The Captain's Caress

by Leigh Greenwood

  “Do you have a headache?” he asked turning around to look at her as he covered his whole body with thick lather.

  “No.” Her voice was no more than a faint whisper. “I feel fine.”

  “Good, then you can wash my back.” He sat down and splashed water all over himself to rinse off the soap. “I can’t reach it.”

  “No,” she said softly.

  “What did you say?” he asked, still splashing. “You’ll have to speak up.”

  “I said I wouldn’t wash your back,” Summer answered, louder this time.

  “Then I’ll wash yours,” Brent replied, smiling at her the way a cat smiled at a cornered mouse. “I’d enjoy that even more.”

  “You won’t do any such thing,” she said, a trifle shrilly, a look of frightened disbelief spreading over her face. “I don’t want a bath.”

  “You have a choice,” he said, still smiling. “One or the other. Which will it be?” He watched her steadily and his strong white teeth seemed to glisten in the light as she shivered with shame. “Make up your mind. The water’s getting cold.”

  Summer dragged herself from the corner, not daring to raise her eyes. Every movement seemed to make her humiliation deeper.

  “If you don’t look where you’re going, you’ll end up in the tub after all.” Brent laughed as she nearly stumbled over the chair. “I’d love to have you join me, but not head first.”

  Summer froze, embarrassed. She felt degraded.

  Brent held out the sponge, but she made no effort to take it from him. “I’ll guide your hand to my back,” he teased, putting the sponge in her palm. “Then you won’t have to look at me.”

  “No, thank you.” Summer trembled from his touch. “I can do it myself.”

  Summer’s scrubbing was so tentative that Brent could hardly feel it. “Put your back into it,” he ordered.

  Summer felt that she was going to die, but she scrubbed harder, covering first one shoulder and then the other. She rinsed them both and then scrubbed his lower back.

  “Mmmm, that feels wonderful,” Brent purred. “Are you sure you won’t scrub the rest of me?”

  Summer dropped the sponge as if it were a burning coal. “I’ve finished,” she said, drying her hands.

  “Hand me that towel before you go.”

  Before Summer could move, there was a great swishing of water and Brent stood up in the tub, dripping wet, but as proud and magnificent as a Michelangelo statue. With an audible gasp, Summer dropped the towel into the water and clamped her hands over her eyes, but not before she had a picture of his overwhelmingly masculine body etched into her brain.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” Brent protested. “You’ll have to get me another towel from the cupboard.”

  “I can’t,” she groaned, keeping her hands over her eyes, unable to move from the spot.

  “I’ll drip water all over the floor if I go.”

  “I can’t!” she said miserably. “I really can’t.”

  “Oh, all right.” He sounded only mildly put out. Summer heard water slosh about as he got out of the tub. Then his feet padded softly on the floor. A cupboard was roughly thrown open, and the barely audible sound of clothing being thrown about came to her ears. “You’re lucky I have some extras, or you’d have to go ask Smith for more.” Summer felt that her torment would never end. “You can open your eyes now,” he said. “I’ll stay covered long enough for you to run back to your corner.” Fearful that if she delayed he might not cover himself at all, Summer dropped her hands and ran quickly to the chair at the foot of the bed. She sat, her eyes fastened on her lap, but she was prepared to shut them on a second’s notice.

  “You shouldn’t be so squeamish,” Brent said, as he dried himself off. “I’m not hard to look at, at least so I’ve been told.” He tossed the wet towel to the floor, and Summer’s eyes snapped shut. “You might as well get used to me. I’m going to be around until we reach Havana, and I don’t plan to keep my clothes on all that time.”

  Summer shuddered.

  Brent slipped into a luxurious ruby red robe that reached his ankles. He walked to the door and shouted down the hall. “More water!” He turned to Summer, leaving the door open. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Summer’s head jerked up at his words. Her heart beat wildly, and her eyes were so unfocused by terror that she could hardly see her tormentor though he stood less than ten feet from her. “I don’t want a bath.”

