His expression, ripe with stubborn cynicism, stopped her from saying more. He didn’t believe her. Just as she’d expected. She had seized his ship and taken his crew hostage, after all. In his mind, she’d say anything to get the cross, and in that much, he was right. Just the same, she was learning what sort of man Glanville was. She scanned the room. “I don’t believe you would leave the cross in the care of someone else. Not if obtaining and selling it is your responsibility.” She glanced at him, but he remained still and silent. No mocking. No denials. Encouraging.
Catherine moved around the immense cabin that took up the width of the ship, keeping Glanville in her sight. “No, you would want to keep it close at hand.” No matter where she paused, he didn’t so much as twitch. Damn. He would make a good card player. Ah, hell. What would it hurt? She opened the armoire and rifled through his belongings. Next, the table by the bed, a chest in the corner, his desk, and finally the bed itself. Was the cross hidden in the mattress? She almost tore the thing apart in her quest. Nothing.
When she turned back to her captive, he was smiling arrogantly. The lout. “It has to be here,” she grumbled. And yet, for all she knew, he could have it on his person right now. She looked him over, from his black breeches to his long-sleeved white shirt, left open to reveal a smattering of blond hair on his chest. From what Brewer had told her, the Ruby Cross should be roughly the length of her hand, made of gold and covered in rubies, the center stone the size of a Spanish doubloon. No, Glanville didn’t have it on his person.
“You’ll never find the cross,” he insisted, quite pleased with himself.
Aha. “So you admit it’s on this ship, perhaps in this very room.”
His smile broadened. “If you let me go, we might come to an agreement.”
What a cocky, irritating… “Do you believe me a fool?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. So far he’d outwitted her at every turn. Maybe if she had cut off his ear, she’d have the cross already. If only she could bring him low in a different way. Hurt his precious pride. She pulled her dagger from her belt.
“Will you attempt to cut me again?”
She yanked the tails of his white shirt from his breeches, and his eyes widened for an instant.
“What are you planning?”
Catherine bristled at the amusement in his voice. He could laugh all he wanted when he stood tied to a wall utterly naked. A little humiliation might do him good.
She sliced through the material of his shirt, first up the front, then down each sleeve. Pulling the fabric from him and dropping it to the floor, she studied his well-muscled chest, sculptured curves, and smooth skin. The sight dried her throat, and she had to swallow to regain some moisture. She hadn’t seen a man’s bare chest in ages, and this one was by far the most tempting she’d seen in her life. She itched to reach out and slide her hand over the wide expanse. The mere thought tickled deep in her belly.
She peered into his face, and sharp eyes glared back, all humor gone, replaced by annoyance. Good. Now he might take her seriously. “Where has your wit gone?” she taunted.
Their stares locked, she removed his belt and freed the buttons of his breeches as a muscle tensed in his jaw. She felt a bulge in his pocket, and investigated the source. A silver pocket watch, on its lid an intricate painting of a ship at sea. Exquisite, and undoubtedly very valuable. Glanville pinned her with a look of pure fury. The watch must be significant to him. She slipped the piece into her pocket, to be used later as needed.
Catherine lowered her knife to his waist. Glanville’s dark gaze watched her every move. The top of his breeches open, she slid her blade between his skin and the fabric. He shivered and his hips drew back the barest inch. “Don’t move,” she chided, satisfaction bringing a smile to her lips.
He growled in response, the sound low and guttural, and bumps rose along her flesh. She cut the material away in an easy stroke from waist to knee, then completed the task on his other leg. He drew in a shaky breath as she tugged the shredded breeches from his body. His lower half was as magnificent as the rest of him. Strong, muscular thighs and an impressive erection that made her insides pool with warmth. Dear Lord. Was she torturing this man or herself? Blushing, she quickly removed his hose, and stepped away to steady her pulse.
His humiliation complete—and hers as well—she demanded, “Tell me what I want to know.”
A cocksure smile tugged at his lips again. “Or what? You’ll pleasure me?”
Her fists clenched so hard, her fingernails dug into her palms, and she uttered a curse so foul, her mother would have had cause to issue a lecture. As she should, after all the time she’d spent teaching Catherine to speak like a woman highborn.
