Clearwater guffawed. “Looking like a commoner has you ill-faced by the sun, I see.”
“Perhaps. Makes it cooler, that is a fact.” He frowned. “I do appreciate your honor to stand with me through this, yet I fail to understand the reason. I know you’ve spoken of a lady willing to have you but to come on such a long trip when it is not a pleasant experience for you escapes me.”
This time, Clearwater laughed. It was a light sound and reminded James of the days before wives were a requirement, back to the time of school. They, plus George, were quite the threesome, constantly hounded by the matchmakers as up and coming lords. The fact that James knew they were more appealing to the eye pushed those lionesses harder to secure them. Through wit and jest, they had evaded the net, and laughed their way at doing so. Clearwater still looked no older than twenty, even though that mark was passed for the sixth time this spring. But his presence was still a mystery of sorts.
“Who else to help keep Lady Lydia at bay? And to help see the fair Lady Eleanor’s smile brighten the skies again?”
Youth and money and adventure. James nodded. “My gratitude.”
The lady in question came out on the deck, her white dress glowed in the sunlight. She could have been an angel, the hat on her head with a broad brim taking on a halo appearance. He couldn’t help but imagine how her horns remained hidden under the crown. She unfurled her fan and waved it madly to break the heat. James blood still curdled at the thought of her being involved in this.
She turned and found him. Her eyes were smoldering with flames, not of desire but of sheer anger. He couldn’t help but relish in it for just a moment. In reply, he smiled and gave a tilted nod to her. Despite the sound of the waves hitting the boat and the men moving about doing their chores, James could’ve sworn he heard her grunt in dismay and stomped off the deck.
It may be only momentary, but James would take it as a triumph in this race against time.
This Love Of Mine: Chapter Fifteen
Night came way too early. It made the loneliness way too encompassing, despite every method James could think of to stop it. He probably didn’t help it any, holding his only portrait of Eleanor, a small gilded pocket frame piece, encased in leather. He unsnapped the lock and opened it, red velvet on one side and Eleanor on the other. As he rubbed the portrait, he wondered how long the paint would last under his stroking the piece. The mere thought of losing his only image of her made him sit back and pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut tight as the hole in his chest ached at the loss of her His other hand brought the glass of brandy to his mouth and he downed the entire contents in one gulp. The burn brought him back to now but once it hit his stomach, he deflated.
Where was she? He prayed to God constantly that those two unhappy pirates were right, that the “witch” with the sable colored hair was still on this ship, Equuleus, and heading to the West Indies. The fact that he learned she was alive and apparently well had sent his heart soaring, but when he found she was on a pirate ship and in the clutches of Captain Cavendish, his fear for her life spiked. The two drunken pirates only said that Cavendish was not after gold and riches, but revenge for the death of his wife.
Left to her own devices, Eleanor could sway the man to see his errors of holding her, for surely she had nothing to do with that death, and return her to England. But what if she couldn’t? What if something had happened to her, being under a pirate’s rule? His thoughts and emotions wrapped around him, making him see ghosts of a future without her, of her own death at the hands of this outlaw or by a the sea. What if he sold her to the Barbary pirates? He’d pay whatever sum the man wanted for her return. Anything.
He heard the creak of the cabin door open but he didn’t have to look to see who it was. The quiet that followed, the sound of rustling silk loudly announced who it was—Lydia.
She came to where he sat, a short distance from the doorway.
“James—”
“My lord will do.” He was in no mood for her.
“Tsk.” Lydia swept around the room with her skirt brushing every ounce of the cabin. She swung around to stand behind him, her hands caressing his shoulders. “You are full of knots.”
He struggled not to launch off the chair, repulsed by her touch though her fingers did press on the sore spots that begged for rubbing.
“Lydia, what are you doing?”
She pushed harder on his shoulder blade and his body shivered at the kneading.
“I’m trying to get you to notice me.”
“You have never been unnoticeable.” Two years ago, he found himself under her spell. Long before Eleanor.
She turned around the table to give him a sultry look. “Do you like what you see?”
He exhaled the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Lydia, perhaps you should try to keep your innocence.”
“What innocence?” She hissed. “You forced me to join you on this voyage to nowhere, to chase a ghost of a ship, in hope of finding her?” She leaned on table, her fists on the table top. “You’ve ruined my reputation! The least you could do is take advantage of me!”
Her words stopped him. After all this, him interrupting her evening, averting her presence in his bedroom, and his confronting her about his wife’s disappearance, he could not believe she came here, expecting to join him in bed. A quick glance, though, showed him she meant business because she closed his cabin door upon entry. Her dress was simple, no wraps, no adornments, and her toes curled under her skirts when he took a glance below. The hair on his neck bristled.