  “The water’s warm and relaxing,” he said. “You’ll feel much better afterward.” Before she could recover the use of her tongue, the boys were trooping in with more cans of hot water. In a remarkably short time they had finished, and she was once more alone with Brent.

  “Come on, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” he assured her. “I’ll even help you undress.”

  “No!” she nearly shrieked. “I can’t take a bath in front of you.”

  “But I insist,” he said, and she knew by the hard glint in his eyes that there would be no turning him from his purpose. He took her by the hand and pulled her to her feet, then almost dragged her toward the tub that stood so ominously in the middle of the room. “Let me help you with your ties.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she whimpered. Her hands flew to her waist and feverishly covered the knotted sash, but Brent firmly removed them and undid the sash with one quick movement.

  “Stand still,” he commanded. “I can’t undo these buttons with you squirming like a captured pig.”

  Summer tried to remain rigid, but the feel of his fingers moving down and over her bosom as he meticulously undid each button nearly drove her into a frenzy. When he slipped the dress over her shoulders and dropped it to the floor at her feet, she thought she couldn’t stand any more. He quickly undid her light petticoat, and she stood revealed in her shift. She was covered with embarrassment, and could only hope that she would die and never have to look anyone in the face again. But worse was yet to come.

  Abruptly Brent was quiet. The mocking tone left his voice, the insouciant lightness vanished from his movements. His mind and body were heated by rising desire. His touch became heavy, his fingers clumsy; and he fumbled with the strings. As he slipped the straps of the shift over her shoulders, letting his hands linger on the satin-smoothness of her skin, the warm scent of her body gave him a heady feeling of intoxication. He tugged gently and the shift slid over the curves of her body to fall noiselessly into a circle at her feet.

  Like a man in a trance, he drank in every breathtaking detail of her body, from the luxuriant fall of burnished-copper hair to toes wriggling in a sign of her inner torment. He wondered again how Gowan had had the luck to chance upon this supremely lovely creature. His hand reached out to touch her, but she shrank involuntarily from his touch.

  “You’d better get into the tub before you catch cold,” he said. A constriction in his throat made it difficult for him to speak. “Let me give you a hand. You might fall.”

  “I can do it myself,” she said, weak with shame. She drew her hand behind her, but he reached out and took it.

  “Don’t be a fool. It’s not worth cracking your skull against the tub.”

  “I don’t want your help. I don’t want you to touch me at all,” she said tersely.

  “Try to accept my help graciously for once.”

  She did not answer him, but she did let him assist her into the tub. She immediately sank so low in the water Brent wondered if she meant to cover her head.

  “You don’t have to drown yourself just to get away from me,” he said acidly. “I’ll leave you alone if it’s that painful.” He stalked over to the chair in the corner and dropped onto it, muttering curses and swearing to blind himself rather than succumb to her allure.

  But his eyes would no more leave her than his mind would refuse to think about her, and the heat of his anger quickly ebbed to the warmth of desire. His gaze feasted on the loveliness of her curving lips, her dainty nose, the alabaster creaminess of her complexion, and on
tresses of molten copper that cascaded over the edge of the tub. He felt hypnotized.

  Desire tormented him as she moved slowly and quietly in the water. She was turned slightly away from him, and the early morning sun cast her silhouette into well-honed relief, sharply outlining her every movement. With fluid motions she washed her limbs one at a time, and he felt mesmerized, incapable of breaking the spell that held him lightly yet so securely. With a tremendous effort of will he wrenched himself away from the siren call of her overwhelming femininity.

  “I’ll wash your back for you,” he said, starting up from the chair like a stag erupting from the forest. He took the sponge, mindless of her protests, and roughly scrubbed her back, too caught up in her to know what he was doing.

  “You’ve washed the same spot at least three times now,” Summer told him with some umbrage. The sound of her voice broke the spell, and he gave her back the sponge. He felt as weak as a baby when he sat down again.

