Caribbean Jewel

by Jayla Jasso

  His fists curled, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and taut with the effort to check his anger. “I will not tell you again to be quiet.”

  She sucked in a breath and met his gaze with a fiery glare of her own, folding her arms to keep them from trembling. “Oh, no? Are you going to beat me, Captain? I’m used to Lord Hauste’s beatings, you know. Never thought I’d get one from a Spanish bastard.”

  As soon as Hauste’s favorite phrase for Marcano’s kinsmen left her lips, she recalled the pirate’s vicious insult. You are a bastard, aren’t you, Marcano? You’re pretending to be a nobleman, but you’re the son of a common whore; that’s what I heard. Her mind then leapt farther back in time to the night they escaped from Crab Island, when Marcano had such a heated reaction to her using the word bastard the first time. Her rage vanished, replaced by burning mortification at her own ignorance and rudeness. Damn Lord Hauste and his legacy of hatred and bigotry!

  Jolie peered up at Marcano in fear and remorse. His face had turned ashen. “Oh, Captain, I…”

  “Save it, Miss Scarborough,” he snapped, then turned on his heel to leave the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

  #

  Jolie cried bitterly into the captain’s pillow. She didn’t know if she was crying from the trauma of the pirate attack, or because she had just proven to Captain Marcano that she was a bigoted, spoiled, English princess. She had insulted and hurt him, right after he had saved her skin a second time. Oh, it was hideous, hideous that she had called him a “bastard,” if what Clark said was true and Marcano really was of low birth. She recalled his odd reaction to her question about his real mother and his stilted answer: I never knew her.

  Well, I’ve really done it now. He hates me for sure. And after just finding out how well he had thought of her! Had he actually written in his journal that she had compassion for others, that she was intelligent? What a dupe he must feel for ever believing such good things about her. Only a cruel, stupid girl would call such a brave, strong, honorable man a bastard. The expletive now burned in her mouth, stabbed through her heart.

  She sobbed quietly in the darkness, her tears trickling sideways across the bridge of her nose as she stared at the play of moonlight on the far wall, more guilty than ever for taking his bunk. But she was afraid to leave the bunk and go to the cot, since her getting out of bed was what had started the whole fight in the first place. Miserable, wretched, and furious at herself, Jolie found sleep difficult to come by, even though she was physically and emotionally drained. Marcano was even more exhausted than she, but instead of being able to get some rest, he was outside, probably pacing the decks and cursing her name.

  And rightly so. Damnation, Jolie!

  CHAPTER TEN

  She heard the sound of the small door at the back of the cabin over the balcony opening carefully, not far from the head of the bunk. Marcano swooshed by the bed in a hazy shadow, the heady scent of his soap filling her senses as she came fully awake. He moved to the armoire at the foot of the bed and stood in the shadows quietly rummaging behind its doors. Jolie pretended to be asleep, watching through narrowed eyes as he made his way to the cot in the corner, his feet dragging with the effort. He sank down onto the cot and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, shoulders slumped, head hanging down. After a moment he straightened a little and she could tell by his movements in the shadows that he was trying to wrap his wounded arm one-handed again.

  He tried, became frustrated, fiddled with the bandage, and tried again.

  Jolie very quietly pushed back the covers, stood up, and moved toward him, feeling awkward and afraid. He tensed, becoming aware of her approach, and covered his naked thighs with a pillow before she reached his side.

  She stopped at the edge of the cot and stood looking down at him in the darkness. “Don’t yell at me for getting up. Just…let me wrap it for you.”

  He sat immobile for a moment, then handed her the bandaging material and nodded.

  Relieved, Jolie knelt on the hard wooden planks in front of him, struggling for a way to tell him she really didn’t mean what she’d said. She reached up to feel for fever around the wound. It felt every bit as hot as the night before. “You really need some ointment.”

  “Velez left some on the table.”

  She rose to retrieve it, and when she returned to his side, she caught him flexing his right fist painfully.

  “Is your arm stiff?”

  “It’s fine.”

  Jolie kneeled at his side again and wrapped both her hands around his forearm. She kneaded the tense muscles there firmly and expertly, another first aid skill she had learned on the plantation. She knew wounded limbs often developed infection due to poor circulation and turgid muscles.

