Her terrified eyes rolled toward La Crosse’s sleeping figure, praying he would wake; she despaired of winning this silent battle without help. But La Crosse’s chest rose in even breaths.
Wrenching violently in the chair, Bristol fought to draw away from the brutal searching fingers. Thrashing, hitting; her efforts to protect herself only served to excite the man further.
He dropped to his knees, panting wafts of rum-soaked breath, and his bearded face darted toward her breast. Rotten teeth tore savagely at La Crosse’s shirt. Bristol yanked backward with a stifled scream, a scream not audible a yard’s distance from the chair. The man’s dirty bruising fingers climbed higher inside Bristol’s leg, and a sense of hazy white panic blew through her mind. Her pulse thundered so loudly, it seemed impossible for La Crosse not to hear. Jean Pierre! her mind shrieked. The man’s teeth ripped open the shirt, and one pale breast fell forward, exposed to his glittering eyes. A dark-stubbled face split in a grin.
No! Bristol’s silent mouth screamed against his reeking palm.
Blindly she stretched her hand along the desktop, groping across the polished wood until her fingers found La Crosse’s meal tray and touched the cool silver of his fork. She grasped the fork tightly, and swung her fist with all the force she could muster. A flash of silver arced down, plunging into the man’s fleshy shoulder.
The man screamed in surprise and pain, one hand leaping to the quivering fork, the other smashing across Bristol’s face. Red agony exploded near her right eye, and Bristol’s head snapped to the side, her hair flying.
Following the motion of the blow, she scrambled from the chair with a shout of pain and terror, spinning toward the bed.
The man lay sprawled at her feet.
Bristol froze in a crouch and looked upward, meeting smoky eyes. La Crosse stood above the crumpled man, a wooden pin in his hand. Even in the dim moonlight, she saw the thunderous outrage on his face.
“That man...” Bristol panted, “he...” Everything had happened so quickly, it took her a moment to understand it was over. She lifted the torn flap of shirt, covering her breast, and she touched a shaking hand to the edge of her eye, already beginning to swell where the man had struck her.
Swiftly La Crosse stepped into his breeches and threw open the cabin door. The guard lay unconscious in the passageway. “Watch!” La Crosse roared up the steps leading to the decks. He returned to the cabin and lit the lamps, then cast a hard searching look at Bristol. “Are you hurt?” Nodding at Bristol’s babbled assurances, La Crosse threw a blanket over her shoulders, covering the tremor shaking her body.
Then he lifted her face with a thin smile. “Thank God you weren’t armed with a fork earlier in the evening.” He gestured toward the silver handle protruding from the man’s shoulder. “Or that might be me. Swords, I know. Forks are another matter.”
Understanding he tried to cheer her, Bristol managed a wobbly smile of gratitude. La Crosse stroked her cheek with his thumb and returned to the doorway, leaving Bristol to stare at the fallen man. She touched the lump rising near her eye, mentally comparing it to the knot bubbling up on the man’s head. Shivering, she turned toward the sound of running feet filling the passageway.
Several men crowded the doorway, staring down at the battered guard, then swinging toward the man stretched on the planks inside the cabin.
La Crosse gestured with the wooden pin. “Take the guard to the hold and put him in irons. When he wakes, tell him he’ll stay there three days with no food or water.” The wooden pin pointed to the man on the cabin floor. “Put that one in irons.” La Crosse’s tone was ice. “When he wakes, tell him he’ll receive twenty lashes at noon tomorrow.”
Expressionless, the men dragged the limp body from the cabin.
Bristol watched, and her eyes glittered like emerald chips. While La Crosse assigned a new guard, her mind pulled up the memory of her own lashes. And she estimated the damage twenty strokes would do. Her anger peaked, and she shuddered.
Weak, she sank to the desk chair and accepted the glass of wine La Crosse pressed into her fingers. She gulped it, welcoming the explosion of warmth in her stomach. Gradually her heart began to quiet.
From the depths of her soul, Bristol Adams yearned for home, for the safety of Noah’s snug house and her own secure place in it. She violently rejected what she’d seen of the bigger world. The world seethed with evil undercurrents. There wasn’t a safe place. If only she could be home now, nothing would ever again tempt her to jeopardize that security. She didn’t understand this larger sphere; she wanted Salem Village. Bristol desperately wanted to be home. Home!
