by Shana Galen
He’d rocked into her then, gentle because he seemed to know that even in the midst of the waning pleasure, she felt the intrusion keenly. She had wanted to wonder over the sensation of having a man inside her, having a man claim her so completely, but she’d barely had time before he withdrew and spent himself on the expensive rug where they’d been lying. She wanted to repeat the act all over again, and he’d laughed and said he needed a few minutes to recover.
She thought of the night now and felt heat creep into her cheeks. She’d thought he cared for her. She’d thought they would spend a thousand nights like that one. She’d been such a fool, and she was still a fool because she allowed him to make her forget how much she hated him. One kiss from him and she forgot how he’d treated her, how humiliated she’d been, how completely and utterly mortified. He didn’t love her. He loved a woman on Isla de las Riquezas. He’d used her and then when he’d seen she was damaged, he didn’t want her any longer.
She did not know why he’d kissed her now. Perhaps he had been so overcome by lust he’d forgotten how ugly her leg was. Perhaps he’d forgotten himself, just as she had. But she would not forget herself again. She would not allow him to seduce her again.
As it turned out, Ashley’s vow was easily kept. By morning the following day, the storm had passed and the sea calmed. There was little wind, giving the ocean a glassy look that unnerved her. The creaking of the sails and the boards under foot unnerved her too, but she kept her thoughts to herself as she stood on the deck, hands clenched on the toprail, and stared at the thick fog. What was beyond that fog? An armada? A sea monster? More pirates?
She did not know, and she joined the men in their prayers for wind. There was plenty to do in the lull of the storm, though. Sails were repaired and the carpenter, Mr. Carey, had devised a rotation so men continually manned the pumps while others repaired the damage to the vessel itself. She’d watched in awe as men dangled over the side of the ship, patching the gashes with scavenged materials, canvas, ropes, and spars.
Still, she thought she could still smell the scent of gunpowder lingering on the fresh breeze. There’d been no more injunctions against her coming on deck, though she suspected Nick had said something to his men regarding her because the gave her a wide berth. Only Mr. Fellowes dared stand near her, and she assumed that was because he’d been told to do so. Mr. Chante insisted on frowning at her while Mr. Carey doffed his hat and Mr. Johnson said “Argh” and danced a little jig. The rest of the crew either leered at her with surreptitious glances or ignored her completely. She was not certain which she preferred.
She had frequent glimpses of Nick. The ship was not so large that he would have been able to hide from her, even if he had been the hiding sort. But he did not sleep in the great cabin or make any effort to speak to her again. He was absorbed in his role as captain, and she did not think his preoccupation all for show. He pushed his men hard, almost as hard as he pushed himself, and they rose to the task. Obviously, they were as eager as he was to reach Isla de las Riquezas.
On the third day after the attack, the fifth day at sea, Ashley was teeming with energy. She caught Mr. Fellowes on deck. “Mr. Fellowes, I’d like an occupation. Something to help the ship and the men.”
He gave her a suspicious look then said, reluctantly, “Mrs. Captain could talk to Mr. Chante. He might have something.”
Ashley had spoken to Mr. Chante after the storm in order to obtain soap to wash herself and bed linens. He hadn’t seemed to like her much. “Thank you, Mr. Fellowes. Do you know where I might find him?”
“Last I saw him was below deck with Mr. Carey, lookin’ at the hull.”
Ashley scampered across the deck to the ladderway near the hull, congratulating herself on how easily she navigated the ship now, climbing about almost like a true sailor. She jumped off the bottom rung to the floor when a hand wrapped around her waist and hauled her into the companionway. She tried to scream, but a dirty hand covered her mouth and hauled her into a fetid, darkness.
Ashley tried to bite the hand, to kick the man holding her, but he merely chuckled in her ear. “Argh.”
SEVEN
Nick had been avoiding his cabin. More accurately, he’d been avoiding Ashley. He’d been sleeping in a hammock with the men the last few nights, and he hadn’t minded much. It reminded him of his days in the navy. But after three days he wanted a shave and a change of clothes. He found his cabin boy, ordered hot water, and steeled himself for confrontation.
