Although she refused to remove his wet trousers, she could relieve him of his shirt. But how? If she lifted it over his head, she might disturb his bandage. If his shirt weren’t so drenched… Wait a moment. She retrieved his boot and the dagger inside. Her father sometimes had removed clothing from patients by cutting it off.
Holding the damp material up and away from his skin, she used the blade. The well-honed edge sliced through the cloth with a soft hiss. She drew the edges of the heavy garment aside, baring a generous display of toned muscle, leading to narrow hips and a trail of dark hair that disappeared into the waist of his… This time her face burned so hot, she fanned herself. Heaven help me.
She flipped the edges of his shirt back over him. The garment wasn’t that wet. In fact, he didn’t appear uncomfortable at all. Indeed, he was probably fine as he was.
Charity tore her attention away, and her gaze caught on an item lying on the bed. She stowed the blade back into James’s boot and picked up the object Whip had left. An acorn? How odd.
Footsteps scraped outside the door, and she stilled. Thomas?
No, he’d said he’d return at dawn. Then who?
She glanced at the lit lantern, her pulse picking up its pace. Should she pretend to be James, awake and moving about, or stay quiet? Before she could decide, the footfalls wandered away. She set the acorn back on the bed and rolled her shoulders, releasing the tension there.
Still listening for sounds outside the door, she turned to James, his face untroubled, though battered. She used an alcohol-soaked scrap to wipe the dried blood from his cheek, his whiskers rough against her fingers. If only she could do more. The tears came again, and this time she let them fall. James, wake up. How she longed to hear his voice again. She released a choked laugh. Even his incessant teasing would be a blessing. Dear God, what if he never recovered? Her heart lurched, and she wept all the harder.
Taking his warm hand in hers, she threaded her fingers through his. “Don’t die.” Her voice caught, and she bit back a sob. “Please.”
Chapter Eight
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Charity willed that noisy woodpecker away. Always pecking outside her window, waking her up. Her mama and papa could sleep through it. She wished she could, too. Then again, her papa could sleep through anything after tipping so many cups each evening.
Tap. Tap. Tap. “Open on up. It’s Whip.”
Whip? Charity opened her eyes. The sight of the cabin dispatched the last dregs of sleep.
Rap. Rap. Bang. “Come on now. Let me in.”
Yes, of course. She jerked upright, and James’s hand slipped from her chest, the slight graze of his thumb over the rise of her breast inciting sparks of pleasure across her bare skin. James slept on, his breathing steady and relaxed. She rubbed her eyes and shook her head. Even in sleep, he took liberties.
She hurried to unlock the door. Wearing the same sour expression he had the night before, the old sailor strode inside the cabin, a shoe and candle in one gnarled hand and a piece of paper in the other. As soon as the door closed, he thrust the paper scrap toward her. “I need you to write somethin’ for me. You can write, can’t ya?”
His demanding tone set her teeth on edge. “Yes.”
He shoved it closer. “Write Cap’n Lamont’s name on this here paper.”
“Captain Lamont?” That’s right. James is the captain of his own ship, not a true pirate, like the rest.
Whip grimaced. “Mr. Lamont, I meant.” He straightened his stooped frame. “Come now. Do as I say, girl. It’s your fault James is lying here.”
“My fault?” Despite his gruffness, she relaxed a little. His eyes were those of a gentle soul. “Ah, yes, a woman aboard ship is bad luck.” She took the slip and walked to the desk.
“You have the right of it, missy. You’ve cursed us all.”
She suppressed a smile as Whip crouched next to the bed, setting down the items he’d brought. Charity dipped a quill into the inkwell, wrote James Lamont, and turned toward Whip.
He took the paper from her and touched the words to the candle flame. “Reaper, stay away. On this good man you will no’ prey…” Whip repeated the chant until the paper had burned to ash, then blew out the candle, leaving only the early morning glow to light the room.