Guessing the emotion that pinched her expression, La Crosse touched her hair lightly. “Back to bed,” he said. “You’ll be safe there.” His rich voice was gentle, but allowed for no argument.
Bristol’s troubled eyes rose. She’d nearly fallen on a sword from shame of sharing his bed. “I...”
“Get into that bed, or I swear I’ll throw you in!” La Crosse roared, his patience evaporating. “I’ve had enough trouble for one night!” He advanced a step, the wooden pin still in his hand.
Bristol’s wide eyes lifted from the pin to his stern face. She didn’t believe he’d actually strike her, but... She scuttled across the room and scrambled over the bed, pressing herself flat to the wall on the far side.
La Crosse looked at her before extinguishing the lights, seeing the torn shirt and the dark swell beside her eye. He smiled and shook his head, then climbed into bed. “Come here,” he said softly, opening his arms.
Bristol hesitated, waging a losing battle with herself. She was frightened and longing for the warmth and protection of his strong arms. Still...
“Come,” he whispered in the darkness.
And she went to him, breathing a tiny sigh of secret relief as his arms closed around her, gentling her against his body.
But she didn’t sleep immediately. She stared at his moonlit hand, feeling the weight of his arm where it crossed her body. In sleep, his tapered fingers lay relaxed and open, like a child’s, and Bristol found this simplicity oddly disturbing. His open hand, the fingers curled, seemed vulnerable somehow—an attitude Bristol did not associate with Captain Jean Pierre La Crosse.
Bristol pressed his hand flat, feeling awkward at touching him.
Surprised, she kept her hand on his for a moment, confused by the tightening in her stomach. Burning memories deviled her mind, and she was suddenly acutely conscious of his smooth naked body along her back.
Bristol’s mind whirled, and she battled a wave of sensual images lapping the rocky shores of her thoughts. Quickly, as if she touched hot embers, she snatched her hand away and closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of his skin.
Never had she experienced such wild swings of emotion in so short a period. A few hours ago she’d been ready to kill herself; now she lay spooned against La Crosse’s body, grateful for his warmth and protection.
Distraught at being unable to sort out her emotions, Bristol chewed a thumbnail and glared into the darkness. Only gradually did she give way to a deep exhaustion and the comfort of the softest bed she’d slept in since leaving home. Dear God, she longed for home!
She awoke to the dim light of predawn tinting the cabin in shades of pink and gold. Momentarily Bristol forgot where she was, blissfully aware only of the softness beneath her body and a comforting warmth curled around her back.
Her green eyes snapped open in jolting memory. Carefully she peeked at a smooth, hard shoulder. What was warm and protective in the darkness became a hideous embarrassment when exposed to daylight.
Hastily Bristol squirmed from La Crosse’s arm and rolled against the wall, opening a space between them. But the heat of his naked body and his rich male smell still reached her.
La Crosse groaned and stretched awake. He rubbed a blue sheen on his chin and opened his eyes with a smile. Looking at her from his pillow, he said, “Good morning, Mistress Adams.” His smile turned to a grin. “O
r may I call you Bristol? It seems a bit stiff to stand on formalities now, doesn’t it?”
Grinning at the flame of pink springing to Bristol’s cheeks, he rose and flexed his body, the muscles rippling smoothly. Filled with the purpose of a new day, La Crosse strode across the cabin and tugged a rope, then set out a basin and long razor. Seeing Bristol’s averted gaze, he laughed and tugged on his blue breeches.
Only then did Bristol dare to look in his direction, watching as he slid into a fresh white shirt with flowing sleeves. La Crosse appeared totally unselfconscious, as if waking beside a woman were nothing out of the ordinary.
Finding this thought vaguely irritating, Bristol frowned. An image of Goodwife Sable Horton and the arch look Sable had directed to La Crosse drifted into Bristol’s mind to annoy and perplex. Obviously Captain La Crosse did not lack for female companionship. And why should he?—he was strikingly handsome. For reasons she refused to examine, Bristol pushed away all thoughts of Sable Horton, giving her head an angry toss.
