by Susan Ward
“Inducement?” The way Morgan said it made her sound absurd. “Oh, your imagination does have a tendency to scamper off with you, doesn’t it, Little One? I wasn’t entertaining thoughts of joining you. There’s a ground swell coming. Stay put until I tell you.”
Merry dismissed his words with the contempt they deserved, certain it was a perverse game of some sort. She had almost climbed from the pillows when the ship suddenly lurched in a creaking pause. It was suspended and then drove furiously downward on a wave into its trough. The force of motion brought her in a dizzying rush down into a heap upon the bedding.
Lifting her burning face from the sheets she noted Morgan hadn’t move an inch.
His soft laughter filled the cabin. He turned from the stern windows to give her a small, enigmatic smile. “It would serve you better to trust me a little and not let your thoughts scamper off into the lurid.”
“It’s only natural for one’s thoughts to be lurid when you’re around.”
As far as blunders went, it was the worst of her life. Known for a quick and clever wit, she couldn’t imagine what had become of her tongue. Since Morgan’s advent into her life, it seemed to fail her dismally.
Knowing she couldn’t seem any more foolish to him than she already did, Merry abandoned what little dignity she had left. She pulled a pillow down over her head to escape that unwavering, amused gaze.
“Go away,” she said in an agonized voice, made muffled by feathers and emotion. “Just go away. Aren’t you needed somewhere? I thought captains never abandon the deck during times of storm and battle.”
“A storm? It’s little more than a shower,” he said, silky and amused. “I hate to disappoint you, Little One, but I am more a creature of comfort than noble sentiment. I much prefer to stay dry and warm here with you. I have always failed to see what was noble or sentimental about staying topside with my men, just so I can be shivering and wet, like sturgeon, with them.”
He picked up the pillow and gave her a blistering smile.
“I am afraid you’re stuck with me until nature decides otherwise.”
Merry pushed back the tangles of curls and found him sitting a safe distance away in his chair. “You’re despicable.”
“No, sensible. And while it’s probably unkind of me to dash another of your idealistic hopes so soon, if you’re lying there praying for the weather to worsen enough to sink us, if the ship were to go down, you wouldn’t be free of me at all. I would be the first off. There’s no future at all in going to the bottom of the sea with a bunch of wood and rubble, no matter how many pretty prose the poets write about captains staying until the end. Somehow they fail to grasp that it’s the staying that causes the end.”
“And your crew chose you to be their captain?” Merry scoffed, outrage.
She had read pirate ships were a democracy, and captains were elected by the crew. She had thought the process rather appealing in its fairness. Obviously, Morgan considered himself above all dictates of social order, even those expressly stated in every work on pirates ever written.
As though he could read her thoughts, with no effort at all, he said, “Fortunately, they are more concerned with their profits than my lack of tolerance for discomfort.”
“I didn’t realize what an adoring following you have among the scourge of the sea,” she said, pleased for having managed just the right edge of sarcasm.
“Oh, Little One, I don’t bother with adoring, at least not with the scourge. I prefer adoring women and greedy men.”
Morgan stretched out and crossed his stocking feet at the ankles. It was then, Merry noticed he’d removed his boots and seemed to be planning to settle in for a while.
When had he done that? While she was sleeping, no doubt. She suffered another blush surfacing.
Morgan opened his eyes just enough to meet her stare.
When finally he spoke, his voice was pleasant and spruce. “I don’t think we’re quite ready for anything so intimate as isolated hours of conversation. What do you say to a little sport to pass the afternoon?” Her expression of wariness made him grin in spite of his effort not to. “There you go again. Scampering off into the lurid. I was thinking of piquet, Little One. If you’re not ready to do conversation comfortably, what makes you think you’re ready to do that comfortably?”
When she didn’t answer, he gave her a dark smile and added, “There isn’t a hand aboard ship that can play a decent game, except Indy, and he despises games. I am assuming you know how to play.”