Glanville laughed. “Such a lady… Which begs the question, how is it that when you’re not cursing, you usually speak in the vernacular of a proper lady, even as you stand before me, the captain of a ship full of pirates?”
Good question. Why her mother had gone to such lengths was beyond her. Her mother had been naught but a lady’s maid. And Catherine, she would never climb out of the London squalor, no matter her diction or dialect.
“I should shave your head.” Maybe that would take him down a peg or two.
“Do it,” he chuckled. “I have no vanity. In fact, I’ve always wondered what I’d look like without hair.” He turned his head to the side to give her a better view. “I believe I have a rather well-shaped head. Don’t you agree?”
Oh! Before she could mutter an oath even more vulgar than the last, she stormed from the cabin, slammed the door shut behind her, and marched across the deck. Thomas Glanville would be the end of her sanity. He had no shame, no humility—
“How goes it?”
Her heart nearly jumped from her chest. So consumed with disparaging her captive’s name, she almost ran into Barnet, who’d apparently been lurking close by.
She released a long exhale. “Not as well as I’d like,” she admitted, then remembered. “I need to talk to you.”
Barnet settled his hands on her shoulders, a compassionate look softening his face. “Speak freely. What is it?”
She pulled his hands away. This was exactly the kind of behavior her men shouldn’t be seeing. Barnet treating her as a friend, rather than his captain. “You can’t be chiding me in front of the crew.”
“When did I…?”
“Telling me I should have stayed on the Sea Sprite to avoid the battle.” She shook her head. “I can’t have the crew thinking I’m weak.”
“Beggin’ your forgiveness, Catherine. I don’t want to see you injured, is all. We’ve been friends a long time, aye?”
“Aye, we have.” She took in Barnet’s haggard features and his threadbare clothes. He’d been through tough times of late. They both had. “I appreciate your concern, but if I’m to be captain this voyage, you can’t be questioning my decisions.”
“I see. Well then, if I can’t help you in that way, at least I can do somethin’ about Glanville.” Barnet walked toward the cabin door, determination in his stride, already pulling his knife from its sheath.
“No! Wait!” She hurried after him and grabbed his arm before he’d gone too far. What would he think when he saw Glanville—naked and uninjured?
Barnet turned to face her with a questioning look. “Not to worry. I wager I’ll have your cross by the end of the day. Leave Glanville to me. I’ll start with a few cuts with me blade, then a simple floggin’, and if that don’t work, I’ll have him hung by his genitals while I feed him his own nose.”
Jesus, Joseph, and Mary! She’d never get that horrid image out of her head. “Your services won’t be necessary, Wolfrie,” she hurried to assure him.
He cast her an ill-tempered look. Oh, yes. “Sorry.” He’d never liked his given name.
“As for Glanville, this is something I need to do. But I’ll think on your suggestions. Might even use one of them.” Or not.
He nodded once. “If it’s what you be wantin�
��.”
“It is.” Thomas Glanville might be arrogant and irritating as hell, but he was an innocent man in all this. She wouldn’t allow him to be abused in such a way. Instead, she would wait for hunger and thirst to coax him into compliance. Or perhaps ply him with alcohol. Whatever she chose, she would get him to talk, but she would do it her own way.
…
His shoulders aching and the cool evening air chilling him, Thomas watched Catherine enter the cabin bearing a platter of food and a bottle of rum. “Hungry?” she asked. The wench. She wouldn’t give him any food. Of that he was sure. His stomach growled at the heady smell of mutton. She’d also brought cheese and a loaf of bread. His mouth watered.
She set her burden on the table and stabbed a piece of meat with a fork. With a confident smile, she stepped closer, waving the food just beyond his nose. “Would you like a bite?”
He did his best to disregard the offering, closing his eyes against the sight. If only he could shut out the tantalizing scent as well.
“You can have all you want…if you reveal the location of the cross.”
Thomas held his silence but stared her in the eye just to prove himself steadfast. Food, or the lack thereof, wouldn’t sway him. Hell, a day had yet to pass. If he succumbed after one day, he was a weak sot indeed.
