Lily was sitting at the table, drumming her fingers nervously as she stared at the front door. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t know Roger was near her until he stood directly in front of her, leaning down to place his face close to hers and claim her attention.
“’E doesn’t know, does ’e?” Roger asked solemnly.
Lily looked up at Roger with innocent eyes, as wide and clear as she could manage.
“Who doesn’t know what?”
“Tyler,” Roger said, backing away. “’E doesn’t know that yer preggers, does ’e?”
Lily stared at the boy—no, he was a young man on the verge of true manhood. The look he gave her was lightly condemning, pensive for Roger, and knowing.
“What makes you think—?”
“I ’ave nine brothers and sisters,” Roger snapped. “I should ’ave known the moment you retched all over me shoes, but when I saw you sleepin’ in the middle o’ the day, I knew fer sure.”
“People can simply get tired.”
Roger shook his head, sending dark curls bobbing. He would make a handsome man one day, when he lost the still-smooth prettiness of his fine features.
“Mind your own business, Roger,” Lily added, tired of looking at his censuring face.
She’d hurt his feelings. She could see that in his eyes before he turned away from her and returned to the stove and his stew. “O’ course, Cap’n.”
Lily drummed her fingers on the table, faster and faster. Her foot was tapping nervously against the floor, and as the chill nipped at her toes she wished for the warmth of Nassau.
She looked away from the door to Roger’s back. His head was bent over a large, bubbling pot.
“Just out of curiosity, Roger,” Lily began nonchalantly, “when your mother was expecting… was she sick the entire time?” Try as she might, she couldn’t hide the despair in her voice.
“No.” She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the smile in Roger’s voice. “Just the first two or three months. With little Amy, she was hardly sick at all. But she was tired the whole while and slept like the dead, she did.” He turned around, a sharp knife he’d been stirring the stew with still clutched in his hand. “But she always said it was worth it, in the end, to ’ave a little baby to ’old in ’er arms.”
Lily had never really thought of her condition as anything more than that. A condition. But a baby… tiny and squalling… That was all she knew about babies, that they were tiny and fragile and cried a lot. A boy or a girl? Quint’s dark hair or her fair?
Roger crossed his arms across his chest, a triumphant smile on his face as he watched her. “So, you’re goin’ to tell ’im?”
Lily’s face was stern and determined. “No. And you’re not to tell anyone, either. Is that clear?”
She gave him a look that would have put him in his place a few months ago. But the Chameleon was at the bottom of the ocean.
“Why not?” he asked insolently.
“Please, Roger.” Lily’s voice softened. “I’m asking you not as your Captain, but as your friend. I don’t want Quint to know.”
“Why the ’ell not?”
Lily didn’t have a chance to answer, as Gilbert and Eddie returned, their arms full with more than enough firewood for the evening. But Roger’s last glance told her what she wanted to know. He might not approve, but he would accede to her wishes… unwillingly.
She had her reasons for not telling Quint that she was going to have his baby. Perhaps it wasn’t fair. Perhaps it was even heartless. But she wouldn’t become a clutching woman who tried to hold a man through his child. She didn’t want Quint to bind himself to her because she carried his baby.
She wanted him to love her, and she didn’t know if that was possible. Not the way he had once loved her. Not the way she wanted him to love her again.
They gathered around the fire like a large and imperfect family, the lads of Lily’s crew sitting on the floor with bowls of Roger’s stew cradled in their laps, speaking softly over the steaming bowls, trying to ignore the tension in the room.
Tommy glared at Quint with silent rage. It was easy to see that the old man would gladly kill him but was bemoaning the fact that he would likely never get the chance.
Quint ignored the man’s hate-filled perusal. He turned all his attention to Lily, as she picked at her food and stared into the fire. When she wasn’t staring into the flames that blazed in the stone fireplace, she was looking at Roger, a veil over her eyes, a new tension in her face.
It was a restive silence that settled over the room as their meal was finished and the crew cleaned the kitchen area. Roger was a good cook, but a messy one, and the crew, all but Roger, bumped into one another as they wiped the stove clean, washed the bowls, and swept the floor. Their silence grew heavier as they progressed—almost, Quint decided, an extension of their Captain’s discomfort.
Roger stretched out in front of the fire. He had done his part in cooking the meal and had declared loudly that he had no responsibility for cleaning up the mess that had resulted from his efforts. He lay on a tattered rug, casting what he obviously thought were furtive glances at his Captain, her first mate, and occasionally Quint.
Quint decided he could almost see the boy’s mind at work, as Roger pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes.
When the clean-up was done, the rest of the crew joined Roger in front of the fire, but the agile young man jumped to his feet before they could lower themselves to the floor and relax.
“Well, mates, we’re off to the barn,” he said with a smile.
They all looked at him as if he were as daft as he had pretended to be that afternoon.
“What for? It’s cold out there,” Gilbert Farmer whispered loudly. Several heads nodded in agreement, but Roger would not be swayed.
“It smells o’ pork stew in ’ere. I can’t sleep with that odor in me nostrils all night. Them onions were a bit strong, and I can still smell the pepper.” He wrinkled his nose.
“I can’t smell anything.”
