by Susan Ward
It was Indy who came near midnight to lift her sleeping form from the wood floor just inside Tom’s cabin doorway.
His face came into hazy focus before her, as he said, “You’re lucky it was Craven who found you dressed like this. I should beat you for being so foolish as to scamper about clad only in his shirt.”
Merry cut him off. “Craven is a horrible man. Beat me if you want, I am too tired to defend myself with you. He’s already bruised my arms with his fingers. So perhaps you will leave off and consider the beating unnecessary.”
Her eyes drifted closed and exhaustion dragged her back into sleep before he could answer her.
He put Merry to bed on the window bench and tucked the blankets high beneath her chin. Rolling up her sleeves he noted the tiny purple marks marring the flawless creaminess of her flesh. Lowering himself to the cabin floor, he lightly stroked her hair. It was sticky from sweat.
She’d pounded on the door for hours because he’d left her there, long after Craven had given him the key, as a lesson, hopefully, that would lead to an inclination for self-protection.
Morgan remained silent through the heated quarrel that had ensued in the captain’s cabin between Indy and Craven. He’d heard them both out without a word.
Fixing his black eyes bright with his amusement on the window bench, Morgan said pleasantly, “I think I will keep the girl forever, since she’s doing us all so much good.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Someone had left a silver bowl of allspice berries on the window bench where Merry slept. It was most probably Indy, who always let her know, without saying so, he was sorry when he was too harsh with her. He had indeed been harsh with her the prior night, and had avoided her all day because of it.
The berries were a treasure. The ship had taken on fresh supplies when it had taken her on in Falmouth, which accounted for the berries. Because of the vast number of men, these little delicacies of fresh produce were exclusively Morgan’s. For Indy to sneak a bowl into the cabin for her was to break a standing order against stealing food and risk punishment.
Merry was curled beneath a quilt, chomping away and staring at the star points beyond the stern windows. The ship rocked pleasantly beneath her as it rose and dipped over the waves. It was a poor ally for her mind that tried to make plans of escape.
Ireland, perhaps I will escape Morgan in Ireland.
The cradle-like motion of the ship made her drowsy mind unable to go farther. They wouldn’t drop anchor for another five days. She had time to plan plots, so she decided not to be overly critical with herself for not doing it now.
With the sounds of footsteps from the hallway drifted pipe smoke. Brandon Seton’s. She identified the pungent scent and its owner without effort, just as she identified the low voice conversing with him.
Expecting Morgan to drift past the door, rapping it once with his knuckles, a habit, she did nothing to hide the berries. Morgan never brought the crew, except Tom Craven, to the cabin. She should have remembered the warning about ‘never’.
In a few moments the door came wide, admitting the two men. Merry flushed like a guilty child, and tried with a not so subtle move of her hand to hide the bowl. The amusement shimmering in Morgan’s black eyes let her know she had failed dismally.
Before Morgan said a word, Merry snapped, “I stole it. I was hungry.”
She had offered her statements as a protection to Indy, and completely given up protection to herself. Morgan was not alone. The rules about stealing food and their punishments were no stranger to Merry. They would be rigidly enforced, even with her, and especially in front of the crew. Flogging.
The lamp he had brought in, he sat on the table, and Morgan crossed the room to cup her chin.
In an affectionately chiding way, he said, “No you didn’t, you little lunatic. I left it for you. Never confess to a crime on a ship. You are the only one on this ship who ever disobeys my orders. You spent your supper glowering at me instead of eating. I knew your appetite would return once you were rid of me.”
Caught off guard, Merry blushed, because there were any number of ways to interpret that last statement.
He released her chin and was able to dismiss her from his mind with a dispatch she was envious of. Morgan was not so easy to dismiss.
She sat up, curling her legs in front of her. With the blanket, she made a desperate attempt to hide that she was wearing Morgan’s shirt. She didn’t want Mr. Seton to see her garbed thus and putting implications to it.
