If he was scarred, she’d gloat. No doubt he deserved every wound he’d gotten. But she had a feeling now that his bedding down in a less than comfortable manner was more for her benefit than his. Did he really not want to offend her sensibilities? That smacked so much of being a gentleman that she couldn’t credit it, yet she had seen how he’d behaved at Lady Spencer’s ball.
He’d cut a fine figure in his black tailed coat and had known exactly what to do and say that night. And his speech was refined, not fresh out of the gutter. He’d even managed to excite her with his air of mystery. She wondered if he could have been reared gently by English parents. Was that why he’d managed to deceive her that night? And whom was she kidding? Her own father had raised enough havoc on the seas to be labeled a pirate. So it was definitely possible that Bastard had been a gentleman prior to becoming a lying kidnapper.
It didn’t change her worse-than-bad opinion of him; she just found it amusing that he’d want to spare her the sight of his nakedness. She ought to do the opposite herself, at least remove her blouse, skirt, and petticoat. She enjoyed the idea of shocking him, but only briefly. He probably wouldn’t be shocked and would see it as an invitation, and she certainly didn’t want to extend one. She recalled how he’d looked at her on the last voyage after she’d taken off her wilted ball gown and donned one of his white shirts for the sake of comfort. The sensual expression in his turquoise eyes had so unnerved her that she’d punched him in the jaw. Well, she’d tried, but he was quick and had caught her hand, laughing. No, she wasn’t going to do anything he might interpret as an invitation. She was and would remain fully clothed, right down to her boots. She would have slept in her spencer jacket, too, if she hadn’t already draped it over the back of a chair.
After he turned off the lantern, she asked, “D’you have scars?”
“Not many, why?”
A lot of moonlight was in the room, so she looked in his direction, waiting for him to sit back up to talk, but he didn’t.
“No reason.” She lay down on her back to ignore him.
“I can guess.”
“No, you can’t.”
“You wonder why I don’t sleep naked when that is my habit.”
Damned mind reader. “Since I don’t know your habits or care to know them, your guess is wrong. But why don’t you move me in with your other hostages? The hold would be preferable to your cabin.”
“And miss these scintillating conversations with you?”
“Is that where you put them? In the hold?”
He didn’t answer, said instead, “I take it you aren’t blushing?”
“I have a good imagination. I frequently imagine you walking about naked. It’s amusing.” After a silent moment, she wondered aloud, “Are you blushing?”
“No,” he said in an amused tone. “Just surprised that we have the same imagination.”
She drew in her breath and her cheeks got hot. Bloody hell. She turned over loudly to face the bulkhead, but her remaining dagger was strapped to her thigh, so she turned again.
“Sweet dreams, Jack.” A definite chuckle.
“They will be, full of gore and you dangling from a hangman’s noose and—”
“Spare me the details, please.”
The room suddenly blackened when clouds got in the way of the moon, but she wasn’t going to let the darkness lull her to sleep. She had to do something tonight before the ship sailed farther away from England. She had to find Jeremy, commandeer the ship while most of the crew were sleeping. Finish off Bastard . . .
The thought of hurting anyone disturbed her, but this man deserved it. Not only had he kidnapped her twice, he was now holding Jeremy and Percy as hostages. And he was in the employ of some nefarious pirate who was determined to kill her father. She had to do it. It was the only way she could get the key and unlock the cabin door. If she tried to pick the lock with her dagger, she knew he’d hear it and take away her last weapon, rendering her utterly helpless again. She hated that he was such a light sleeper, wouldn’t even be surprised if he slept with one eye open.
The moonlight came back, but only for a second. But its absence made her worry that storm clouds had arrived. There’d been none the last time she’d looked out those barred windows, but that had been hours ago.
Rain and a thunderstorm would be the worst luck. There was no way Bastard would sleep through that. But she had no clue if he was sleeping yet and probably wouldn’t get one since the man didn’t snore.