Such superstition. Science and fact could be relied upon. Superstition was always based on fear. “Is he safe now?” she teased.
“Let’s hope so. And you can keep your disbelievin’ thoughts to yerself.” He stepped to the bed and felt around the surface, picking up the nut he’d left last eve.
“The acorn. What is it for?”
“Laugh all you want, girl. Did lightnin’ strike you inside this cabin?” He dropped the acorn back into the pouch at his waist. “No, it did not. Fact is, if you keep this prize on your person, it brings good fortune all of your days, it does. Good fortune that I now have.” He scooped up the shoe and set it near the door, no doubt to keep Death from entering. “I’ll need it, too, with you aboard ship.”
She took Whip’s place by the bed and checked on James. His bandage had held. No fever, but still not awake. “If it’s any comfort, I hope your magic worked.” The tangle of nerves in her middle tightened into a massive snarl. Wake up, James. Please.
A knock rattled the door.
“Who goes?” Whip growled out.
“Thomas. Let me in.”
Charity unlocked the door, and Thomas stepped inside. He peered down at the shoe and fixed Whip with a cynical look.
“Now don’t you be startin’ with me,” Whip groused as he marched from the room and kept on walking. “My granny taught me everything I know. Without her…” His voice faded with each added step until she shut the door behind him.
Thomas motioned to the bed. “How is James?”
“He hasn’t awakened.” She watched Thomas closely, looking for any expression, any movement that could give away his true intent. Was Thomas friend or enemy?
Thomas approached the bed. “You stitched him up?”
“Yes,” she admitted, stepping into his path.
He raised a brow, but stopped. “I’d like to see him.”
“He’s fine.” She faced him, her shoulders back. “At least as fine as he can be under the circumstances.”
“Step aside.” He pushed her out of his way to bend over James.
“Don’t hurt him,” she cried out, pulling at his shoulder.
As if made of stone, Thomas wouldn’t budge. He pressed his fingers to James’s neck and used the back of his hand to check for breathing. Once satisfied, he straightened and turned to her. “Why would I hurt him?”
Before she could stop herself, her gaze darted toward the door where Thomas and The Judge had argued.
Thomas followed the look, and understanding dawned on his face, followed by outrage.
She worried her lip, cursing herself for revealing her suspicions.
“If I’d wanted to kill him, I could have done it last night on deck.”
“How do I know you didn’t try?”
With a deepening frown, he threw his hands into the air. “Who are you to question me? I’ve known James for years, while you… How is it you’re even here?”
“This is all a mistake.” Not the leaving her uncle and…husband part, but climbing aboard a pirate ship. Dear God, if The Judge were to find out. “No need to alert anyone. I’ll be leaving at first port. In fact, I could pay you.” She patted her bodice, then remembered her purse was no longer there. “James has my money. As soon as he awakes—”
“I don’t want your money.” He glanced at the bed. “James has enough worries without you as an added burden.” Shaking his head, he sank onto the desk chair. “If you’re discovered, there’ll be hell to pay for both of you.”
A strong tug of guilt stretched her knot of nerves ever tighter. Thomas was right. She was a burden to James. Unfortunately, right now she had no other choice. “You won’t give me away?”
“No.”
<
br /> His voice held a note of conviction, and yet she wasn’t convinced. Even now, he fixed his stare on the floor as if deep in thought. Most likely calculating the best way to take advantage. His silence was deafening. She couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
“Why are you helping The Judge?”
Thomas raked his hand through his hair and looked up. “I’m not.”
Another lie. No matter. She had more than enough questions. “What happened to James’s brother?”
He pinned her with a suspicious stare.
She shrugged. “You mentioned to The Judge that James is searching for his brother.”
“So I did.” Avoiding her gaze, he stood and headed for the door.
Charity followed, determined to get answers. James had a fair amount of money on board. “Is he being held prisoner?”
“You should direct your questions to him.” He nodded toward the bed before slipping from the room.
