by Shana Galen
“Aye, sir,” Chante said.
Nick spent the next several hours issuing orders to his crew, approving the setting of the watch and the deck chores, and staring at the open sea, now deep blue in the late morning light. The winds were brisk, and the sails snapped as the ship made close to six knots. But Nick gripped the rail and mentally urged her on faster.
Isla de las Riquezas was a good ten days’ sail in good weather, and Nick was impatient to arrive. He was even more impatient to find and punish Yussef. Nick scanned the ocean once again.
The Barbary pirate was out there somewhere. Running? Hiding? Laughing?
Laugh now, Nick thought. Because before long, you’ll be mine.
“Cap’n, sir?”
Nick turned from the railing and his view of the open ocean to face the short third mate. Mr. Fellowes doffed his cap.
“What is it, Mr. Fellowes?”
“I’m sorry what to bother you wit’ this.”
Nick waved a hand, indicating it was no bother at all.
“But you put me in charge of the missy, sir, and I’m having a bit o’ a time wit’ her.”
Nick frowned. “Missy?”
Fellowes nodded. “Yes, sir. And I’m having a bit o’ a time wit’ her. She don’t want to stay in your cabin, and I don’t know wot else to do wit’ her. Seems like you should do an introduction o’ sorts afore we let her loose on deck. Let the men know to keep hands off. But that’s just me opinion. Begging your pardon, sir.”
Nick took a deep breath. He’d actually forgotten about Ashley Brittany for a time. A fact she’d probably sensed and was wasting no time rectifying. And yet he wasn’t quite ready to deal with her. He had work to do—work he could not accomplish in his cabin with her ranting at him. And yet, with her running free, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate either.
“Leave her where she is for now, Mr. Fellowes.”
“But, Cap’n, she—”
Nick held up a hand. “I know how she can be. Handle her, Mr. Fellowes. And while you’re at it, bring me my maps and my logbooks. Let Mr. Chante know that I want a meeting with all the officers on the quarterdeck just after eight bells of the morning watch.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Fellowes turned slowly, and Nick recognized the look on the man’s face: sheer determination.
No doubt, Nick would have the same look when he faced Ashley later.
Later finally bore down on him. When Nick heard the first bell of the mid watch and realized it was after midnight, he glanced at his men. The same weariness he felt was reflected on their faces.
“Get some sleep,” he ordered those not on watch. “You have your orders.”
Fully intending to take his own advice, Nick stumbled numbly to his cabin. He reached for the handle and turned it. Nothing happened.
Nick frowned in the darkness. Why was his cabin locked?
Through the weight of fatigue, the answer dawned on him.
Ashley was in there.
Hell’s teeth.
Nick prayed she’d already fallen asleep. He wanted nothing more than a few hours of peaceful rest himself. He fished in his pocket for the key, opened the door, and stepped inside. It was dark and quiet. Thank God—
The door swung shut behind him, and he heard a whoosh. A bolt of lightning crashed through his skull as something hit him hard on the back of the head.
He stumbled forward, catching himself with one hand on his desk. “What the—”
But Ashley already had the door open, and in the dim light outside, he could see her running.
“Bloody hell.” What did she plan to do? Jump overboard?
Nick took three large strides and caught her about the waist. He tried very hard not to notice how good she felt in his arms. He tried not to imagine throttling her.
“Let go!”
He covered her mouth, hoping she hadn’t already awakened the rest of the crew, and hauled her back inside the cabin. He held her tightly until he managed to light the lantern.
Her skin was impossibly soft under his hand. He’d forgotten about that—how that porcelain skin that looked so coldly perfect could actually be so warm and sensual.
It wasn’t a realization he wanted at the moment, and he pulled his hands away, releasing her.
Immediately, she screamed and started for the door.
With a growl, Nick pushed her out of the way, fished his key back out, and locked the door. No fool, Nick tucked the key inside the waist of his trousers.
“No!”
He rounded on her. “What the hell is wrong with you? I’m not going to hurt you.”