  Thankfully, he didn’t pull his arm away.

  #

  Marcano watched silently as Jolie worked the muscles of his forearm for several minutes, then proceeded to massage his hand, splaying his fingers and working the area between each one. She laced her fingers into his and worked his wrist around and around, massaging his forearm again with her other hand. She was making the entire arm feel wonderful, and he became irritated at himself for wanting to beg her for more—his aching shoulders and back could use some massaging as well. But he knew she was only feeling guilty for having insulted him, and he refused to take advantage of her peace offering. He wanted her to massage him because she wanted to, not because it would ease her conscience.

  Not that he particularly blamed her for looking askance at a bastard-born, no-name seafarer, but it still hurt to realize that Jolie wasn’t beyond judging persons by their birth status.

  She worked her way up his forearm to the aching upper arm muscles, massaging very carefully around the wound. Without his willing it, his body began to relax, and he closed his eyes, feeling the stiffness in his abused muscles ease a bit. Dios, but she had magic in her hands. Without touching the bullet wound itself, she made her way over the entire upper arm and shoulder. She rose and braced herself with one knee on the cot beside him, then pushed his damp hair aside to work along the thick muscle extending from his shoulder to his neck. The French soap on her skin filled his nostrils, and he willed his body not to react under the pillow as her warm, caressing hands moved along the inner curve of his neck, a much more sensitive, intimate area than his arm.

  Eventually she moved back to kneel on the floor once more, leaving his body clamoring for more of her touch. When she took his right hand again, he almost sighed aloud with relief that she wasn’t finished. She threaded her fingers through his again and flexed his entire arm slowly, kneading the muscles at the back of his upper arm. She moved his hand in and out, working the blood into his arm, which was now feeling very relaxed with a good bit of the soreness alleviated. Before he was ready for her to stop, she released his arm to reach for the jar of ointment and dip her fingers into it. His skin prickled in anticipation of seeing and feeling her lovely fingers rubbing warm, slick salve on his arm.

  She touched the wound with her fingers, carefully dabbing the salve on it while he watched in silence. After a moment, she took a deep breath. “I am such a dolt. I don’t blame you for hating me.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “Perhaps you should. Maybe I’ll never get Lord Hauste’s vile speech out of my head and my mouth. Maybe I’ve become a bigot too, though it was not my intention.” She picked up the bandage and began to re-roll it, looking down at her hands as she worked. “For eleven years I’ve never heard a Spaniard referred to as anything other than ‘bastard.’ You were all thieves, rakes, opportunists, treasure-seekers, pirates, and rogues, every one. I thought I hadn’t let those lies sink in. I really thought—” She broke off on a sigh. “I thought I could shelter my heart and mind from his detestable beliefs and refuse to be affected by them. But tonight, when his words slipped from my tongue, I realized perhaps this is his final revenge on me, having imprinted me with his twisted thinking.”

  Marcano remained
silent, not knowing what to say yet.

  She replaced the lid on the jar of ointment, then buried her face in her hands and cried. He looked down at her in confusion and amazement; her sorrowful sobs were unsettling. He reached over and placed a hand on her soft hair, smoothing it gently. “You are not a bigot, Jolie,” he heard himself say. “And your reaction to my illegitimate birth is quite common. I am accustomed to it.”

  She looked up and fixed wet, flashing eyes on him, the moonlight illuminating the strands of hair stuck to her tear-stained cheeks. “No, you’re not a bastard, no matter what the details of your birth are! You’re an honorable man who deserves as much if not more respect than anyone I know. Why are we so brutal, one race to another, or a higher class to those below? And why would you accept anyone’s vicious labels for you?” She sobbed into her hands again.

  Marcano looked down at her trembling shoulders. “That is a very good question.”

  She cried for a moment longer, then raised her head. “Captain, I feel so…so horrible… I need to…” She choked on another sob.

  “Jolie, calm yourself. It is almost morning. We both need some sleep. If it will ease your mind, I will forget you ever called me a bastard. It does not matter. Finish my bandage,” he urged softly.

  “It does matter. I owe you an apology!”

  “All right, your apology is accepted.”