Her attempts at this must not have been subtle. Brandon Seton began to wickedly grin as he watched the useless endeavors of her hands.
“I never expected to be jealous of one of your shirts, Varian, but I find that I am,” he announced, in a careless way that made him sound amiable, in spite of the rudeness of his remark.
That Mr. Seton was one of the few who called Captain Morgan ‘Varian’ when they were alone, told Merry this man was among the few men on ship Morgan liked. You could count on the digits of a single hand how many people were allowed to speak his given name. Merry was not among them. It told her which group she sat with.
Reading her thoughts with alarming precision, Morgan said, “Yes, Little One, I have Christian name. Even devils come to earth spawned through human flesh, and are burdened by their traditions. You may indulge the tradition whenever you develop the whim to.”
The rounding of Merry’s eyes made Brandon laugh.
He was rudely enjoying himself, as he asked, “Now, I am intrigued. What does the little flower call you when she whispers at you in the darkness, Varian?”
Morgan’s eyes held her in a wandering hold. “I don’t give her a chance to call me anything. The words from Merry’s lips are, by far, not the sweetest things to come from her lips. I haven’t enough ego to risk its thrashing to ask her what she calls me in her mind.”
Insufferable man is what I call you, Merry thought before she could stop herself.
Morgan laughed at once, in a pleasant way, and announced dramatically, “Ah, it must be bad. We had better leave off on her before it gets worse, Bran. I will have to work double effort to improve the dismal state I am presently in. Both in where Merry prefers to sleep, and in what Merry prefers to call me.”
Morgan went to open a bottle of wine and, not as expected, took out three glasses and filled them. Merry was disappointed with herself that her eyes moved with him.
He was such a fascinating man. Even so insignificant a thing as opening wine she watched in fascination, because he floated before her eyes, mysterious and beguiling.
He handed her a glass and went to his table, making a graceful gesture of arm for Brandon to join him. Looking at the delicate, finely made crystal, French no doubt, an elegant detail of his surrounding that were tastefully filled with elegant details to compliment him. She took a sip and watched them alertly.
Morgan’s conduct tonight was new to Merry and put her nerves on edge. He was not usually suggestive in his talk about her. He never entertained the crew, except Mr. Craven, and when they were alone he rarely noticed her.
Was it possible her predicament here had grown all the more dangerous? Her eyes rounded without her knowing it, and she held him in a searching gaze, anxious and wary.
Morgan tossed down a card. Merry slowly released her tension since he seemed tame and focused on the game. She slid down like a feather floating to earth, back to a laying position on the bench. She was still watching, still nervous, lying curled on her side, head on pillow, and making nonsensical efforts to drink her wine without spilling it.
He threw down another card, stupider choice, and lost the hand.
They were halfway through the second bottle of wine when Merry realized Morgan hadn’t won a hand all night. It was unflattering to her that he was losing because he had beaten her, without effort. He kept tossing down cards and had lost a considerable sum of money, for all that it seemed not to bother him.
He threw down a diamond, and she winced wi
thout knowing she had done so facially. It was a hideous play. Morgan wasn’t following this, at all, tonight. It took all of twenty minutes for her to figure out Mr. Seton’s pattern of plays. His strategy was predictable.
Merry’s thoughts were interrupted by laughter, amused and enticing, followed by a whispering command. “Come here.”
Her eyes rounded in distress as she saw that the quiet directive of a finger was addressed to her. That she didn’t immediately move brought the slow upward ascent of a brow, the kind Morgan made just before chiding that she needed learn how to obey an order. His finger moved again, only slightly. She wanted to tell him to go to the devil, but he had only one standing order with her. Not to flash her proclivity toward disobedience in front of the men.
He had said, the burden of maintaining command would make it necessary to react unfavorably.
He’d said that with one of those banal smiles that warned of unlimited possibilities of what unfavorably meant and she didn’t want to find out what unfavorably meant. If she let her temper flash now it could have ugly consequences with Mr. Seton in the room. Reluctantly, she pushed up from the blankets.
