by Raine Miller
She kicked him, twisted, and managed one step away before he snagged her arm and hauled her close, her back to his chest.
“Kicking when you wear sandals isn’t terribly effective.” His voice rumbled near her ear.
“Yeah. Well, how about a heel?” She delivered a backward kick straight to his crotch.
He folded, and she wrenched free. Spinning, she drew a knife, threw it and took off running.
CHAPTER 9
She kicked him! Fucking bitch kicked him! And it landed close enough to bend him double. But folding in half meant the knife missed him. If he moved fast, he might stop his curse from finding some way to get her into more trouble.
What a woman! He pulled himself erect with a grin and stretched, adjusting himself as he recovered. Snatching her knife free, he took off after her. She wasn’t a quiet runner. The sound of snapping branches and rustling greenery left no doubt where she’d passed.
Her stride was no match for his.
What did she mean, sapphires? His mind played with possibilities while he followed her path. He bent to pick up one of her sandals, a strap ripped loose. Even better, one bare foot should slow her down. Ten feet further, he stopped, tilted his head, and listened.
She’d gone to ground.
“Mrs. Pawes, please do come to your senses. I have no intention of hurting you, and I have no nefarious plans toward Captain March.” He scanned the greenery, searching.
“Mrs. Pawes….”
“I don’t trust you.” Her voice came from a thicket—dense shrubbery, where one great tree reached toward the canopy roof.
“What have I done to earn your distrust?” He stepped to one side, head tilted. He held up her sandal. “Yes, left me vulnerable to a heel kick, but you’re down one shoe.”
“I like bare feet.”
“I like your bare feet also.” He raised his eyes, her voice floated above him. He surmised she wasn’t at earth level. She was speaking softly. It was difficult to pinpoint her location in the thick foliage. He circled the thicket. “Mrs. Pawes, I have dreamed of you.”
“Fuck.”
That one word made him laugh. A sudden shower of leaves fell around him, and he looked up in time to reach out and catch her.
“Let me go!” She struggled in his arms.
“No,” he said. He seized her flailing arms and trapped both wrists in one hand. He took a step to the tree and pressed her against it, keeping her secured between his body and the trunk. He raised her wrists and let her legs drop, making sure she didn’t have room to knee him.
She took a breath to scream and he kissed her. He’d wanted to do that since seeing her earlier. He pressed tightly to her long enough to feel the tension leave her body and to make one light foray with his tongue. Pulling back, he examined her. Eyes a bit out of focus, mouth open while she took one deep breath after another. He released one wrist and she lowered it to the level of his arm, her fingers brushing against his bicep.
“Let me go, please.”
“If you swear to stay calm, and not run away. I am not here to hurt you. Give me your word, and I will release you.” He gazed at her, waiting.
“I promise. No more running.”
“No more throwing knives or kicking.”
She looked away a moment, then slid her gaze back to him. “Can I curse?”
“Of course. You wouldn’t be Mrs. Pawes if you didn’t curse.” He let her other wrist go and took a step away. “Now, here is your sandal. It’s a simple repair. Where is the other?” He’d noted both her feet were bare.
“I kicked it off to climb.”
“Well, find it. Walking on the sand without shoes is easy; hiking through the inland will leave your feet bloody. Give me your word that you will stay here, and I will fetch your basket.”
“You know where it is? You can find it?” She spun, arms gesticulating. “I have no idea where I came from.”
“I know this island. I won’t be ten minutes.” He stopped, studying her for a moment. He changed tactics, attempting a humble plea. He needed her to stay and trust him. “If you stay, I have a pleasant surprise for you when I get back.”
“Uh huh. Bet you do. Go on. I’ll find my sandal and stick around. I want my stuff.”
He left her slowly circling the tree, eyes on the ground as she searched for her missing footwear. The thick brambles made it a bit of a challenge. Good, she’d be busy.