“A pity. Still, best not let it go to waste.” She popped the morsel into her mouth and chewed, her gaze lifting heavenward. “Mmm. Delicious.”
He didn’t falter, and she turned away, but not before he spied the frustration that tensed her features. By the time she returned to the table and faced him, the look was gone. “Your men eat and drink well. My crew isn’t used to such luxuries.” She gestured toward the door, through which laughter and shouts could be heard.
“No need to keep me company. Go celebrate with them.” And take the food with you.
“Fraternize with the men?” She cocked her head to the side. “I’d much rather spend my time here with you.”
Somehow he wasn’t surprised by her choice. She hardly seemed the type to associate with pirates. What’s more, she wasn’t ruthless enough to captain a pirate crew. Barnet, on the other hand… “How did you come to be captain of that lot?”
“Rum?” she suggested, pouring a dram into a cup.
“Is it a sordid tale?” he teased. “Did you challenge and kill their former captain in a duel to the death?”
A frown darkened her comely face. “The prior captain was my husband.”
“You didn’t kill him then?” he mocked.
“He died in a sword fight, but not by my hand.” She returned to his side, her expression grim. “Drink some rum,” she ordered, lifting the cup to his lips.
He could refuse, but his parched throat begged otherwise. When she tilted the cup, he drank a swallow, welcoming its moisture and slightly sweet flavor. She kept the cup held high, and he finished the rest. More than he probably needed, but he wouldn’t complain, particularly if it warmed him up a bit.
“More?” she asked as she filled the cup again.
Ah. “I see your ploy. Get me drunk to loosen my lips.” How clever. Indeed, all her attempts to torment him so far had been soft. Unless she intended to make him talk out of sheer boredom. “I’ll have more only if you join me.”
She scowled, her beautiful brown eyes narrowing. “I could force you to drink,” she snapped.
He laughed. So far she couldn’t force him to do anything. “Now why would you go to the trouble, when I’m offering to partake willingly?”
“How weary you make me,” she grumbled, then pursed her lips as if she hadn’t meant to admit that fact. She crossed the room to stand in front of him, bringing both the cup and bottle with her this time.
She raised the cup to his mouth, and he quirked a brow. “You first,” he insisted.
After a long-suffering sigh, she relented, and took a sip, her nose wrinkling in distaste.
“Not much of a drinker?” He accepted the rum, and as expected, she had him finish the cup again. Good thing he could handle his liquor.
“Who has the time?” She flung her hand before him. “Those of us not born to wealth have to work endless hours to survive.” Catherine poured another draught, and this time took a drink of her own accord. Apparently, the first sip hadn’t been as distasteful as it had appeared.
He disregarded her comment about his wealth. Aye, he’d been born to a reasonably well-off existence, but that didn’t mean he was a lazy bastard who relied on his family’s money. “What work do you do?” he asked instead, after she’d poured more liquor down his throat.
Refilling the cup, she walked across the room and sat on the edge of his bed. “Anything,” she cast him a pointed stare, “within reason.” She took a sip of rum. “Sewing, washing, cooking, housework when an opening became available.” Melancholy suffused her features. “I even worked for a butcher a long time ago.”
Her struggle to survive wasn’t unique. London was filled with similar tales of woe. And yet, the sorrow on her face touched a place inside him… Ah, hell. He shouldn’t feel sorry for her. He stood here naked and tied to a wall. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have married a pirate,” he needled, pushing aside the pang of guilt once the words were out.
Her head snapped up, and her gaze ran him through. “I didn’t marry a pirate. He became one long after we wed.”
“And you didn’t approve of his chosen profession.” The bitterness in her voice said as much.
“He said he was going to better our circumstances. He said he would send home more coin than we’d ever had before.” She drained the last drops from the glass and poured another draught. “No money ever came, and I never saw him again.”
“He likely had nothing to send. I’ve come to understand that not all pirates are good at what they do.” Like torturing prisoners. Although, in this case, he didn’t mind.