She pushed away from him until she was flush against his desk. “What’s wrong with me? What is wrong with you, sir? How dare you leave me locked in here all day? I am not a prisoner.”
Nick shook his head. “Nor are you a sailor. The first day at sea is taxing for all aboard. I didn’t have a man to spare to be your nanny.”
“Nanny! I don’t need—”
Nick closed his eyes. “It’s late, and I’m tired. I haven’t slept in two days. Whine all you want tomorrow, but tonight I want peace and quiet.”
She glared at him, her eyes narrowing into slits. “You want peace and quiet? Go to your own cabin.”
Nick looked around the familiar captain’s cabin with its polished brass and scant mahogany furnishings—bed, table, desk, and chair. The light from the lantern flickered weakly in one corner. “This is my cabin.”
“Not anymore. I sincerely hope you didn’t think I was going to share it with you.”
“Sleep here or in the crew’s quarters. At this point, I don’t care.”
“I do. Get out.”
She tossed her wheat-blond hair over one shoulder, and Nick had the urge to grasp that hair, haul her into his arms, and rid her of some of that impertinence. He could do it, too. He’d tamed her before.
Instead, Nick crossed his arms. Perhaps she needed a reminder of her new station in life—of exactly whom she was talking to and what his rights were. “You are my wife. I have every right—nay, I have a Christian obligation to share that bed with you.”
Ashley’s features hardened. “Well, sir, I hope you take your faith seriously because if you attempt to share that bed with me, you will meet your Maker tonight.”
“Funny. I seem to remember a time you couldn’t wait to share a bed with me.”
“I must’ve been hit on the head.”
Nick shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.”
“Nice.” She gave his a forced smile. “That ploy might work if I didn’t know you so well. You wouldn’t hurt me.”
He reached past her and smelled strawberries. He grit his teeth and wondered how she always managed to smell of some soft, juicy fruit.
Nick lifted a coil of rigging line Mr. Fellowes must have left lying on the desk behind her. “I won’t hurt you, but at this point, I’ll do anything for a few hours of sleep.” He dangled the rope in front of her. “Give me your hands.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” She took a step back but was out of room to retreat.
He grinned. “Then why are you trying to escape?”
“Nick, you can’t. You won’t. I know you won’t.”
“Sweetheart.” He unfurled the rope, letting it fall with a hiss and a thud. “I don’t think you know me as well as you think.”
FOUR
Ashley lay awake, watching as the first gray streaks of the dawn’s light penetrated the cabin. Nick slept beside her. He’d tied her, just as he’d threatened, but she supposed it might have been worse. Her left hand was secured to his right, not to the bed or one of the other furnishings. True, she would have to free herself without waking him in order to escape. While he continued to doze, she considered her options. Where would she go if she were free? She certainly didn’t relish sleeping in a hammock with the crew. She supposed Nick—Captain Robin Hood—had given some orders concerning her, but could she trust a bunch of lawless pirates to adhere to any rules? When she considered w
here she was and with whom, Nick seemed a safer bet than the pirates outside the captain’s cabin.
And for the moment, Nick appeared very safe, indeed. He must have been exhausted, as he’d claimed, because he had fallen asleep almost instantly last night and had not moved.
Except once.
She knew it was once because he’d fallen asleep on his back, ensuring that she had so little of the berth to herself she could barely draw a deep breath, and then while she was still debating the possibility of escape, he’d rolled on his side, gathered her in his arms, and draped one leg and one arm over her. She’d protested, but she didn’t think he even woke. Her elbow to his abdomen did nothing except make him snuffle and go back to snoring softly.
She’d sighed deeply and tried to make the best of it. At least she could breathe, even if the scent was a mixture of Nick’s laundered linen shirt and sea spray. Surely he would wake soon. It was almost sunrise. Then maybe she would be given something to eat and drink. Now she regretted throwing the food and wine in Mr. Fellowes’s face yesterday. She should have eaten it, especially since she didn’t know when she’d eat again.