It took less than ten minutes. The basket was heavier than he would have thought, but after examining it, he understood. She brought enough supplies to keep her provisioned for the night, if need be. The thought made him smile.
He found her perched on a mossy rock, examining her broken sandal. “You’re right. I can fix this with one of my needles, back on the ship. Good thing because I don’t have a second pair.”
She appeared remarkably calm, considering her furious reaction of earlier. He’d like to think it was the kiss, but doubted that.
“Where we’re going will tear your feet to shreds. Stand,” he directed her. To his surprise, she rose without argument. “Odd, I expected more battle.”
“I’ll fight later. Right now you have my basket. And…I want to talk to you.”
“Good.” He tossed the basket to her and swept her up in his arms. “You can’t walk until we fix that sandal. I can do that at the bath.”
She’d frozen, no doubt expecting him to drop her. Clutching the basket to her chest, she slowly relaxed. Clearing her throat, she said, “You’re quite strong.”
“Yes, I work the ship. And you have lost weight.”
“I have. Working the ship is proving to be more exercise than I’ve ever known.”
“Too many of the portal walkers are thin. Good to know that not all of you are starving.”
She glared at him, surprising him with her lightning shift in temper. “Oh really? What is that? Some backhanded way of saying I’m fat?” She kicked out in a display of anger.
He stopped walking and stared down at her. “Fat? You’re not fat. Damn, you travelers are fixated on weight issues. You are perfect. And I like how your hair is growing out.”
“Didn’t like it short? Was it too masculine for your romantic sensibilities?”
He rolled his eyes. “There is no pleasing you. Now, don’t move—it’s tricky here.” He took several careful steps down a steep slope. The sound of running water grew louder. They were close to his goal.
She’d grown quiet. He turned a corner, rounding a large mossy boulder, and she softly asked him, “What were you dreaming? I mean, you couldn’t be experiencing anything like me. Why did you mention it? Just trying to distract me?” He quite enjoyed it when she babbled.
“I’ve been dreaming of you, dear Mrs. Pawes. Always of you.” He turned and gently set her down on a grassy area to protect her feet. She stared out at the bath, speechless. He took advantage of her preoccupation, hauling his hamper of goodies from its hiding place. He spread a blanket and set out the small feast he’d brought.
She eased her basket down, still gazing at the placid water.
He found Emily without words, a wonderful experience. Spreading his hand he explained, “This is the large bath. It’s over twenty feet across. The waterfall to the right is fed from a spring at the center of the island. It is quite a fortuitous geological feature. The autumn storms have seen it overflow and continue down to the beach. This is the larger bath of Bath Isle.” He took a seat. At his side was a line that trailed into the water. He reeled it in.
“There is a smaller, I assume?” She was still mesmerized by the lovely pool. He thought her appreciation charming. A smile grew on her face with each passing moment.
“Yes, I’m sure the Quill crew is enjoying the smaller. The string of smaller baths receive more sun, are warmer, and cascade one from the other. Mick always preferred the pool.” He heard a soft clank and reached for the bottle at the end of the line. Ah, nice and cool.
She turned when he uncorked the bottle.
He held it out to her.
Turning the label, she read it, snickering. “French champagne? Isn’t that unusual to have here, now?”
“There is nothing unusual here. Come, sit. I have bread, cheese, and fruit.”
“A picnic? You brought me here for lunch?” She went to her knees, lifted the bottle and took a sip. “Okay. What the fuck. Why not?”
He chuckled. “You do have a filthy mouth. Have you no other swear words that cross your lips?”
“You’re a shitfaced son of a bitch.” She thought a moment before continuing, “A cockeyed, ass-kissing poser.”
“What is a poser? And quite impressive language.”
“Get me drunk, and I’m extremely foul. A poser is someone who fakes a persona. The Hollywood pirate.”
“Explain, please.” He continued to unpack the food.