Merry glared at him, insulted. “Of course I do.”
“I didn’t mean it as a criticism.” Morgan turned toward her, one dark brow easing upward. “Why, of course?”
Realizing it unwise to divulge any more information about herself than what he seemed so effortlessly to discover through observation, Merry said instead, “I don’t wish to play cards with you.”
His expression told her that he knew better. In a mild tone, he said, “Yes you do, Little One. Your face lit up at the suggestion of it. You’re bored. I am bored. What danger could there be in a harmless game of cards?”
She stared at him hard, as though trying to discover a trick in this. He went to his desk and removed a deck.
“Would you care for me to join you there or would you like to join me here?”
Merry had taken two steps before she froze. She stood several feet from Morgan her eyes wide with dismay. Here was not the table, here was on the floor atop his dark Persian rug.
Smiling, he pulled from the window bench several pillows, scattering them into inviting piles.
“You look like a girl who prefers comfort to the hard back of a chair.”
He settled before her in a graceful descent of long limbs. He reclined himself on a small stack of pillows in an unselfconscious manner, which somehow managed to be strangely elegant.
“There’s no need to worry about decorum here, Little One. We only do what we want, how we want, and only so long as it is pleasurable.”
Swallowing hard, Merry held back, reality an impossible to grasp concept.
Is that really the infamous Captain Morgan, sprawled on a carpet in front of me, staring at me with those great black eyes and wanting to play piquet?
For a man of such reported ruthlessness and bloodthirsty villainy, he behaved not at all like she expected. She had expected him to kill her. He had not. She had expected him to—or at least try to—ravish her. He had not. He had kissed her once, let her go, and left her to sleep on the window seat.
Blushing at the memory of his lips, she pushed her thoughts away. Piquet? Who would have thought the man enjoyed piquet?
Sinking down a safe distance from him, Merry pulled the pillows in front of her into a barrier. She caught Morgan watching the effort.
It was clear he had no designs on her, so the gesture was foolishly extreme. If he had a reason for keeping her, at all, it was for amusement. He did seem to laugh a great deal at her.
Frowning, she realized she didn’t like him laughing at her, any better than she liked knowing he found her undesirable. Shaking her head in frustration, she couldn’t imagine why either of those conditions should have caused her a moment’s bother.
Picking up the cards, she found Morgan’s black eyes assessing her with something akin to a smile in them.
Furious, she grudgingly jerked her cards into order. She balanced herself in a ridiculous pose, on knees and elbows. She looked like a tiny cat ready to spring from danger, in an instant. It was clear she didn’t know that her position had pushed her breasts forward from the gown. It gave Morgan a delightfully clear view of their fullness. Unknown to Merry, her lovely little bottom was rising upward in a manner that was inescapably provocative.
His mouth softened slightly by a smile, Morgan asked, “What do you think to wagering? It makes the game more fun.”
“I should have known better than to think you wanted to play cards,” she hissed. “And what do you propose we wager? I have nothing but mys
elf, and this night dress, thanks to you.”
“I wasn’t thinking that at all, but if you insist...” He let the words hang, causing her cheeks to color brightly with fury and embarrassment. “...no? We could wager questions. The winner of each game gets to ask a question and the loser must answer. And because I can see your suspicious nature taking hold again, why don’t we make those questions connected with your plight of being here off limits?”
Then his black eyes sparkling, ever so slightly, he whispered, “And in the spirit of good will, Little One, you may ask me anything.”
Merry didn’t for a moment think she could trust him. Yet she found the temptation to wager an overwhelming impulse. She could fill a book with her curiosities about this man. She was very good at piquet. Even Uncle Andrew said she was masterful at the game. It seemed harmless enough.
As though carefully debating with herself, she asked, “You want to bet questions? And I may ask you anything? How do I know you will answer me honestly?”