  “I haven’t made it yet.”

  “Well, muchacha, you had better get around to it soon because I am very much looking forward to getting to bed before dawn.” He was unable to mask the weariness in his voice.

  She picked up the bandage, wrapping his arm as she spoke. “I am so deeply sorry, Captain, that I thoughtlessly insulted you. I did not mean what I said. How could I think you a bas—anything less than brave and honorable, when you have done nothing but save my life, twice now, at unselfish risk of your own life, provisions, peace of mind—”

  “Hold it right there, Jolie,” he interrupted. “Don’t pin a medal on me, all right? I am not up for it tonight.” He watched her hands work for a moment. “And I wish you would stop calling me Captain.”

  “But you told me to.”

  “I know, but I’ve changed my mind. We are living in extremely close quarters; we’ve learned intimate details about each other’s pasts, and we’ve shared two near-death experiences—make that three since we were about to kill one another here in the cabin just hours ago. Are we not close enough”—in more ways than one, he thought wryly, as her silky hair draped his forearm and pooled on his thigh—“for you to call me Gabriel?”

  Jolie smoothed the bandage carefully around his arm. “I can’t say it like you do.”

  “Of course you can. Repeat: Gabriel.” That came out huskier than he’d intended.

  She glanced at his face and imitated his pronunciation. “Ah…Gabriel?”

  “Perfect.”

  She smiled, finished tucking the bandage, and sat back on her heels.

  Holding the pillow over his erection, he moved to slide under the blankets on the cot, then stuffed the pillow behind his head. Jolie didn’t move from her position on the floor beside him; she knelt there staring at him, apparently with something else she wanted to say on her mind. He sighed, waiting.

  “Sleep in the bunk tonight,” she said softly.

  Marcano blinked in surprise. Surely he had heard wrong. It took him a moment to find his voice. “Are you asking me to—”

  “Yes,” she begged in a rush, grasping his arm. “I really want you to. You look quite uncomfortable.”

  Was his erection that evident? He glanced down at himself through the blankets. Hearing her begging him to join her in the bunk sent intense shivers straight to his groin. He searched her lovely face in the dim light. Her eyes were beseeching pools of invitation. “Jolie, are you certain?”

  “Oh, yes, Gabriel, completely certain. I need you to do this.”

  She needed this? Her bold honesty jolted him. He raised up to prop himself on one elbow, feeling a new energy seep into his bones. “But are you too tired?”

  “Not at all. I know I would sleep even better. Please.”

  She wanted him so much, she was begging! Elated, he sat all the way up, allowing the blankets to fall to his waist. Get a grip, Gabriel. You look far too eager. “Jolie, I did not expect this from you tonight,” he murmured silkily, gazing down at her hopeful face.

  “I know you didn’t, but I’ve been miserable. I know you think I shouldn’t because of what Velez said, but I feel fine, really I do.”

  “You’ve been...miserable?” he breathed. He didn’t know how he would manage it, but if the rigid state of his erection was any indication, he would make personal history: defeat a pirate sloop in battle, prevent two determined freebooters from taking over his ship in hand-to-hand combat, and make love to an eager young woman all in one night. And to think she’d been as miserable as he!

  “Yes, of course I was miserable, thinking about how big you are, over here on this cot…”

  “How big—?” He could hardly believe his ears.

  “Now go on over there to the bunk—I won’t look until you are under the covers,” she said in that seductive British accent of hers, standing up to turn her back.

  Shy minx! His gaze raked over the sheath of hair swinging down her back, over her slender form in the nightshirt. The shapeless garment revealed nothing of her body’s curving beauty, but oh, how well he remembered it from peeping in on her sponge bath the day before. He felt his cock throb insistently against the weight of the blanket and threw the covers back, glad she wasn’t watching him make his way, a bit awkwardly, to the bunk. He almost let out a whoop of joy as he slipped beneath the heather-and-rose-scented sheets of his bed. He adjusted the blankets over his legs up to his waist, turned to face her, and propped up on one elbow, pasting an inviting smile on his face.

  But she had disappeared. His eyes scanned the darkness and located her in the cot, twisting and snuggling beneath the blankets.