His termagant wife wasn’t on deck. If she had been on deck, he would have known exactly where she was and what she was doing. Even when he wished to forget her, forget he had a wife, he could not seem to make his gaze cease following her or his body stop tingling with awareness. If he’d been younger and blissfully ignorant, he would have blamed his predicament on having been too long without a woman. Nick was wiser now. He’d tried to forget about Ashley in the arms of other women. It hadn’t worked.
He must have sighed a bit too loudly at one point when she was on deck, looking lovely even in her stained dress and his cavalier hat, because Chante said, “Yer staring so hard, it hurts me eyes.”
Nick had thought to reprimand his quartermaster for the familiarity, but there weren’t any other men within earshot at the moment, and Nick had always considered the man a friend. “She’s hard to look away from.”
The quartermaster crossed his arms over his broad chest, bare under the leather vest he wore. “I like a woman with substance. I’d be half afraid to crush that one.”
Nick laughed, eliciting a few looks from the men and even one from Ashley. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
“Aye.” Chante nodded. “Then take her below and have yer fill.”
Nick raised a brow. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mr. Chante, but she doesn’t care for me much.”
Chante shrugged. “Never known a woman you couldn’t charm.”
True. And Nick thought he probably could charm Ashley, if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t want to woo her, to seduce her with pretty words and compliments. The last time they’d been together, she’d proved she did want him. He wanted more than a night with her, wanted more than a tumble. Considering their past, the probability of her believing him was about as high as their chances of spotting a mermaid.
And so Nick was pleasantly surprised when he arrived in the great cabin and Ashley was not present. But after he’d washed, shaved, and changed clothing, and she still had not made an appearance, he called Mr. Fellowes. The sailor had just explained about sending her to the carpenter when Nick heard the commotion. His gaze met Fellowes’s. “I think I hear her now, Mr. Fellowes.”
Indeed, she was swearing as skillfully as any sailor, and as he poked his head on deck from the ladderway, he saw she was surrounded by several sailors. Red, his bos’n, had her arms locked behind her back, and she was fighting for release. Nick saw nothing but another man’s hands on her and charged along the deck with an angry growl. The men stepped aside, and Red, seeing his captain’s look went slack. It earned him an elbow in the gut from Ashley.
“If you so much as dare touch her again, Mr. Red, I’ll feed you to the sharks in tiny pieces,” Nick threatened.
Red released her, and she stumbled forward. Nick glanced at her then looked more closely. Her dress was torn—well, more torn—her cheeks red, and her shoulders bore handprints. He took her elbow and pulled her close. He needed to touch her as much as he wanted to protect her. “What happened to you? Did he lay hands on you?”
Nick heard a loud sound and looked at Mr. Chante as the quartermaster cleared his throat. “Actually, I believe Mr. Johnson be the injured party, Cap’n.” Chante stepped aside and Nick noted the sailor on his knees, hunched over in pain.
“What happened?”
Johnson looked up. His lip was bleeding and he had what looked like claw marks on his cheek. “She attacked me!”
Nick looked at Ashley again. Her head was high and her sea-green eyes challenge
d him to question her. Nick’s gaze lowered to the handprints on her shoulder again. “And this was unprovoked?”
“I didn’t do nothing. She came at me, the she-devil, and attacked me. Little bitch raked those—”
Nick had his hand around Johnson’s throat as he lifted the man off the ground and slammed him into the mizzenmast. “Take care to remember that is my wife you are speaking of.”
Johnson’s eyes bulged.
“Now, are you certain this is the story you wish to tell? She attacked you? Entirely unprovoked?”
Johnson began to nod, and Nick squeezed, narrowing his eyes. “I will not hesitate to keelhaul you if you lie.” Nick lowered Johnson and loosened his grip. “Care to try again?”
Johnson’s gaze was dark. “I wasn’t going to hurt her. I might have surprised her, is all.”
Nick raised his brows.
“Captain,” Johnson said grudgingly.
