“Ah, I have ruffled your feathers, Mon Chou.” Despite his observation, he exhibited no sign of remorse, as he restored his patch. “Alas, I do not court, but if I did, I would pursue you, Maddie.” After emptying and rinsing the pot, he rolled the blanket, returned everything to the sack, and smothered the fire. “Now let us walk back to the windward side, where Tyne awaits.”
“Walk?” With naught but the silver glow of moonlight to guide her, Madalene panicked. “What of the snakes? How can we avoid them if we cannot see them?”
“Merde.” Grumbling to himself about frivolous females, Jean Marc grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward a large rock. “Step up, Maddie.”
“What for?” When she tarried, he lifted her atop the boulder and then gave her his back.
“I will carry you, now weigh your anchor.” He bent at the hips. “Wrap your arms about my shoulders.”
“You cannot be serious.” In the dark, she rolled her eyes.
“You prefer the snakes?” he stated, haphazardly.
“Hold still.” Never in her life had she imagined committing such an egregious infraction of etiquette, but her finishing governess never said anything about pirate attacks, sinking ships, randy buccaneers, and reptiles, so Maddie improvised to survive the situation. When he shifted, she squealed as she hopped aboard her contrived mount. “Oh, how did this happen to me? My mother and Aunt Eileen are probably tossing in their graves.”
“Quit complaining, or you may fend for yourself.” After retrieving the sack, he braced her legs behind her knees and trudged forth, into the thick jungle foliage.
At some point during the trek, she noted an altogether foreign but beguiling sensation that built slowly, at first, but quickly erupted into an equally alluring but unfamiliar yearning. Given their respective positions, he rubbed her, albeit unwittingly, in ways no man had ever touched her, and a rush of derring-do bolstered fledgling confidence.
With each advancing stride Jean Marc took, he bounced her, and on the next jolt, she grazed her lips to his ear. A firebrand of heat scorched her veins, and she clenched her thighs about his waist. Beneath her, he flexed his muscles, and she thought she detected a sharp intake of breath.
Was it possible she affected the fascinating former pirate as he affected her?
To test her conjecture, she replicated her strategy in a series of delicate sneak attacks, marveling at each successive response, and she tightened her hold. Resting her chin to his shoulder, she dropped countless accidental kisses on her captain, until he ground to a halt.
“Mon Chou, if you wish to seduce me, you should wait until we gain the privacy of my cabin.” He chuckled low in his throat, and she felt it all the way to her toes. “Otherwise, if you do that again, you will lift your ankles for me, here and now.”
THE BLACK MORASS
CHAPTER FOUR
As a newborn babe, Maddie slept in Jean Marc’s arms as he carried her into his cabin. With his head, he motioned for Tyne to shut the door, because Jean Marc required privacy to enact his plan.
In the corner, the hammock remained unused, because never had she been able to reach it, given the height and taut rope. So she slept on the floor, which surprised him, in light of her pampered upbringing and penchant for the finer things in life. But tonight, she would rest between his sheets.
To avoid a scene and her characteristic panic, he eased her to the mattress. In seconds, he divested her of her satin slippers and lace garters, but he paused to admire the tiny blue bows at perfect center, when he glimpsed her hose.
A flash of images assailed him, as he recalled the ruche-tipped peaks of her breasts and the dark triangle at the apex of her thighs visible beneath her wet chemise when she swam. Hers had been an achingly sweet attempt at modesty, and he compressed his lips as she turned on her side and smiled in slumber.
Did she dream of him?
Although his fingers itched to strip her bare, and his loins burned for her, he drew the sheet over her, tucked the cover under her chin, retreated, and wondered what in bloody hell happened to him.
For a few minutes, he gazed on her, intending to pleasure himself to gain a measure of relief from the torment investing his frame, but he could not rouse himself, though not from lack of want. How he desired the incomparable Lady Madalene, but he could not take her in her exhausted state. At least, that is what he told himself, as he turned and exited his quarters.
Cutting through the maze of lower decks, he wound his way to the waist and ascended to the helm, where Tyne glanced at Jean Marc and glowered.