  Brent closed his eyes. Slowly his sense of detachment began to fade and he felt a part of the world again. He got up, deliberately walked to the cupboard, and took out a towel. “I’ll dry you,” he said, and waited silently for Summer to step out of the tub.

  She had no wish to leave the safety of the bath. Its warmth eased and comforted her, but she was weary of crossing wills with Brent, tired of the humiliation of being forced to obey his commands. He had almost destroyed the last remnants of her pride. She clenched her teeth and, eyes tightly closed, extended her hand for help out of the bath. She stepped onto the soft rug and felt the enveloping folds of the towel surround her. Then to her considerable surprise, he began to pat her dry.

  Her protests were in vain. Nothing seemed capable of stopping those hands, those horrible patting hands that went everywhere with bold and insistent strength. She burned with humiliation, felt cheap and tawdry; but those hands wouldn’t let her go, wouldn’t heed her outcry of rage when they strayed.

  Then, as suddenly as the patting had begun, it stopped. But Summer’s relief evaporated when Brent let the towel fall to the floor. Now no barrier protected her from the burning intensity of his eyes. She could track his ravenous gaze by the trails of fire it left on her body. She wanted to scream, to yell heathenish curses, to scratch out his devouring eyes, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t even cover her shame.

  “Come,” he said simply; he led her to the bed and placed her upon it with infinite gentleness. She watched with wondering eyes as he loosened the tie that held his robe closed. She wanted to turn away, but she couldn’t; her eyes remained wide and staring, drinking in the glories of the male body that stood before her. Any lingering shred of control she had was dealt a telling blow by his overpowering presence. His sensual grace seemed to permeate the whole atmosphere. She stared openly, greedily, committing every detail of his being to memory—powerful calves and thighs, muscular chest and shoulders.

  Her eyes found his and locked, held by the intensity of azure pools filled with a wealth of desire. The heat and intensity of his need scorched her; she felt drained by it. She unconsciously moved over so he might lie beside her.

  Brent gathered her into his arms, pressing her close to him, breathing in the warm fragrance of her freshly bathed body, enjoying the feel of her skin on his. His lips found hers in a gentle kiss. They almost pleaded with her to join him in the celebration of their union. Against her will, she responded, relaxing into his embrace and returning his kiss. Her response was warm and peaceful, but capable of becoming turbulent in the flash of an eye.

  Brent continued to kiss her with gentle insistence—her face, mouth, and eyes. His legs intertwined with hers, and she could feel the heat of him on her abdomen, pulsating and insistent. Instincts buried deep within her body began to stir under the stimulus of his passion, to warm and respond to his nearness. His hands caressed her, and a low moan, primeval in origin, escaped her lips. It sent a shiver of excitement through Brent. His kisses intensified and his hands moved with ever-increasing urgency. Every part of her was alive as she twisted with rising anticipation, drawn to him, pressed against him, pleading for the union that would make them one.

  Summer felt Brent’s knee move between her thighs, and fear and anticipation battled for supremacy. Her mind and body pulled her in opposite directions until she lost all control. Her agitated confusion excited Brent, and he could no longer contain his growing passion. He moved above her, entered her, easily at first, then more roughly. Her fear of pain receded as wave after wave of pleasure surged through her, ridding her of all doubt and confusion. Her whole consciousness was concentrated on the oncoming swells that threatened to bear her helplessly away. All desire to resist or to stoically endure his advances evaporated. She clung to him as though he were her only means of crossing the swollen river of passion that threatened to overflow its banks and to drown them both in its swirling eddies and crashing falls. As Brent increased the tempo of his lovemaking, an abrupt thrust drove her to new heights at which she could share equally in their pleasure. She clung more tightly to him, her nails digging into his back as her mouth sought his, eagerly meeting his lips and trying frantically to say what their bodies were already saying for them. With each thrust, Summer felt herself being lifted a little higher until she felt she had lost contact with all solid objects except the pulsating body driving her own into a fiery spiral.

