by Julia Knight
“Until Fulton turned up, how could anyone know the crew were the pirates? It’s not as if they wear a uniform, is it? It only struck me when I recognised your prisoner.” Until he saw Fulton, his secret could have stayed secret. Now his only concern was keeping the man quiet, while at the same time getting the location out of him. “Matthew, how about you let me talk to him first?”
Matthew’s frown deepened. “Paul, is there something you aren’t telling me?”
Paul shut his eyes and swiped at the sweat on his forehead. “Matthew, please. It’s nothing to concern you, I swear. It’s just—”
“It’s just he might tell you what they’ve done with Catherine.”
Ah, Matthew, bless your generous heart. Saved me twice in two minutes. “Something like that, yes.”
“She really must have made an impression on you. You met her once, weeks ago, and still she’s on your mind.”
“I should have saved her.” That was true enough. He should have been able to stop her in this madness and stop her making an idiot of him. He should be able to stop thinking of her, start thinking of getting his beloved ship back. Catherine had made it abundantly clear what she wanted, and it wasn’t him. “I should have saved her, and I didn’t.”
Matthew laid a hand on his shoulder, but it gave him no comfort, because it offered sympathy for a lie.
“Go on then, I’ll wait here, if it’s that important to you,” Matthew said. “The threat of the gallows should be enough to get something out of him.”
“Thanks, Matthew.” Paul went into the cell, blanched at the fetid smell that hit him in the face like a slap and shut the door behind him.
Fulton grinned at him. He was an oily little man with a permanent sneer and a body seemingly made to sidle. “Told ’em both a pack of lies there, didn’t you? Drunk, my backside! What’s it worth not to tell ’em what you was really up to?”
“Put you off her ship, did she?” Paul was in no frame of mind to try this softly. The man was a maggot, and very dangerous to him. “Why’s that?”
“’Cos of you, that’s why.” Fulton spat into the rotting straw that passed for his bedding. “Didn’t take too kind to a little joke of mine about you. Women! Got no sense of humour.”
Paul grabbed Fulton by the shirt and yanked him to his feet. “I’d stay very quiet about her if I were you. It might keep you from the gallows.”
“Gallows?” All the bravado seemed to bleed away from Fulton.
Paul smiled at him, a slim twitch of his lips that he hoped was full of threat. “Yes, gallows. What else did you expect?” He let go of the filthy shirt, and Fulton dropped to the straw. “Of course, if you’re helpful, and if you don’t mention her, then matters might be arranged. If not—” He mimed a noose being yanked upward from his neck.
Fulton’s pale face ran with sudden sweat, his eyes wide with fear. “What do you want?”
Paul almost laughed. Best not to get too complacent with the coward. He looked a sly coward, and they were men to watch. One wrong word from him and Paul could look forward to the gallows himself. “Where’s my ship? One simple little question and you might live to the end of the week.”
Fulton stared at the floor, but not for long. No loyalty in this one. “And I get to go free?”
“Free? No, not free, and certainly nothing guaranteed before we find them. I’ll recommend that you not get the death sentence, if what you tell me is true. If you keep your mouth shut about her. Maybe you’ll survive the prison long enough to get out.”
Fulton laughed. “She got you, then? Witched you good, didn’t she? Aye, there’s many a man on that crew who wouldn’t mind a bit of that. Your flotilla will find out about her as soon as they find where she’s holed up. They’ll soon find out who’s the captain then, won’t they? Then what’re you going to do?”
Truth was, Paul didn’t know. Plead ignorance? That day, the day they caught her, loomed large in his thoughts. It would also be the day, with luck, that he got the Newquay back. His heart burned to be at sea, to be in command without anyone to overbear him. To see a far horizon and know he could go wherever he pleased within his orders, and the order to catch pirates could lead him anywhere.
He knew, with a sudden blinding clarity, why Catherine couldn’t give it up—for the same reasons he couldn’t. The day he got all that back, she’d be caught and hanged. Was it worth it, having what he wanted, if she were dead and he the cause? He shook himself.