“How is the gentle lady?” the first mate inquired.
“After the day’s activity, she is exhausted and even now enjoys my hospitality.” Jean Marc leaned against the larboard rail. “Have the crew prepare to ready about.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Tyne relayed the orders, and the men scrambled across the boards and into the rigging.
In the past, sailing served to soothe Jean Marc’s restless soul, in much the same fashion as marauding fed his baser appetites, when his personal history inflicted the usual torment. But he wrestled with a new, unfamiliar, and unwelcomed wretchedness, and his preferred balm dozed in blissful oblivion to the danger that lurked in her midst.
“What is wrong?” Tyne propped beside Jean Marc and stared at the moon. “I figured you would be celebrating another successful conquest.”
In his mind, Jean Marc replayed their special day. He recalled Maddie’s shriek of horror when she spied the snake, and he chuckled. He remembered her appealing blush, as she stood before him in her chemise. And he savored the image of her, which he would carry to his grave, as he gazed upon her succulent body, albeit through the wet linen, for the first time.
“I could not do it,” he stated, with an unmistakable air of finality. “But do not ask why, because I cannot explain my actions, or lack thereof.”
“I am glad.” Tyne scratched his jaw. “Otherwise, you may have incited a mutiny had you brought her back to the ship, in tears. The men watch you, Cap’n, because the lady is nice to them. Indeed, she seems a very fine woman.”
“Perhaps that is what concerns me.” Nagging anxiety had him rubbing the back of his neck. “Maddie said some things today that I cannot get out of my head.” Beneath the indigo blanket of stars, Jean Marc opened the door to his memory and let her dream envelope him. “Have you ever sought an ordinary life on the right side of the law, where you spend your days toiling in a routine not quite of your making? You marry a saucy wench who keeps the marriage bed entertaining, fills your home with squalling babes, and spends your money.” He clenched his fists. “But you have something. You have made something that is your own, and no one can take it from you.”
“You are not that little boy, anymore, Jean Marc. What your father did cannot be undone, but the question is how much longer will you allow the actions of another to dictate your future?” Tyne rested a palm to Jean Marc’s shoulder. “Let go your anger and give yourself a chance at happiness. If your motives are honorable, and Lady Madalene is obliging, then seize her and do not look back, my friend. But if you are bent on destruction, then I urge you to find other sport, as you may wreck yourself.”
“What if I am considering a different alternative?” He could not believe what he pondered in that moment. “Why did you marry Adele?”
“That is a curious question and one I never anticipated from you, but I suppose a woman can alter a man’s thinking like nothing else.” Tyne chuckled. “The short answer is because I loved her. And had either Adele or our son survived childbirth, I probably would be sitting in the rocker on the front porch of our home in New Orleans, right now.”
“So you would have been content with a staid existence born of routine?” Jean Marc snickered. “Why do I not believe you?”
“Ah, but there you are mistaken, as there is nothing staid or routine about love and marriage.” Shaking his head, Tyne snorted. “Only someone ignorant of the two would make such a ridiculous claim, but I wager
you guessed that, if you contemplate a union with Lady Madalene.”
“I contemplate nothing.” Raking his fingers through his hair, Jean Marc checked their progress and stomped to the companion ladder. “Ease fore t’gallant brace six inches, and trim for speed. I am going to bed.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Tyne slapped his thigh and guffawed, and Jean Marc all but ran to his cabin.
As soon as he shut the door, a familiar hunger resurfaced, slow and steady, flaring and igniting, until he found himself where he stood, earlier. At bedside, he sat on the edge of the mattress and studied Maddie’s patrician profile, so elegant in repose. He swept aside a lock of hair and traced the curve of her cheek, and she mumbled incoherently.
Everything inside him raged, and he ached to claim her. To push her onto her back, rouse her, spread her thighs, and plunge into her softness before she could protest. To ride her, hard and fast, until she dug her fingernails into his back and screamed with completion. To grab hold of her perfect coif and drive his length into her mouth. To part the twin globes of her round derriere and seize her bottom.