  “Thank you so much for agreeing to switch beds, Gabriel. Ooh, you’ve got it all warmed up for me!” she crooned happily from across the cabin.

  He stared at her bundled form, slack-jawed. He felt an insistent pulsation in his groin and swore under his breath. Sí, it’s all warmed up for you, all right. He turned over to fluff the fragrant pillows in frustration.

  #

  Jolie sat at the table after lunch the next day, mending the torn sleeve of her silk nightgown. Joaquin had suggested discarding it, saying that the captain would surely buy her another one, but Jolie didn’t want to take the chance. Whether the nightgown had been the captain’s idea or not, she didn’t want to part with it even if it couldn’t be repaired.

  She gazed out the windows at the array of sea craft in the harbor of Santo Domingo—flutes, schooners, sloops, and brigantines filled the docks where the Amatista was anchored. The captain had gone ashore, Joaquin had informed her. When she awoke that morning Marcano was already gone from the cabin, but the memory of his bravery in the night and the way he looked with his long ebony hair blowing wildly around his handsome face was still with her. She thought time and again of his fierce, glittering blue eyes, the implacable calmness with which he handled the situation—it seemed she could meditate on nothing else today but Captain Gabriel Marcano.

  She had even written in her journal about him again.

  Captain Marcano is the Man I would choose to be shipwrecked and stranded on a Desert Isle with. He seems able to handle any potentially Fatal Situation with Finesse and Expediency from what I have seen. Poor Man has had quite a Time of it with Me around, for it seems I bring him Nothing but Catastrophe and Danger. Last Night we were attacked by Pirates—English Reprobates—who were demanding the Captain give them some piece of Treasure, exactly what I have not had the Chance to ask him about. They held me at Knife-point, and pointed a Pistol at the Captain’s Face. I was afeared for my Life like never Before, with the exception of the Night I fled from the Pl
antation of course.

  I have sustained a small Wound, a Knife-Cut the length of about Five inches along my Arm. Mr. Velez has stitched it together very neatly; it bothers me very little and will heal nicely, I’ve no Doubt. Mr. Velez insisted that I sleep in the Captain’s Bunk so that I rest better, but I convinced the Captain to take his Bunk for himself due to the Fact that he was completely Fatigued and Exhausted and desperately in need of Rest as well. He is also injured, much worse than I.

  Glad I am, too, that I forced him to his bunk; never have I seen a Man more eager to return to his Bed. Why, he practically ran to it, as if he couldn’t bear to do without it one Moment longer! Poor Dear.

  #

  Marcano rubbed his forehead, willing his slight headache to go away.

  “Did you not sleep much, Captain?” Guillarte asked with faint amusement in his tone, sipping his ale. “Your eyes are bloodshot. You look a bit under the weather.”

  “I am fine.” Marcano slumped on his elbows on the tavern table.

  Beside him, Trujillo sat engrossed in watching the serving girl’s swaying hips as she weaved in and out among the tables. Trujillo grinned back at the other men. “That little Dutch wench’s walk is calling my name. ‘¡Felipe! ¡Felipe!’ Do you hear it?”

  Guillarte and Belardo followed his gaze. The woman dropped a coin and bent to retrieve it, her rose-colored skirt hiking up to expose shapely ankles.

  Belardo drank from his tankard. “It’s been too long since we had a night ashore, Captain.”

  Guillarte lit a cigar. “It’s been too long since that wench has had a true Spanish Conquistador, I’d wager.”

  Marcano watched glumly as his three officers devoured the poor serving wench with their eyes, unable to join in their enthusiasm.

  Guillarte motioned her to their table, and she appeared within seconds at Trujillo’s side, smiling sweetly. “Yes, gentlemen?”

  As Guillarte requested a round of Madeira, Marcano studied her blue eyes, her red lips. In his view, her cheekbones were too prominent and her eyes too small for her to be beautiful. He was lost in his thoughts for a moment before realizing Guillarte must have made some suggestive remark. Belardo and Trujillo were chuckling, and the woman was grinning. Trujillo grasped her hand and pulled her closer to whisper in her ear. She giggled, covering her mouth with her free hand. When he released her, she hit his thick shoulder playfully and scampered off to the bar.