by Susan Grant
“You’re scum,” she mumbled into his palm.
“Aye. I like it, too. I’d be shovin’ myself between yer legs every night if I were in charge,” he gasped, skimming his dirty fingers over her face and neck. “I’d teach ya tricks, and you’d treat me good. Aye, missy, you’d be my whore. My rich little whore.” He expelled a groan.
Now was her chance. She grabbed him by his meaty shoulders and stepped to the left. The move threw him off balance. Jamming her foot into the back of his knee, she pulled him forward. He stumbled, hitting his forehead on the wall. She bolted for the deck. Growling, he snatched her arm, yanking her back.
Somewhere, a door slammed.
They froze, arms extended, as though locked in a nightmarish tango. The sound of several pairs of boots approached. Their gazes locked. The glint in Booth’s dark brown, almost black eyes was cold and terrifying.
Utterly evil.
It raised the hairs on the back of her neck. This man would take great pleasure in hurting a woman.
He released her and buttoned his pants. “I was only lookin’ fer a wee bit of fun. No harm done. And I wouldn’t say nothin’ to the cap’n. Or I’ll see Theo’s next swim’s his last.”
“Don’t blackmail me, you bastard,” she hissed.
The footsteps came closer. She craned her neck to see who was approaching.
“Look at me, bitch,” he whispered harshly. “Mind my words. The lad will die if ya don’t keep yer trap shut. Do ya understand?”
She crushed her hands into fists. “Yes,” she ground out.
Buckling his belt, he left her in the shadows. She exhaled in a moan, flattening her palms over her tender abdomen.
Men on the deck strolled by, laughing. She heard Booth joke with them as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
Light-headed and nauseated, she crouched, lowering her head between her knees as frustration swelled inside her. Andrew had warned her about being alone on the deck after dark. Why had she let her guard down? Life here was as dangerous and real as it had been in her last.
And just as unforgiving.
When the faintness passed, she stood unsteadily and made her way out of the alcove, using the wall as support. Her breath hissed through her gritted teeth. She seethed with thoughts of revenge. But until she figured out how to keep Theo safe, she could do nothing.
Andrew could help her—he was a man of honor.
But he also thought she was crazy.
If she made an accusation—and Booth denied it—it would cause turmoil among the crew. Worse, Booth likely had allies. Even if Andrew believed her and punished Booth, as he’d once promised, someone else could hurt Theo.
She’d leave Andrew out of this, for now. She understood all too well the consequences of relying on someone else. Trust was dangerous. She’d take care of this herself.
Drawing her shredded confidence around her, gathering it into the cloak of toughness that had been her lifelong shield, she walked slowly to the cabin. Pausing outside, she stared dumbly at the candlelight fanning out from under Andrew’s door. He stayed up late every night, and she should have anticipated that he’d be at his desk.
This wasn’t her night, was it?
She raised her collar to hide any possible bruises, smoothed her hair behind her ears, and rapped on the door.
“Enter.”
She peeked inside. “It’s only me.” Looking up briefly, she hastened across the cabin to her door.
Shock registered on his handsome features. He put his pen down. “I presumed you were asleep. Why were you out unescorted? ’Tis after dark.”
Think fast. “I was talking to Willoughby about the party. The whole thing took longer than I thought. Good night.”
“One moment, milady.”
She gave a soft but very expressive growl.
He cinched the tie on his robe and stood, his mouth tight as he peered at her from top to bottom. “Tell me, what is the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” she blurted. Still, because of his few words, she was ready to spill everything. He cared.
“Amanda?”
She met his gaze, his eyes midnight blue, reminding her of the night she’d woken in his arms. She’d give anything to be held like that again. Her face flamed.
“You are flushed.” He gestured to her cheeks and peered at her, frowning. “Are you not well?”
She inched her collar higher. “I’m tired, that’s all.”
“I trust you are telling me the truth?”
“Oh, yes,” she quickly assured him.
He raised a brow. He was on to her, like the lead hound on a foxhunt. Glancing behind him to the paperwork on his desk, she sought to throw him off the trail. “May I see what you’re working on?”
