Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  For a brief moment, she weighed the possibility of acquiescence. It would be less dangerous. Lately, she had begun to suspect she had a special need to take care. She was so often assailed by illness, just as she had been moments before, and there were other signs. It would be natural enough under the circumstances. She had, until now, been able to push aside the idea as a complication it would be best not to face until absolutely necessary. It was necessary now.

  But, could she bear it? Could she lie and allow Nate Bacon to touch her as Ramon had done? His would be no gentle wooing; of this she was well aware. Could she control her aversion to his cruel caresses? Could she support his brute invasion of her body without going mad with disgust?

  “Are you fretting about Cazenave? He was most likely blown to pieces. The sharks will have a feast. They infest these waters, you know, and the smell of blood attracts them like perfume does a man.”

  Sharks. She had not considered. An instant later, his words struck her.

  “You seem to be under a misapprehension,” she said, revolving slowly in her wide skirts to give him a twisted smile. “The ship you sank was not the Lorelei.”

  He gave a nod and a grunt. “Oh, I knew, my dear, since the man I hired as captain of this ship pointed it out to me, but I wasn’t certain you did.”

  “I knew,” she answered stonily.

  “Yes. And, you know your lover is being chased over the seas by a federal cruiser while he is burning precious coal he can ill afford, being hurried to his inevitable surrender as he steams. farther and farther away from you to escape.”

  “That is your most fervent hope, at any rate,” she returned, her tone tart as a defense against the pain of the picture he presented.

  He pointed his fork at her, his voice grating as he spoke. “I’ve told you before, I’m not afraid of. Cazenave.”

  “No? “I’m sure I would be in your place. You cheated his father in a crooked card game in order to get your hands on Beau Repose, then hired men to set upon M’sieur Cazenave as he rode to repay his debt to you. And, when it looked as if he might still find the means to save his son’s inheritance, you caused a crevasse that flooded his acres, ruining him, bringing about his death. Ramon knows this, and someday he will see that you pay.”

  Blood rushed purple to his face as she spoke. “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes.” Ramon had made no threats, but it would not hurt if Nate thought he had.

  “And, you believe him?”

  “Why should I not? It makes perfect sense to me, since you used a similar ploy to force my uncle’s consent to my marriage to your son. I don’t believe Uncle Sylvester would have agreed, if he had not been in debt to you, his wealthy benefactor, and if the warehouse holding the cotton that would have been used to pay you off had not burned.”

  “An unfortunate accident,” Nate sneered. “I did suggest he insure his yield.”

  She studied him. “l’m sure you did, in such a manner that it would have seemed lacking in spirit, not equal to the proper daring of a southern gentleman, if he had complied. I heard him talking about it once to Aunt Madelyn, you see.”

  “You judge me harshly,” he said, wiping egg from his mouth with the handkerchief he took from his jacket pocket, using it to clean his fingers with fastidious gestures, his eyes shrewd as he watched her.

  “What did you expect? I know that of all the things you have done, there is none so despicable as what you did to Franklin. He thought you were bringing home a wife for him, while all the time you were intent on a mistress for yourself. Franklin, your own son, was the biggest dupe of all.”

  “That’s not true! I let him have you.”

  He threw down the handkerchief, scowling as if her words had pricked him for the first time. His pale blue eyes were as hard as marbles. His silver-brown hair, greasy with pomade, had been loosened from its careful pompadour by the wind, and was falling over his ears.

  She laughed, a brittle sound. “So you did, or very nearly. Was I supposed to be so grateful when you took me from him that I would fall into your arms? Your attitude toward me changed a bit when I was found with Ramon, didn’t it? You were not going to be satisfied to wait quite so long. How glad I am that I went riding that day, that I met Ramon Cazenave and discovered what love between a man and a woman could be. Otherwise, I would never have known.”

  He pushed his half-eaten meal back, coming slowly to his feet. “I would have shown you, given you jewels, silks, anything you wanted. I was crazed with wanting you.”

