Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology
Page 4
“You be lookin’ to be whipped, are ya? If the cap’t’n wants her, he gets her. Afterward…” He winked.
Her mouth dropped at that appalling thought.
His friend opened his mouth, as if to protest, when the first elbowed his stomach. “Right on, Billy. We’s be needin’ to take ’er.”
At least they’d let her get away from them and their lustful thoughts and for that she was grateful. The first man spun on his heel and started across the decking, dragging her with him, his fingers digging into her flesh. She winced in pain and was barely able to keep standing at the abruptness of his actions.
But as they stepped out onto the open deck, she tripped when her toe hit a board wrong. The one holding her kept her from hitting the planks, which she was somewhat thankful except his grip tightened harder, no doubt bruising her deep. The sea wind blew around them and up under her skirt, sending a chill to her bone, punctuating the danger around her. She noticed the scowls of the rough men directed at her and from a quick look around, realized she was the only woman there. An icicle shot down her spine. A scan of the horizon, looking for land and seeing only ocean, made the growing panic inside her double. She gulped. How was she to convince the captain to turn the ship around and return to the docks?
A flash of the docks raced through her head and something there made her more scared than the men glaring at her here. It was a memory that she tried to bring up but as she did, her head throbbed. Where was she? Who was she? The pain in her temple refused to let her think but a small voice deep inside laughed, telling her that the pain did not block her past and that scared her the most.
* * *
Trent Cavendish stared at the maps on the desk, moving the glass weight to another side to get a better view of the course he could steer the ship to. Gauging the weather, with the sun high, the current steady and prizes in reach, he tilted his head, waggle his lips at the mere suggestion of a successful day.
“Capt’n, I knows what your thinkin’, but our letter of marque says—”
“I’m well aware of what that piece of scrawling says.” His jaw ticked as his smile vanished. His quartermaster was too set to the rules—his mistake for enticing a law clerk to the account. With an inner sigh, he closed his eyes but for a moment. “Mr. Kendall, I remain captain of this ship not because of the good graces of the men out there, but because I can make them rich and feed their need for adventure. To remain bound to just French ships will sour their attitude, in which case I can lose my position.” He bent forward on the table, hands balled into fists that supported him as he leaned across it, closer to the clerk-turned-quartermaster. “And may I remind you that if I lose mine, your position is also forfeit?”
Kendall’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, a noise that even he could hear. “Aye, sir.” He swallowed again. “But captain, that’s an English ship.”
He leaned back against the table. “Perhaps.”
Kendall’s nerve came back. “You can’t attack a British merchant ship. Those are our people. Not French, not even Spanish or Barbary pirates. You’ve no cause—”
“Aye, but I do have cause,” he interrupted. “To the amount of sterling pounds. Cash, Mr. Kendall, and stores of profitable goods. The store on the Angelina is enough to make it worth our time and effort.”
The quartermaster’s face turned red in anger and his shoulders stiffened. It amused the captain, but only slightly. “But she’s a British frigate.”
“You do enjoy this life at sea, more than that tiny hole on Wharf Street I found you on, don’t you, Mr. Kendall?”
That sort of comment always hit the mark. The man appeared to slump before him – only a minuscule amount but he noticed it. “Aye, sur.”
He snorted. “Good. That is all.” He waved the man off, wanting him gone before he truly throttled him for reminding him that all they had was the Regent’s letter of marque to privateer against France, not raid treasures on any other ships. At the moment, one of those other ships commanded his attention and he returned to the map before him with the trajectory of the Angelina configured.
The door to his cabin burst open.
“Capt’n!”
Before him, two of his men stumbled into the room, their hands holding a woman’s arms. She fell down, dragging Norm with her.
“Billy, whatever are you doing?” Where the hell had a woman come from? No doubt, one of the men snuck her aboard for whatever reason, though he could guess what. Or worse, she was a runaway who stole aboard to escape whatever issue plagued her—prostitution, irate father, poverty, drunkard, or many more excuses.