When enough time had passed to ensure he was asleep and the moonlight had come back, she got her dagger from her thigh sheath before she stood up and tiptoed over to Bastard’s bed. The nice weapon had a seven-inch blade, sharp and lightweight, made just for her. She positioned herself at his bedside and bent over him before she reached for the key. It was where he usually kept it, in the right-side pocket of his trousers, but she wondered why her removing it didn’t wake him, light sleeper that he was. Then she saw that it had. His eyes were open and locked to hers. The only reason he remained perfectly still was because now that he was awake, he couldn’t help but feel the blade she held pressed to his neck. It was now or never.
But before she delivered the coup de grâce, she couldn’t resist telling him, “You shouldn’t have done this again. You should have stayed far, far away from me and my family.”
He said nothing, didn’t even try to talk her out of killing him, but she felt his hand on the back of her neck, drawing her head slowly down to his. She pressed her blade more firmly against his throat as a warning, but he didn’t stop until their mouths touched.
It was almost magical, how arrested she suddenly was. And it was no brief kiss this time. His lips moved over hers slowly but with such passion, she was drawn deeper and deeper toward an intimacy she’d never before shared with anyone. The thrill was in full bloom, making her heart pound erratically, stealing her breath. This is what she’d wanted that night at the ball when she first met him, what drove her to the park with such excitement to see him again.
First met him? No, not him, but the charming, mysterious . . . What she felt in that moment was overwhelming her senses, so much that she was helpless to resist temptation like that. Then she tasted his tongue against hers, and the thought intruded—shouldn’t she bite it?
That was a cold dousing. She lifted her head and heard him say, “Does that tell you why this happened again?”
“Not bloody likely.”
But she realized the dagger was still in her hand, still pressed to his neck. He’d missed his chance to disarm her so he could kiss her instead? Fool! But she couldn’t bring herself to slash his throat now. That was a little too gruesome for her. So she moved the blade to the side of his torso and thrust it in, hearing him groan, before she broke away from him and ran to the door.
“Jack. Jack, wait—”
She didn’t hear the rest if he said anything more. With the key turned and the door pushed open, she bolted out of the cabin. The deck was dark, but still someone spotted her and shouted to alert the crew. So much for finding her brother and gaining control of the ship. She hesitated only a moment to kick off her boots before she dove over the railing. She might or might not make it back to England, but either way, the pirates wouldn’t be able to use her to control her father.
Good God, the water was cold, but in moments she was behind the ship as it sailed on, and she continued to swim in the opposite direction. She could do this. She was a good swimmer. And she could rest from time to time, floating on her back. Surely another ship would come along and rescue her before too long.
At least she didn’t have to worry about Jeremy and Percy. She’d convinced Bastard they meant nothing to her, and he’d shared that with the crewman he’d called Mort, so surely they’d be let go as soon as they reached land. Bastard obviously hadn’t died immediately, but she hoped she’d hit something vital and he would bleed out within the hour.
Would his crew sail back to England without him to try to capture her again? If t
hey did, they would definitely beat her back there. And then it started raining. She stopped to glance back, but she couldn’t see the ship, probably because the rain was coming down so hard. But she couldn’t have gotten that far from it yet. She looked on each side of her, but still couldn’t see it, so continued on. After a moment she stopped again with the horrible realization that in turning about, she might have lost her direction to England. If she swam right back to that bloody ship . . .
Chapter Seventeen
JACQUELINE SCREAMED WHEN SHE felt something touch her side, thinking of scary things in the sea. But she couldn’t mistake the arm that was suddenly wrapped around her chest, or the voice that said, “You are the most aggravating woman.”
Enraged by her failure, she turned and fought Bastard tooth and nail, tried to kick him where she’d wounded him, tried to drown him. She struggled so hard they both sank several times. She might have won that fight, too, but unfortunately he hadn’t swum after her alone. Mort was with him, and when the blond got there, he took her in hand to swim both her and Bastard to the rowboat that had also been lowered for the search.
