Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  “Eat,” Dominic said.

  She shook her head and repeated, “I am not hungry. I would like to go back to bed, please.”

  He released her chin impatiently. “Very well. But maybe you would care to wash your face and comb what little is left of your hair, first.”

  “What for?” she asked. “But if you insist …” With a tiny shrug, she went over to the washstand. Genevieve found that her nakedness no longer bothered her; nothing seemed to bother her. She was immune from hurt, her self tucked away inside her. When she had washed in a desultory fashion, she climbed back into bed, curled on her side facing the wall, and closed her eyes.

  Dominic scratched his head and frowned. During the long reaches of the night, remorse had visited him. It had been a most infrequent and unwelcome visitor in his life, but it was a tenacious one, he had found, as he lay looking up into magnificent star-studded infinity. However many times he reminded himself of the outrageousness of Genevieve’s behavior, of the impossible position in which she had placed him, he could no longer feel the conviction that his cruelty—and there was no other word for it—had been justified. In his way, he had behaved as badly as she—in many ways, he was as much the spoiled baby. Thwarted, he had struck out blindly, visiting a vengeance of unthinking severity. But how to undo the consequences of that severity?

  Perhaps it would be best to leave her alone to heal herself. He still had to decide what he was to do with her; whether to keep her on board and continue the mission, or whether to turn back and leave her in some safe place ashore, to pick her up from there on his return—if he returned. To add insult to injury, he had no idea how to explain the presence of the daughter of Victor Latour on board La Danseuse to the captains under his command and, in all fairness, he could not hide such a significant problem from them. It was a factor that would affect his judgment when it came to making the split-second decisions on which, so often, the safety and success of the fleet depended. Only a self-deceiving fool would pretend otherwise, and Dominic Delacroix was neither.

  Leaving the troublesome addition to his crew still nursing her wounds, he went back on deck, summoning Silas with a crooked finger. “Monsieur?”

  “Visit the cabin at regular intervals throughout the day and report to me after each visit,” Dominic said, sweeping the horizon with his telescope. “Take mademoiselle her lunch and let me know if she eats it.” Having disposed, as best he could, of that particular problem, he devoted his attention to the fact that only six sails were visible on the seas, and there were seven of his ships making this voyage.

  “Signalman,” he called to the sailor in charge of the semaphore flags. “Send to Captain Dubois: Captain Marchand not in sight. Any information?”

  The flags dipped and flashed in the bright sun of early morning, and the message was answered. “Alouette last seen on port bow, at four bells in the dogwatch, monsieur.”

  Dominic frowned. Marchand’s command had not been seen since early last evening. They sailed without lights during the night watches, so it was not surprising she had not been seen in the dark, but it was now seven in the morning, and it had been daylight for two hours. If Alouette had run into part of the British blockade, there was little they could do to help. But if she had been overhauled and captured, then the British fleet would be actively seeking her companions. No intelligent commander would believe in a single gunrunner on an isolated mission, and the British navy tended to have intelligence at its head. Well, there was little he could do but keep a rigorous lookout. He sent someone up to the mizzen top with a telescope and had a similar order signaled to the other vessels. Six top watches should ensure the earliest possible alert, and the frigates, given sufficient warning and a favorable wind, could outrun almost anything on the high seas.

  Chapter Fourteen

  All that day, Genevieve lay curled in the big bed, oblivious of Silas’s comings and goings, of the bowl of turtle soup that appeared at noon, of the sounds of a ship at work. She had discovered that the mind can create its own reality, a universe where the body has no part, a realm safe from the intrusion of inflicted hurts. She was immune to humiliation, to pain, was suspended in her own reality until the shameful memories ceased to plague her. She was unaware, of course, that this blissful retreat was aided by the light-headedness and physical languour brought about by her extended fast. She took only the few sips of water that her body demanded, and left the bed only to use the commode.