“What I’ll do is none of your concern, Fulton.” Paul drew his sword, held it toward Fulton’s belly and tickled at the skin under his shirt. Fulton tried to get away, but the wall at his shoulders stopped him. “Your concern is whether you think telling anyone is worth a sword twisted in your belly and being left in the sun to die like the dog you are.”
Fulton glared at him, and his voice, when it came, was soft, but full of pent-up bile. “Aye, sir. I’ll take your deal, damn your eyes. I’ll take it, and I’ll bet you get a grisly death before I do. Gallows or a sword in the gut. Her sword, wouldn’t surprise me. She’d kill you without a second thought, if it meant she kept her ship.”
Paul leant forward so the point of the blade pierced Fulton’s skin. Fulton yelped and stared at the small bloom of blood seeping through his shirt.
“Then she’s little different to me,” Paul said. “For I intend to have my ship, no matter who stands between. And I’ll kill you without a second thought if it gets me that.”
Chapter Five
Catherine lurked in a dark corner and cursed herself for a fool. How had she persuaded herself she needed to be here? Because she was an idiot, that was why. It wasn’t too late. She could still walk away, trek to where her caravel was secreted and get the hell out of here, but if she did, she’d never know for sure whether the navy had got wind of where she was hiding, and if so, when they would attack. But outside this window? She should’ve dressed as Cecily and gone to Matthew—he’d tell her anything if it meant he might get a chance with that innocent. No, Cecily was gone now, for good or ill, and Catherine didn’t miss her.
So here she was, against all her better judgment, outside Paul’s window. He was nowhere near such a sure thing as Matthew. Paul was his own man, not one to tell her what he shouldn’t. She knew that, as she knew, deep down, that it was all just an excuse anyway. She was here because she wanted to see him. And not just see him, now she was being truthful. She wanted him, a man with fire in his veins rather than the water that filled the hearts of most men. She wanted everything, and she risked all she had for that. Idiocy.
She crept to the window, keeping to the shadows as far as she could, and peered in. The moon was no more than a sliver, giving just enough light that she could make out Paul’s prone form on the bed and determine that he was alone. Her fingers tingled with unaccustomed nerves. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Even while she thought the words, she lifted the sash and eased in over the sill. Her soft-soled boots made no noise on the carpet as she padded toward the bed.
Paul lay spread out over the bed on his stomach, the skin of his broad shoulders highlighted by the silver glow of moonlight. She’d once looked down at Jeremiah like this, with an ache of passion in her belly. She’d loved his muscular chest, the warmth and strength in the way he’d curled his arms round her, as though while he was there, nothing could harm her. She shivered in the heat. She’d loved Jeremiah at the start. Before he’d found out what she was, what she’d been. Before she’d tried and failed to give it up for him. Before protection had become control, pride had become unreasoning jealousy, strength had become cruelty. Was there any way to tell whether Paul would be the same in the end? Whether, driven by desperation and a fear for her own life and sanity, she’d end up thrusting a knife through his heart too and leaving him in a gutter somewhere?
Her hand trembled on the hilt of her sword, and her step faltered. There was no way to tell. She should leave, now, before it was too late, before she was in too deep. Before she lost herself in him. She knew her
self too well to think she could resist for long if she gave in now. She should never have come.
Paul rolled over and stretched in his sleep. He opened a bleary eye opened and mumbled, “Catherine?”
She held herself very still as he struggled out from sleep and sat up. It was too late. She stepped forward into the small patch of pale moonlight so he could see her properly.
He blinked at her and rubbed at one eye, as though he didn’t quite believe what he saw. “Catherine, I thought—” He shook his head, seemingly at a loss.
With a frozen smile that she thought might crack at any moment, she slid down onto the bed next to him. He reached out to touch her black silk shirt, and then he laughed. “I dreamed that you came, and here you are.”
The silk crackled as he moved his hand over it, slowly as though not to scare her away. The warmth of his fingers through the thin material made her shiver in anticipation. When he pulled away, sat up straighter and frowned at her, she bit her lip in frustration.