She secured the lock and peered at the bed where James slept peacefully. He would tell her nothing. He dodged every question she asked. While he insisted he loved women, he shared nothing of importance, only flirtations and kisses.
Of course, what did it matter? They’d soon part ways. Still, for some ungodly reason she wanted more from him. With a weary sigh, she began cleaning up the mess she’d made during her hunt for a needle and thread.
James searched for his brother. Was that the reason he’d signed on with pirates? Why would that be the case? Did he believe they’d lead him to his brother?
Lifting a mirror, she took a good look at herself. A bruise shadowed her chin, and a red scrape ran across her cheek. Gingerly, she touched the raw skin. She pursed her lips, and lines of confusion reflected back from the mirror. She found a brush and raked it through the tangles, her scalp stinging as a few of the knots resisted her efforts. And why would Thomas, and most likely Whip, follow him aboard?
Her eyes darted to James, so quiet and still. She could see why. James was a persuasive man, the most charming she’d ever met. If he so chose, he could inspire a beggar to give up coin. Or perhaps they were all just a corrupt band of criminals. After all, what did she really know about them?
That wasn’t entirely true. She knew that despite her every attempt to fight her captivity, James had treated her well. She knew James’s adventurous spirit and wicked charm appealed to her in a way she didn’t understand. He offered her freedom from her uncle, a gift she’d never be able to repay. And she knew that every time he looked at her with those warm golden eyes and that devilish grin, something inside her pulsed to life, a feeling of elation. No, more than that. Something softer but no less potent. She knew she was safe with him. She could trust him.
James groaned. She dropped the brush into the trunk and hurried to his side. He raised a hand to his head, feeling the bandage. Taking his arm, she pulled it away and sat on the mattress next to him. “Leave it be, James.” Her scolding lacked a wisp of reproof. He was awake at last. Thank God. Her relief was so great she could just kiss him…on the cheek, of course.
He opened his eyes, and a soft smile touched his lips. “I dreamed about you.”
“You did?” Her fingers shook, and she released him, her skin tingling from the contact. “What did you dream?”
His sleepy grin turned sinful. “I’d best not say, or I may offend your delicate sensibilities.”
Pleasant tremors rode the length of her arms. No doubt due to her relief. Yes, relief. That had to be the reason. She looked away, focusing on the bedding, adjusting the blanket.
“What? Miss Biddle has no witty saying for such a remark?”
“Don’t mock me,” she chided, even as a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “How do you feel?”
“Like the devil in a snowstorm.” Rising on his elbows, he attempted to push himself up.
“No, don’t move. Lie still.” She pressed against his chest. “Other than your head, is there anywhere else you feel pain?”
His focus seemed off, and yet his gaze dipped to her hands on his body, and a wily gleam sparkled in his eyes. “You smell good, like rum.” He lay back down and studied her.
“It’s you who smells like rum, you silly goose. I used it to clean the gash on your head.”
He surveyed the cabin, the room still an utter mess. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”
“I didn’t have time to finish…”
A wrinkle creased his brow, and he lifted the blanket. What he saw made his eyes gleam all the more. “What happened to my shirt?” His dimple settled deeply in his cheek from his wide grin. “You needn’t have cut it off. I would gladly show you anything you wish to see.”
Heat washed over her in a massive wave as the thought of seeing more of him stirred up something salacious inside her. “I—It—Your chest…” Oh, what was the use? She closed her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you injured anywhere else?”
“No, love.” He rested his hand along her face, his thumb grazing her cheek, bringing her eyes open once again. “How about you? How did you fare? You’re covered in bruises.”
The genuine concern on his face touched a tender nerve, and tears stung her eyes. Just the fact that he’d bother to ask at all made her heart squeeze tight. “It’s nothing. I’m well enough.” She looked away to the calm seas outside the window.
His fingers stroked her hair, and he tugged on a lock to draw her attention. “You seem unsettled. Did the storm get the best of you?”