  “As a possession, the same way you wanted Beau Repose. Like a thief, you went after both in the only way you could ever have them, without thought for the pain you would cause.”

  “I got them. I had Beau Repose for as long as I wanted the place, and now that I’ve finally laid hands on you, I’ll have you the same way.”

  He came at her, a satisfied smile on his face, as if he expected her to be mesmerized into allowing him to do with her as he pleased. She evaded him in a whirl of skirts, backing away.

  “You won’t have me so easily, and even if you do manage it, you will regret it; I will see to that. I have a score to settle with you for passing on the movements of the Lorelei, and my own. I haven’t forgotten, nor will I forget anything you may add to it.”

  He gave a rough laugh, moving after her. “l’m trembling.”

  “You may be stronger now, but you have to sleep. That’s something you should remember.”

  “Serve me any tricks, and you’ll regret it.”

  “Not if you are dead.”

  “You think I don’t know Franklin’s death was an accident? You couldn’t do it again, not in cold blood.”

  She gave him a chill smile. “It’s your life you are wagering on the possibility.”

  “But, I know just how to handle bitches like you.” He lunged, snatching her arm, jerking her forward, so she stumbled against him. She twisted her shoulder, bending to free one hand. Immediately, she struck for his eyes, clawing at his face as he snapped his head backward. Her nails ripped down his cheek and into the skin of his neck. He slapped her, a vicious blow, and she knotted her fist, bringing it up from below her waist to slam it into his mouth. She had the pleasure of seeing his lips split against his teeth before he threw her from him. Her elbow cracked against the end of the bunk, numbing her right arm to the fingertips as she fell across the mattress.

  He flung himself after her. She bounced up, dragging at the pillow with her good left hand, sending it flying into his face. He swept it aside, plunging after her. His fingers closed on the puffed sleeve of her gown, ripping it from the shoulder. She tore free, dancing away from him, massaging her arm. Brushing the wall beside the door, she set Nate’s extra coat and shirts to swaying. She grabbed them, slinging them at him even as she whirled along the wall in desperate haste. He ducked under the coat and snatched a shirt from his head, diving after her. His groping hands caught at her waist, sliding along her abdomen, and he cursed the corset that kept his fingers from finding purchase on her tightly laced rib cage.

  The edge of his dinner tray on the small table slid as her skirts struck it. Instantly, she picked it up, hurling it at him. He snarled another oath, throwing up an arm. The plate it still held struck his wrist, flipping up, and egg yolk splattered his face. He swabbed at it in disbelief, then with a roar, he charged her.

  She caught the back of the light chair, flinging it in his path. As he swerved around it, cursing as a leg scraped his shin, she tipped the table and shoved it in front of him. He leaped over it and she tried to dodge around him, but the upturned table and the bulk of his body left no room. He snaked an arm around her waist, throwing her back, and she was trapped in the corner.

  She twisted and turned, writhing in his grasp. He caught her free wrist, turning it, so that agony gripped her. Her hair, piled so loosely on her head, shifted, sliding from its pins that rained upon the floor. She kicked at him, and he pushed her against the wall, driving her into it with the
weight of his body, so that the lamp above them shuddered in its gimbals, casting swaying shadows on the cabin walls. The breath was driven from her lungs, and with a sharp, gasping cry, she was still.

  Taking instant advantage of that moment of weakness, he fastened his fingers on the neckline of her gown, pulling it off her shoulders, dragging it lower to expose the full globes of her breasts. He bent his head to fasten his hot mouth on one peak, setting his teeth into the vibrant softness. Her cry of pain, the arching of her back as she tried to avoid him, seemed to excite him. He pressed closer, so that the hard thrust of his desire for her could be felt through his trousers, through the layers of her skirts and hooped crinoline, which he compressed against the wall.

  “I’ll have you here, standing up, like the street-corner whore you are,” he muttered.