On the whole, she regretted much of the past few days. She’d been impetuous and impulsive and acted out of anger rather than good judgment. And where had her rash behavior led her? She was married to Lord Nicholas Martingale. If that wasn’t bad enough, she was his captive on a pirate ship bound for some island or other where he expected to find trouble.
This was not how her life was supposed to turn out. She was supposed to enjoy the London Season, attending every ball and soiree, dancing until dawn, and being called a diamond of the first water. She was supposed to have so many beaux she could not count them. She was supposed to discreetly choose among them for generous lovers until she was a spinster and did not have to be quite so discreet any longer. Then she would fall in love with a wild and poetic man and travel the world with him.
How was any of that going to happen now? Even if she managed to find an escape from this marriage—and she knew little of the law, but what she did know was marriage was difficult to escape—she wouldn’t be accepted into any decent house. Not that she cared so much, but those deemed decent usually had the best ballrooms and most eligible gentleman attending. She wouldn’t be received anywhere. She wouldn’t even be received at home! How was she going to afford to live? Forget ball gowns. She would have no means to feed herself.
She sighed loudly as the truth became more and more apparent. She was stuck with Nick Martingale.
“What are you sighing about?” a deep voice rumbled in her ear.
She let out a small squeak of surprise. He hadn’t so much as moved to indicate he was awake. “I’m sighing because you have me trapped.” In more than one way. She pushed at his arm, and he obediently withdrew it and his leg. For a moment, she almost missed his warmth.
“There was a time you welcomed my embrace,” he said.
She sat, grateful to shift positions and glared down at him. “That was before I knew the real you. That was when I was under your spell.”
“Spell?” His brows rose. “Are you insinuating I used some sort of magic to make you want me? I assure you my natural charm and charisma are all I need.”
She could not bear to listen to his arrogant remarks any longer. “Pardon me if I must escape your oozing charm for a moment.” She stepped over him and flounced away, only to find her arm tugged back and her body with it. Dam—dash it all! She’d forgotten about the rope.
“Untie me,” she demanded.
He was still lying on his back, his bound wrist on his chest, and his other hand curling the rope that connected them around and around so she was all but dragged back to the berth. He had a devilish grin on his lips she did not care for.
“I said—”
“I heard you.” He continued to drag her to him. “But something just occurred to me.”
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t even had the opportunity to kiss my bride.” He grasped her bound hand and held it in his warm one.
“Do not call me that.”
“What should I call you? Sweetheart? Darling? My love?” His voice was sneering, almost as though he found the whole idea of love amusing. Ashley wished she felt the same. Once she’d thought she was in love with him. What a fool she’d been.
“Do not call me anything. Do not speak to me, and do please release me!”
He’d pulled on her arm so she was bent at the waist, her long hair falling around her shoulders and framing his face. “Not even one kiss?” He pulled her a fraction closer, and her gaze focused on his lips. She remembered kissing his lips. She remembered how soft and sweet and inviting they’d been.
She made herself speak, made herself refuse him. “Not even one.”
“You are a cold woman, Ashley Brittany.”
“I am cold?” A brief image of Nick holding another woman in his arms in Lord Rundale’s library flashed into her mind. He’d been laughing at her, waiting for her to find him. And he called her cold… “Let me go this instant or I will—” She could not scream. No one would come to her aid. “Or I will employ the defense against unwanted suitors my brothers taught me long ago. I promise a kiss will be the last thing on your mind then.”
His hand released her quickly, almost as though the touch of her flesh burned him. “No need to be nasty. I’ll leave you to your own devices.” With a few practiced movements, he loosed the knot on his wrist binding her to him. She was free.
He sat and allowed his long legs to drop over the side of the berth. He had slept in his clothing, as had she, and that was something to be thankful for. How she would have relished a hot bath and clean clothes. It seemed years since she’d had either. A knock sounded on the door, and she jumped out of Nick’s way as he stood and crossed the small cabin to open it. A boy stood there, his arms laden with a jug and clean towels. “Will ye be wanting these now, Cap’n?”