She might have heard the oars approaching if not for the rain. She might have had time to dive deep so they would have gone on searching endlessly with no luck. The dark would have been on her side. They couldn’t see anything out here in the water any more than she could. But Bastard was tenacious. He had to have been getting weaker and weaker himself from his wound, but he’d continued to swim after her, determined to save her from her folly.
And it was so bloody galling that she hadn’t even gotten far. Within minutes the rowboat stopped below the ship’s lowered ladder. She slapped away the hand that reached for her and climbed it herself. But she didn’t move any farther when she landed on the deck because she found herself surrounded by pirates. These definitely weren’t ordinary sailors, being garishly dressed and armed and making scandalous remarks about her attributes, which she knew were outlined by her clinging, wet clothes. And they were laughing, especially at Bastard when he came over the side.
“If you can’t handle the little vixen, we can!”
“You nearly lost our prize,” another man sneered.
“She’s not your prize,” Bastard retorted, in a chilly tone she’d never heard him use before. “And she won’t be taking any more evening swims. Get off my deck, now!”
Mort pushed the lot of them out of the way when they didn’t depart quickly enough. Bastard took her arm and walked her up to the quarterdeck to reach his cabin and get her away from those leering eyes. She was too abject to be embarrassed. She still couldn’t believe he’d jumped in after her with his wound. That was a stupid thing for him to do, considering his friend had also jumped in. And the wound was bleeding a lot. His wet shirt was pink with it.
The blond followed them into the room to get the key from her. He didn’t ask for it, just stood in front of her with an angry expression, holding his hand out. She would have thrown it at him if she weren’t so dejected. He then moved to his friend and helped to strip the wet clothes off him and get him into bed.
She’d watched without interest as she stood in a puddle from her own clothes, taking in the wide chest, a bare flank, but not much else with that big blond standing between them. The door had been left open, but she saw at least one man had moved in front of it to stand guard, so she didn’t look that way again.
Then another man entered, a short, skinny fellow of middle years dressed all in black with a long braided beard and a pink bandanna on his head. And two silver hoop earrings, which were barely visible beneath his shaggy long brown hair. She stared at him incredulously, but her eyes got really wide when he marched straight to her.
“Please say yer my patient, pretty.”
Mort snapped, “The wound is over here, as if you haven’t heard, you nasty old sod. It needs stitching.”
The doctor, if that’s what he was, still gave Jack one more suggestive look before he moved to the bed and opened the long bag he’d brought with him. He lifted a saw out of it, then a hammer, before he said, “Aha!”—and brought out a threaded needle.
Jack was still staring at what appeared to be a toolbox rather than a doctor’s bag and asked incredulously, “A hammer?”
“Easier to cut bone if ye break it first,” the man said as he began to ply his needle without any preparation first.
“Are you a real doctor?”
He glanced back at her with a chuckle. “Course I am. I’m just better at chopping off legs—and getting under skirts.” He actually wiggled his eyebrows at her.
She turned her wide eyes on Mort. “Is this who treated Andrew?”
“No, that doctor left us in England. He only agreed to join us for the free passage home.”
“Then who exactly is this?”
“Already told ye who I am, girly. Name’s Dr. Death and I’m the only doc aboard, so don’t be insulting me, eh.”
She clamped her mouth shut, guessing he was one of the pirates. A real doctor would never have a name like that.
Mort left, still without closing the door, and then Bastard said from the bed, “I really didn’t think you’d actually try to kill me.”
The words rang hollowly in Jack’s ears. Her last and worst failure yet, that Bastard wasn’t dead—that she wasn’t on her way to England. But she didn’t react. She was too numb with dismal despair.
She was tired, exhausted, but she didn’t sit down on her cot, didn’t want to get it soaked when she guessed she’d be sleeping in it sometime tonight. And the doctor was still there, stitching the wound. Bastard hadn’t waited for them to be alone before he’d made his remark.
He wasn’t giving up on a reply, either, and said warningly, “Jack?”