  He leaned to drag at her skirts, lifting the bottom steel band of her hoop to her waist, so that her petticoats bunched upward, feeling under it for the tape of her pantaloons. She pushed at him, but his weight pinned her in place. On her breasts was a smear of blood from his cut lip, and the sight of it sent a shiver of revulsion over her. That shudder was followed by another, and another. She shoved harder, and he slammed his shoulder into her chest. Again, the lamp above them trembled.

  Her eyes dark with anguish, she looked up. If she stretched out her right hand, she could reach the base of the lamp. It was brass, and heavy, and she was not sure she could hold it with her numb fingers, but she had to try. He was tugging at the waist of her pantaloons, clawing at the soft skin of her abdomen as he tried to break the tapes that were cutting into her. Soon they must give, and then….

  She reached up, touched the lamp base. It wobbled in the gimbals. She pushed upward, trying to get a grip on the smooth metal. The lamp tilted, burning brighter behind its glass globe. She pushed again, lunging a little even as she spared a glance for Nate, who was grunting, tearing at her clothing.

  The lamp came free. She juggled for purchase, but could not find it. It revolved, falling, pouring hot oil. She turned her head swiftly, shrinking to one side. The oil splashed down, hitting Nate’s shoulder, soaking in. He jerked up with a strangled cry. His elbow struck the lamp, deflecting its course. It described an arc in the air, streaming oil, and hurtled against the edge of the bunk with a crash and the tinkling of shattered glass. Oil spewed over the bed coverings before the lamp thudded to the floor. For an instant, it lay with the wick fluttering in the broken mess, long enough for Nate to slew around. Then, with a violent wafting of hot air, the room erupted in flames.

  Nate staggered back, beating at the shoulder of his jacket where blue fire danced. This did no good, and he dragged it off, flinging it from him. With his eyes darting from his head, he ran to pick up the pillow from the floor and began to beat at the leaping flames that threatened to consume the cabin.

  Lorna jerked up her gown to cover herself, then swooped down on the burning jacket on the floor. She coughed with the smoke that boiled around her as she slapped at the flames, pushing her hand into first one pocket and then the other. At last she came up with what she sought: the key. Scrambling to her feet, she took the long step that would bring her to the door, trying to ram the key into the lock. Her hands shook, so that she could not make it work for a long instant; then, it was in, turning. She snatched open the heavy panel, half-falling out into the passage.

  Only then did she realize how airless the cabin had become in that short time, and how hot. Behind her, with the flesh influx of air, the fire burned brighter, higher. A man appeared down the companionway ahead of her. He took one look, then began to yell.

  A large portion of the crew of the Avenger pounded down from above, pushing past her on the run. She huddled against the wall of the passage as they crowded inside the cabin. Then, she picked up her skirts and made for the companionway.

  On deck the wind was cool, the night wide and dark. She stood at the railing, breathing deep, trying to stop the trembling that shook her. She could not. Faintly, the shouts of the men as they fought the fire came to her. The ship was old and the timbers dry. Apparently the flames had gotten more of a foothold than she had thought possible in so short a time. Smoke poured up out of the companionway, and there was a red glow just beyond where she stood, where the porthole of that cabin opened. As she swung to stare, she saw fire licking up toward the deck from that direction.

  The captain of the ship ran past her with a frowning stare, on his way below. A short time later, Nate came staggering up, coughing, his face black and his hair singed away on one side of his head. He leaned on the rail, then with a grunted curse bent down to pull a large piece of glass from the soft leather side of his boot. By that time, smoke was puffing from the hatches of the ship, forming a haze over the deck, and the flames were leaping higher than the railing in tongues of yellow and orange and red. Lorna moved farther along, putting more distance between her and Nate, moving too from the heat of the fire.

  There were shouts as the crew came flooding up from the cabin, choking, coughing, their eyes streaming from the smoke, so that wet tracks were formed in the soot on their faces. They were followed by the captain, who flung himself on deck with a handkerchief over his face and looked around for Nate. Seeing him at the rail some distance down from Lorna, he stepped up to him.