  Dominic listened to Silas’s reports on the catatonic figure beneath the bed covers with a deepening frown. There was still no sign of Alouette, but neither had there been any signs of pursuers. All six frigates were now sailing in close formation, messages flashing between them throughout the day as they altered course to draw closer to the coastline of Florida, should flight to safety become necessary. The most hazardous part of the voyage, however, would be the Yucatan Channel that separated the Gulf from the Caribbean. They would be sitting ducks for an ambush if the British played their cards right. But then, they would have to know the privateer’s destination. If, of course, Alouette and her crew were prisoners, it was highly likely that that destination was now in the British possession.

  Dominic paced the quarterdeck, hypothesizing and analyzing, toying with possibilities, trying to explore every possible ramification of the situation. Only thus could he outwit the enemy. He had to think as they would, given a certain set of circumstances. Only he did not know what set of circumstances was the correct one, so plans had to be made to cover all the options. And the thought of Genevieve persistently intruded, throwing him off course. At sunset, he went below, this time prepared to wrestle with the problem of her incompatibility with the dinner table.

  It was easier said than done, however, and he felt the first stirrings of alarm. The diminutive figure seemed to be fading away before his eyes. It was not so much that she was thinner—a mere two days without food would not show such immediate results—but she seemed to have shrunk, and even when he had got her out of bed, she stood curled over, as if protecting some core. He took a shirt from the neatly folded stack in the bulkhead cupboard and draped it round her shoulders. She made absolutely no attempt to put it on and with a muttered oath, he pushed her arms into the sleeves and buttoned it for her. “This has to stop, Genevieve. It has gone on quite long enough.” He tried to hide his impatience, to make his tone firm but kind. “Sit down at the table and eat your soup.”

  She simply sat and stared at the bowl, but when he held a spoonful to her lips, she turned her head aside. “I am not hungry.”

  He sighed and bit the bullet. “Genevieve, I am sorry for what I said and did, yesterday. When I am as angry as I was then, I am afraid I have been known to behave in an indefensible way. However, you must bear some responsibility for it; the guilt is not mine alone. But could we please put it behind us, now?”

  “It does not matter, anymore,” Genevieve said in a dull, flat voice. “I am perfectly all right, just not hungry.”

  He looked down at her, quelling his exasperation. Then, with sudden decision, he swung her chair away from the table and scooped her into his arms. “It seems, sprite, that I must demonstrate my penitence.” Carrying her over to the bed, he laid her down and gently removed the shirt before sitting on the bed beside her.

  Genevieve felt the smooth, expert caresses, felt her body begin to come alive, sensation to penetrate the safety of the world she had been inhabiting, and panic shrieked a warning. The world to which these lovely sensations belonged was also the one where the devastation of self occurred, and she knew on some primitive level that she could not risk a repetition of the latter. Her body went rigid beneath his hands as her mind fought for control and won. Then she lay, limp and unresponsive, until Dominic, his lips tight, the turquoise eyes grim, gave up. He strode out of the cabin, the door banging shut in his wake, and Genevieve, without bothering to put on the shirt again, pulled the covers up and resumed the position, which had now became natural.

 
“Ship to starboard!” the man at the masthead cried suddenly as the master reached the deck.

  Dominic grabbed the telescope and peered into the gathering dusk. The lookout sang out that she had altered course and was running down toward them, and then came the shout, “It’s Alouette, monsieur.”

  Alone? Dominic wondered, or bearing a fleet of His Majesty’s battleships on her tail? The stillness of anticipation settled over him as he waited, ready to make whatever decision was necessary as soon as he could form a relatively accurate picture of the situation.

  “She’s signaling, monsieur,” the signalman said, straining to see through his glass. “Says … says, all well.”

  “Well! And where the hell has she been, in that case?”

  Dominic demanded. This signal, accurate to the last word, was transmitted and answered. “Captain Marchand requests permission to come aboard, monsieur.”

  Dominic frowned. He could hardly entertain Alouette’s captain in his cabin, not with Genevieve playing dead. “Tell him I’ll join him, and signal to the other captains: Request their presence aboard Alouette within the half hour.”