“Found ’er in the hold, sir, hidin’,” the taller, bulkier pirate sputtered.
He gave her a look-over, a little deeper than previous. She was petite just in comparing her size to Norm, who was one of the shorter pirates aboard the Equuleus’s crew. Definitely young, her skin was ivory white and her golden sable mane looked as if it had been coiffed up at one point during her voyage, but now, long locks of curls escaped the few hairpins’ hold. Her gown, a striped blue and white garment, held tears and stains of a harsh life but it’s silk material made him wonder if she wasn’t some kept courtesan with a brutal lover she escaped from. Her brilliant blue sapphire eyes stared at him with no hesitation or fear, which surprised him and instantly made him decide she must be a runaway. With a deep inner breath, he would have to correct her plans, for stealing onto a pirate ship was the worst choice a woman could make.
“Who might I be addressing here? Miss….?”
His addressing her seemed to snap her into her position now and she struggle to free herself of the two men. He motioned to them to let her go and once they did, she bounced to her feet—her bare feet.
She stood, glaring at him, anger and frustration reflected in her gaze but somehow, he didn’t think it was necessarily at him. If nothing more, his attraction to this waif was growing, for she didn’t appear the slightest concern at being on a pirate ship.
“The question, dear captain, should be who are you?” She glanced back at her escorts. “To call me to your ship, only to throw me into the grasp of your underlings.”
He couldn’t help but smile at her statement, one that set Norm and Billy into a bickering state, that they’d done nothing amiss. Catching Billy’s attention, he said, “Go.”
The two scurried out the door, shutting it behind them. Now, he could concentrate on her and that would only be brief. Despite her beauty, he had a prize to capture so he needed to return to his plans. He turned, grabbed a cup from his desk and poured from the bottle sitting on top of the table.
“This should calm your humors.” He shoved the cup into her dainty hand, taking into account how she delicately gripped the cup handle, as if it were crafted of fine imported china, instead of West Indies crockery. That gesture made him reassess his view on her, because that was the way of a lady. Perhaps the courtesan runaway was closer to the mark.
She took a sip and nearly sputtered. “That is not wine, sir.”
He chuckled. “No, it isn’t. It’s rum, from one of the finest plantations in the Indies.” He paused. “To whom do I have the pleasure of sailing with, my lady?”
The question and specifically his calling her lady, got a response. She stood straighter, her chin raised, but in seconds, a puzzled look flashed in her eyes and she bit her bottom lip.
“I believe you owe me an introduction first, sir.”
He snorted. “I’m Captain Trenton Cavendish of the Equuleus.”
* * *
She still felt the burn down her throat from the rum and the warmth that spread from her belly throughout her body in reaction to the liquor. That feeling helped to calm her frayed nerves, ones so disjointed that she took another sip, slowly, as she studied the man before her.
Her mind was a muddled mess. The ache wasn’t as bad, perhaps the rum helped on that, but there was a blank spot in her thinking. Who was she? How did she get here? How did she answer his question
when this place reeked of a prison for her, surrounded by water and men? She swallowed.
Cavendish offered her a chair in silence, as if offering her a seat would jog her memory. She took the chance to sit, still trying to find something useful to answer him with. How did she not recall her name? She went to take another sip.
“Whoa, I’d take it easy on that, my lady.” He laughed.
She peered at him from the rim of the cup. Cavendish was a very handsome man, in a very rugged sort of way. Even leaning back, so casually, he was a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a loose linen shirt. His bulky upper arms filled the shirt sleeves, leaving her imagine muscles that’d twitch with any movement. The shirt was tucked at his narrow waist into the top of dark-colored breeches, the color muted by numerous wearings, just like his leather boots, creased with history.