  “The fire can’t be controlled. We will have to abandon ship.”

  Nate swung to stare at him. “You yellow-livered bastard! Why don’t you try saving her?”

  “It’s impossible. She’s an old ship, dry as tinder, with new pitch to catch like kerosene. She’ll be gone in half an hour.” The captain’s face was stem, and it was plain he had no use for the man who paid his salary. “Of course, if you would like to try?”

  Nate cursed again, then turned toward Lorna. Pushing from the railing, he bore down on her. “It’s your fault, you bitch! You’re the one who caused it.”

  The captain caught him by the shoulder. “There’s no time for that. We have to get the boats away.”

  “Then do it and be damned!” Nate shrugged from the man’s grasp, never taking his pale, red-rimmed eyes from Lorna.

  She watched him move toward her, knowing that there was more than lust and a need to make her feel his power over her in his move toward her now. He was congealed in rage, swollen with masculine affront that she not only had dared defy him, but had succeeded, that she had caused him pain and brought down on him the scorn of his captain and crew, to say nothing of his investment in gold going up with the ship. Every urge for vengeance he had felt was magnified a hundred times, and he meant her to feel it.

  “You bitch, you beautiful, twice-damned bitch,” he said with grating bitterness.

  She would not run from him, would not retreat so much as a step. She stared at him with the red light of the fire reflecting on her pale face and the wind catching the shimmering cascade of her wild silk hair, blowing it around her. Her gray eyes were still and deep, and the trembling of her hands had died away, leaving her calm. She did not move, showed no fear, even when she saw the piece of glass he still held in his hand, a blackened shard from the broken lamp chimney.

  Behind him, on the far side of the ship, there was a shout and familiar clatter of metal on wood. They were lowering the lifeboats. Time was growing short, the air that blew along the deck scorching as the fire roared. Nate did not appear to notice. He moved closer, his formless lips thinning, drawing back in a smile, his gaze fixed on the pure line of her cheek where it curved, blending over her jawbone into the tender arch of her neck. He shifted the sliver of glass in his hand, holding it with a razor-sharp corner exposed.

  In the sooty darkness of his face could be seen the dark red streaks of the gouges her nails had made, the split of his lip. His shirt was charred where his jacket had burned, and through the black-edged rent could be seen the angry welts of burns. His victory was not bloodless. And if he did not kill her, she would see that he suffered more. She would not be cowed, would not take fear for a master.
She would not.

  She lifted her chin in silent defiance. His eyes narrowed. He raised his hand. Beyond them there were shouts and outcries. Bound in their own private drama, they did not see.

  There came the whipping whir of a rope through the air, a loosened sheet from the rigging. The shadow of a man flitted over the deck, engulfed in swirls of smoke, tinged with the red of flame. The air near Lorna shifted, rushing, and Ramon released the rope that carried him, landing lightly on his feet in front of her.

  But, Nate had at the last moment looked up, had reached to grab Lorna around the waist, wrenching her against him. Now, he stood with the glass shard held against the pulse that beat in her throat.

  Ramon balanced with his hands held out, going perfectly still. He wore no shirt to hinder his movements, only his uniform trousers tucked into his boots, and his gold-fringed sash at his waist to hold the pistol thrust into it and the sword that hung at his side. His face was stern and his dark eyes steely as he gave Lorna a brief, all-encompassing glance. Then, he turned his concentration on the man who held her.

  “One move,” Nate said, “and I’ll slit her throat.”

  “If you so much as scratch her, you won’t draw another breath,” Ramon answered, his voice soft. Behind him, his crew had boarded, crossing from the Lorelei that was held to the side of the Avenger by grappling irons. They met no resistance, however, but were, rather, cheered as saviors.

  “Oh, I’ll do more than that, later, but first I want that pistol you have there.”

  “No,” Lorna breathed, and felt the glass press into her neck, though it did not quite break the skin.

  “Keep quiet, bitch.”

  Ramon’s face hardened. “I don’t care for your tone, or your words.”