Chance the Winds of Fortune

by Laurie McBain

  Dante stood back and stared down at her standing before him in her corset and chemise, her breasts temptingly revealed by the thin linen with its slight edging of delicate lace. And it barely reached to the top of her pale thighs, teasing him with what lay above.

  Rhea heard his low groan as he lifted her into his arms, his bronzed face looking like a stranger’s as he carried her to the bunk and laid her down gently, his hand straying to her bare thigh as if he needed to feel her warmth even as he stood beside the bunk gazing down at her.

  Rhea’s eyes were closed as she lay there, knowing he stared at her. Her breath was coming jerkily from her trembling lips and all she could seem to hear was the roaring in her ears.

  “Look at me, Rhea,” Dante said softly. “Rhea,” he said again, more urgently this time when she refused to look at him or answer him. It seemed to Dante then that she was trying to escape his presence by retreating into her thoughts.

  “Damn you, Rhea, look at me,” he demanded as he sat down beside her, his hands hard and hurting on her frail shoulders.

  Rhea opened her eyes to see him bending over her. He had removed his coat and vest, and his stock had been loosened around his broad neck.

  “Rhea, let me love you,” he said huskily as he buried his face in the warmth of her breasts, his mouth searching until he found the soft pink nipples. Then his tongue was licking at them, suckling, until with a start of surprise, Rhea felt them hardening against his lips.

  “I cannot, or I’ll be lost,” Rhea whispered as she felt his hard hands on her bare buttocks, guiding her closer to him. Then, through the material of his breeches, she could feel his hardening manhood pressing against her.

  “We’ll be as one, as we were meant to be,” he murmured as his mouth opened against hers and began to steal the breath from her body. Meanwhile, his hands were drifting ever lower, moving slowly and sensuously in an ever-widening circle across her hips, until lingering against the softest and most sensitive place in her now quivering flesh. He knew he was introducing her to an eroticism that she never had known before, but her body was responding whether she wished it to or not; she would never be able to forget the sensual pleasure he was arousing within her, as indeed he had promised her he could. He knew he was taking unfair advantage of her innocence, that his expertise made it easy for him to give her that all-consuming pleasure and ultimate satisfaction that would change forever her perception of herself. It would also alter how she perceived him, for he would be her first lover, which would make him special in her eyes and give him a power and influence over her that no other man ever would have. Dante pushed these conscience-ridden thoughts to the back of his mind when he suddenly thrilled to the feel of her lips seeking his, of her tongue sliding inside his mouth. He knew then that he had succeeded in awakening her desires.

  Rhea felt him shivering in response as she shyly moved her hands over his back, then curved them around his chest as she caressed the sleek rippling of muscle. Rhea, too, was experiencing, though for the first time, that knowledge of the power that a woman could exert over a man. That she could by the mere touch of her lips against his cause him to react as if he couldn’t live without the taste of her, gave her the heady feeling of being able to control him. And never before had she felt that sensation where Dante Leighton was concerned.

  But Rhea had only a moment’s enjoyment of this newly discovered power, for Dante’s mouth once again was demanding of hers as his hands roamed her body in arrogant assurance of their invitation to explore her.

  Suddenly the hard pressure of his body jerked away from hers, and Rhea heard a muffled imprecation. She opened her eyes, and in the yellow gloom of the flickering light from the lantern swinging from the overhead beam, she saw Dante standing beside the bunk, his shirt parted halfway down the front and hanging free outside his breeches. She could see the moist film of sweat gleaming across his muscular chest as he stared around him, searching the empty room.

  Rhea cried out in fright as something landed beside her in the bunk; then she found herself staring into two shiny emerald eyes.

  “Jamaica,” Dante muttered beneath his breath as he glared down at the big tomcat who was now curling up next to Rhea’s shoulder. The cat’s purring grew louder as he sensed the attention he was receiving from his master and the soft-voiced one.

  “Damn,” Dante murmured, touching his shoulder where the cat’s claws had caught him. When he held out his hand, there was blood staining his fingertips. “How the devil did he get in here?” he demanded angrily.