  Brent’s movements became uneven and labored, his body was almost rigid with intense pleasure. In one final agonizing effort he drove deep within Summer, then a deep shuddering sensation swept through him draining him of tension and leaving him weak and gasping for breath.

  As Summer received the molten evidence of his heat, she felt that her insides were branded forever. She arched under him, thrusting herself against him, drawing every drop of pleasure from him, forcing him to drain himself dry in an effort to satisfy her. Then one final, explosive blast of pleasure surged through her, and with a moan torn from the very depths of her soul, she threw herself against him, to be locked in an embrace that would only be broken when the raging fires within them had cooled to glowing embers.

  Chapter 8

  “May I come in, milady?” It was one of Brent’s young officers. Summer scrambled out of bed and reached for her clothes.

  “You’ll have to wait,” she called out. “I’m not dressed.” She pulled her shift over her head and looked for something to cover herself. Her glance falling upon Brent’s red dressing gown, she threw it on without hesitation. “What do you want?” she asked, opening the door a couple of inches.

  “Good morning, milady,” the young man said politely. “Captain Douglas wants to know if you’re ready to join him for the midday meal?”

  “I’d prefer to eat in my cabin.”

  “I’ll have to ask the captain,” he said a trifle uncertainly.

  Summer dressed quickly. She was very hungry and hoped her food would soon appear. But a few minutes later she was dismayed to hear heavy footsteps coming down the passage and a booming voice. The next moment the door was thrown open and the captain’s huge form burst into the small cabin, his vital presence filling it to overflowing.

  “What is this I hear about having lunch in my cabin?” he asked, looking like a man who has been dragged away from important business due to an inconsequential interruption.

  Summer was determined that she was not to be intimidated by his size and bullying attitude, but she almost changed her mind when she saw the mood he was in.

  “I would like to eat in private,” she muttered.

  “Why? What are you afraid of?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, finding it hard to face his forbidding glare. “I just don’t feel quite up to talking with people.”

  “Nonsense,” he said briskly. “It’s not good for you to be cooped up all day. Besides, this ship’s too small for you to start trying to hide.”

  “I’m not trying to hide. I just want to be alone.”

  “Well, you can’t. This is not a luxury yac
ht, and Jacques doesn’t have time to be making up trays. The crew has a full load of work; I can’t have you adding to it.”

  “It’s a pity you didn’t think of that before you took me off the Sea Otter,” she snapped.

  “I’m not sorry about that.” Brent grinned and cast a leering glance at her body.

  “Well, I am. At least you could have let Bridgit stay with me.”

  “I’ll see that you’re cared for, but you can’t expect to have your meals brought to you.” Summer looked so small and vulnerable that some of the harshness left Brent’s voice. “You don’t have to worry that I’ll forget you,” he reassured her softly. “Now let’s go before Jacques comes after us with a bowlful of French curses.” He held the door for her, but Summer turned back.

  “Hurry up,” he called, not quite so softly.

  “I’m looking for my shawl,” she said. “I can’t go to the table looking like this.”

  “What’s wrong with the way you look?” he asked, gazing purposefully at the bodice of a low-cut gown that exposed half of her creamy bosom. “I think you look charming.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a clipped tone, “but I’m not the strumpet you take me for. It’s not my habit to advertise wares I don’t intend to sell.” She picked up her shawl.

  “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

  “My father had some pretty unsavory friends,” Summer mumbled, blushing and turning away. “I suppose I shouldn’t have spoken so boldly, but I can’t forget all the things you said to me yesterday.”

  “I won’t say them again.”

  Summer regarded him with skeptical eyes. It would be nice to have someone take care of her, but she didn’t think this passionate man would be able to maintain a disinterested attitude for very long.

  “In the meantime, we’d better hurry,” Brent continued. “One of my rules is that anyone who’s late to a meal doesn’t get anything to eat.”