“What have you come for? To make a fool of me?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Later.” It wasn’t words she wanted now. She leant into him, and his musky scent made her mouth dry up and her heart thunder in her ears. She didn’t seem able to keep her gaze from his body, from the hard muscles across his shoulders down to the flat stomach that she could probably bounce pennies on. Mesmerised, she leant in still farther and set her lips to his neck. The throb of his pulse quickened under her lips, and she smiled. “We can talk about it later.”
Paul took her arms, not rough but firm, and pushed her away till he held her at arm’s length. “Not later. Not this time. What in God’s name are you doing here? I should turn you in and watch you hang.”
“But you won’t.” She made her voice confident, although she wasn’t. One shout from him and it was all over.
He turned away. “No…no I won’t. Not today, but I should. It’s my job, it’s what I’m here for.” All the muscles in his jaw clenched, and he stared at his uniform draped over a chair. “Some bloody naval officer I turned out to be. Letting you steal my ship, helping you steal a bloody ruby, and now you want me to help you again. A known pirate—at least I know you are. Please, get out and don’t come back unless you bring the Newquay with you.”
A shard of something pierced her heart. Fear, hurt, something else? Whatever, it raced along her nerves and prickled her skin, made her voice sharper than her sword. “Certainly. There’s more than one officer in port who has the information I need. I could dress as Cecily and Matthew would tell me everything I could wish, just for a chance to suck on her virgin tits. I would’ve preferred it to be you, but obviously I misjudged your enjoyment.” She stood briskly and turned for the window.
“You came to me because you wanted to offer sex as a trade?”
The cold granite in his voice brought her up short, and she turned on him. “Forgive me, but I was under the impression that was what you offered me in return for staying, for giving up my life. A trade.”
His frown deepened before he turned away. “Is that what you thought?”
She watched the way his shoulders twitched as though he expected a lash of words. “Yes,” she whispered finally.
He shook his head and tried to laugh. It cut off abruptly, and he grabbed a pillow and launched it across the room. The sound of glass smashing, the tinkle of it as a bottle collapsed into a cloud of fragments, was muffled under the pillow’s weight.
“Please, Catherine, leave now. You’ve got a price on your head that no man in this port would turn down if he was sane.” He laughed, raggedly, as though he was out on the edge of something. The sound drew soft shivers all over her. “But obviously I’m not, so go. Before I recover what sanity I used to have before I met you.”
“Paul—” She got no further.
“Come on, woman, you’re not stupid. I’m a navy man, through and through, and you’re the person I have to condemn. Go away, and stay away, before I do it.”
Catherine wasn’t about to leave without getting what she’d come for. She sat on the bed and ran her hands along his back. He flinched away from her, but not too much. Her thumbs massaged the tight muscles in his shoulders.
“Please, Catherine. Please leave before I throw you out or decide I’ll have that price.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, choked through a tight, angry throat, and she knew she had him.
“Can’t we forget that for now, for tonight? Forget what we are and just be who we are?”
His shoulder muscles relaxed a fraction, and he looked at her with a wary hurt. His eyes searched hers, and she couldn’t pull away. “And who are we? Who are you? Is this it? Is this really you?”
Her smile faltered. “Yes, this is really me. This is the me I’ve always been, underneath. I can’t give it up. I tried, truly I tried, but I can’t, I won’t. But forget about that now. It doesn’t matter. It can matter in the morning.”
She brushed away his hair from his nape, and he wriggled his shoulders as though a goose had walked over his grave. With a sudden movement, he was facing her, on his knees, his face so close to hers she could feel his breath on her cheek, fluttering through her sweat-dampened hair.
“And just how much of you is this?” he said. “Not much, I’ll warrant.” He caressed her neck. So strong, his hands, but so gentle when he wanted them to be. He bent forward, his lips searching for hers. She ducked her head, so he kissed her cheek. He pulled her face back round. “No, not much of you. And if I’m going to do this, I don’t want only part of you, Catherine.”
She shut her eyes for a moment. He wanted what she couldn’t give him. “You’ll have all there is I have to give you.”
