Such a man. “What of their minds and hearts?”
“Yes. Vows of eternal love and devotion. Some women will accept nothing less.”
“Is that so wrong?”
“No, but there is nothing wrong with the occasional sensual delights without such promises.”
When he made a move to touch her, she blocked his reach, lifting the book between them. “It’s not enough.”
His warm breath brushed her temple and teased her hair. “I never leave my women wanting.”
The unspoken promise in his words whispered across her skin, inciting a surge of shivers that ran the length of her body. It took everything she had to steady her breathing and focus her mind. “Well, I am wanting the key. There’s no reason…”
“I can’t give it to you.” He rested his fingers on top of the novel and pushed it downward. “There is only one, and it stays with me.”
She jerked the book from his grasp and gently smacked those interfering fingers. “By locking me in this cabin, you’re putting me at greater risk.”
“In what way?” His tone mocked. Damn him.
“The Judge came to your door this morning.”
Concern replaced the humor on his lips. “The Judge?”
His reaction rattled her nerves, and for an instant, she wished for his amusement to return. “Yes, he wants to invade this cabin.”
“Does he now?”
“Glanville has offered to help him.”
“Thomas?” He cast her a look that questioned her sanity, then turned away and walked back to the desk. “How do you know this?”
“I overheard them arguing at the door.”
Returning his attention to the crate, James unpacked a hairbrush and hand mirror.
More gifts? She joined him at the desk. “Who is Thomas Glanville?”
“No need to worry. I’ll have a talk with Thomas.”
Not worry? Her entire survival depended on him. If The Judge were to storm the cabin…
He handed her the mirror and brush. “Find a safe place for these. The seas are likely to get rough once the storm hits.”
“James, tell me—”
“I’ll store the bread and tableware in the chest.” He headed toward the trunk.
She hurried after him. “You act as if you’ve heard nothing I’ve said. This Glanville man is planning to betray you.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and the wicked gleam returned to his eyes as he lifted the chest’s lid. “You do care for me.”
Clamping her lips together, she smothered an oath no lady would utter. How could he make light?
He grabbed the water bucket and headed for the door. “Never fear, love. I have things well in hand.”
Never fear? Is this man a pirate or a fool?
Chapter Seven
James shielded his eyes and squinted up at the canvas spread high above him while the drenching rain seeped through his fingers. “Helm quarter to larboard,” he called out to the helmsman beside him, who steered the ship a quarter point to the left. His view of the sails dimmed in the pitch-black of nightfall until another flash of lightning seared through the sky. “More larboard,” he yelled as thunder roared so loud the planks beneath his feet shook.
The helmsman must have heard him. He turned the wheel as commanded.
A hand clasped his shoulder, and James jerked to the side. Thomas motioned with a toss of his head for James to follow.
What in God’s name? “Hold her steady,” he told the helmsman before heading to the side rail where Thomas had led him.
“What is it?” James asked, keeping an eye on the sail and helm.
Despite the rolling ship, Thomas kept his balance with ease. Years of sailing through all types of weather had prepared him well. Indeed, the strained look about him had nothing to do with the storm. “I’ve been talking with The Judge.”
“So I’ve heard.” From Charity, no less. Thomas should have been the one… Oh, hell. “I’ve been meaning to discuss that with you, but now is not the time.” He needed to keep this ship afloat. James turned away, ready to head back to the helm. If he didn’t trust Thomas implicitly…
Thomas blocked his path. “To gain his trust, I told him about the wine you lifted from the storage room.”
James froze in place. “You did what? Why?”
“He wanted a reason to search your quarters.”
“You gave him one?” Thomas’s betrayal hit him like a blow to the ribs. He never would have expected this, not from… Damn it.
Charity. If The Judge found her, she’d be at his mercy. He had to protect her. James headed toward the stairs.
“Don’t worry. You have time to move your money,” Thomas assured him. “The Judge isn’t going to act in the middle of a storm.”