Morgan settled his chin in the heel of a hand and favored her with a smile that could have raised blisters on the wood of the deck. It was pushing her luck to drag this out further, so reluctantly she sank in a chair beside him, and curled her legs up in front of her.
“I need your help,” Morgan said. “I haven’t won a hand all night.”
Heat rose in Merry’s cheeks, since her foolish heart seemed inclined to respond to every moment he set his attention upon her, wanting him to even while she dreaded it. Mr. Seton was watching in fascination in a way not lending to comfort.
It may be unwise, but she said it anyway, “You deserve to lose. You are playing horribly.”
He let his gaze wander from her, and herded the cards into a pile that he collected in a single palm.
“What do you suggest I do about my playing horribly?”
“Change to piquet. You are better at playing piquet. You certainly can’t be worse.”
“It is ungentlemanly to switch games when you’re losing. I have a better idea.”
Morgan’s better ideas accompanying a smile were a disquieting thing. Merry tensed.
“Do you think you can be generous with your charms tonight?”
She had no idea what to make of that, or how to respond. She eased a hair back from him.
“I need a touch of Merry.”
Openmouthed with dismay, in a frenzy of enflamed and rapid speculations, it was by iron will that Merry didn’t hit him as he circled her wrist in a gently holding band of blood warmed fingers.
She felt an utter fool at once. All he did was hold her trembling fingers above the deck and ask her to cut them. She took the deck, divided it, and with an exasperated slap set it before him on the table.
She was exasperated with herself, with her skittishness with him, and what she suspected was his amusement over her skittishness. She was behaving like a spineless ninny. His next words didn’t surprise her.
“Kiss them,” he said.
She glared at Morgan, smacked the deck with her tense lips, in a way decidedly angry, a touch loud and seemed to only add to his merriment in this.
Furious, she exclaimed, “You got me out of bed to kiss a deck of cards because you are losing. You are a vexing man, Captain.”
The eyes he fixed on her were sparkling, like blackberries. “I got you out of bed to kiss me, Little One, but you seemed not inclined, and I am a flexible man. Now, Bran is jealous of the shirt, we are both jealous of the cards, and it should be a more interesting game. Which card carries the kiss of Merry?”
He bent her a charming smile before he began to divide out the cards. Merry, desperate to hide the humiliating blush on her face, curled into a tighter ball, cheek resting on knees, staying because somehow she knew Morgan expected her to.
His orders at times were unperceivable dictates, received through keener senses than those of eyes and ears, and always obeyed.
Drowsy in the chair, without thought, she took his wineglass, finished it, and started to run the edge of the glass against her lip in an effort to keep herself awake. Slowly, she felt herself pulled into sleep.
“Are you selling? If you are, I am buying.”
Morgan shifted his gaze from Merry to find Brandon’s amber eyes running on her not angelically.
The practice of transferring women by sale was one he’d never interfered with on his ship. It was a commonplace occurrence in this world at sea, one he tolerated, despised, and did not participate in. He was far from an angel himself. However, he was not a defiler, and that was the ultimate defilement of a woman, to reduce her to a product of commerce.
“I don’t think you can afford her,” Morgan said, as he took the wineglass before it slipped from Merry’s tiny fingers. She had fallen asleep.
More eager, Brandon countered, “Try me. Set a price.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair and arched a brow. Brandon was determined. He was eager in his body. He was young. Morgan’s black eyes narrowed on the younger man’s face.
“I have set a price. It will cost you a single...” he let the pause develop slowly, menacingly, then added dramatically bored, “... a single bullet between your eyes. Depending on how unsure my hand is after two bottles of wine, you may still live to enjoy your purchase. Are you still interested in buying? I find that I am in the mood to sell.”