Mr. Aykroyd responded to the rope tug, bringing hot water and two mugs of steaming beer. For an instant his sparkling blue eyes strayed to Bristol, who sat in the bed, lost within La Crosse’s floppy shirt.
She accepted the foaming beer with downcast eyes, scarlet burning on her cheeks. But if Mr. Aykroyd thought it strange to leave a furious woman gripping a sword, then discover her in the morning sitting in bed wearing the enemy’s shirt, he gave no outward sign other than the twinkle in his eye.
Bristol stared into her beer. She noticed Mr. Aykroyd had brought two mugs without being told to do so. Unreasonably she felt an intense need to make an explanation of some sort to Mr. Aykroyd. But she could think of no way to adequately explain the evening’s events to herself, let alone anyone else. She clutched a handful of sheet and made herself sip the hot beer with an outward pretense of calm.
La Crosse splashed his face in the hot water and lifted his razor, giving Mr. Aykroyd orders as he shaved. The list was lengthy. Much needed to be accomplished to repair the limping Challenger. When La Crosse finished, he wiped his cheeks with a linen square and added, “I want every man assembled at noon to witness the lashing.”
“Aye, sir. They don’t be a hand on board what doesn’t know the tale.” Mr. Aykroyd darted a flicker of sympathy toward Bristol, his eyes touching the aching swell near her eye.
La Crosse tied dark curls at his neck with a thin piece of cord. “Have a tub filled for Mistress Adams. I think the lady would like a bath.”
Bristol looked at her hands, her face flaming. Baths were never discussed publicly. But then, two days ago she’d never have dreamed it possible for her to be sitting in a bed wearing nothing but a torn shirt in front of two men. Her cheeks deepened in color.
“And move her trunk in here,” La Crosse continued. “She’ll need fresh clothing.” La Crosse reached for his coat, addressing his next order to Bristol. “I want you on deck for the whipping.”
“Oh, but...” Bristol’s heart sank. She was afraid of the men; even in daylight, memories of that rum-soaked brutality had the power to sicken. She wanted the man punished, aye, but she didn’t want to face the leers or witness what twenty strokes would do to a human back.
La Crosse ignored her protest, turning to Mr. Aykroyd. “After the lashing we’ll have the burials and the sharing-out.” His mouth thinned to sarcasm. “Did the plunder have a night visitor as well? Or is the treasure safe?”
Mr. Aykroyd’s scars and welts rippled in a smile. “Pirate treasure takes second best to the scent of woman. No one disturbed the guard on the chest.”
Bristol listened curiously. She knew the pirate ship had been looted, but she hadn’t realized there was a treasure on board.
La Crosse nodded. “Very well.” He paused with his hand on the latch. “Mistress Adams, I want you clean and polished for the lashing. I want every man to see you at your best, then decide that no woman is worth twenty lashes, no matter how desirable.” He waved Mr. Aykroyd into the passageway, then leaned back into the cabin before closing the door with a wink. “At least most aren’t.” His smoky eyes swept over the curving shirt. “Some, of course, are worth any price.” The door closed.
Bristol stared at the door for a very long while. Personality complexities like those of La Crosse were unfamiliar in her limited experience. She didn’t know how to cope. Caleb Wainwright was exactly what he seemed, no more and no less—simple, straightforward, unchanging. Noah didn’t flash from one mood to another. Nor did most of the good, uncomplicated people of Salem Village. At least not that Bristol had seen. La Crosse kept her in a state of constant unbalance.
She sighed, her shoulders moving within the large shirt. La Crosse was right to call her a foolish little girl. Bristol suspected uneasily that her Salem Village existence had been a sheltered one, narrow and insignificant against the broader scale of the real world. She pleated the hem of La Crosse’s shirt with her fingers. She must mature quickly if she was to survive in this world. She suspected the process had already begun.
Swinging out of bed, Bristol padded to the mirror La Crosse had used for shaving, and she peered at her reflection.
She blinked in dismay. Her hair hung in matted clumps, blood mixing with tiny bits of wood and ash. Beneath a layer of dirt, soot, and dried blood, her face was scarcely recognizable. The swelling near her eye had reached its zenith, and she saw the skin beginning to bruise a blackish purple. The scratch halving her cheek was minor, thank heaven, only temporarily disfiguring; but added to the rest, the scratch aided in making a total mess of her face. Bristol stared into the mirror, her mouth open.
