She kissed his chest lightly, her lips barely brushing his flesh.
"Catherine." Her name was issued after a sudden intake of breath.
An answer wasn't necessary. She continued, her lips gently pressing kisses against his warm flesh until she found his nipple and took it between her teeth.
"God's blood, woman, this is madness," he said in uneven breaths.
Her tongue circled his nipple while her teeth held him captive. The hard orb tasted as she thought, warm and salty like the sea. She moved to his other nipple to treat it likewise, pushing him back aggressively until they both lay stretched out on the bed.
His hands found her bottom and hoisted her over him, her nightdress the only thing between her and his nakedness.
Catherine spread herself over him, feeling the rough kneading of his hands on her buttocks, feeling the strength of him anxious beneath her, feeling her very center burn with desire.
"Catherine," he moaned again, pressing her against him, urging himself into her and cursing soundly her night dress that separated them.
She continued to pleasure him with her tongue, losing all reason, all sanity.
"I need to feel your flesh in my hands," he moaned, and ripped at the bodice of her shift, tearing the fine material away.
The long strand of pearls fell free and tumbled on his face. He cursed them. And lifted them to slip over her head. "Off with these, I'm sick of seeing them."
Catherine froze, staring at him wide-eyed.
He stared back as if for the first time realizing the consequences of their actions. "Second thoughts, madam?"
Her voice failed her. Her limbs failed her. Her senses failed her.
Lucian regained his senses for them both and, grabbing her shoulders, eased her off him. He swiftly drew the covers over himself, hiding away his need for her.
"Go to sleep, Catherine," he said coldly.
Catherine turned on her side, hugging her pearls and her torn night dress. Silent tears ran down her cheeks. Tears of regret, for it was just a matter of time before her passion destroyed all her plans and sentenced her father to death.
Lucian lay still, his arms pillowed beneath his head, his eyes staring into the darkness. He was still hot, still hard, and still heavy with passion from Catherine's innocent assault.
Innocent.
He laughed silently. She was no innocent.
Fool.
A fine sweat broke out across his brow as his nightmare returned and he glimpsed once again the face of the man who swung the lash.
It was himself.
Chapter Sixteen
Lucian had kept his distance from Catherine for three days. He took his meals alone and slept on the deck. His back pained him. His neck pained him. And he pained the crew with his curt temper.
The weather even appeared to mimic his mood. Dark clouds raced overhead while mild thunder rumbled in the distance. Lucian wasn't worried about a severe storm — some thunder, some rain, but nothing worse.
He had more of a problem with the crew. Several of the men walked around grumbling about sick stomachs and blamed the cook.
Serving on a ship from hell, he had learned to steel his stomach against the worst food and still survive. But there had been times the food had been so rancid that nothing helped but to rid yourself of it.
He had lacked an appetite last night and had eaten nothing but a few pieces of cheese and bread, electing to forgo the fresh fish. The fish was more than likely the culprit and he had quickly ordered the cook to prepare simple meals for the next few days.
Now his problem consisted of securing the deck with a limited crew. Santos hadn't shown his face all day and he had assumed he also enjoyed last night's fish and was now regretting it.
Jolly, possessing an ironclad stomach, worked diligently fastening everything in sight while his friend Bones moaned in agony in his hammock below.
"No fish for you last night?" Lucian asked, checking the knot on the water casket.
"My stomach protested last night, but not much. I'm feeling right fine and ready for another meal."
"Noontime is near, though I doubt the fare will be generous. I hear cook isn't feeling too well himself," Lucian said. He caught sight of Santos on deck. Catherine was hooked to his arm.
"If cook isn't up to it, I can tend to the meals until he is," Jolly offered.
Lucian nodded his approval, his interest fixed on Santos and Catherine. She appeared to cling to him. And worse, Santos seemed attentive to her. His arm circled her waist, her head dropped every now and then to rest on his shoulder.
Had Santos lost his mind? The ship needed attending before the storm hit. Catherine could damn well entertain herself. He marched across the deck straight for the unsuspecting couple.
"Bloody hell, Santos, the ship needs —" He stopped abruptly when Catherine raised her head from Santos's shoulder. Her complexion was deathly pale, her lips dry, dark half circles beneath her eyes and she looked to have lost weight.
"What's wrong?" he asked, jealous of the way she clung to his friend.
"I think the fish," Santos explained. "She hasn't kept down any food or drink since last night. I found her this morning on the cabin floor, heaving into the chamber pot."
Lucian blanched at the thought of her alone with no one to help her, reduced to tending herself over a chamber pot. If he had stayed with her or at the most seen to her care, this would not have happened.
"I thought some fresh air might help," Santos said, but shook his head at Lucian.
"You're still not feeling well, Catherine?" Lucian asked, the answer obvious. He ached to scoop her frail body up and cart her down to the cabin and tend to her himself. But she appeared content with Santos and he would not force his help on her.
She shook her head, leaving it on Santos's shoulder.
"Would you like Santos to take you back to the cabin?"
She hesitated and then nodded.
"See to her care," he instructed his friend, and turned to walk away blaming himself for her suffering.
"Lucian."