“If you are so inclined.”
Long after she blew out her candle at night, Andrew remained at his desk, and she’d always wondered what he was doing. Shyly, she followed his gaze to a piece of parchment. The sketch was intricately drawn with numbers, notes, and arrows scattered on all four sides. It was a boxy vehicle of some kind, with narrow wings or rotors on top, the figure of a man inside. Impossible. “You’re sketching . . . helicopters?”
“Rotorcraft. Why, yes,” he said, equally incredulous. “Few souls are aware of them. Purely theoretical.”
“Not in my time. They are real.”
He plunged his fingers through his hair. “Ah, of course.” After a pause, he slid a stack of papers toward her. “These are the rest of my drawings.” A wry smile formed on his mouth as he gestured to an open text. “This one I cannot claim, I’m sorry to say.”
She recognized the famous illustration immediately. “Who wouldn’t want to draw like Leonardo da Vinci?”
“Aye, a genius, he was. I fear my study of his scientific sketches has become somewhat of an obsession.”
“He was so ahead of his time,” she said. “Hard to believe he couldn’t convince a single soul in the sixteenth century to look at these.”
“Aye. A loss for us all.”
“Imagine where we’d be now if someone with money and foresight would have only listened to him. Think of it.”
The topic distracted her from her bruised body and spirit. Embarrassed by her rising enthusiasm, she glanced up. To her relief, Andrew wore an expression of boyish excitement.
“I have pondered the same thoughts.” He pointed to his drawing. “This one I saw in my dreams of the storm. ’Tis not at all like the hot air balloons that have crossed the English Channel. ’Tis self-propelled through the heavens. And so swiftly that it defies the wind. Indeed, in a craft such as this, vast distances would seem small.”
He searched her face, his eyes intense, mirroring her own passion. He’s a kindred spirit, she realized with a jolt.
“Never in my life have I dreamt so vividly, milady,” he said, using his expressive hands as he spoke. “Until the storm wakes me, I am sailing on the air, faster than any ship I have sailed. The clouds are but an arm’s reach away. Aye, the stars, too. Yet, the sea is far, far below.”
The flickering flame of the candle imbued his skin and hair with an amber glow, and his robe clung to the hard lines of his powerful body. She watched him in awe, drawn to his confidence and masculinity in a way that left her breathless.
For the first time in her life, she understood what it meant to experience desire, true desire. The feelings she’d had for Rick, even from the beginning, now seemed childlike and insignificant in comparison.
Her throat ached, tightening her voice to a whisper. “When you describe it, I feel like I’m there with you.”
His eyes darkened to a deeper hue. Overcome by myriad emotions she couldn’t explain, she turned away.
Andrew exhaled sharply with the loss. He’d felt the very air between them crackle. He was not the only one affected, judging by the color in her cheeks as she looked down to study the sheets of parchment on the desk. His soul lay open on those pages, yet he revealed it to her without hesitati
on, without fear. His pulse beat slow and strong as she drew her fingertip intimately over the angles and curves: his figures, his writing. She was touching him in a way no one ever had. The shimmering light of the one lamp highlighted her soft, sensitive mouth, her high cheekbones, the haunting sadness in her eyes that seemed sharper tonight than usual. He fought the urge to pull her close and hold her, kiss her, will her to forget her pain, if only for a little while.
The intensity of his desire reminded him quite clearly that he must not be alone with her. She was not, and would never be, his. She belonged to another. Swallowing hard, he clasped his hands behind his back.” ’Tis late. You ought to be in bed.”
“Before I go, I need to discuss something with you.”
“Proceed.”
“Mr. Willoughby and I have finished our party plans. With your permission, we’d like to hold a bigger celebration than usual.”
Andrew rolled up his drawings, one by one.
“We have some great ideas for a party. . . .”
He slipped the rolled parchment into a leather sheath.
“By the way, Captain, Mr. Gibbons mentioned that he’d like the first slow dance with you.”
His busy hands stopped.