“Yes, Mr. Fletcher. Set them on the washstand and find my razor. I’m in need of a shave.” He took the hot towels from his cabin boy and pressed them to his face. Ashley watched with envy.
The boy set the rest of the items on the washstand, as instructed, glancing at Ashley sidelong. She might have smiled, but she noted the steam curling from the jug of water. “Is that hot water?” she asked.
Nick had opened his wardrobe and was perusing the contents. “Of course. I’m not about to shave with cold.”
She waited for him to offer her hot water, as a gentleman ought, but he merely pulled out a snowy white shirt with far too many ruffles and shook it. As she watched, he pulled the wrinkled shirt he’d slept in over his head and held out a hand to his cabin boy. The words on Ashley’s tongue, words she’d planned to use to lash out at him for his poor manners, died away. She could hardly catch her breath. His chest was broad and muscled from his shoulders to where it tapered at his waist. He was dark bronze, almost golden really, from exposure to the sun, and his abdomen was flat and lean. She’d run her hands over it, months and months ago—in another lifetime—and she remembered thinking his body felt so different from other men’s bodies. Not that she’d explored many men’s bodies that intimately, but she’d felt their soft paunches as they’d pressed close when dancing. There was nothing soft about Nick.
He took the strip of wet linen from his boy and wiped himself down quickly. Ashley averted her gaze then, and he chuckled. “Forgot to play the demure virgin for a moment, did you?”
She hated him for that comment. “I was merely thinking of how you would look with your belly split open when you’re drawn and quartered. Is that still the punishment for piracy?”
The cabin boy gasped in shock at her comments, but she ignored his response. She was not afraid of his captain.
He pulled the shirt over his head. “I believe summary execution is more common now.”
“Too bad. I would have enjoyed seeing you suffer.”
“I am certain you will have a perfect view as you
will be right there with me, accused of being my accomplice, wife.”
She glared at him, but before she could think of a rejoinder, he reached for his breeches. “Here is the part you have been waiting for.”
“Arrogant man,” she spat and turned her back on him. She could hear him chuckle softly and the rustle of clothing, and she tried to ignore it. The back of her neck prickled, though, when she considered how near he was to her and all but naked. That night they’d spent together, she hadn’t seen his thighs. Were they as muscled and bronze as the rest of him? And what of his manhood? She’d touched it, briefly, but she hadn’t seen it in the light. What did it look like? Were the paintings she’d seen accurate depictions?
The cabin boy rushed past her, collected his master’s boots, and rushed back. Ashley turned to see the pirate captain slide his arm through the coat of his…should she call it a costume? He wore tight breeches with a red sash, a ruffled linen shirt, loose at the collar, and topped by a red tailcoat. It was not cut in the current fashion, but reminded her of something her grandfather might have worn. It came to mid-thigh and was embroidered with red thread, most ostensibly on the cuffs. He hadn’t buttoned it—it was not designed to be buttoned—instead he tied a red bandana about his head and fastened a cutlass about his waist. Ashley blinked at the man standing before her. The transformation was indeed complete. He was no longer Lord Nicholas. This man looked every inch the pirate.
His clear blue eyes rested on her, seeming to measure her reaction to him as he adjusted the cutlass and belt, anchoring both securely over his sash.
“Would you like me to shave you, Cap’n?”
“No. There are enough people in this room trying to kill me. I’ll do it myself.”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
“You can go.” He took the razor and the strop from the boy, slid the blade along the leather several more times, then dipped the brush in lather and spread some on his cheeks. He turned to a mirror he had fastened on the inside door of the wardrobe and brought the blade down his cheek with a sharp scraping sound.
He lifted one of the towels, wiped the blade, then wrapped the towel around his neck, she supposed to capture any stray lather or water. “Have you ever watched a man shave before?” he asked as he brought the razor down cleanly and confidently again.