She removed her tricorn and tossed it to the floor, then released her hair from its queue, shaking it out. Those dark tresses framed her face and settled over her shoulders in a riot of waves he couldn’t help but admire. How soft would they be to the touch?
“It’s not the money putting a burr in my bed.”
What he wouldn’t do to be that burr. Damn. Was it the rum putting such notions in his head?
She pointed her finger, at nothing in particular, wagging it as if she were speaking to her husband himself. “He left me to raise our son all on my own,” she slurred slightly, “with no money to feed him or clothe him or…”
“Keep a roof over his head,” he added when she couldn’t seem to find the words.
“Yesss.” She pulled off one of her boots, then the other, revealing shapely calves concealed only by thin hose.
He tore his attention away, his throat dry for an entirely different reason than thirst. “Do you have no other family who can help you?”
Issuing a wide yawn, she shrugged. “My mother does what she can, although her health isn’t what it used to be.”
“What of your father? Or siblings?”
“My father, the butcher. When he lost his shop, he gave up all hope and ended his life rather than start over.” She pulled back the bedcovers and unbuttoned her surcoat. “My brother did help us for a time, until he became a fugitive of the law. If he shows his face in London again, he’ll surely hang.”
“Who taught you to fight?” Someone had cared enough to train her to use a dagger and sword. And it must have taken some time, given her impressive skill.
“My brother. Emmett wanted me to be able to protect myself. Perhaps he knew someday I’d stand alone.” Catherine shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve learned I don’t need no one…anyone…to get me through life.” She doffed her worn coat, and Thomas could feel his blood drain to his groin. With a silent curse, he stared at her chest, where her shirt molded over her ample breasts, her nipples peaking. Sweet mercy.
“The only way to spare yourself disappointment from those around you…” she glanced his w
ay and her eyes rounded, her gaze dropping to his engorged member before climbing back up to his face, “is to rely solely on yourself.” She tossed the coat on the end of the bed and sauntered toward him, her breeches outlining slender legs and the apex between them.
She lifted the bottle in an absent gesture. “More rum?”
“I’ve—” He cleared his throat, but the tightness remained. “I’ve had enough.”
“Very well,” she purred, and the memory of her cutting off his clothing sprang to mind. His nudity had been of no consequence, but her touch and her burning looks had been true torture.
She closed the gap between them, her chest pressed against his in a way that inflamed his senses and made his manhood twitch. Rising on tiptoe, she whispered in his ear, “Do you like what you see?” Her rum-laced breath tickled his ear, sending a tremor down his spine.
He swallowed the moan that threatened, his body heating up like a well-stoked fire.
“Would you like to see more?” she asked, untying the opening of her shirt and pulling it aside to expose the alluring skin of her shoulder.
He couldn’t put together a coherent thought. Not when he craved to nip and lick her shoulder and on to her graceful neck…her dainty ear…
She laid her hand on his chest and skimmed it over his skin, caressing him from his collarbone to his navel. He sucked in a long, wavering breath as her fingers glided over him, and his erection jerked again in anticipation that she might venture lower.
Glassy, brown eyes, dark as the finest ale, met his, her face so close, the tips of their noses almost touched. “Do you want to touch me…to kiss me?”
“Yes,” he breathed. He’d like nothing better.
An inviting smile curved her mouth. “Tell me where you’ve hidden the cross and you can touch your lips to mine.”
He tensed. What a conniving vixen. Before she had the sense to draw away, he pulled against his restraints, giving him enough leeway to capture her luscious lips with his own. He’d expected her to retreat, indignant or angry. Instead, she responded with a passion that jolted through him in a fiery wave of heat. She nestled closer, her tongue testing the seam of his lips. With a groan, he opened his mouth and let her explore at will. She tasted of sweet rum and warmth. How he longed to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight…to touch her everywhere. But he couldn’t touch her at all, could he? A growl rumbled deep in his throat. Not while he was tied naked to a wall. He turned his head to the side, ending the kiss as abruptly as it had begun. Damn him for letting his lust overrule his better judgment.
His Pirate Seductress (Love on the High Seas Book 3) Page 2