  A launch was lowered over Danseuse’s side, and Silas appeared as if by magic, clearly ready to accompany his captain; only to be told: “I need you to stay here, Silas, and keep an eye on my cabin.”

  Silas tugged a forelock, but his expression was heavy. “Not cut out to play nursemaid, monsieur,” he dared to grumble.

  Dominic gave him a sharp look, and then allowed a reluctant smile to touch his eyes. “You will not have to for long. I shall do something about her in the morning, when I have discovered what’s been going on with Alouette.”

  It was three bells in the night watch when Dominic returned to Danseuse, thoughtful but not displeased. Alouette had found herself, in the midnight dark, in the middle of the British blockade. Marchand, as canny and shrewd a captain as any that Dominic had under his command, had turned tail, leading the pursuit a merry dance across the Gulf to the Mexican coast and away from the rest of the privateers. Having lost them, he had returned to his fellows, and Dominic now had a fairly accurate idea of where the British fleet was to be found. They’d be on the alert, now that they knew that at least one ship had evaded the blockade, but whether they would search actively was a question that only time would answer.

  In the meantime, something had to be done about Genevieve, who was behaving like the victim of a voodoo death curse. He slept soundly in a hammock, slung among the rigging, until daybreak, when, with set purpose, he summoned the bosun to the quarterdeck. “Have the washdeck pump rigged,” he directed. “Then I want every hand below decks until I give the order to come up. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, monsieur.” The bosun could not hide his puzzlement though, but he was aware that his standing with the master was more than a trifle rocky since the cabin boy debacle, and he was not about to question the extraordinary order.

  “Helmsman?” Dominic turned to the man at the wheel, raising his eyes to the mains sail bellying in the dawn breeze. “Lash the wheel. She’ll hold steady on this course for awhile. Then go below with the others.” In a very few minutes, Dominic was alone on the deck of an apparent ghost ship. With a nod of satisfaction, he went down the companionway and into his cabin where all was exactly as he had left it the previous evening. He strode over to the bed and looked down at the curled mound. The golden eyelashes fluttered, betraying her awareness.

  “Genevieve,” he said with clear patience. “Are you going to get up, get dressed and eat your breakfast this morning?”

  There was no response, although the eyelashes fluttered again. “Then you leave me no option. Obviously I must do something to stimulate your appetite.” He pulled the covers back and picked up the huddled form. She seemed insubstantial, and her limbs remained in the fetal curl even as he held her.

  Genevieve had heard his voice, had even understood the words, but she was so buried in her own reverie that nothing seemed to have the power to touch her. A vague question as to what he was going to do with her was dismissed as irrelevant, and she lay motionless as he carried her out of the cabin. Then the realization that she was naked hit her with full force as she felt the sun’s warmth on her skin, its light behind her closed eyes. They were on deck and the crew would be everywhere, staring at the bundle in the master’s arms. But she could not be hurt anymore, she reminded herself; not if she stayed inside and let her body exist on another, unimportant plane. Those eyes could not hurt her, not if she did not meet them.

  Dominic put her down on the deck, and Genevieve curled tightly against the sun-warmed wood, feeling its splintery hardness against her bare flesh, and the sun beamed down upon her. Slowly, she became aware of the quality of the silence, broken only by the creak of the rigging, the flap of a sail, the shrill cry of a seabird. The motion of the hull beneath her body lulled her into the quiet, which she knew with absolute certainty indicated a total lack of humankind. For some reason, only herself and Dominic were up here in the sea air and the sun’s warmth. Her eyes opened, scooting along the planking of the deck that stretched before her gaze, as white as it had been when she had mopped and scoured it. Who was responsible for that task now, she wondered distractedly. And then the water hit her.