“Surprised her,” Nick said, looking pointedly at the blood running down Johnson’s chin. “It looks like you were the one surprised.” He stepped back from the sailor and removed a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat. Nick made a show of wiping his hands. “Send him to the topmast and tie him there, Mr. Chante.”
“What?” Johnson screeched. “I didn’t do nothing! She’s the one that hit me.”
Nick didn’t glance at the man; he kept his gaze on Chante. Chante nodded, motioned to two sailors, and the men jumped to carry out the order. When Johnson was on the topmast, and his protests fading away, Nick met the eyes of every man on deck. Most of them had come to see what all the shouting was about, and those who weren’t present would be apprised by their friends who were.
“I didn’t think it necessary to say this, but in case anyone else has doubts, let me make it clear. The woman is mine. Touch her and you’ll wish for death. Johnson stays in the topmast for twenty-four hours. Understood?”
“Yes, Captain!” the crew chorused.
Nick strode away, anger coursing through him. He didn’t know where he was headed until he reached his cabin and found his cabin boy straightening up. “Out,” he barked. The boy jumped to obey. “Wait,” Nick said. “Where is my cravat?” If he was going to act like a prig, he wanted to look like one.
The woman is mine. Had he actually said that? Ashley was going to blister his ears the next time they were alone. He’d tell her he’d said it to protect her. That was partly true. He wouldn’t mention the other part, which was that he had come to think of her as his. When they’d rode away from Gretna Green, all he could think was how to be rid of her. He didn’t want a wife, but somehow over the past few days, he’d begun to think of her as Lady Nicholas. He’d looked at her and thought less of how he could rid himself of her and more about how he could make her his in more than name.
He dismissed his cabin boy again, and opened his wardrobe to peer in the mirror while he tied his cravat. He was finishing the simple knot when his door opened again. In the mirror, his gaze met Ashley’s. “I’ll be done in a moment and leave you to your solitude,” he said.
She nodded, closed the door behind her, and leaned on it. “Are you going somewhere that requires a cravat?”
“No harm in looking like the captain if I’m going to issue orders like the ones I did a moment ago.”
“You didn’t ask me what happened.”
He turned to her. “I know what happened. Johnson waited for an opportunity to get you alone and then tried to force himself on you. He didn’t expect you to fight back. I imagine the noise brought others, and they hauled you both on deck.”
“You don’t believe his story?”
Nick raised a brow. “You have your moments, but I’ve never known you to attack anyone—physically or verbally—without cause.”
“What’s to become of him?” she asked. “You said tie him to the mast?”
“Yes. He’ll be lucky if I don’t throw him overboard. Unless I see a change in him, the next port we make, he’ll be escorted off the ship and left to find his own way home.”
“But…what if you are wrong about me? What if he was telling the truth?”
“Was he?”
She looked away, and he moved to stand before her. “What’s this about?”
“I don’t want to be the cause of a man’s suffering. The topmast is so high. He’ll be battered by the wind and the sun.”
Nick nodded. “Mast-heading is not pleasant, but it’s the law of the sea.” He would have preferred to give the man twenty lashes, but that would probably elicit a mutiny.
She looked at him then, her eyes filled with pleading. “But you don’t have to enforce that law. You are the captain.”
“And if I don’t enforce the law, then what happens the next time one of the men doesn’t feel like obeying orders? What if we’re in the middle of battle and one of my sharpshooters doesn’t want to risk death to defend the ship?”
She shook her head and he bent close to her. “Do you know why men risk their lives for me?”
“You pay them?”
He laughed. “Because I inspire fear and respect, and it’s not always clear where fear stops and respect begins. I’m not mast-heading that man for you. I’m punishing him because he didn’t respect me.” He straightened again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a ship to captain.” She moved away from the door, and as she did so, she murmured.
“You don’t own me.”
He grinned. “I was waiting for my set down.”
“Between you and me, I’m not your property. I don’t care what the law says. But I understand why you said what you did. Thank you.”
