by Susan Ward
She wasn’t even sure how it came to be, but she soon found herself atop the bed, curled into his side and weeping. Tears began to run down her cheeks the moment she touched him. He wrapped an arm around her, gently holding her to him as his hand smoothed up and down her back in quiet comfort.
“It will all be well, Little One.”
The gentle touch made her cling, only more tightly, to him as she wept. It felt so good, so warm in his arms. The anxiety of the past few hours poured out of her. She did not think of what she was doing, or how odd it was that it was Morgan she should want to comfort her. Every emotion inside of her was raw, her nerves volatile, and the press of her exhausted limbs into his hard structure only intensified her need to absorb it.
She was grateful Morgan didn’t speak. He looked down at her head, adjusted her closeness, and let her weep. Gradually her tears slowed, then stopped, but she remained in his arms, tired by her crying. Beneath her ear his heart beat steadily. His warmth melted through her clothing like a caress. The scent of him, a whisper of man, tobacco, and wintergreen, had the strange power to be soothing. She nestled closer to him.
His arm tightened for an instant, and then relaxed in a gentle drape against her back. Merry gazed up at him, his face only inches from her. She could see into the depths of his dark eyes. The flesh of his forefinger ran the gentle slopes of her cheek, lightly brushing away the traces of tears.
“I’m sorry you were frightened.”
His voice was lower than usual. Then it wasn’t the tips of his fingers on her cheeks, but his hands slowly lifting her to meet him as he lowered his face.
Their lips met and Merry felt herself go soft and pliant, moving forward on her own without his urging. His mouth was sweet and tender, a forceless seduction, causing her fingers to curl around his shirt, holding on as her lips opened, and her senses filled with him.
For a moment everything around her seemed to stop. She was grateful for the void that left her only aware of the gentleness in his kiss, the firm warmth of him against her, the strong arms that lifted her effortlessly, and the heat that snaked through her emotion chilled limbs.
Her limp body was turned into Morgan. His kisses moved to her neck and shoulders as he softly murmured, in comforting tones, words she could not catch hold of. Shivers of pleasure danced through her as feather-light, his mouth touched the line of her jaw, her cheek, her hair.
Finally, Morgan raised his head, pressing his lips softly against her forehead, and Merry realized he had set her atop the window bench.
“All will be well, Little One,” he said, before he quietly passed through the cabin door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next night Merry sat curled in a chair watching Morgan work on his charts. Yesterday had shown the captain to her in a startling new light, and there was still a wash on him of something different she had never seen before. A thousand questions rolled through her brain, though cautioned warned not to give voice to any of them.
He completed the calculation he was making, sitting back in his chair in that way he had before proceeding with his next meticulous action.
“Why did you kill Reade?” Merry asked.
Morgan adjusted slightly in the chair to fix upon her eyes. “To save my own neck.”
His tone alone should have curled her blood and stopped her. It did not.
“Indy said you did it to protect me. Made an example of Reade, so that none of the crew would dare harm me.”
“Indy says a great many things, most of them nonsense. I can’t have men in my crew I don’t trust.”
A perfectly logical response. Still, nothing made sense to her.
Merry had spent the night trying to connect the pieces of this man into some kind of reasonable consistency and found none existed. Shay was right. Nothing about the man made sense.
Her life existed in proximity with his that should have provided more clarity, not less. She knew his every routine. The precise manner each task was done. What emotions his expressions betrayed, the tell-signs of when to avoid him, and the tell-signs of when he was toying with her. She knew, in fact, each intricate expression of his physical being, but not a thing about his inner being.
What was the key to the mystery of this man?
“What was your wife like?”
Delicate surprise augmented Morgan’s eyes. It pleased Merry that he hadn’t been expecting that question.
He returned the surprise by answering her: “A pretty little thing. Young, like you.”
“Was she French?”
Morgan laughed.
“God, no. British. Though I had to travel to America to find her.”
He stared at the chart for awhile. He tossed the plotting divider on the table, sighed, and then turned into her alertly watching gaze to meet it directly.
“Were you a pirate when you met her?”
Morgan’s eyes darkened.
“No. Ann would never have tolerated such disreputable conduct.”
“Then, what then were you?”
“A foolish man,” he said reflectively.
“Why did you become a pirate?”
He picked up the divider in a manner that should have conveyed to her his annoyance.
“Ann died. Society held no charms or amusement, there was nothing to hold me on land, and it is very difficult to find long intervals of solitude to read from the back of a horse. Highwayman would not have worked well. Piracy was the more accommodating pursuit.”
She knew that answer was ridiculous and far from the truth. The sudden displeasure in his voice warned he’d had enough of her probing. Wisdom dictated leaving off, but it was almost as though she could see a slight crack into him, and the impulse to run through it was very strong.
“You could have been anything you wanted to be. You are clearly a wellborn and educated man. It wasn’t society, or amusement. Or solitude to read. Underneath those artfully constructed layers, you are a sad, bitter man. Only bitterness could prompt one to throw away so many gifts.”
Without looking at her, he continued in his task.