“Doesn’t bother me at all.”
Roger sighed, evidently disgusted. He looked to Lily, cutting his eyes to her and then back to the boys who still watched him expectantly. Finally, he whispered softly to the Farmer brothers, and they spread the word.
In a matter of minutes they were headed for the door, red-faced and clutching blankets in their hands. Roger let them all out, then turned back to the warm room.
“Aren’t ya comin’, Mr. Gibbon?” His face was all innocence, but Tommy wasn’t fooled. He glared at the dark-haired young man in the doorway.
“I’ll be sleepin’ in front o’ the fire, if you don’t mind,” Tommy growled.
With the crew gone, and only Lily, Quint, and Tommy in the room, the tension increased tenfold. There was no sound but the crackle of the fire and the click of Quint’s boots against the floor as he paced. Lily sat at the table and drummed her fingers lightly against the wood, and Tommy pulled a chair close to the fire and leaned forward, offering his palms to the blaze and drinking in the warmth.
There was a lingering odor from the evening meal, a spicy and somehow comforting smell that filled the house. It reminded Lily of warm evenings spent with Cora and Tommy… before Quint had burst into her life. But would she have it any different? Knowing what she knew now, would she have sent him away?
When a log split, sending the flame high and filling the room with a loud crackling noise, Quint stopped pacing, Lily’s fingers were stilled, and Tommy nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Bloody ’ell!” Tommy leapt out of his chair, sending it flying backwards to land with a crash against the floor. He glared at Quint, then turned his eyes to Lily.
The harshness in his eyes softened, and Lily found herself smiling wistfully at her uncle. Everything he’d done, he’d done out of love for her—attacking Quint in the parlor of her little house, having him watched on the island, calling him “Captain” in the presence of the Yankee ensign.
But Tommy knew love, in spite of his rough appearance and harsh speech. He knew love, thanks to Cora.
Roger burst through the front door. “Mr. Gibbon! Johnny and Eddie are brawlin’ somethin’ fierce. I tried to stop ’em meself…. ”
Tommy turned away from Lily and gathered up the single blanket that was folded neatly by the fire. “I can see I won’t be able to leave you bleedin’ idiots alone tonight. I’ll whip the lot o’ you, if I ’ave to.”
The cold air that came through the entrance as Roger stood in the open doorway filled the room, touching every corner with a bit of winter and making Lily hug her arms to her body searching for warmth. The door slammed as Tommy followed Roger, leaving Quint and Lily alone. Quint stared into the fire, and Lily watched his back, her mind filled with the same disturbing thought that had been haunting her all evening.
He was going into battle. Lieutenant Quintin Tyler was going back to the Army that had cost him full use of his leg. Lily had never seen battle, but she had seen the effects—men crippled, women widowed. Blood flowed in the thick of a battle, and she suddenly realized why Quint had said her impromptu play on board the Chameleon wasn’t funny. He had seen real blood shed, and he would be facing that again.
And he would be facing rifles that might have been delivered into the hands of his enemy by her own ship. Ammunition she had made a profit from. Sabers she had gladly put into the hands of the Confederate Army. Her revenge could play a part in Quint’s death, in the crudest twist of fate imaginable.
“Quint.” She whispered his name and saw his shoulders straighten and his back tense.
“Yes, Lily.” He didn’t turn to face her, but continued to stare into the blaze before him.
“Don’t go. You don’t have to fight anymore…. ” Her words trailed off slowly as he turned to face her.
“Yes, I do,” he said solemnly. “Remember your promise. I want you to stay out of this.”
“I will, but you… you could come with me.”
Lily hadn’t intended to deliver the suggestion with such a wistful voice. Quint locked his eyes to hers and she didn’t turn away, didn’t avoid that gaze as she had all day.
“Back at the prison—when you were dying—why did you say what you said?”
Lily smiled sadly. “That I loved you, once?”
Quint nodded.
“Because I thought it would sound very dramatic, for the guards’ sake…. ” Lily hesitated. What if she never saw him again? How much should she tell him? “And because it’s true.”
Lily laid both hands on the table, one palm over the other. She was trembling slightly, so slightly that she was certain Quint couldn’t see the tremors. At least, she hoped that he couldn’t.
“Do you still love me, Lily?” He whispered the question, as if he were afraid to ask, as if he were afraid of what her answer would be.
Lily studied him before she answered. His dark eyes were hooded, his face impassive, but without the cockiness he sometimes wore as a shield. There was no hard set to his mouth, as there sometimes was when he was stubbornly determined. He looked a little lost… almost as lost as she felt.
“If I say yes,” she said softly, hesitantly, “will you come back with me? Back to Nassau?”
“No.” He answered so quickly Lily knew it was true. She took little comfort in the sound of defeat in his voice.
“Then it doesn’t matter, does it?” Lily lowered her eyes and stared at the tabletop, concentrating on the grooves in the wood. She would not cry in front of him again, dammit. She would not.
“Go to bed, Lily,” Quint ordered gruffly, turning back to the blaze.
Lily stood slowly, pushing back the chair and laying her hands against the table. She could tell him that she loved him, could beg him not to leave her. Would that make a difference to Quint? Or would he break her heart again and tell her that it really didn’t matter?