Nick stared at her for a long moment, expecting her to say more, expecting her to somehow negate the last statement. Ashley had thanked him? She’d agreed with one of his decisions—well, not so much agreed as accepted it. There was hope for them yet.
“You can go now,” she ordered.
He sighed. And he might still spot that mermaid.
When he was gone, Ashley leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. What a little fool she’d been! She’d allowed her anger at Nick to cloud her judgment. She needed him. This wasn’t London, where she had the Brittany name and her five brothers’ brute strength behind her. This wasn’t Bond Street with a footman tailing her. This was a pirate ship. She was vulnerable, and the only thing protecting her from horrors she did not want to consider was Nick.
She hadn’t considered the way the men on the ship looked at her. Men always looked at her, but those men were kept at a distance by servants or by the code of the gentleman. These men were not gentleman, as Johnson had so adroitly proven. She wasn’t safe, and her missteps meant a man was suffering.
Johnson had done little more than scare her and leave a bruise on her arm. She had five brothers and knew quite well how to defend herself, but if the other sailors hadn’t come to her aid, her defense would not have won the day. A few well placed kicks and jabs were no match for a man who outweighed her by four or five stone and had twice as much strength as she. What if Nick had not believed her? What if he had not claimed her?
She shivered just thinking about what Nick had said. The woman is mine. It was the second time he had made such a statement. When he’d said it as they rode away from Gretna Green, she took it to mean she was his responsibility. But now, away from all civilization, she felt it meant something very different.
She should have been offended and appalled at such sentiments. Instead, heat had rushed to her belly and her body had throbbed. She had not realized what a powerful man he was. He held the power of life and death on this ship. Every man here served him. She’d never thought of him in that light before. In London, it was his brother who held the title, and Nick who held all the charm. But here, on the open sea, Nick had more power than any man she’d ever known.
She had never been one of those ninnies who ran after every marquess and swooned when a duke was present. Regardless of title, a man was a man—but if that was true, why were her cheeks w
arm when she thought of Nick? Why did her knowledge of his new power make him suddenly more attractive?
She pushed away from the door and moved to stare out of the windows. Behind them lay open ocean and before them more of the same. She’d never felt more trapped than she did at this moment, and she wasn’t certain whether it was Nick or her own feelings that put her in the most danger.
By afternoon, she couldn’t stand another moment in the cabin. However, when she was finally allowed on deck to take the air, she kept her eyes down and refused to meet the gazes of any of the men. She didn’t look up at the topmast either. She didn’t want to see Mr. Johnson staring down at her with hatred or hear his call of “argh.” She feared the pirates all hated her now and saw their comrade’s punishment as her fault.
She did find Nick’s gaze. He nodded at her and went back to his spyglass. Like a silly goose, she felt a sudden warmth course through her at the knowledge she could still capture his attention.
At some point in the night, she turned in her bed and realized she was not alone. Nick was beside her. He lay on his side, careful not to touch her, but in the moonlit darkness, she could make out his form and his features. She wanted to curl up next to him and bury her face in his chest. She wanted him to hold her and tell her all would be well.
But there was so much from the past between them. Instead, they kept apart, not touching, even in sleep. When she awoke in the morning, he was gone.
The following week was much the same. Mr. Fellowes had assisted her in her search for employment, and gradually a growing pile of socks and shirts needing mending appeared. She’d never been passionate about needlework, but it kept her occupied lest she be tempted to conjure images of the captain.
That happened all too frequently of late. When she was on deck, she found herself seeking him out. Every glimpse of him made her heart flutter as though she were some green girl who’d never even seen the inside of Almack’s. But Ashley would defy even the most hardened courtesan not to sigh at the sight of Nicholas Martingale standing on the ship’s bow, booted feet braced apart and hands on his hips. His dark buckskins molded to muscled thighs, and his white shirt flattened against his chest by the force of the wind. He’d worn coats and cravats for a few days after Johnson’s punishment, but now she more often saw him in shirtsleeves, working right alongside his men. His black hair whipped about his bronze face, and his smile was quick and his teeth white.