“You are beautiful, gentle of manner, quick of wit, and look where it has gotten you. By your logic you would be the most bitter person to walk the earth. The questions you ask do not lend to simple answers. Do not insult me by thinking they do. Do not show me your impertinence again by thinking you may ask them.”
It was a warning, no matter how measured the voice was that delivered it. The sudden shift of his mood should have frightened Merry.
Instead she found herself saying, “I am vexing, irritating and impertinent. I can’t imagine why you keep me. Whatever will you do with me?”
“What, indeed. That is a question I would not want answered, if I were in your shoes.”
“Ah, but these are not my shoes. They are Indy’s.”
She rose from the chair in a manner dismissive, enormously pleased she had managed not to cower in the face of his pitching mood. She retrieved her brush from the top of his sea chest and sank upon the rug. She unwound the braids of her hair, and then she felt the burn of his eyes upon her as she began to slowly work the brush through her curls. She brushed her hair longer than usual that night. Never once did Morgan lift his eyes from her.
Why does he watch me? Merry wondered.
If it were lust, surely she would be in his bed by now. No man on ship would stop him from taking what he wanted. There was no power forcing his restraint or his often kind treatment of her.
Beyond the occasional touch and inappropriate advance, he never took. She knew, in that moment, he would never force himself on her. He watched her, but it was Morgan who stopped Morgan. Not once had it ever been her doing that had kept her from his bed.
Morgan watched as Merry put down the brush, then it was her fingers in her hair. Through his shirt he could see the outline of her slender back. When she raised her arms there was a glimpse of a round breast, and just a hint of cream-flesh leg and ankle showing.
She
retrieved the brush and this time the strokes were slow. Her beauty was a powerful weapon. It often surprised him she never tried to use it. He half suspected she wasn’t even fully aware of her effect on men. He was certain in her proper British upbringing, no one had ever warned her what being five weeks without a woman could do to the male anatomy.
Morgan rose from his chair.
“You are a very beautiful girl, Little One. I can never quite decide what price to demand when I sell you in Trinidad.”
~~~
Morgan was gone in the morning, not from the cabin, but the ship. Exactly how one disappeared in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean was a mystery tossed on the heap of all the mysteries unresolved for Merry since joining the Corinthian.
Indy announced he was keeping her locked below for her safety during Morgan’s absence. When Merry vehemently protested this punishment of isolation, he relented by allowing her visits from the crew. Mr. Seton and Mr. Boniface were frequent haunts in Morgan’s cabin. They proved pleasant diversions, and were in good spirits since the Corinthian was less than ten days’ sail from land.
That they would soon reach land did not put Merry in good spirits. At night, when she lay in Morgan’s bed, her thoughts drifted to the captain. She wrestled with endless questions as to what reaching land would mean to her. She wondered if Morgan would, in true, sell her. She had many reasons to be wary of the man. Yet somehow, she did not believe he could commit such villainy. That, in itself, was a silly thing, since she was under no illusion as to the manner of man Morgan was.
Her thoughts grew more troubled as his absence grew longer. On the fifth day it rained. That night Indy surprised her with a fresh water bath from the drops he collected in a barrel. It had been many weeks since she’d had a full bath, fresh water in low supply, and it was a soothing luxury. She washed herself and her hair. She dressed in the garments from Ireland, the only dress she possessed, since she’d tossed out the cabin window Christina Wythford’s gowns.
That night at the evening meal, Indy surprised her a second time by gifting her with the presence of Morgan’s two young officers at the table. The evening progressed enjoyably as Mr. Seton and Mr. Boniface entertained her with amusing tales of America. They seemed eager to make the event gay. She wondered if it were in response to her increasingly pensive mood, or in response to knowing what Morgan had decided for her fate. They engaged in light-hearted buffoonery and mock battle to make her laugh. Occasionally, she felt Indy’s scowl upon her as she giggled in delight over their humor.
Indy’s scowl confused Merry. The festive meal was by all accounts his doing, but her enjoyment of his gift was clearly irritating him. There were times the boy displayed a strange possessiveness of her. He never permitted her a moment alone with either Mr. Seton or Mr. Boniface. She often felt his watching gaze upon her. Was it possessiveness or something else?
He had saved her life, but only to put her in the captain’s bed. He had not brought her aboard ship to keep her for himself. Yet, he watched over her.
The meal was over, the table cleared, and when Indy announced it was time to leave Merry alone in the cabin, the two men protested. Settling back in their chairs, lighting cigars with profuse apologies to her, they drew the evening out longer.
Merry soon found herself sitting with them on Morgan’s carpet, playing a fanciful game where the names of famous people were written on parchment, licked, stuck to the forehead, and then solved by asking questions of the room.
They were halfway through their third bottle of Morgan’s fine Madera, the scowl on Indy’s face had become a thing fierce. He had not wanted to play the game. Merry suspected he had only permitted it because she had insisted upon playing.
Every time she looked at the boy, she laughed harder. Mr. Seton, devilishly funny at times, had neatly penned Indy’s card “Morgan.” Indy’s questions, through gritted teeth, coupled with the prompt answers, only added to the hilarity of such a preposterous endeavor.