  “I think he has been in here all the time,” Rhea said huskily, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “He was in here when I was dressing for dinner. I suppose I forgot about him.” Her voice had begun to shake when she realized how timely Jamaica’s interruption had been, for now, as she stared up at the tall man standing beside her, whose beautifully chiseled face was shadowed by the sallowness of the lantern’s light, he looked a stranger to her—and one that frightened her as she remembered their lovemaking of only moments before. She had almost given herself to the captain of the Sea Dragon, a cold-blooded adventurer who cared for no one and was only interested in discovering a sunken treasure ship.

  “You forgot about him?” Dante repeated, feeling an unbelievable frustration as he stared down at her half-naked form huddled in the bunk. She had curled up, almost protectively, around Jamaica; her slender thighs were closed tight, but her position afforded him a tantalizing view of the pale curve of her bare buttocks, which taunted him with their smooth expanse of soft sensuality.

  Dante started to reach out a hand, thinking to unseat his cat from his place of honor on the bunk beside Rhea, but as his hand came close, she drew back with all the haughtiness of a highborn duke’s daughter.

  “Don’t touch me!” She spoke so authoritatively, Jamaica’s purring became a warning growl.

  “Your passion is certainly fleeting,” he remarked softly. But there was savagery in his pale eyes as they wandered freely over her slightly clad body. “Perhaps you are right,” he added, a warning glint in his eyes as he picked up his coat and vest from the table. Eyeing the traitorous Jamaica, Dante flinched slightly as the drying blood on his shoulder stuck to his shirt.

  At the door he turned and glanced back, a bitter smile lingering on his lips. “Good night, little daffadilly,” he said, and then he was gone.

  * * *

  Alastair finally gave up waiting for the captain to return to his cabin and decided to call it an evening. He had been sitting in silence for close to half an hour now, for Fitzsimmons had left almost an hour ago to join a card game he knew was in progress in the crew’s quarters. He’d had an anticipatory gleam in his eye at the thought of coming away with quite a pile of winnings.

  Alastair glanced around the captain’s cabin, making certain nothing was amiss, then quietly opened the door and let himself out. He was making his way along the short corridor when he heard quiet crying coming from his old cabin, now Lady Rhea’s. He paused in surprised concern, listening for a moment longer to the muffled weeping. He was about to knock when the crying stopped; then all was silent beyond the closed door. Alastair stood a moment longer, undecided about whether he should intrude. No, it might be wiser not to, especially if the captain were on the other side of that closed door. That type of interruption might prove highly embarrassing for all parties concerned, thought Alastair, for after tonight’s disturbing undercurrents he was not at all certain that the captain might not have received an invitation to enter the privacy of Lady Rhea Claire’s cabin. It was becoming more obvious to him with each day’s passing, that if her ladyship remained on board the Sea Dragon much longer, the captain would sooner or later end up in that cabin.

  But as Alastair walked across the quarterdeck, breathing deeply of the balmy West Indian air, he saw the captain’s solitary figure standing near the taffrail, his coat thrown casually over his shoulders. Wi
th a sigh of relief, Alastair settled against the bulwark, allowing himself the pleasure of enjoying the star-filled black skies far above the raking masts and singing sails of the Sea Dragon. Little did he realize that he had been staring at a desperate man.

  * * *

  In the glimmering light of her cabin, Rhea buried her face in the coolness of her pillow, muffling her deep sobs as she tried to banish from her mind the memory of Dante Leighton’s searching hands on her body. But it was hopeless. She could still feel how possessive they’d been against her burning flesh when he had touched her intimately, discovering the secrets of her body, of which she’d had so little knowledge until he had revealed them to her.

  Rhea touched her swollen lips, still so tender, and remembered the unrelenting pressure of his mouth on hers. She felt groggy, as if his kisses had drugged her, leaving the taste of him in her mouth. She raised her head, placing her flushed cheek against her folded arm, only to find her senses filled with the scent of Dante Leighton on her hot skin.

  Rhea gazed up at the low beamed ceiling, her lips trembling as she realized that she no longer felt as if she belonged to herself. The captain of the Sea Dragon had become a part of her in an almost mystical way.