“Are you expecting to win, Little One?” Morgan replied, amused. “I wouldn’t have proposed it if I had no intention of being truthful. Whatever you think of my despicable character, what would be the pleasure in wagering, if it were insincere?”
Merry stared at him for quite awhile and then played a card. The first game went slowly as she seemed to agonize over each card she played. They played without conversation, until he had one card in his hand and she had two. She studied her cards a long time. She slipped down on her stomach to lay on a pillow, her longs legs bent at the knees, bare feet in air, moving ever so slightly back and forth in her indecision.
Frowning, Merry set between them a diamond. Those lovely eyes moved anxiously to his face. Then, flashed with anger as he laid a club, taking the first game from her.
“You are not accustom to losing at things, are you, Little One?” he said.
“I am not accustom to playing with people who cheat without me being able to see it,” she returned.
Morgan’s laughter was softly amused. “You can’t see it because I don’t cheat. And as I recall we had a wager, the first win is mine.”
Merry looked up, smoldering. She spread the cards before her, giving them a sharp inspection. If there was a trick to the cards, she couldn’t see it. Breathing in deeply, she lifted her eyes to his.
Smiling darkly, he asked, “How old are you, Little One?”
She searched Morgan’s handsome face, wondering why he should want to know her age. Merry tossed her hair back and said reluctantly, “I am nineteen. Why do you want to know?”
His long tanned finger ran the line of her cheek and stopped atop her lips. “The question belongs to me, Little One. I was the winner.”
The look in Morgan’s eyes was sharp. Merry wondered if he were daring her to slap his fingers away. When she shifted her gaze away from him, he moved his hand slowly back from her, smiling.
“Do you want to play again?”
Merry didn’t answer. She grabbed the cards, shuffled and dealt them out. Four games they played. Four games, he won. Four times, she waited anxious and worried for the questions. Four times, he asked her meaningless things she could not fathom his interest in knowing. She answered him each time, not pleasantly, but truthfully.
Another game. Merry’s frown had moved to a constant scowl.
“I have never played against anyone who I can’t make reason of their moves,” she murmured in open irritation.
“Why are you not married? Aren’t young girls of your age and birth, usually well settled into the business of marriage by now?”
“I prefer my freedom to the servitude to a man. Especially, since in my experience, I find most men not worth service to.”
Merry was staring at the cards, not bothering to give him notice.
“You won’t let yourself quit until you win one game, will you?” Morgan asked, amused. “It is better sometimes, Little One, to retreat and save yourself than to push forward into winning, when it will only bring you ruin in the end.”
“Just because I haven’t won a hand does not mean I am incapable of beating you.”
“You are more than capable,” Morgan said, reaching out to touch the tense and angry lines of her face. “You are quick and you are clever, but, Little One, you are not wise.”
Merry glared at him. He picked up his cards.
They had been playing for hours, the game out lasting the rain. It was nearly total darkness beyond the stern windows. Sitting in the dim glow of a single candle, she had failed to note the rain had stopped. He had told her she would be free of his presence when the weather cleared. She gave no wonder at his purpose in remaining and playing the game through.
Two more games passed until she won one. Smiling triumphantly, Merry looked into the mysterious face of the pirate captain to find his eyes watching her in unconcealed enjoyment.
Easing upward into a sitting position, his long legs relaxed in front of him, Morgan reached for his wine and said, “Oh, Little One. Such power you have now. One chance to learn the mysteries of a demon. Which way will you go with it?”
He was mocking her and Merry knew he only meant to rattle her into using her question foolishly. Morgan enjoyed mocking all things: himself, her, the world. He might have been content to keep the spirit of the game light asking banal questions, but she had worked hard for this win.
Sifting anxiously through the tidbits in her mind, of all the things she wanted to know, of all the things she couldn’t ask because of their danger, she asked, “Why do you hate Rensdale?”
Quick. Clever. Unwise. Morgan arched a brow. “Are we admitting we know the man or still pretending we don’t?”