The ship rocked beneath them like a great wooden cradle, the moonlight danced through the windows. Merry realized that she was a little drunk.
When Mr. Seton put a cushion on his thigh, she sank onto it without a second thought. The evening had been delightful. Smiling at Mr. Seton, she missed the subtle change on Indy’s grim face.
They were all laughing when the door went wide and Morgan entered. With the quick response of a tiger, the boy sprang to his feet and held the captain’s gaze as Morgan crossed the room in easy strides.
Merry jerked upright from Mr. Seton’s thigh, knocking the pillow off his leg to send Morgan’s fine crystal glasses to rattle on the floor. The captain’s heavy lidded eyes fixed and narrowed on her, but he only did a brief flutter with his fingers through Merry’s hair as he continued to his desk.
“Pretty children,” Morgan commented wryly. “Which one of you shall win salvation?”
Merry’s eyes rounded at the severity of his mood.
Removing papers from a leather case, Morgan said, “You know, Indy, instead of selling her, we should keep her as an amusement for the men since she has learned to manage so well with the crew,” said Morgan suddenly.
“As you wish, Captain,” was all Indy responded before quietly moving to collect the scattered parchment and glasses from the floor.
“And take that damn parchment from your forehead. I find it not funny at all,” Morgan added, more severely.
A curt nod of his head sent the crew scrambling from the cabin. In a trice Merry was left alone in the cabin with Morgan. He turned to stand above her, staring down at her with eyes more harsh than he had ever directed at her before.
“After Reade’s hanging, one would think you’d learn to exercise some caution with the crew.”
Morgan was not usually curt with her. She remained in the center of the rug, staring at his back as he settled into work at his desk. His casual mention of Reade’s hanging hardly came as a comfort to Merry’s taut nerves.
Unsure how to manage this disturbing change in him, she curled into a tight ball, arms hugging knees, staying as she was on the floor, watching him. He removed from the case a large bundle of documents which were transported to his sea chest. He gave her no notice until after he snapped closed the lock on the chest.
Subjecting her to a critical survey, he said, “You can go to sleep without fear, Little One. I’m not in the mood to bite.”
That last comment was accompanied by one of his dark smiles. Merry stared and watched as he returned to his desk. She had never once undressed with Morgan near, somehow he was always conveniently from the cabin when she needed him to be. In his present mood, this change was not one she would welcome.
Effortlessly reading her concern and amused by her dismay, he said, “I won’t look. Your virgin modesty is absurd, since you clearly lost your disdain of men.”
His back was toward her, sitting in chair, and fixed on work. She debated with herself and then sprang from the carpet. Whatever this mood was, instinct warned her not to irritate him further.
She quickly removed her garments and pulled his shirt over her head. She crossed the cabin to the bench, laid down, and almost completely disappeared from view beneath the quilt. She turned on her side to stare out the stern windows. The tension in the cabin and the rocking of the ship were not a comfortable thing for her, at present. The ship lurched beneath her in a sharp movement that Merry could now recognize as a ground swell.
They’d been dead in the water for days, but with Morgan’s return came the return to sails. The ship pitched again, making the lamp light flicker in the room. For some reason, the motion and flickering light were affecting her not at all well. Her vision blurred as the room swirled. She turned on the bench, trying to escape the strange discomfort of her body.
Her stomach turned. Her head throbbed. Was it the ship? Or was something wrong with her? The discomfort of her body won out of over Morgan’s mood and her pride.
She rolled over to face him, the motion making h
er head swim more and her stomach more distressed.
“Morgan?” she groaned.
He ignored her. She repeated his name twice without being answered. His quill continued in his task, and would not even acknowledge her by looking.
Struggling to sit up, then thinking better of it, in a panicked voice she exclaimed, “Varian!”
He didn’t look up from his work. “Yes, Little One?”
Damn, the man. Why must he toy with her at this of all moments? She tried to hold herself steady and found she couldn’t. It was difficult to focus her gaze on him.
“Is it me, or is the cabin spinning for you, too?”
He looked at her then. “What?”
“Is the room spinning? It will not hold still. Oh, please make it stop.” She knew she was going to be sick.
Morgan’s dark eyes opened wider. He saw and understood. When she leaned over the edge of the bench and started to make little heaving motions, he crossed he room in two steps, grabbing the washbowl to hold it under her mouth.
“That’s what you get,” he observed, unsympathetically, as he collected her in his arms, “when you drink with pirates.”
Merry struggled against his hold and against the motions of her stomach. This was humiliating. As her body convulsed, tears ran from her cheeks.
Gasping and jerking, she moaned, “I don’t want to get sick.”
“Don’t fight it, Little One. The sooner you get sick, the sooner you’ll feel better,” he said in a sensible way. Merry promptly vomited into the bowl on his lap. “Better?”
The look Merry gave him made him laugh. She protested as Morgan moved with her to the chair.
“Stop fighting me,” he admonished. “Until this passes, you’ll feel better sitting up.”
He settled with her on his lap in the chair.
It took hours for Merry’s stomach to purge. The girl fought even this. When at last she lay calm in his arms, Morgan set the washbowl on the floor. They both fell asleep, as his patient fingers gently stroked her hair.