With slow deliberation, she crossed the room until she was standing directly behind Quint. She laid her hands on his shoulders, pressing her fingers into his flesh, feeling his heat through the uniform. She heard the rush of air that escaped his lips, a sigh of surrender as her hands touched him.
And then she was in his arms. He pulled her against his chest and buried his head against her shoulder, holding her as if he never wanted to let her go.
His eyes were piercing when Lily lifted her face to him. No words would bridge the gulf between them, so there were none. Quint lifted her and carried her to the single bedroom, burying his face in her tousled hair, quivering at the touch of her lips against his throat.
The bedroom was as plainly and sparsely furnished as the rest of the house, but a large bed dominated the room. There was a well-worn quilt neatly covering the bed, and Quint laid Lily in the center of it, bracing himself on one knee as he leaned over her. He undressed her slowly, easily, as if she were a fragile doll, one he was afraid he would break. Each button on the rose calico dress was unfastened with simple calculation, each step revealing a little more skin, the swell of her breasts.
Quint swept the dress over her head and sat back to look at her, his eyes seeming to take in every inch he had uncovered.
Lily’s unruly hair fell over her shoulders, and the thin chemise she wore hid nothing from him. The nub of her nipples pressed against the thin fabric, the linen almost transparent. He reached out and touched her lovingly, his fingers brushing against one nipple and then the other, while one hand rested at her waist.
Lily pulled him to her, hungry for his mouth against hers, for the feel of his skin against hers. The heat of his chest against her breasts made her want him even more, and she moaned low in her throat as his tongue thrust into her mouth, greedy and possessive.
Her hands were at his chest, working the buttons of his uniform, the jacket, the shirt, until she could rest her palms against his skin. She wanted to drink in his warmth, absorb as much of Quint as she could in the brief time they had left.
She wanted him inside her, wanted the union that made her whole. Once they were separated, she didn’t know if she would ever see him again, ever hold him in her arms.
Quint removed the chemise hastily and ran his hands over the bare skin he exposed. He lowered his mouth to her breasts, sucking gently and pressing his tongue against one hard nipple. She felt a tugging at her center, a wrenching feeling that warned her she would ache forever if she didn’t have him. She arched her back and moaned out loud. His name escaped her lips, a hoarsely whispered plea.
Lily protested when he moved away from her, but he shed his uniform and returned to her moments later, pressing his body against hers. Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, they knelt in the center of the bed. Lily’s hands trailed along Quint’s muscled back as they waited, prolonging the sweet torture that swept over them.
He was in her blood, in her soul, a part of her that no number of miles could take away. She ran her hands over his body, memorizing every line, every muscle. Her hand slipped between their bodies and she grasped the heat of his swollen shaft.
Quint pushed her back onto the bed with a groan of abandon. He entered her in one ardent thrust, then held himself very still.
Lily clutched him to her with all her might. It was so right, so fine, to bond herself with him, to marry their bodies and their hearts.
He began to move again, so slowly that Lily was certain he meant to torment her. For now, there was only this, the entwining of their bodies, the dance of their hearts, the driving beat of blood that thrummed through their veins.
Her body reached for his, and Quint drove himself into her again and again, until she reached a climax and shattered in his arms.
It was then that he let himself go, and as her inner muscles tightened around him he plunged into her one last time, convulsing over her again and again. Lily was calling his name,
calling him Quint, my love.
“Lily, my love,” Quint whispered. He had drained every bit of her energy, and apparently his own as well. It was an effort for him to roll off her, keeping her in his arms and pulling her on top of him.
Lily pressed her lips to his chest and laid her head against his bare skin. What if she never saw him again? What if he were killed, or simply never returned to her? That last thought shouldn’t have occurred to her, not after what had just happened, but it did. Making love to Quint was so very special to her, so magical. But what if he didn’t feel the same way? She couldn’t ask. Not now.
He rubbed his hands possessively up and down her back, and it was a curiously comforting touch. She melted into his chest and closed her eyes.
No matter what, she wouldn’t regret anything that had happened. No matter what, she had a part of him that would be hers forever.
“The ship will be here early in the morning,” Lily whispered.
“Before dawn,” Quint said, and she could have sworn that there was regret in his voice.
Lily lifted her head to look down at him. The room was lit with a hint of the yellow glow from the blaze in the other room and a slice of moonlight that cut through the window. She reached out and brushed back the lock of ash-brown hair that had fallen over his forehead. He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers, lovingly, one at a time.
“So… we have tonight?” Lily asked, almost shyly. Only Quint could make her feel insecure. What if he didn’t want her again? What if he….
Quint allayed all her reservations with a smile. “Yes, Lily. We have tonight.”
Twenty-Four
Lily rolled against Quint’s side and snuggled there, drinking in his warmth. The second time they’d made love, he had come to her languidly, driving her crazy with wanting him, moving slowly and tenderly until all she could think of was the pleasure he would bring her to.
But, being Lily, she realized what he was doing and responded in kind. It became another test of wills, although a more pleasurable test than their battles of the past.
In Enemy Hands Page 25