“Neither,” Merry replied stubbornly, not realizing that by the question she had told him something else of herself. It sat in her eyes. This girl didn’t like Rensdale.
She eased upright, dragging her satiny legs beneath her gown. “One question. It is mine. Why do you hate him?”
Morgan drained his glass and then met her sapphire eyes directly. “Ancient history, Little One. You were just a little girl, playing on the cobbles of Falmouth throwing rocks at boys, when the cause of my hatred for Rensdale happened.”
Thinking he meant to avoid answering, Merry pressed, “That’s not an answer and you gave me your word to be honest.”
He eased onto his knees and took Merry’s face in his hands, lightly stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, before he slipped his fingers through the gossamer cloud of her curls.
“You are a very beautiful girl, Little One,” he whispered. “Do you want to know why I hate Rensdale? It’s an excellent question. It’s part of why I hate the thought that he might someday have gotten to touch you. Touch you here.” The shock of his words, so paralyzed her she was unable to move away from the light contact of his fingers on her cheek. “Or here.” His fingers came against the pulsing flesh at the base of her neck in a way that sent shudders down her. His strokes glided downward, to her collarbone, gently brushing and everywhere he touched she was on fire. “Do you want to know why I will never let you go? So he will never have a chance to touch you, as I am sure he burns to?”
Cutting like a knife through his words were the sweet movements of his hands, drifting in a faintly suggestive exploration that spread heat across her flesh. So many bells erupted in her mind. The answer was dangerous, just as asking the question had been. Dangerous how? Merry did not know, but the bells were ringing loudly, like St. Andrew’s Church.
She was almost fainting beneath the burning play of his hands, but was unable to pull from him.
Panicking she said, “You refuse to answer me. You are not playing fairly.”
“It was your question, Little One. It deserves a thorough answer. The answer would mean nothing to you unless you understood the emotion it lay with. I do hate Rensdale. I would never want you to underestimate my feeling of that.”
She was trying to figure out something to say, a way to break free of him, since her body
refused her command. The light touches made her tremble and they were nothing, meager caresses at best. Furious with herself for having started this, she sent desperate pleas to Heaven he would move away, since she couldn’t begin to reason a course to deal with this.
Then, all at once, Morgan stopped and sat back from her. Merry watched his hands falling away, feeling an icy shiver race up her as he stretched to his full height above her. His black eyes settled on her face, liquid pools, beguiling and mysterious. Their steady hold from Morgan’s austere face made her heart leap upward in her chest.
“Little One, I have cause to hate Rensdale. The man killed my wife.”
~~~
Merry was sitting in the center of the floor, surrounded by pillows and cards, when Indy came with her evening tray. Her blue eyes whipped toward him, wild and full of emotion. She looked like she’d been forced through a cider press.
Good Lord, what had Morgan been doing with her all day? The man had a mania for melodrama at times. Clearly, the girl had been on the pointed end of one of those grim, ruthless games he played so well.
He set down the tray, took her face in his hands and gave her a sharp examination.
“What the hell did he do to you? You look like your hair has been set on fire.”
She moved forward and shoved her face within inches of his. “He didn’t bed me if that’s what you’re hoping for. Did you really put me in his bed out of a need for some sort of revenge against Rensdale?”
“Of course not. I don’t even know who you are. How was I to know you had a connection to Rensdale? I just played with Morgan’s assumptions, because there didn’t seem any other way to help you. I put you in his bed, so I would not have to kill you. Beyond that, there is nothing to this. And I am perfectly aware you share only a cabin with him. You would look a hell of a lot better than this if you shared his bed.”
Indy sat down beside her.
“So what has you looking so frazzled if you didn’t spend the afternoon romping in his sheets?”
She blushed. “Is that how I look? Frazzled?” Then, just a little curious, remembering how Morgan’s touch had raced like a firestorm across her flesh, she asked, “Wouldn’t I look frazzled if Morgan had bedded me?”