How La Crosse had found anything desirable in that face, she couldn’t fathom. Flinging down the mirror, Bristol yanked a blanket from the bed and wrapped herself, sinking into the desk chair. She sipped her tepid beer and glared out the windows at sun-dappled waves.
She remained there until Mr. Aykroyd appeared, followed by several men carrying a wooden tub and buckets of hot water. Behind them, more men deposited Bristol’s trunk near the captain’s bed. She narrowed her eyes at their rib-nudging leers.
“Out! Get yerselves above deck, and back to work!” Mr. Aykroyd growled, and his hand curled menacingly on the hilt of his dagger. The men hastened to obey.
Bristol sank her chin in the folds of the blanket. Knowing how she looked, she couldn’t imagine herself in any real danger. Regardless, Mr. Aykroyd positioned himself between Bristol and the men filling the tub. Not until he’d slammed the door behind them did he turn to her.
He shoved his dagger into his breeches and perched on the edge of the desk. And now his blue eyes softened to the gentle look he appeared to save for Bristol. “That be a nasty welt on yer eye,” he said finally. A grin deepened the ridges and valleys of his face. “But ye gave better than ye got. Ye clean busted one of the fork prongs. Struck it right into bone. ye did. The surgeon worked the best part of an hour to loosen that prong and dig it out.” There was no mistaking the pride in his voice.
Gingerly Bristol traced the ugly swelling near her eye; then a slow responding grin twitched at her full lips. Mr. Aykroyd’s news was cheering—maybe she was learning to survive more quickly than she’d thought. “Aye,” she answered, allowing a little pride of her own. “Aye, I did do well, didn’t I?” She smiled up from the blanket cocoon.
Mr. Aykroyd laughed and patted her shoulder. “Ye did!” He reached into a pocket and withdrew Bristol’s pewter mug. “I found this under yer pillow.” He set the mug on the desk, and his thick brows met in a frown. “Now, why the long face?” He followed Bristol’s yearning gaze. “This little cup?”
Despair settled over Bristol’s features. “Aye,” she said weakly, her voice thick with home.
Shrewdly guessing her thoughts, Mr. Aykroyd took the cup and turned it in weathered hands. “Ye’re homesick, then?” he asked softly.
“Oh, aye!” Forgetting her cheering victory with the fork, Bristol lifted cloudy eyes to Mr. Aykroyd. “So much ha
s happened, and I just wish I could go home!” She swallowed a lump forming in her throat. “Home!” After a pause she asked him, “Have you ever felt like that?”
He laughed and set the cup back on the desk. “Never!” He pointed toward the waves sparkling outside the windows. “That’s my home, gel. Always moving, always changing.” He studied her in a moment of silence. “But I come late to the sea,” he admitted. “Once there be a place I thought of as home.”
Bristol remembered the French village of Eze and wondered if this was the home Mr. Aykroyd remembered.
“I learned what I’ll pass along to ye. Home is never what ye remember. Once ye leave it, ye’ll never find it again. It’s gone forever. Remember this: never look back.” His blue eyes darkened in intensity. “Home is where the heart is. And, gel, the best advice any man can give is to keep yer heart close to the rest of ye! Let home be where ye are now!” Softening his voice, he patted Bristol’s shoulder kindly. “Ye can’t go forward if ye’re looking back. Yell never be happy where ye are if ye’re yearning for another place.”
Be happy here? Involuntarily Bristol’s eyes flicked to La Crosse’s rumpled bed. But she couldn’t speak of that. She muttered into the edge of her blanket.
“What, gel? Speak up!”
Mr. Aykroyd’s concern tugged her heart. “I think it’s easier to say than to do. There’s so much about here that I don’t understand.”
“Well, speak out, gel. Some say I listen well.” He removed his clay pipe and lit it.
Bristol inhaled a sweet-sour blend of strong tobacco and wondered where to begin. “Mostly it’s the captain, Mr. Aykroyd.” She drew a breath and spoke in a stronger voice. “I... he draws and repels at the same time. I don’t understand his attitudes toward things. For instance, when he chose to fight the pirates, doesn’t that make him responsible for all the death and destruction?” She looked up, troubled, waiting to be convinced.
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