“Miss St. Martin, or more correctly, Lady Wattsmore, as I recall your married name, I believe you have never cared much as to your reputation nor your virtue,” he stated plainly.
“How dare you!” She flushed with anger. Years ago, he would have enjoyed how that brought her so alive, so vibrant but now, he just shook his head.
“Frankly, my dear, I’d suggest you explain who is involved with taking my Eleanor.” The words were steady, cold, and laced with anger. At least she had the decency to notice that.
“I’ve nothing else to help with.”
Liar. “Tell me what your father has tied up in this.” He wanted to know.
She stepped back. “I have no idea what you mean.” At his narrowed glare, she fidgeted, her gaze falling and bit her lower lip. “I truly have little clue. I only overheard idle gossip, nothing of important.”
In a split second, he thought she was going to expose the truth but, as usual, she hid in vacant words. He snarled. It was loud enough, she jumped.
“Truly, James. Everyone knows the roads in and out of the city are but prime targets for the criminals and vagrants. Words from servants and drunken noblemen are also worth less than a shilling in truth.”
He vaulted forward, pulling her into him, his grip tight and he dug his fingers into her upper arms. Still hiding behind a shroud of nothing, Lydia would continue this without his bringing her to line and he only know of one way to change her tune. He bent forward, the words forming a harsh whisper in her ear, “You want me, Lydia? Want to feel me, deep inside you? Then I need the truth.”
He heard the muffled mewl escape from her mouth but no words and inwardly shook his head. “Does your virtue mean that little to you?”
Her backbone stiffened. “At one time, you didn’t care.”
That comment made his right eyebrow raise. The pause stilled the air. “Perhaps, little dove.” He inhaled her fragrance. Even at sea, the faint scent of sweet lilacs cloaked her wickedness. He gritted his teeth, suppressing the anger he wanted to unleash on her.
Quickly, he stepped back—not an easy task to do in a room that offered not more than a bed and narrow table and chair, yet he had to as memories of Eleanor crowded his thoughts.
Lydia was a beautiful woman, curved in all the right places to mold in the crux of a man’s body. Her ivory skin, covered from the sun even here on this ship, gave her a perfect model for the ton. She was desire and dangerous. It on
ly fueled his irritability.
She spun, facing him with a knowing smile on her lips. “So what do you think? Shall we renew our memories?”
James shook his head. “I am a married man. I will find Eleanor and, despite your keen desire to make our situation more to your liking, I will remind you that we will not revisit that now. You may have thrown your virtue away to other men of the ton, but I refuse to join that brotherhood.”
He could see it in her eyes that his denial infuriated her. “She won’t return to you, of that I am certain. Then we shall see how you fare.” With a toss of her head in indignation, she stormed passed him and out of the cabin, leaving him so abruptly that it took him a moment to breathe.
Anger and fear wrestled for control. She was a tempest, a storm ready to wreak havoc. He knew that before he took her on this trip but he made her board anyhow. It wasn’t because he desired her, not now, despite the short wave of it that raced through him a moment ago. No, he needed her to deal with the power behind this abduction. He was sure she knew more than she admitted.
When she stormed off, she left his cabin door open. He took a step to slam it shut, angry that she had the nerve to try to seduce him, when he caught a glance of her under the quarter moon light walking right into an embrace with a man. He focused, trying to discern who it was, because this man might be an accomplice in the kidnapping, which would enrage in further that the asshole was on the ship. The ship had mostly her father’s, Lord Attlewood’s, crew aboard, so James wasn’t sure he’d recognize the man but … something about the two made his brow twitch.
It was a couple in intimate embrace. The sky was too dark, clouds covering the stars, added with her blocking part of the view, James couldn’t discern who the man was. Agitated and too tired to push further, as the man was here with them on this voyage, James shut the door with force and stumbled back to bed and get lost in a dream about Eleanor.
* * *
Crossing the Atlantic should have been long and arduous. The sun beating down on the ship, the deck a virtual stove top in heat. The dull days of open sea and no land or boats around, the monotony of chores going on around her but her with nothing to do and limited choice of food. But Elle did not find it so. Instead, what she found was a man, rugged, fierce and in charge of the sailors around him. But while Captain Cavendish ruled with determination that pulled the crew together, for her, he was playful, a contrast though it fit him well.
Even now, it was late afternoon, the heat of the day refusing to fade, she sat on the barrel, mending a shirt. Her fingers worked the needle and thread but her gaze often wandered to across the deck to find him returning her look. A smile hinting at his lips. He looked strong, vibrant and alive and alluring, his soul seemed to be calling to her, to her inner core wanted to answer.