Instead, he collected a pillow and jumped into the hammock.
#
A sliver of sunlight cut through the portal, and Maddie sighed as she huddled beneath the covers of the comfortable bunk. Then she opened her eyes, glanced from side to side, and shot upright.
“Good morning, Mon Chou.” Wearing naught but breeches, Jean Marc stood at the washstand and dried his face. “I trust you slept well?”
“You blackguard.” After tossing back the sheet, she discovered she missed some items of importance. “What happened to my garters and hose?”
“I removed them, to make you comfortable.” Without a care in the world, as if he had not ruined her, he strolled to his locker, retrieved a white shirt, and shrugged into the garment. “You were so tired that I did not wish to disturb your slumber.”
“And you had your wicked way with me.” How could she have been so stupid to invest the smallest measure of faith in the buccaneer? As she mulled all that she lost in his lustful games, she shuddered. “How could you?”
“How could I—what?” Narrowing his stare, he shifted his weight. “What is wrong?”
“As if you do not know.” Emitting a feral cry, she waved her fist in the air. “You taught me to swim, you plied me with food and rum, and you sang to me, all in your illicit quest to destroy my reputation. And to think I trusted you.”
“Do you accuse me of something, Lady Madalene?” In that instant, he donned his black patch, which heightened his ominous appearance, and she swallowed hard. “If so, then make your claim, because I behaved honorably.”
“Did I or did I not pass the night in your bed?” She summoned high dudgeon. “Forever, you have spoiled my chances for a match, and I shall end my life as did Aunt Eileen.”
“While I hate to disavow you of such sensible conclusions, I did nothing but tend your needs.” To her surprise, he seemed genuinely hurt, but he would not fool her again. “And as would a gentleman, which I must confess is new and unfamiliar to me, I spent the wee hours in the hammock.”
“I do not believe you.” It was then she glanced at the makeshift accommodation comprised of rope and canvas, and she noted telltale evidence—a pillow and crumpled blanket, which all but declared her host spoke the truth. “Oh, Jean Marc, I am so sorry. In a haze of confusion, I leaped to unsupported conclusions woven from whole cloth, and I should make amends.”
“What for?” He spat in the basin. “You obviously know me better than I know myself. And while you were quick to note the absence of your undergarments, in your rush to condemn me, you ignored the fact that you still wear your dress.”
She glanced down and almost swooned. “You are right. I am still clothed.” Choking on contrition, she bit her lip and splayed her arms. “Please, I beg your forgiveness. In my haste, I misjudged you, and I shall go to my grave regretting it, especially after the kindness you extended, yesterday.”
“Such is life, Mon Chou.” With an expression of sadness that wrenched at her heart, he bowed his head. “One day you swim in calm, crystal waters, and the next you find yourself battered and beached on the shoals.”
“No.” Her mind raced, as she searched for means to atone. “You are not battered on the shoals. Rather, my good name lies in the breach, and you must permit me to repair the damage I have done.”
“Why?” His ambivalence cut her to the core. “In three weeks, we will arrive in Port Royal, you will go your way, and I will go mine. We will never meet again, thus there is no need to concern yourself with pleasantries.”
“But it does not have to happen like that.” Desperate, Madalene contemplated her options, given her selections were confined to the ship. When she seized upon a brilliant idea, she approached her suddenly reluctant ex-pirate. “Perhaps we could dine here, this evening, instead of with the crew.”
“Just the two of us?” His quiet tone, invested with unmistakable pain, slayed her. “Are you sure you trust me enough to eat with you, without a chaperone?”
“Yes.” Never would she have acted so boldly, but in light of her horrible infraction of polite decorum, she had to extend an olive branch. Mustering courage, she took his hand in hers and pressed his palm to her cheek. “If you wish, I will wash your back, and I will personally serve your meal. And if there is another service you require, I shall perform it, to the best of my ability, per our original arrangement.”
“And you will smile as you tend my needs?” His skepticism obvious, he arched a brow. “You will neither complain nor refuse my requests, whatever I ask of you?”