“Oh, good,” she said. “You are listening.”
“Mr. Gibbons wishes to dance?”
She pursed her lips. “You’re a very predictable man, which makes it easier when I want your attention.”
“Does it, now?” he asked dryly.
“Yes. Do you want to hear about the party or not?”
“I suppose I have little choice in the matter. However, I must remind you that you are my cargo, not my social secretary.”
Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “May I assume then, dear Captain, that you’ve given me, a mere bit of cargo, permission to hold the event?”
“Why, of course,” he said crisply. “My men’s ability to fight depends on camaraderie as much as it does on discipline and trust. In this respect, music and dancing are as important as gunnery drills.”
She rolled her eyes and walked to her door. “I suppose that’s the closest I’ll get to hearing you say ‘fun is good.’”
“I take my amusements, milady, when the time is appropriate.”
“Do you? Good,” she said. “So do I.”
He shared her slow smile. “In that, little spitfire, I do not doubt your word.”
Chapter Seven
“No, I won’t watch.” Theo’s blush deepened until he was nearly purple. He rocked back on his heels and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his collar.
“For God’s sake, Theo, she’s made of wood. What difference does it make what she’s wearing?” How a teenage boy could get so worked up over a piece of underwear, Carly had no idea.
“’Tis because, well, you were wearin’ . . .” Unable to finish, Theo shrugged and shoved both hands in his pockets.
Groaning in mock exasperation, Carly wadded the apricot wisp of lace in her fist. She hopped over the railing behind the ship’s masthead and carefully shimmied up Savannah’s back. Without a trace of wind to mar its surface, the sea below displayed a reflection that was as crisp as a photograph.
Straddling Savannah’s hips, Carly positioned her bra over the carving’s two perfectly shaped polished breasts. “I’m jealous, Savannah. They must have cut down an entire tree for your chest alone.” Her attempt to make Theo laugh elicited little more than a muffled cough.
Fuzzy and faded from too much washing and more than a month of wear, the lace stretched and crackled as she tried to fasten the hook-and-eye closure in back. Gritting her teeth, she winced at the twang of bursting elastic. With one last hiss of rending fabric, the bra snapped into place, thanks to the statue’s totally unrealistic, male-fantasy, itty-bitty, twelve-inch waist. Naturally, the bra was ruined, but now that she’d sewn three camisoles and pairs of underpants with extra yardage from the dress, she’d planned to retire it, anyway. “You’ll look beautiful at the party, Savannah, girl.”
Carly slid down to the deck. “It’s over,” she said, flinging her arm over Theo’s shoulder. “Come on, kiddo, open your eyes.”
Warily, he asked, “What’s next?”
“More decorating, I’m afraid. Captain Spencer said we’ll cross the equator before dawn, which means we have a lot of fixin’ to do to this ol’ sloop before tomorrow. I say we start with the railing and the masts. What do you think?” Carly lifted her arm from Theo’s shoulder to ruffle his thick, sun-bleached red hair. His grin returned. Unlike the teenage boys she’d known—the sons of friends, mostly—Theo seemed to enjoy her public physical displays of affection. “Look, here comes Mr. Gibbons with the ribbons now.”
Gibbons strode toward her, a bulky basket in his arms. Squinting from the glare of the sun on his white hair, she tugged her collar away from her neck. It was going to be another scorcher. The men had hung tarps to keep as much of the midday sun off the open deck as possible. Away from the protective shade, the hot, humid air was almost unbearable. “Are the ribbons dry yet, Mr. Gibbons?”
“Aye, dry and hot, like everything and everyone on this ship, milady.” Gibbons lowered the basket so she could peer inside.
She’d spent hours dying the strips of sailcloth. Sweating over a cauldron of boiling water and saffron, she’d made one batch after another until her stained hands were blistered, sore, and as orange as a pair of Halloween pumpkins. The color on her fingertips was only now beginning to fade.
Carly plucked out a length of yellow sailcloth and yanked it taut. It had dried stiff, but she could soften the material by rubbing it between her fingers.
“I trust the festoons meet your approval?”