Realizing she just looked him over, a blush heated her cheeks and humor danced in his eyes, no doubt from catching her stare. Those eyes were warm and enticing walnut shade, sparkling even now with mischief. His face was tanned by the sun, just like the rest of his exposed skin and she wondered where else. The man cocked his head, making a loose stand of hair fall across his forehead, and exposed the gold hoop on his ear that gleamed from the sunlight streaming in through the dirty window.
The jewelry made her pause. Men did not wear earrings except, she’d once heard, pirates. Her heart skipped a beat. Pirates? She blinked hard. It must be the rum.
“I am…” She stopped. Nothing came. All seemed blank and her temple throbbed. She pushed her fingers against it.
Cavendish’s brows furrowed. He took the cup from her and tilted her chin up toward him, her hand falling to her side. With a gentleness she didn’t expect from a man as big as him, he turned her head from side to side slowly.
“Do you remember how you got on my ship?”
She bit her bottom lip again. “No,” she whispered.
He hummed. “You’ve got a bruise on your cheek and one close to where you were rubbing. Do you hurt anywhere else?”
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. It was as if a wall had been built in her head, blocking her memory and she could not seem to find the door to open it. Frustration and pain were building inside her and she wanted to scream.
“You have no recall on who you might be?”
Through blurred eyes, she tried to see him. “No.” She pulled her chin from his touch, despite the warmth and the faint hint of security it gave, something that might have made her concerned if it weren’t for her loss memory.
“I believe you must of fallen during your descent to the ship. The loss of self may come from this bruise upon your head. I will send you to the ship’s surgeon. Perhaps he’ll know what to do.” He took her arm to help her up.
Biting back the tears, she nodded. “Thank you.”
He chuckled. “Don’t thank me yet. The Equuleus is not a safe place, my lady. But we will see what we can do.”
The odd sense of security came sweeping back to her as her hand rested on his arm. Those tightly woven muscles did twitch at her touch, just as she knew they would. It was a strange thought to have, but surprising how it comforted her. She leaned a little more towards Cavendish without falling into him, suddenly feeling that every one of her limbs ached with a couple areas like her thigh and feet hurt.
He deposited her in the surgeon’s lair, gave the man strict instructions to mend her pains, and then he left as if a tempest chased him. If her head didn’t hurt, she might have asked him why.
This Love Of Mine: Chapter Four
The search for Eleanor didn’t take James long to organize. Originally, his only thought was to mount his best stallion and run the area himself, but Clearwater persuaded him to find more men.
“We can spread out,” his friend argued. “Cover more ground.” His voice dropped. “And let you concentrate on who might demand such a price and how you might raise it so fast.”
Twenty thousand pounds sterling… It was a king’s ransom from the standpoint that most noblemen did not have that amount available in cash. James could easily count who needed that sort of sum, hence marriages with wealthy families that could curtail debt collectors. That thought made him flip to another thought. Who did he know that was that far into arrears?
The answer startled him. Not as many as he thought. In fact, he didn’t know any, but then again, most hid their debts. Unable to clear his mind of anything other than Eleanor, he summoned his staff, putting the stable boys and his able servants onto the team and pulled maps out, directing them toward different sections to search. He and Clearwater took the roadway she would’ve taken.
What would he do without his Eleanor?
* * *
Trent stormed onto the upper deck, anger flooding his veins.
“What’s got you going? We’d be at sea or I’d be betting a bee in your hat ’cept you ain’t wearin’ one.”
He shot a look at the first mate, Fitzgibbons. The man had the audacity to be smiling at him and that irritated Trent that much more.
“Stop before you say another word that’ll get your Irish arse thrown over the railing.” The threat wouldn’t work. Fitzgibbons had goaded Trent every day on this trip, why stop now?
The Irishman leaned on the railing over the deck, not the one Trent had threatened him with, his head cocked to the side. “Heard a lass was found below. Thought you told the boys not to be bringin’ a whore with them.”