Money. If only the ransom was the sole thing at stake. A coil of anger tightened in his gut, and James turned back to face his friend, the impulsive fool. “What were you thinking? You shouldn’t have approached him without discussing it with me first.”
Thomas brightened to a shade of crimson. “I saw an opportunity, and I took it!” He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath before he spoke again, calmer this time. “If I can befriend him, I may be able to find out what really happened to David.”
Not good enough. Charity was at risk because of a rash, ill-conceived scheme. “Why do you think The Judge is going to trust you with that kind of information?”
“He believes I have a bone to pick with you.”
“Do you?” The wind shifted, blasting James full in the face, bringing with it the sting of the driving rain. “We’re certainly not working together on this.”
Thomas stabbed a finger toward James’s chest. “What were you going to do? Challenge The Judge? You would have learned nothing and gotten yourself killed besides.”
As if Thomas would discover anything more from the quartermaster. Swiping the rain from his eyes, James took steps toward the helm. He’d deal with this later.
Thomas kept pace by his side. “By the looks of things, The Judge was contemplating breaking in your door when I came along. He might have found your money already if it hadn’t been for me.”
“Many thanks,” James gritted out, his sarcasm heavy.
The almost stricken look on the helmsman’s pale features brought James back to the trouble at hand—the clapping of sail and the harsh creaking of wood as the ship fought the winds.
The devil take me. The winds are too strong. “Stokes,” he shouted down to the bos’n. “Cut the sails!”
Stokes cupped his mouth and barked out, “Hands to halyards!”
A deafening crack pierced the air as a spar broke free from the mizzenmast.
“Look sharp,” Stokes bellowed as the beam plunged to the deck. James dove to the side. Not far enough. The pole glanced off his head. Pain shot through his skull, and he collapsed on the decking.
Shouts rang out. He splayed his hands against the wet planks, willing his fogged mind to clear. James raised a hand to this head, and his fingers came away covered in blood. Someone stepped close, pulling his arm around a shoulder and lifting him to a standing position. His head bobbed onto his chest, and he used what strength he could summon to look over. Thomas.
Thomas moved slowly, dragging him along. James couldn’t force a step. Black spots blurred his vision. He strained to focus.
When they reached the stairs, Whip came up on the other side. He hoisted James’s free arm across his thin shoulders. “Let’s get you back to yer cabin.”
James’s head throbbed, but one thought made its way to the fore. “Charity.”
“What?” Thomas bent his head closer.
The edges of James’s sight dimmed. He tried again. “Woman in my cabin. Charity. Don’t tell,” he rasped as the world faded to black.
…
Lightning flashed through the night sky, illuminating enough of the cabin for Charity to see a hook attached to the wall. She seized it when the room tilted once mo
re, as if the ship was a mere plaything in the sea’s massive swells.
The metal bit into her fingers as her feet slipped beneath her, dragging her toward the center of the room. A peal of thunder muffled her scream, and her grip gave way. She tumbled across the damp floor and slammed into the far wall. Her right shoulder took the brunt of the blow. A jolt of pain radiated down her arm.
She rolled over, clutching her abused shoulder and stopped short. Her outer petticoat had caught on the head of a nail barely poking out of the wood. Before she could free the snag, the ship pitched to the other side. The fabric stretched taut, holding her for a brief moment, then tore with a series of snaps. She slid along the floor, heading for impact with the trunk at the foot of the bed.
As she passed by, she grabbed a desk leg and wrapped herself around it, scraping her cheek in her struggle to get a firm grasp. Ignoring the intense ache in her shoulder, she prayed the bolts that secured the desk would hold.
She cringed as her world lurched again. The sizzle of another lighting strike raised the hairs on her head, and a booming clap of thunder filled the room. She smothered a whimper. Dear God. Make it stop. Please.
A deep resonating groan rose up from the very bowels of the ship. Charity clenched her eyes shut, her body pressing against the desk leg as momentum shifted again, pushing her forward. “It’ll be fine. The ship is sturdy, and James will return soon.”