Wearily, she reminded him, “I’ve lost count of how many times I said I would kill you. You’ve lost your mind if you think I wouldn’t.”
“No, I just thought there might be more between us than blood and gore.”
“Ah, yes, what were your deluded words? That I ‘liked’ you?” She laughed scornfully.
“You give me this paltry wound instead of a real one that could have ended me? Admit it, Jack. Your heart is no longer in it—not since we danced together.”
That revitalized her anger. “How many times must I say it? I thought that man was someone else, not you. If I’d known it was you, I would have shouted to the rafters that you were a murderer and needed to be apprehended. You wouldn’t have gotten out of that ballroom alive.”
“Perhaps. But now you do know it was me. Changes everything, doesn’t it?”
He sounded so bloody smug—until the doctor asked, “You’re a murderer, Captain?” Dr. Death sounded impressed.
“No.”
“He is, too!” Jack insisted.
“She’s just predicting I will be, Dr. Death. Hardly makes it true, now does it?”
Bastard might have addressed that to the doctor, but he’d said it for her. Not that it mattered in the least when he was using her to lead her father to his death.
But the doctor shook his head as he closed his bag and headed to the door. “I suppose the bandage will need changing over the next few days, Cap’n,” he said in parting. “But that’s woman’s work, not mine.”
“Jack will do it.”
“No chance in hell.”
“You will. Would you really throw your . . . hirelings to the wolves?”
She drew in her breath. Was he actually going to play that card? And he wasn’t even looking at her when he made that threat. His eyes were closed. The blood loss and his exertion in the water had weakened him more than he was trying to let on. But he hadn’t passed out yet.
“You know where my shirts are, put one on. I haven’t locked the trunk yet.”
She almost laughed. He obviously remembered that she’d confiscated one of his shirts on the last voyage just so she could get out of that uncomfortable ball gown she’d been wearing when he’d kidnapped her. She’d shredded all the re
st of his shirts that day and would have ripped apart his pants, too, if they weren’t so sturdily made. But he’d locked his trunk after that.
Now she just said adamantly, “No.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Jack. Considering what happened tonight”—he paused to place a hand over his bandage—“I need to see what else is in your arsenal.”
“That was my last dagger.”
“I’m afraid I’ll need proof of that now. But it’s up to you whether you strip in front of me, or if Mort takes your clothes off for you. Although considering how angry he is at you right now, I think you’d prefer to do it yourself.”
She wished he were bluffing, but knew he wasn’t. The doctor had closed the door behind him, but Bastard’s friend would probably be back to tie her up for the night or take her to the hold so Bastard could recover in peace. That was a promising thought. . . .
She crossed over to the trunk at the foot of his bed and opened it. Most of his shirts were white, but she saw a blue one and, under it, a pink one. She would never have taken him for a dandy, but then pirates were known for gaudy attire according to Gabby.
She grabbed the pink one and moved back across the room to toss it on her cot before she faced him. This wasn’t going to be difficult, certainly nothing to be embarrassed about. She might even make it uncomfortable for him, enough that he might wish he hadn’t suggested this.
She turned out her pockets first before she unfastened the soggy skirt and let it drop to her feet. The thin petticoat was still sticking wetly to her legs, so she had to push that down. She glanced at him then to see if he was actually watching her every move. He was, maybe a little too avidly. He’d even leaned up on his right elbow. The bandage had been wrapped around him, but his chest was so damned wide and long, she was still seeing too much of it. And he was naked under that blanket. . . .
So maybe she felt a little embarrassed, but not because of what she was doing. Standing there in her blouse and fancily beribboned drawers, she turned one hip toward his view, then the other. Unlike his shirt, which would reach her knees, hers barely reached her hips. She unbuckled her leather sheath next. It had fit so nicely over the leg of her drawers that it hadn’t chafed her skin, but it was useless now that her last weapon was gone. She would have kicked it angrily away if her feet weren’t entangled in the pile of wet clothes.
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