His name, pleaded so softly, barely reached his ears and he turned unsure if he had heard the summons.
Catherine stood crying, her hand at her stomach.
He rushed to her side, slipping his arm around her waist and practically carried her to the railing. His arm cushioned her stomach as he bent her over the railing while she attempted to retch into the sea. But her stomach had already been purged and she suffered dry heaves and no more.
"Nothing stays down," Santos said anxiously.
Lucian caught his worried look. They had seen men die from such constant and useless retching.
Catherine moaned and dropped back against Lucian. Her hand sought his and weakly she grasped hold of him. "Please stay with me."
His heart almost broke from her soft, aching request. He scooped her up into his arms and her head immediately sought the comfort of his chest. "Don't worry, angel, I won't leave you."
She sighed in relief. She was with Lucian now. She would be safe. Everything would be all right. Her stomach cramped again and she moaned.
Get cook to fix chamomile tea," he instructed before hurrying off to his cabin.
He cursed himself a million times over for not tending to her properly, for ignoring her and for realizing how much he missed being with her.
He entered his cabin and blessed Santos for seeing to its cleaning, the strong scent of lye soap filling his nostrils. The sheets also had been seen to, freshly scented and drawn back for her return.
With care he lowered her to the bed. "Your shift would prove more comfortable than this silk dress," he suggested.
"I would love so to wear one of my shifts, but I soiled them in my feeble attempts to make it to the chamber pot to retch. That is why Santos found me on the floor. I had not strength left to move."
And she had no strength after her explanation. His anger with himself grew, thinking of her alone and suffering, unable to move or h
elp herself.
Reluctantly he stepped away from the bed and hurriedly searched his chest in the far corner for a silk shirt, discarding garment after garment until he located the soft white one, a favorite of his. He returned to her, sitting on the bed beside her.
"This garment should prove more comfortable." He didn't wait for permission to assist her; his hands were already easing the silk dress off her."
His eyes narrowed when he stripped her completely and saw that in one day's time she had indeed lost weight. Her rib cage showed beneath her translucent skin and her stomach sank in instead of curving seductively as it did before.
And then there were her pearls, white and creamy against her skin. Always around her neck. Always hanging down past her belly. Always feeling cool against his skin when she cuddled beside him during the night. He had never seen her without them. They lay pooled in the curve of her belly.
Concern gripped him. He had seen men lose ten pounds in one day, twenty in two and dead by the third. He had to get something, even if only liquid, into her stomach and force it to stay down. He slipped his shirt over her head and worked it down her body gently.
Her eyes had closed minutes ago, and not wanting to disturb her needed rest, he stood and carefully placed her legs beneath the sheet, then tucked it around her waist.
He returned to her side on the bed and watched her take each breath. Her chest rose and fell normally, no hampered breathing plagued her. Thank God.
What was it about the silver-haired beauty that haunted him so? His passion for her seemed unnatural. He ached to possess her, to taste her forbidden fruit and see if the price he paid would be worth it.
But his thirst for revenge interfered and the fact that she was Abelard's daughter and a harlot tormented him.
He could hear Santos's warning. He shook his head against his strange thoughts. He had felt cheated, denied, and furious when he had discovered she was no innocent. Her pure beauty and caring nature belied her true character. She could fool the devil himself.
The thought startled him. How many times had people thought him the devil, hence the name Lucifer.
Men argued that he possessed no soul.
Cruel and heartless he was, women had cried.
Other pirates gave him a wide berth whether it was on land or sea. He was feared. He was hated. He was the infamous Lucifer. And he owed it all to Abelard. His hatred of the man had fostered a resolve, a promise to stop at nothing to see his destruction.
"Lucian," Catherine moaned, and his hand covered hers.
"Do you feel sick again?" he asked.
She nodded and he left her to return with the ceramic washbowl. He slipped his arm beneath her and hoisted her up.
She began to choke and gag.
"Easy, angel," he warned. "There is nothing left in your stomach to eliminate, it but protests."
The dry heaves racked her body once again and Lucian cursed soundly beneath his breath as he held her through the useless heaving.
He had settled her comfortably and once again she slept.
Santos entered the cabin. "Cook is feeling better. He sent the chamomile tea and bread and his regards that she's well soon."
"She won't be if I don't get something to stay in her stomach," he said seriously, his growing worries evident in his bleak expression.
"Do you need help?" Santos offered.
"I need your help on deck, making certain everything is attended to before the storm hits. I don't expect a serious gale, but I prefer safety over assumption."
Santos nodded. "I'll see to it." He hurried to the door, the clouds outside the window having grown darker and more menacing.
"Santos."
Lucian's voice halted him and he looked to him for further instructions.
"Am I really blind?"
Santos spoke seriously. "Only you can answer that question, my friend."
o0o
His question was answered several days later as Catherine, fit and healthy from Lucian's gentle care, related a compelling and titillating tale of a particularly talented earl.
"Danford possessed the most wicked tongue," Catherine said, running her silver comb through her hair in preparation for bed. "It danced and twirled, Lord, but he could do the most imaginative things with it."