  She struggled to her feet, unseating Jamaica, who gave a plaintive meow as he jumped onto the table. He sniffed at the dried-up piece of gingerbread, then turned an indifferent back to it as he began to clean his whiskers with self-absorbed intentness. Standing on unsteady legs, Rhea fought the laces of her corset; when she finally freed herself from it, she dropped it to the deck, where it lay in an untidy pile with her chemise. With stiff, unresponsive fingers, she unwound the rawhide straps wrapped around her calves, then rolled off her stockings.

  She stood for a long moment in silence, then hesitantly felt her small, delicately rounded breasts; next, her hands strayed down the curved line to her waist, then spread across her hips as if feeling her body for the first time. She continued to stand there, benumbed by this awakening of her sexuality, and with a tired sigh, she began to unplait her braids, mechanically freeing the long strands one at a time, until her hair flowed loosely down her back.

  She pulled a blanket from the bunk and wrapped it around her shivering body; then she crawled back into bed, huddling with her arms wrapped around herself, overwhelmed by disturbing emotions that refused to subside.

  Dante Leighton, demon captain of the Sea Dragon, had kindled a spark deep inside of her, just as he had so confidently promised he would. And he was a devil, for he had teased her and taunted her, lighting a fire in her blood. But he had not ignited it into that all-consuming blaze, which she knew instinctively would come only when that ultimate fulfillment was reached. And now, as she found herself aching for the touch of his lips and hands on her body, she knew only Dante could satisfy this fever burning through her.

  Rhea gave a slight start of surprise as she felt something climbing over her shoulder before relaxing as Jamaica curled up beside her, his rumbling purrs comforting her as she rubbed her cheek against his soft fur.

  “Oh, Jamaica. What has your master done to me? Why has he tried to destroy me? What have I ever done to hurt him?” she asked helplessly, not fully understanding this woman’s body that had been aroused by a man’s touch.

  “I have got to escape him, Jamaica,” Rhea vowed, hugging the big tabby closer. “There will be no hope for me unless I can free myself from him. If he touches me again, if he kisses me, then I truly will be lost, Jamaica. Lost to all that I have ever known. I fear I’ll become his slave forever,” Rhea whispered, terrified of losing herself to him, of needing his touch to survive.

  Exhausted, Rhea Claire’s heavy-lidded eyes closed while the gentle rolling of the ship rocked her into slumber—but even there she could not escape from disturbing dreams of Dante Leighton.

  Eight

  Fortune, good night, smile once more; turn thy wheel!

  —Shakespeare

  The hills of Antigua, covered with sugarcane, loomed to starboard, rising out of the dawn sea in verdant waves as the Sea Dragon made landfall for the first time since leaving Charles Town. She closed the land and glided under a gleaming spread of canvas into St. John’s Harbour, her leadsman taking a sounding as the Sea Dragon entered shallower waters. Her salute to Fort James, standing sentinel on the tip of a finger of cattle-grazed pastureland stretching into the bay, had been duly acknowledged and now she was brought to, her anchor biting the bottom. The local pilot, who had guided the Sea Dragon through the rocks to her safe anchorage, had already returned to shore, and now other island boats were making their way toward the new arrival.

  The hillsides enclosing the harbor were dotted with palmetto-trimmed fields that tumbled into the lush darkness of tamarind and cedar-shaded valleys, and there on the pastoral slopes were the stone manor houses of the great plantations. The hot West Indian sun shone down brightly on a wealth envied even by the affluent English landowners in the mother country. Cylindrical stone sugar mills nestled amongst the cane bore stark testimony to this Caribbean prosperity.

  A restless bank of fluffy white clouds was gathering over the emerald hills of Antigua, while a stirring breeze whispered through the waving fronds of the palm trees on the beaches of fine, white sand, which from the Sea Dragon’s quarterdeck looked like silken crescents of moon that had fallen from the sky.

  To Rhea Claire, who had just come up on deck, having been confined to her quarters by the captain’s order until the pilot had left the ship, the tropical splendor of St. John’s Harbour with its azure skies above aquamarine hills and its turquoise bay seemed a vision of unreality. Never before had she gazed upon such a brightness and variety of color.