Why did she get the strange sensation that he referenced more than food? “On the contrary, I shall count any opportunity to serve you as an honor.”
THE BLACK MORASS
CHAPTER FIVE
There were moments in life upon which he could look back, when he reached the crossroads of fate, and he realized a single choice dictated the course of unforeseeable events for future years. Jean Marc suspected that evening was one of those occasions, because he made a decision where the delectable Lady Madalene was concerned.
As she situated plates and utensils with care, atop the table in his cabin, she hummed Plaisir d’amour, evoking fond memories, not that it would do her much good. To his amazement, she wounded him when he did not think she possessed the capacity to hurt him, yet he suffered some strange affliction he could not identify, and she would pay in coin of the flesh, after his noble efforts.
On the night he taught her to swim, he could have taken her. He could have been on her and stolen her bride’s prize before she knew what happened and voiced a protest, but he altered his tack out of some misplaced sense of chivalry inspired by her pretty words, and he hated himself for it. Now, she would appease the beast raging inside him, and he would dump her at Port Royal, used and abused, just as he originally planned.
“I am rather new to sea fare, Jean Marc.” The evening’s entertainment gazed on him and smiled. How charming she was in her contrition. “And you know I have never claimed expertise in the kitchen or the galley, as it were. But Mr. Tyne told me you favor plum-duff, so I had Mr. Allen show me how to prepare the dish, just for you. I hope you are hungry.”
“In truth, Mon Chou, my appetite has waned.” Averting his stare, he sighed, as he knew just how to play her. “But you should enjoy yourself.”
“Oh, but you must eat.” In a flurry, she ran to his side and knelt. Leaning on the armrest of his chair, she swept the hair from his forehead. “After your lovely bath, will a hot dish not be the perfect ending to the day?” When he remained silent, she emitted a half-smothered sob. “Please, I beg you. Just a taste, and it will inspire you to dine. I filled the bags, myself, and I used extra currants, as Mr. Allen said you prefer the dish double-shotted, as he called it. Does that not entice you?”
Ah, his routine greatly improved in the face of her remorse. That afternoon, when she scrubbed his back with nary a
pointed cavil, he also bade her wash his chest, that he might spread his legs and draw her razor-sharp scrutiny to his wicked erection, and his scheme worked beautifully.
An unusual mix of comeliness and intelligence, Maddie presented the ultimate challenge for a rogue of his caliber, and he sincerely anticipated her downfall, as he caught her attention, trapped it, and fed her innate curiosity. Indeed, she said nothing when he took himself in hand and fired his cannon. But she watched him. She never took her eyes off him, as his seed burst forth beneath the surface of the water. Instead, she pretended not to notice, but the little pulse beating at the base of her throat declared otherwise.
Indeed, he had her right where he wanted her.
“I shall try, Maddie.” He patted her brown curls.
“Wonderful.” Her expression brightened, as she leaped to her feet. “I will return with our dinner.” At the door, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. “And I should warn you not to overindulge, as I have something very special planned for dessert.”
“All right.” Jean Marc nodded, as so did he.
The meal passed in relative quiet, as Madalene tried to engage him in conversation, and he resisted her endeavors. As he predicted, she increased her efforts, wheedling and cajoling, at once feeding him healthy morsels, which he met with unimpaired aplomb.
Afterward, she stacked the dishes. “Now you wait here, as I collect our treat.”
Adopting the same dreary countenance, he answered with a shrug of his shoulders. Alone, he smiled, as she remained oblivious to his licentious aim. When she returned, he erased all trace of emotion and pushed his chair from the table.
“You are not retiring, are you?” Crestfallen, she set down a covered bowl. “Because I borrowed on my sewing skills to secure the primary ingredient for our sumptuous dessert, and I do so wish to please you.”
Intrigued, he inclined his head. “What is it?”
“Chocolate mousse.” She lifted the lid, revealing an appealing confection. “Did you know Mr. Tyne possesses a horrid sweet tooth and hoards candy?”
The Black Morass (Pirates of the Coast Book 1) Page 4