Inside the cabinet, glasses rattled in their holders, and her mind flooded with memories of another storm, another time.
The wind had howled then, too, and the jars in the root cellar had clinked against one another.
Don’t go, Mama. Don’t go, she’d pleaded. Too late. Her mother had made up her mind. She’d forced her way out the door, letting it slam shut behind her.
Even now, Charity could smell the musty, damp earth that had surrounded her, almost suffocating in its clammy embrace. Outside, the tornado had screamed its fury. Its might had shaken the dirt walls around her as something had crashed against the cellar door, the sound like shattering glass.
She’d trembled and prayed her mama would return, that she’d rush inside the cellar door with Papa’s hand in hers. Her mama would be safe. She’d be safe.
Tears trickled down Charity’s face in a steady stream. Her mother hadn’t been safe.
That day had changed her life forever. On a choked sigh, she brushed away the tears, clearing the way for more to fall. Alone in her misery, just like all those years ago. Who would care if she died in this storm? Who had cared that she hadn’t died in the last?
The lurching of the ship calmed to a rhythmic roll, but she still held fast, shuddering with silent sobs.
Footsteps from more than one man approached outside the door, and a key rattled the lock. Stifling her ragged breaths, she released the leg and slid farther beneath the desk, bracing herself against the sway of the ship.
The door opened, and lamplight flooded the room. Two men stepped through the doorway, their arms supporting James as they dragged him inside and settled him on the bed.
James. Unconscious. Injured? Her chest squeezed so tight, her lungs had to fight for air. Without thinking, she leaned forward, ready to go to him.
“Close the door, Whip.” The blond man bent low, scanning the room while Whip did as he asked. “Where are you?” His voice held a sharp note.
Even though the need to run to James burned inside her, Charity stilled.
“I know you’re in here.” He stepped closer. “Are you hurt?”
“Thomas, who you speakin’ to?” Whip asked.
Thomas? Her stomach clenched as she skittered farther away.
Lowering onto one knee, Thomas crouched at the edge of the desk and peered beneath. Water dripped from him to pool on the floor. His eyes hardened when he found her, and he bit out a curse. “Charity, is it?”
She nodded, her insides collapsing in on themselves, her heart landing at the bottom of the heap. How did he know?
He held out a hand to her. “Have you been injured?”
“No.” She leaned away from him, and nearly tipped over with the next wave that rocked the ship. While James believed Thomas was a good man, she knew better. He planned to betray James, to do The Judge’s bidding. For all she knew, James’s current condition had been caused by his hand.
“Come out,” Thomas insisted. “I need your help.”
Whip drew closer and ducked down, his weathered face coming into view. His eyebrows rose halfway to his hair. “Rot my bones, a woman.”
She stiffened her spine. “Leave me be,” she commanded, her attempt to keep the fear from her voice failing miserably.
With an exasperated exhale, Thomas shoved his hand closer. “James needs you now.”
Her gaze swung to the bed where James lay stretched out. So still. “What’s happened to him?”
“A spar broke and fell. He got caught beneath it.”
Good Lord, no. A sick feeling took up the whole of her chest. She avoided the offered hand and came out from beneath the desk. The floor slanted again, and she stumbled. Thomas grasped her around the middle, and she jerked away. “Stay back.”
A look of confusion passed over his face, but he wiped it away with a brush of his hand. He motioned toward James. “His head is bleeding. I’m not sure if he’s hurt anywhere else.”
“She’s the cause of this.” Whip paced the floor as a flash of lightning lit the cabin, the gold hoops hanging from his ears reflecting the light.
“Whip,” Thomas warned. He turned to Charity. “You’ll need to tend James. Whip and I have to get back on deck.”
She sank onto the bed. A rivulet of blood trailed along James’s face. Her throat closed off as panic set in, and tears prickled the back of her eyes. No. She forced her fears aside. James needed her. Thunder cracked just outside the window, and she flinched from the sound. Inhaling a deep breath, she steadied herself and checked the pulse at James’s throat. Steady and strong.