  “Aye, ’tis quite a sight, that,” Fitzsimmons commented. “Even puts to shame the green hills of me own homeland, though I’ll not be repeatin’ that within hearin’ distance of another Irishman,” he said with a broad smile, his black eyes twinkling at Rhea. But her usually warm smile seemed forced, and there were pale mauve shadows around her beautiful eyes, as if she’d had a restless night.

  “Ah, lassie, ’tis a fine sight ye are,” MacDonald commented as he climbed the ladder to the poop deck, his eyes resting with a paternal glint on her leather skirt, then as he noticed the lowness of the décolletage, not to mention the view of slender ankles and calves, his heavy, sandy brows lowered ominously. “Reckon I’ll be havin’ a word with Mister Kirby before the day’s finished,” he grumbled, not missing the light in the Irishman’s eye as he continued to glance at Rhea’s flawless profile and a bit lower too, which gentlemanly discretion should not allow.

  “’Twill be a fine sight for the men, eh, Alec?” Fitzsimmons remarked.

  “Aye, Seumus, and that is what has me worried a wee bit,” he responded laconically, his bushy brows lifting as he heard the pounding of feet on the companion ladder and glanced afore to see Longacres’s toothless grin as he neared the top. Following close behind Longacres was Conny. “Aye, ’tis as I feared ’twould be,” he said, blowing a billowing cloud of smoke aloft.

  “Told ye, didn’t I, Mr. Longacres!” Conny’s young voice was carried to them on the breeze.

  “Aye, that ye did, lad, that ye did.” He chuckled, his squinting gaze enveloping Rhea’s figure. “Aye, reckon ’tis as fine a sight as is a sail on the horizon to a marooned sailor,” he growled, rubbing his stubbly chin and almost dancing a jig as he came toward her.

  Rhea forced herself to smile at the old pirate, trying for the moment to put aside her own troubled thoughts. “I hope Conny repeated my appreciation for these kind gifts from you and the crew, Mr. Longacres,” Rhea said as she looked him unflinchingly in the eye.

  “Oh, aye, that he did, m’lady,” Longacres said, pleased even at his age to have the young lady’s attention centered on him.

  “I am indeed very grateful,” she told him, warming slightly toward the man when she felt the genuine pleasure in
his smile.

  “’Twas me own great pleasure, as well as the rest o’ the crew’s,” he said. Then he added with a devilish grin, “O’ course I would’ve buried them alive if they hadn’t!” He laughed, and Rhea wondered if he ever had done such a thing.

  “Did ye happen to be seein’ who was anchored not far away, lads?” Fitzsimmons asked with a meaningful glance aport at a ship flying a tartan flag.

  “Aye, that I did,” MacDonald said noncommittally, but Longacres wasn’t quite as close-lipped about it.

  “Seems we been seein’ too much o’ that buzzard of late,” he said, sending a stream of brown tobacco juice over the railing.

  “Reckon he’s got business hereabouts,” MacDonald said, not overly concerned by the sight of that tartan flag.

  “Aye, Bertie Mackay’s always up to something,” Fitzsimmons said sourly, remembering the sight of those very same sails off Cape San Antonio.

  “Bertie Mackay?” As Rhea spoke the name, she felt there was something familiar about it. “I seem to have heard that name before.”

  “Aye, ye might be sayin’ he’s in the same business we are,” Fitzsimmons said with a grin and a wink at Longacres, who was glaring across the bay at the ship lying aloof of them.

  “Then he is an acquaintance of Captain Leighton’s?” Rhea asked, thinking the captain might lower a boat and pay a visit to his friend. Then, with him away from the ship…

  “Coooee! That’d be the day! Reckon they’ve crossed each other’s bows too often to be takin’ tea with each other, m’lady!” Longacres guffawed, nearly doubling up in laughter at the idea of the captain sitting down to tea with Bertie Mackay.

  “Shall I be puttin’ it another way, then?” Fitzsimmons suggested, a slight smirk on his lips. “With a friend like Bertie Mackay, a man’s havin’ no need of enemies.”