She mimicked his imitation of an aristocrat’s pompous airs. “I daresay, Mr. Gibbons, we’ve done a fine job.” Lifting a finger imperiously toward the stern, she suggested, “Shall we start at the rear, gentlemen?”
“What in God’s name have you done to my fine vessel?”
On her knees, yards of sailcloth ribbons draped across her shoulders, Carly shaded her eyes from the brutal midday sun.” ‘Done’?”
“Aye.” Wet from a swim, Andrew stood above her, his arms folded over his chest. His damp hair curled around his shirt collar, and he’d rolled up his sleeves. The sodden material of his white linen shirt was almost transparent in several places, revealing a shadow of dark hair across his broad chest. The darkness descended in a narrow line that dipped tantalizingly into the waistband of his pants.
“Captain,” she said as she stood. “The rest of the crew thinks it looks pretty nice.” She propped her hands on her hips. “I get the impression you don’t.”
He resumed his slow and deliberate study of his festively outfitted ship. “My Phoenix looks like a warrior dressed in petticoats.”
Gibbons and Theo let out delighted laughs.
Carly pursed her lips to hide her smile. “Thanks a lot.”
“My pleasure,” Andrew said, his eyes glinting.
He was flirting with her, she realized with a jolt. Every nerve ending in her body tingled, making her feel suddenly and vividly alive. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and said, “Those who haven’t helped don’t get to criticize.”
“I see.” Holding her gaze, he slid a strip of cloth from her shoulders. “I shall begin where you left off.” Crouching, he secured the ribbon around the base of the railing with a perfect square knot. Pausing every few seconds to inspect his work, he wound the strip of cloth around the railing in that peculiar, extremely cautious way she’d seen men use when performing a task they considered “women’s work.”
Carly felt a rush of tenderness toward the battle-hardened warrior on his knees, several yards of bright yellow ribbon in his hands.
“Oh, Lord have mercy,” Gibbons wheezed at the sight of his captain decorating the wooden post, while Theo rolled along the railing, hiccuping and holding his sides.
Carly pressed one finger to her lips. “Hush.”
Gibbons waved feebly and coughed, and Theo tried to muffle his hiccups with both hands.
Andrew stood, hooking his thumbs behind his belt. Those adorable dimples of his never failed to send her resistance into a nosedive. “Finished, I believe. Do you agree, milady?”
“I honestly do. It looks great.”
He inclined his head slightly, cleared his throat, and drew himself up to his full height, something several inches over six feet. “My ship will be the laughingstock of the seven seas.”
“Laughingstock!” Carly aimed a playful punch at his stomach.
He caught her fist easily. With his other hand, he curled one finger under her chin. “I earned that remark, milady. ‘Those who help get to criticize.’ As I recall, those were your words, more or less.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before walking off, whistling one of the more popular chanties.
She touched the place where his warm finger had rested under her chin. “Something will have to be done about him,” she murmured.
“Milady, you’ve done a great deal of good already,” Gibbons said. “He may not know it yet, but his men do.”
“He says a king’s ransom couldn’t make up for the trouble I’ve caused him.” She shrugged. “The sourpuss does laugh more, though.”
“Aye, he does at that.” Gibbons flashed her a broad, white-toothed grin.
Carly settled to her knees. As she slid a length of ribbon from her shoulders, she hummed the tune Andrew had begun, some ditty about a wayward mermaid. Theo and Gibbons joined her. Within minutes, they were singing the bawdy song aloud.
The Phoenix spun in languid circles atop a glassy sea. Ribbons dangled from the railings and rigging, and near the bow, the men had strung lanterns.
Glad to leave the stifling cabin, Carly strolled outside toward the bow of the ship. The party was well underway. She leaned over the railing, propped her chin on her hands, and paused to absorb the tranquil peace of a tropical evening. The air was thick, primeval. Here, atop the earth’s equator, far from any rocky shore, the ship was nothing more than a speck on a vast sea. Gooseflesh raised on her arms. She savored the beauty of the ocean a while longer before leaving the stern.