Thomas brought the light closer and hung it on a peg near the bed.
She shifted, placing herself more fully between James and his traitorous friend. “You can both leave now.”
The old man frowned at her as if she were the devil. “Ain’t nothin’ worse than a woman aboard ship. Bad luck, I tell you. Bad luck.”
“You’ll tell no one she’s here.” Thomas grasped Whip’s arm and tossed Charity a key. “We have to go.”
Whip pulled out of his hold. “I won’t be tellin’ nobody.” He dug inside a pouch tied at his waist, then approached the bed with tentative steps and set something beside James, near the window. After a last look at her, he followed Thomas to the door.
Thomas glanced back. “Lock up behind us. We’ll return at first light.” He ushered Whip out, and Charity stared at the key in her hand. The key to the cabin door. She finally had it, but at what cost? She looked at James lying injured on his bed, the only person in years who’d shown concern for her welfare. He’d offered his protection despite the risks to himself. He’d brought her gifts. He’d shown her respect.
Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them back. James would recover. She would see to it. Charity hurried to the door, falling to one knee when she failed to lift her hem high enough. She secured the lock and then returned to James’s side. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix you right up,” she insisted, her voice shaking with the fear that her assertion would turn out to be a lie.
Taking a calming breath, she eased the sopping-wet scarf from James’s hair and studied the wound. A gash the length of her pinkie gaped at the top of his forehead.
She tore a strip of fabric from her petticoat and pressed it to the cut, thinking back to the times she’d witnessed her father treating his patients. Charity prayed she would remember enough. She applied pressure to his scalp and checked for other injuries. No blood evident on his clothing. She ran her hand along his arms. No breaks she could feel. With one hand, she lifted what she could of his shirt. The skin on his chest and abdomen was
n’t broken or bruised. She felt his ribs, her fingers sliding over each one, and the memory came to mind of last eve when he’d clasped her hand and pretended to be asleep. If only he would do that again. At least she’d have some assurance he’d be well.
The bleeding slowed. Leaning into the ship’s relentless sway, Charity rummaged through the cabin for thread and needle, heedless of the mess she made. At last, she spotted a spool at the bottom of the chest. A needle had been slipped through the fibers of thread. She hurried to the wall cabinet and retrieved the bottle of spirits she’d seen there.
She returned to the bed and sat on the edge. After tearing more strips from her petticoat, she dribbled alcohol on one and dabbed the wound, cleaning the blood away. To prepare the thread and needle, she doused them with the spirits as well, spilling a cupful on her petticoat in the process.
A prickle of unease danced along her spine as she bent over the wound. She’d only watched her father at work, never provided any aid herself. She’d been too young.
Her fingers trembled, and sweat beaded on her brow. Biting her lip, she set the needle to the edge of his wound and poked the tip through his skin, cringing as she stitched a neat row. James remained still and calm, his breathing even, while she felt the sting of each puncture as keenly as if it were her own. When the deed was done, she wrapped the injury and sat back to survey her patient from head to foot. She hadn’t checked for injury to his legs.
She adjusted her seat, bringing her hands closer, and hesitated mere inches from his thighs. Her cheeks warmed to a feverish state. She’d never touched a man this way.
Oh, what on earth am I doing? Charity shook her head. How silly. She intended to inspect for injury, nothing more. Forcing her hands lower, she found firm muscle beneath the damp cloth of his trousers. Solid and strong. Her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, she tried to swallow, her dry throat making that almost impossible.
No blood, so the trousers could definitely remain on. Most definitely. She assessed for broken bones with a quick swipe along each leg. Nothing. Good. She sprang back up and pulled her hands away.
Now then. She’d done all she could as a nurse. She supposed she should see to his comfort. Carefully, she removed his boots, finding a blade hidden inside one. She set them both on the foot of the bed to keep them from rolling across the floor with each motion of the ship.
Tempting the Pirate Page 8