The storm? She’d been worried he would die.
Charity blinked away the tears. “Are you hungry? I have the bread you brought.” She rose from the bed. “Or maybe you’re thirsty. A bit of rum might dull the pain.”
“Charity.” James captured her hand in his. “What’s bothering you?”
She gave in to his gentle pull and sank back down, but refused to speak. How could she explain how deeply she’d been affected by his injury when she didn’t understand it herself? For years she’d been taught that men were the enemy, but now… His golden eyes searched her face as he waited patiently for an answer she didn’t have. A prickle of fear, of self-doubt, rose within her. Had she lost her mind? In a matter of days, this one man made her question her convictions. Impossible. While James had been kind, he himself had faults, many of them, she was sure. “How often do you see your family?” she blurted out. She already knew the answer. A sailing man would rarely be home.
His gaze sharpened and confusion flashed across his face. “Not as often as I’d like.” As if a string connected them, his concerned frown drew his eyebrows into a downward slant.
“Charity.”
“They must miss you.”
“I suppose so.” Blowing out a long breath, he looked at the ceiling and rested an arm behind his head. “I’m at sea most of the year, but I try to visit when I can. My father lives in London. He runs the family business there.”
“I suppose so? You don’t sound certain.” Of course they missed him. Did he deny it to ease his own conscience?
His eyes met hers, his expression solemn. “My father and I don’t always agree on everything. In fact, lately it seems we see nothing in the same light.”
Ah, he fought with his father. His faults were coming to light now in abundance. “On what do you disagree?”
His frown darkened. “My brother.”
She straightened in her seat, her curiosity piqued. “Is this the brother you search for?”
James paused, then pushed himself up to a sitting position. “Let’s have that rum.”
She raised a hand to urge him to lie down, but held back. “You should rest.”
“The rum, if you will.” He waved away her concern and propped himself against the cabin wall.
Her shoulders sagged as disappointment settled in. Again, he deflected her questions as if she weren’t worthy to hear about anything that truly mattered to him. Snatching up a handful of her petticoat, she stepped to the cabinet for the bottle, his eyes following he
r.
“Your gown, it’s torn and stained.”
“I know. It couldn’t be helped,” she muttered, returning to the bed with the rum and a glass.
“You won’t join me in a drink?”
“No. Thank you.” She poured him a draught and handed him the goblet.
He took a healthy gulp. “If you grow weary of the rags you wear, there’s always the red gown I brought to the cabin.”
She cocked her head to the side. He couldn’t be serious. “I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”
“You’re still afraid?” he asked, finishing the rum.
Charity bristled. Of all the nerve. “Afraid? Of what?”
“You tell me. The gown does not wear the woman. It’s the woman who wears the gown.” He held out his glass for a refill.
“What do you mean? I’m not afraid.” His words when they’d first discussed the dress came back with clarity. The only woman who would wear a gown like this one, love, is one who knows the power she wields and isn’t afraid to use it. Did he think she feared her own sensuality? Such audacity. He knew nothing about her. Charity poured him another drink, although her hand itched to douse his head as well.
“Wearing the gown won’t change who you are. It’s merely an untorn, unsoiled garment.”
“Indeed. An untorn, unsoiled garment with an indecent bodice.” She glanced at the crate now stowed in the corner, a bit of red peeking from the top. “Why are you so eager to see me in that dress?”
“I think it would do you some good.”
“How could that gown possibly—”
“Ah, Charity, so stiff and proper, ready to fight any man that stands in your way. What you don’t realize is that you have the advantage over men if you choose to use it.”
Charity held back a choked laugh. “You speak nonsense.”
“Do I?” James swiped a hand in her direction. “You’re a beautiful woman but no match physically for a man. Yet, the feminine mind is clever and cunning. While you can’t win battles with force, you can win them with persuasion. An alluring form can sway even the most determined man. If you’re to live on your own, you’d best remember that.”
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