Lucian had only entered the cabin twenty minutes before, having purposely kept himself from her presence. He no longer doubted her innocence. She didn't possess an ounce. As soon as she was well she talked endlessly of her many lovers.
When he had tended her she seemed different, almost as if she were another person. She spoke of no other men. There was only him. She wanted only him, needed only him, and relied on only him. She hadn't even whispered her father's name — only his — Lucian.
"Lucian, did you hear me?" Catherine asked.
He stood in front of his desk shirtless, having discarded it when he entered the cabin. He tossed the chart he held down on the desk and shook his head at her in answer.
He didn't want to hear any more talks of tongues, kisses, naked bodies, beds, and positions, whatever. He didn't want to think of her having sex with so many men in so many positions with so many tongues licking and probing and —
"Then I shall repeat myself. And, Lucian you should really take care to listen. After all, if you do surrender to our passion you would know exactly what pleasures me," she scolded.
What would pleasure him at this very moment was to gag her mouth with a cloth and tie her to the main mast.
"So this earl started on my lips and inch by inch worked his way down my body, treating my quivering flesh to the most delightful licks."
Lucian attempted to shut her out, close his mind to her chatter. He sat on the chair by the stove and worked his boots off, concentrating on every tug and pull. But bits of her tale interfered.
"Warm and wet —"
He yanked one boot completely off and sat it beside the chair.
"Belly and thighs tingled —"
The other boot proved a worthy adversary, giving him difficulty in coming off. He focused on the challenge it presented, tugging and pulling and —
"And long, why I never felt —"
Fury raged through him as he looked at his boot and demanded his mind focus on the stubborn black leather and to hell with the earl's long tongue.
He gripped the scuffed leather, reminding himself it needed polishing, a good, long —
"Damn," he muttered, and viciously yanked the boot from his foot. Instead of placing it next to its mate, he tossed it clear across the room.
"Whatever is the matter?" Catherine asked innocently, knowing full well how her stories affected him. Bonnie had been a godsend. With Bonnie's many sexual exploits Catherine was able to entertain Lucian daily, and daily he would leave the cabin to return late or not return at all.
Guilt had almost caused her to cease her chatter. He had been so good, so caring, and so tender to her when she had taken ill. She had wanted to confess everything to him and pray that there would be a way they could work things out and perhaps, like in fairy tales, fall in love forever and ever.
She had realized before it was too late that only fairy tales had happy endings. This was real life and he was a real pirate and not just any pirate. He was Captain Lucifer.
"Well?" she said, pushing for an answer.
"Nothing," he mumbled, and stood unfastening his breeches.
Catherine averted her eyes, toying with the pearls around her neck. Lord, but they had saved her time and time again. She has grasped them often when fearful of discovery and the smooth white beads had calmed her, protected her, and saved her. They were her shield, her armor, her salvation.
She resumed her tale. "The earl also favored strange places when making love."
Lucian growled beneath his breath and shrugged out of his breeches. He turned his back on her and walked to the washstand, pouring water from the pitcher into the bowl.
"It's cold," Catherine warned, admiring his firm derriere,
narrow waist, and broad shoulders. The scars no longer disturbed her. His pain and suffering were in the past and there they would stay. His flesh had healed nicely, now if only his mind could.
"I know," Lucian said, and splashed the cold water on his face, cursing Catherine Abelard to hell for his suffering.
"I found the huge dining table a most desirable and satisfying object to make love on," she continued.
Lucian splashed his face again and again, attempting with great restraint not to strangle her. He thought of the sea, the wind, the sway of the ship beneath his feet, the sway of Catherine's hips beneath the earl's.
He growled again though not so unnoticeably.
"Did you say something, Lucian?"
"No!" he snapped, and grabbed the towel from the brass bar on the wall.
Catherine shrugged indifferently while inwardly she suffered from her own suggestive remarks. The earl she spoke so intimately of was Lucian. She had fantasized the pleasure they could share, using Bonnie's many stories to detail each and every time she had pictured them making love.
"The earl favored the garden, in the warm weather of course. The scent of the flowers in full bloom still stings my nostrils," she sighed.
Lucian held the towel to his face, trapping the rage that threatened to spill from his mouth. He had thought often of Catherine naked in the lush tropical paradise of Heaven, the sweet scent of the island flowers surrounding them as they made slow, passionate love.
"The earl would pluck a rose, a blood red one," she said, thinking of Lucian's hair. "Deep and dark in color and rich with its sweet scent. He would gently crush the flower in his hand and sprinkle the velvet soft petals over my breasts and then —"
"Stop it, Catherine," Lucian ordered, and turned to face her with fury in his eyes. "Don't say another word."
But she did, she had to for she was fearful if he stayed this night with her all would be lost. "I was but sharing —"
"Sharing?" He threw back his head and laughed. "You were bragging, madam. Bragging about your bloody lover, and I daresay a favorite of yours."
Catherine stood and held her chin high. "The earl was my favorite. My very most favorite. He made me feel things no other man could. He touched me like no other man touched me, kissed me like no other man kissed me." Catherine took a breath to deliver the final blow. "And forced pleasurable cries from me like no other man could."
The Buccaneer Page 17