  Dominic, working the pump with one hand, used the other to play the jet of the canvas hose upon the curled figure. The deep waters of the Gulf, while not bitterly cold, were chilly enough on sun-warmed, unprepared flesh, and Genevieve screamed, shocked out of the warm, cottonwool comfort of her daydream to be hurled back into the real world.

  Her first reaction was to curl tighter into a ball, minimizing the area of exposed skin, but the water tongued its way into every nook and cranny, stinging her into action so that she staggered onto her feet, stumbling to escape the powerful stream that pursued her mercilessly.

  “Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs, and Dominic smiled. That sounded much healthier.

  “Has your appetite returned yet, Genevieve?” he asked, easing off on the pump so that the power of the jet lessened, although he continued to direct it onto her back as she huddled against the deck railing.

  “Yes, damn you to hell!” she yelled, and the water ceased as suddenly as it had begun. She clung, shivering and dripping, to the rail, struggling for breath as the quiet of the deserted deck slowly took over from the chaotic sensations of the last few minutes. Something soft, fluffy, and miraculously dry descended on her shoulders. It was an enormous towel, she realized, and then ceased to realize anything as Dominic began to rub her dry with a vigor that set her skin tingling and left her too breathless to say anything.

  “There, that’s better,” he said at last, lifting the towel from her head. “Come and sit in the sun for a few minutes and you will be properly warmed.”

  Genevieve raised her head from its resting place on his chest where he had held it as he dried her hair. “I hate you,” she said, the fierceness merely emphasized by her quiet tone. “Do you know how much I hate you?”

  A smile quirked his lips. “I can make an educated guess,” he said, wrapping the damp towel around her. “Come to the quarterdeck now and sit in the sun.”

  She followed him and her tongue, finally loosened, gave vent to the outrage and the fury that had been bottled up since her involuntary retreat. Dominic listened gravely as he unlashed the helm, gazed up at the sails and made a minute adjustment to the course.

  “It might be a good idea if you took the towel off,” he interrupted apologetically. “It’s a bit damp, you see, and will prevent the sun’s getting to your skin.”

  Genevieve’s jaw dropped, but the sense of the suggestion was irrefutable, so she dropped the damp covering and sat down on the deck, throwing her head back with an unconscious, luxuriant sigh. She had forgotten how wonderful the air felt, how wonderful it smelled, fresh and salty and fishy. Then she came back to the present with a jolt. “Where was I?”

  “I think you were trying to find
some alternative sobriquet to ‘bastard,’ ” he said placidly. “That one has become a little overused in the last few minutes.”

  “Well, you are,” she said.

  “I don’t think my mother would agree with you,” he replied cheerfully, reaching into his top pocket for a cigar. “But I will not attempt to quibble with what you are trying to express. In spite of your somewhat limited vocabulary of curses and vilifications, the message is perfectly clear.” He blew smoke into the air in a fragrant blue-tinged ring, and Genevieve, the wind somehow taken from her sails, sat still and found her eyes riveted on his hands: long, elegant fingers curling over the spokes of the wheel, the ripple of muscle in his bare forearms where the soft, fair hair curled.

  “Where is the crew?” she asked suddenly as she felt her body begin to follow the thoughts that sprang from her gaze.

  Dominic chuckled as he looked at her with shrewd awareness. She had been wearing her nakedness as naturally as if she were clothed, but something had just occurred to make her throbbingly aware of it. “Below,” he told her. “They’ll stay there until called. However,” he said, looking across the stern, “wind’s freshening and we’ll have to trim the sails in a minute, so perhaps you had better go down to the cabin. I will join you for breakfast shortly.”

  “Why did you do that to me?” she asked softly as she stood up, knotting the towel sarong-style under her arms.

  Dominic knew she was not referring to the bath under the pump. “I have a vicious temper,” he said, “and you have the devil’s own ability to provoke it. But it was not provoked without cause, Genevieve.” He turned from the wheel to hold her gaze with his own. “Your presence on board is going to cause the most damnable complications for everyone. You did what you wanted to do, just as always, as if your decisions and their consequences can exist in a vacuum.”