You heard me. Harem.”

  If Golden wasn’t wrapped so closely next to him, she’d never believe the reaction Captain Decorum-Above-All Stafford gave to her.

  He laughed. Not one of his discreet snorts of mockery, not even a quick chuckle of amusement, but a hearty eruption from his thrown-back head that sent stares raining upon them with more force than a summer squall. To her vexation, Golden found herself scowling back at the strangers in defense of the inconsiderate brute.

  And he kept making her dance.

  “Harem.” He chuckled more quietly after spinning her through a few turns. “Oh God, Golden, I thought you couldn’t surprise me any longer.”

  She surprised him? Golden scrutinized his face, wondering if this was the same brooding monster who’d cornered her in Papa’s study back home. Not that she was sure she wanted to give this imposter back. The creases around his eyes were now soothed. The scar that once pulsed with tension was now just another distinctive feature to his face. All this after he’d roared with laughter in the middle of a waltzing dance floor.

  As if reading her thoughts, Mast murmured softly, “Hellion, have you forgotten so soon? Covers do not their books make, remember? Just as situations are rarely what you first conclude.”

  He’d perfectly timed the lecture and he knew it. Just as Golden summoned the presence for a perfect huff to lob at him, she inhaled a breath of fragrant night air instead. Stars winked overhead at them. She gasped in delight as he waltzed her further out onto the moonlight-dappled terrace.

  “This—you—” she stammered.

  “Like it?”

  She looked around at the glittering silver moonbeams, and listened to the jungle pulsing nearby. “I—it’s—”

  “Knew you would.”

  “This is why you asked me to dance in the first place.”

  Mast nodded. “Books and covers, my love. Situations and conclusions.”

  As if somebody had jabbed a needle in him, his expression flinched. “Promise me,” he whispered tightly, “you’ll remember that this time.”

  She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Golden still felt the slight swaying of their bodies as she and Mast moved together in some semblance of dancing, but at that moment, her world was his gaze, a dark and clamoring plea for her love, understanding and.…

  What? What did that other, desperate pain in his face call out to her for?

  She raised her hand to his cheek, as if the answer would magically melt from him to hers through the touch. But like the moonlight through the leaves overhead, she only discerned a hint of the secret before a flick of the wind threw it away.

  A shiver claimed her despite the warmth of the evening. Golden stepped closer, pressing the length of her body against this, burrowing her head into the bend of his neck.

  “Yes,” she said, the word quiet and simple in the night. The satin of his waistcoat was smooth and cool against her fingers. It was another of his ridiculous disguises, wasn’t it? A foil for all the true heat and passion in the heart to which she spoke.

  “Yes,” she told him again. “I’ll remember.”

  “Thank you.” He whispered it into her ear. “Thank you.”

  He sighed again. Golden felt the tension leave his body—only to be replaced with another kind of tightness. The limbs against her body started to coil and strain. He suckled the skin beneath her ear with hungry need.

  “Golden.”

  Her name sounded like sanctification from the twinkling heavens above. He said it in a bite along her neck. In a nip against her chin. On a long sigh along the other side of her neck. “Golden…Golden…”

  There was no mistaking the need that plagued him now. She felt it in his hands, now grabbing instead of caressing her back, and in the thighs that tensed against hers even through the layers of her gown. It reverberated in his lips, now hovering over the arch of her neck, on the verge of kissing and suckling and spinning her into a freedom as wild as the wind.

  Her need soared in return. It sizzled through her abysmal excuse for composure. When she felt Mast pulling her farther from the light that filtered out from the ballroom, she followed his lead without hesitation.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Neither spoke a word as he pulled her down first one row of hedges then another, but their bodies cried out as deafeningly to each other as the thunder to lightn
ing. Their hearts pounded like the wind to the sea. As Mast tugged her into an alcove big enough for two people, then down on the small bench that occupied the space, Golden looked into his eyes to find the unavoidable yearning of her own soul mirrored there.

  She stepped into his arms.

  He grasped the back of her neck and forced her face upward.

  “Fuck.” His gaze raked over her with raw, primal voracity. He brushed his lips across hers, sending tremors through both their bodies. “You torture me, sea witch. You just…torture…me…”

  Golden couldn’t hold back her smile. “Now you know how it feels, Captain.”

  Self-deprecation fought its way to his lips. “I’m sorry. I know how today must have been for you.”

  “It was hell.” Her smile faded. She looked away to prove just how serious the allegation was, but that only gave Mast the perfect angle to assault the sensitive skin of her neck with his lips and tongue again.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated softly into her ear.

  “It was worse than hell.”

  “Then I’m very sorry.” His mouth descended along the neckline of her gown and nipped at the valley where the gold brocade began to hint at her breasts.

  “I wanted to knock Lady Trueglove through the wickets instead of that silly croquet ball,” she murmured, trying but failing miserably at keeping her breaths even. Oh stars…the sight of his dark head against her flesh…was heavenly.

  Think of hateful things. Don’t think of how you become such pliable clay in his arms. Don’t show him how good his fingers feel on the backs of your arms, on the inside of your neck.

  Make him search for it the way you searched hopelessly for him today.

  “Tea,” she managed. “Aye, tea. They poured gallons of it. You know how I hate—oh! Ohhhh….”

  It was too late for searching. Mast had found and conquered. Golden dug her hand into his hair as his tongue flicked its way under her bodice, over one willingly erect nipple.

  “Aye,” he murmured back, teasing her tingling peak. “You hate tea. I know.”

  “I hate you.” She gasped it as he slid over to the other crimson-flushed tip.