When she opened her eyes, his were still on her. They’d lost the softness from earlier, lost the open, searching look. She almost shuddered at the way they bored into hers. She’d lost him. She might have him for tonight, but she’d lost him with her words, with who she was, as she had Jeremiah.
He traced the softness of her silk shirt, teasing her nipples on his way to the buttons, and a hard look of anger darkened his face, as though he sought to show her what she’d turned down. As though that would be enough to make her give up everything she’d fought for. Almost, almost it was.
Because it was different this time; he was different. The way his hands moved over her was softer, slower, as though he meant to make the most of this time. As though he meant to burn it into his memory.
He undid the buttons and pushed the arms of her shirt over her shoulders, trapping her for a moment and following the sliding silk with his lips. Warm, sweet breath grazed her skin, tightened her nipples and her belly in anticipation. When she moved to try to stroke him, to run her fingers over his back, he edged his hands down farther, stopped her with a firm, gentle pressure. For once she said nothing. She didn’t mind. She didn’t lead him, or order him, or try to wriggle out of his control. For the first time in a long time, too long, she yielded herself to a man’s wishes, let him take his time. Allowed him his own pleasure in hers.
She felt his lips curve in a smile against her skin, and she shut her eyes and gave in to it. To him.
Her nipples were aching long before he even touched them. Every lick of his tongue, every movement of his lips on her, was an agony of anticipation. A silvery trail of saliva drew circles over her breasts, along her collarbone and down, and each time he would just avoid touching her nipple. Each time, she tried to move, tried to guide his mouth there, but he only smiled against her and moved his tongue the other way.
He let a warm shiver of breath play across her nipples, his lips just out of reach, and she tried to reach forward to make him touch them, but he wouldn’t. He held her there for a minute more, until she was almost faint with expectancy. Then he smiled again, a soft movement of his lips against the edge of her areola until she had to bite back a demand. The words drowned in a groan as finally, deliciously, he took her nipple in his mouth, d
rew it out with his lips and circled it with his tongue at the same time his hand took the other. The merest hint of teeth made the skin tighten so far it was just on the edge of pain, and a shivering thread expanded from them, down and out, up to her neck which ached for more kisses, along her belly, and down into her groin, where it peaked into a silver spike of pleasure.
She couldn’t help but move in his grasp. He released her, but only long enough to guide her down onto the bed. She tried to reach into her breeches because she had to be touched there, had to, she couldn’t wait. He stopped her before she could get halfway there and twined his fingers with hers, and did the same with their other hands, pushed her onto the bed.
Kisses trailed across her belly. When he lifted his head away, the bite of cool air on her wet skin almost had her gasping. He paused to unbuckle her sword and pistol and take off her boots. Finally he teased at the buttons on her breeches. She couldn’t bear it. Her hands were free and she had to touch him, had to feel his warm smoothness. Eyes half closed, she stretched out, but could reach only his shoulders. She moved her hips round and moved downward, torn between wanting his kiss on her, wanting his tongue in her and wanting to touch him, to kiss every inch of him.
As she moved, he gripped her breeches, pulled them down and off in one swift movement. He fell forward and leant over her, propped on his forearms, his head level with hers, his hair falling over his shoulders to brush her neck, a tiny, feathery touch. He moved his legs out from under the sheet, slid them over hers. His length was a scorching hardness against her thigh. Without thought, her hips moved, sought to catch him between her legs. Lord, he hadn’t even touched her there yet and she was ready, a hot wetness between her thighs. Her heartbeat throbbed in her clitoris, a painful, pleasurable ache, one that waited only for him to trigger it.
His eyes were dark with some thought, and they searched her face in a way that made her tremble. She was naked before him, and not just for a lack of clothes. Her breath wouldn’t come, blocked behind a tightness in her throat as she stared up at him. Her heart fluttered, desire and fear mixed so well she almost couldn’t tell one from the other. Desire for him, for his touch, for him in her. Fear for what would happen if she succumbed, if she let him see her true self. Fear of what he might become if she should turn his mind, as she had Jeremiah’s.