“Hollywood is a city where no one is what they seem. Where dramatic stories are told by actors who sell the role so completely, they lose track of who they actually are and begin to buy into the idea that they are all that. I first saw your picture in my mirror. You were posed against a railing. I thought your costume full of flash and glitter. And you were older than most of the pirates Hollywood sells to the public.” She took another good swallow of the champagne, washing down the bread and cheese he’d handed to her.
He reached for the bottle and she surrendered it.
“I saw that picture, in your mirror and assumed you were hunting for me. It startled me.”
“When?” she demanded. “I lost that picture! It fell out of the mirror at the festival before I woke up here. Or went insane—whichever. You couldn’t have seen it!”
“The mirror slipped from your pack the morning I left you in bed. I nearly woke you to ask why you carried it, but when I looked again, only my face stared back at me. I left you and went looking for answers. I feared you were a trap.”
“How would that have worked? I set a trap, for you tricking the vampires into blinding me?” She snorted. “Great plan. Wow. I suck at being a private eye.”
She tossed a last bit of bread into her mouth, hauled her basket around and removed several of the morning’s gatherings from it. He watched her set two flat boards on the ground then open the paper envelope with pink flowers in it. She painstakingly arranged the petals on a single sheet of paper, selective in how she spaced them. He inched closer to watch. Next, she set another sheet atop it and used a smooth, rounded tool to continually press the petals between the paper.
“What do you hope to accomplish with this? Some pagan ritual? Gathering flower essence?”
“Nope. I’m hoping to get some color into the paper for the books I craft. I want some color for the covers, and the dyers won’t share their secrets.” She lifted the top piece of paper carefully. There was a bit of pinkish blush to both top and bottom sheets. She sighed. “Too light. I was hoping for darker.”
He grinned. “Stay here. I know what will transfer better.”
When he returned, she’d worked two other of her morning collection. Some dark leaves pleased her. A group of yellow flowers gave her some highlights. He held out a branch of deep purple flowers. “Try these.”
“Oh!” She smiled. “Those might work!”
He knelt beside her as she went through the process again, and this time, the results were quite satisfactory. She repeated her actions, mixing some of the petals and greenery, until they were gone. “Nice! I’ll have some stock to work with. I hope the colors don’t fade too quickly.”
“Which dyers were stingy?” he asked, an idea growing for a third rendezvous.
“On St. Marteen. Some guild rules.” She shrugged. “They bought several books, but won’t trade for dye. Bastards.”
She packed away her papers, wood, and tools. “Will you show me where the purple flowers are?”
“Of course. Later.”
“Later?” Spreading her hands, she looked directly at him. “What do you want from me? I won’t spy on Mick for you. I won’t betray my shipmates.”
“That’s good, I don’t need you to spy on Mick. I already have a good source on the Quill . But thank you for crediting me with such a nefarious purpose.”
Her hands fluttered. She glared at him, brow furrowed. “A spy?”
“No, a source. To make certain our two ships do not anchor near each other.”
“Yet, you are here.” Her voice dropped in volume.
“Because I needed to see you, Emily. And three months was too long. The dreams become impossible to sleep with.”
“No, I’m not ready to talk about trying to sleep—tell me why Mick is determined against you. I know he says you stole the Immortal from his father, but what is your side of this?”
“You are certain I have a story and am simply not a villain and thief?” He tilted his head at her, interested in her reply. Why wouldn’t she believe Mick?
Mrs. Pawes turned her legs, one thrust out in front of her, the other tucked under the first, and she crossed her arms and studied him. “I find there are generally at least two sides to any story. Usually more than two. He won’t talk about it. Other than to glare and stomp off. That tells me there are truths he isn’t facing or won’t acknowledge. I find myself doubting his justification for this vendetta and I think he doubts it also. Just a sense I have.”
“Ah. Did I steal the ship from his father? No. His father gambled her away, and I took her back.” He reached toward her. “Toss me your sandal; I’ll repair it while we discuss my villainy.” He reached into a small pouch at his belt, and removed a large needle and some twine to set about insuring her foot safety.