“She’s not a lady of ill-repute, but yes, found below. Apparently not a stowaway, either. She fell, as it were, into the hold, banged her head something fierce and now has no recall who she is or how she ended up here.” He spat over the side of the ship.
“Aye, so I see.”
Trent frowned. “Whatever thought you have, erase it. The Prestige is up ahead. We got work to do.”
“When will you give up and seek the ass out in a duel, like proper lads should?”
He closed his eyes. A duel? Revenge turned cold at such civilized rituals and he’d sworn revenge.
“You know I left ‘proper’ long ago.”
The man shrugged. “So why are you so mad?”
“There’s a woman aboard,” he hissed.
“And the crew will be pleased. A dessert, do ya not think, ta taking the prize?”
“She isn’t a whore!” Trent’s nightmare grew. Of course, the crew would love to share a prize like her. And it might distract them from asking like why attack a British merchantman when there were bigger ships with better hauls? “She’s a lady, one who needs to be protected, not ravaged.”
He pushed down the image that kept trying to appear in his head. When he first learned of the girl, he had been slightly amused but soon turned annoyed and as the thought lingered, anger took hold.
“A proper lady on board, with all the airs o’ privilege, reminds you o’ Rachel, doesn’t she, lad?” The first mate’s voice was barely audible but it spoke volumes.
Being caught in this dilemma, feeling the swell in his heart before it plummeted to his stomach, was dead-on what had set the anger off. Dear Rachel! His wife was the last woman on this ship; the last woman he had embraced. He loved her and as her husband, he was to protect her and it’s the one thing he failed at doing. That fact ate at him every moment of every day, and fueled him for revenge. And now this lady appeared, on his ship no less, and all the memories of Rachel exploded in his head. No, that wasn’t entirely true. What bothered him was this lady was beauty in a world of hate he had contrived and her beauty begged at a need, a desire he thought had died with Rachel. That disturbed him the most. He was to honor his wife but found his cock tightened, even now, in response to her. He found he couldn’t wait to get rid of her, because she woke remembrances that were better left buried.
“You did tha’ best ya could, Capt’n. Never forget that.”
“I swore I’d find the man responsible for her death and grant him the same concession, so no, she’ll never be forgotten.” He swallowed the
sour taste of loss and anger that brewed. Steeling his shoulders, he pulled the scope up and peered through the lenses. “That ship still hasn’t detected we plan to take her.” He smiled.
“Well, why would she? We bear colors that donna resemble the black.”
Trent couldn’t hide the smile. No, Prestige would remain clueless to his approach until it was too late. Rachel’s revenge was getting closer.
* * *
The ship’s surgeon was nothing more than a prying, probing demon, one that at first made her shirk his touch out of what seemed to her to be impropriety, to his ministrations making her angry. The man knew nothing of the healing arts, she decided, but only specialized in mortal wounds from the looks of his cutting instruments. The faster she could to escape him and his sharp tools, the better. All he did was tell her what she all ready knew—the bump on her head not only hurt but scrambled her memory to hither and yond. Her hands clenched, her short nails digging into her palms as he touched her, ostensible to check her temple but the closeness, the smell of his foul breath and the presence of him as a man stirred a vision in her mind of two other rapscallions who had hit her in the first place. That memory made her freeze as all her thoughts turned to escaping this torture. And when the surgeon bent to pick up some odd looking tool off his table, she bolted past him, though the couple men who accidently stood in her path and flew up the ladder, each one hitting a pain point that riveted through her but she had to flee.
As she stepped out onto the wooden deck, the dampness seeped into the soles of her bare feet. The sun drenched the boat and its heat was welcomed. She inhaled the salt-air and found it refreshing which surprised her as she’d never been on the seas and rarely ever in town near the docks. She stood, basking in the sunlight and even shook her head a smidgen, making her hair brush her shoulders and back. While the ship’s doctor rambled, searching his tonics in theory for something for her, she simply pulled the hairpins out as best she could, pocketing the pins.