Brandon sprang up from his chair, as though he’s been doused in burning oil, but was too cautious to leave without permission. The color was gone from his pretty boy face, his bronze tan looking dull without blood to give it hue.
“I didn’t mean to offend you with the offer, Varian.”
Morgan smiled darkly. He reached for the glass he’d taken from Merry, filled it, and then took a sip
“I am not offended. It is natural that one of you has inquired, given her visible merits. I have set a price. I am uncomplicated in commerce. Let the men know. A single price. A bullet between the eyes. The price of ownership. The price of a second offer being made to me. The price of touching her. I thought I made that clear on deck today. I must not have. I should practice at being more direct.”
Morgan looked up as he gathered the cards.
“Please, sit. I am not done playing with you.”
~~~
Merry stretched, coming awake pleasantly bathed in the aftermath of a very restful sleep, opened her eyes and shocked herself by where she’d had it.
A frantic dart of her gaze showed her a pillow undisturbed, puffed up beside her, which she gratefully accepted as evidence she had been in Morgan’s bed alone. However, another dart of her gaze told her he was still in the cabin, not a gratefully accepted evidence of the state of affairs of her morning.
Morgan was sitting at his table, picking at his breakfast plate, black eyes reading from a copy of Voltaire’s Micromegas.
An edition in French, no less, Merry thought peevishly. He is an educated man. Whatever other things he may be that I am far from fathoming. Why am I in his bed?
An amused voice cut through her thoughts.
“So, the beautiful detainee wakes. It was worth waiting to see Sleeping Beauty stir in my sheets. You look rather charming there. Stop troubling yourself over why you are in my bed. It is harmless. I drank and played cards until dawn. You fell asleep in the chair. It was a shorter walk with you in my arms to the bed. Don’t work yourself into virgin panic. It is unnecessary. I am pure of heart in this, laziness.”
She frowned, puzzled by his presence, wondering how Morgan saw her when his eyes never lifted from book.
The sun beyond the stern windows told her it was midmorning. It was an uncommonly late hour for Morgan to be breakfasting.
She gave herself hearty pats on her back for the calm manner in which she climbed from his bed, and her ability to maintain a little dignified composure even garbed in his shirt. She padded a
cross the cabin to curl in a chair beside him.
Picking absently at her plate, she carefully studied Morgan while he ate. Her eyes went on their own to wander the handsome lines of his face, the rich tones in his dark hair, the bronze tan of his skin, and the graceful arrangement of his hands.
She paused for a moment in her study of his hands. They were extremely large hands. They should terrify her. She was surprised they didn’t, and then in start, knew why.
They never moved with anything but fluid gentleness, no matter how terrifying he could be at times.
Her gazes floated upward from the tip of a long tanned finger, to the well-muscled bicep, across his broad shoulder, and then along the smooth skin of his neck that ran over a molded chin.
He is a very handsome man, Merry reluctantly admitted to herself. She shifted her eyes to his and found those black orbs watching her.
Blushing and scowling, not watching her knife, she exclaimed, “I demand that you take me back to Falmouth.”
“Ah. We are getting this out of the way early today, a change in strategy. Catch me in the morning while I am pleasant. Though not a good strategy today to catch me after I have seen you in my sheets because I will be inclined...” A linger pause, then, “No.”
“Ah. Laziness, a single word. I demand that you let me go. You have no right.”
Not watching her task, the knife slipped, cutting her thumb.
“Damn you.”
Droplets of blood from her finger began plopping to table from the torn flesh that was pulsing painfully. Trying to stem the flow of red, she began to cry fiercely, hating the tears, but there were times when one just didn’t have enough strength to be brave.
“You need be more careful,” Morgan said softly. He lifted Merry’s thumb to brush it once lightly with his lips before he wrapped his handkerchief around it. “I can’t let you go, Little One. The rules are set in this. Answer my questions and I will release you.”
Merry was beyond caring if she sounded pathetic. She was sobbing, and when she spoke her voice was weak.