She sniffed. “He lost it to you. The man with the curse of good luck? Wouldn’t that be stealing?”
“No, he didn’t lose it to me. He lost it to another, and I won it from that other. Mick’s father gambled to excess. Sometimes he was quite fortunate. He first took possession of the Immortal from a wager. He and Mick did quite well in the colonies, then came to the Caribbean. Daniel wanted to take his luck back to England. Where it deserted him. And he discovered opium.”
“Opium. Oh. Does Mick know about that?”
“No, no reason to further tarnish his memories.” He wove the twine through already existing holes, binding the strap on tightly—waiting for her to ask more. She was being unusually quiet for a woman, in his experience. He glanced up at her to see her staring intently at him. “Yes?”
“You care for Mick.”
It was a statement, not a question. He declined to comment. After a long moment, she continued the interrogation.
“If he lost the ship to a wager, why is Mick convinced you stole it?”
“Daniel’s solicitors delivered a letter at his death, accusing me of trickery, deceit, a true litany of all manner of criminal behavior. Mick was grieving and believed it. He never asked me for ‘my side’, Mrs. Pawes.”
“And you never attempted to correct his misguided vengeance?”
“No.” He intended his tone of voice to curtail any further curiosity.
She unwound her arms, bent her extended leg and clasped her hands atop the lifted knee. “But your curse could be at the heart of Daniel’s luck changing. Right?”
“My curse could be at the heart of anything and everything that touches anyone who gets within 100 miles of me. Or not.” He blew out a breath and met her eyes. “Generally, I need to be present. I wasn’t, when he lost the ship. I did consider that my influence might have been involved. And I left funds with a lawyer to keep Daniel out of debtors’ prison. To return the ship to him while he was lost in Madam Opium’s embrace would have been irresponsible.”
“That was extremely conscientious of you. And I bet he resented the hell out it.” She shook her head, eyes still on his face. “Begrudged it, decided it was an admission of blame, and grew more and more bitter. Very tangled. And Mick started out using your curse for his good fortune. I heard how he kept company with you for some time. He stayed close enough to benefit from
your luck, but kept enough distance to not be hurt. I can see Mick doing that. Which means he likely blames himself along with you for his father’s losses. He tempted your curse to strike back, take its measure of blood one way or the other. How miserable.” She looked away for a moment. “I’ve thought a great deal about how good luck could be a curse. No one else seems to blame you for the curse. Save for Mick.”
His breath stilled; his mind went blank. How did she do that? It took him years to reach the same conclusion. He nodded. “I’m impressed, quite astute of you. Are you satisfied with your observations? The explanation of my side?” He tried not to sound bitter, but her prodding brought up thoughts he’d rather not revisit.
She shrugged. “It’s a hypothesis. This luck thing sounded so nice, but it isn’t, is it?”
He dropped the subject completely and ignored her question. Setting the sandal down, he leaned back. “In my dream, the same one I’ve had every night this week, we are in my cabin.”
CHAPTER 10
She swallowed nervously while he related his dream. It was the same one she kept having, causing her to toss and turn every night and wake wet and trembling on the edge of orgasm.
“…the light is enough. I lift you to the tabletop and ask permission. You nod and tremble….”
She shivered, instinctively hunching in a hypothetical effort to protect her breast.
He lifted his hand, voice full of passionate wonder. “…your right breast. My favorite. The needle slides through easily, and you give a small cry. I can feel your body, taut and frightened, but also”—his eyes met hers—“curious and alert, aware. I ease the ring through and close it. Wipe the small amount of blood away. I take a step back to look and it is perfect! The soft, burnished gold contrasts with the blush of your nipple. We kiss, and you are wild with demand.”
She shivered, feeling that bite in her right nipple, remembering the dream with an aching bit of vividness.