“Feelin’ your sea legs, missy?”
Not taking her eyes off the captain, she couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Fitzgibbons’ question. The first officer always checked on her and she became more comfortable to his presence, even looked forward to it.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “In fact, I wasn’t aware it was moving.”
The Irishman laughed. “Aye, lassie, that’s tha way it rolls.”
He was behind her. She smiled broadly, finally tearing her gaze of the handsome rogue on the top deck as she turned to face the seaman. “Why is it I feel as though you’re a mischief maker?”
His face contorted in denial. “Nev’r, my lady.” But the twinkle in his eyes told otherwise.
She snorted. “It’s been peaceful.”
The amused look on his face disappeared. “Aye, and tha crew’s itchin’ fer a prize. They donna do well wit dull.”
She frowned, her teeth grinding. “They wish to steal again?” After all, that was what piracy was.
Fitzgibbons looked down, shuffling on his feet. The truth was painfully obvious, but to mouth the words would take away the humorous air between them so she gathered he took a moment of silence to show his meaning and she couldn’t blame him.
She lifted her shoulders, righting her stance, her chin also slightly raised. “So why aren’t they seeking a prize?”
The Irishman gave her a half-smile. “Surely, ya could take it as to tha reason. You, my girl. You.”
Many reasons popped up in her mind, like supplies, not enough ammunition, but her? The thought rolled in her mind as the pirate continued.
“Tha men have noticed how tha capt’n is favorin’ you, ta the point of nev’r lookin’ tha horizon for prey.” He shrugged. “I might be thinkin’ he’s veered from his fateful death, on tha path he’d been on, thanks ta you. But the men, theys be thinkin’ otherwise. Perhaps a curse, bein’ a woman here, or that you’ve conjured a spell on him…”
“Witch?” She shivered at the thought. Casting an indiscreet gaze about the deck, she spied pirates doing their chores. Sailors were a suspicious lot, even Cavendish hinted at that. She hoped with her aid in finding the lost treasure, the label of witch or bad luck, had vanished. Another icy jolt raced down her spine.
“I am neither bad luck nor a witch,” she hissed lowly, to not draw too much more notice.
“Aye, that I believe, but they’ve no loyalty to me.” He cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps you might be speakin’ to tha capt’n about this, see if he won’t change his views.” He bent closer. “Men often take a woman’s word to heart, after tha heat of takin’, if’n you get my view.”
The implication hit her like a torch to her stomach as the heat inside blossom and the heat rose to her cheeks. “That goes too far,” she managed to voice, her tone steady despite the skip in her heartbeat.
“Ah, lass, they know he’s been sleepin’ in his lair, where you reside.”
Fighting desperately to not show how she felt, for that was a quagmire of emotions, she gave him a faint smile. “This is an inappropriate subject.” Inside, she tried to find a way to understand and the message was clear. Trent did sleep in the cabin with her. It was a convenient arrangement. After the rum-soaked afternoon on that island two weeks ago, with that kiss that she relived daily in her mind, they avoided contact with each other except for bed. Well, they fell asleep in each other’s arms but with no physical contact outside that, not even a kiss. Nothing that gave her a hint he wanted more. It was as if she was fire when he kissed her and the burn kept him from pushing for more.
“It is his cabin, after all,” she continued, her hands busy flattening her trousers like she used to do to her skirts. “The notion is only to protect me from miscreants.”
The Irishman laughed. “This is ship more than a boat of miscreants, my lady. Apologies for me pryin’. But perhaps, if ya hinted a raid might be most beneficial…” He raised his eyebrow at her in a questioning manner.
The skin on her neck prickled, giving her a chill even though it was hot out in the sun. The whole conversation, while apparently one the first mate needed to have with her, was terrible, too invasive, and, in polite society, rude.
But this wasn’t polite society. It was a pirate ship. She gulped.
“I guess you are correct.” She straightened. This was a pirate ship, where men raided ships to steal the cargo, wielding swords and firing pistols to gain their riches. She was to influence him to plan an attack.
She gave Fitzgibbons a nervous smile, wondering how.
This Love Of Mine: Chapter Sixteen
Trent leaned back against the railing and closed his eyes briefly. It’d been a long day, most of it spent on the upper deck, looking at maps and seeing nothing, or viewing the ocean front but not focusing. What was wrong with him?
He knew exactly what was wrong with him. Elle. Ever since that afternoon on the beach, when he allowed himself the simple comfort of another soul, he was lost. He’d swore there would be no one else besides Rachel. It was an oath he’d sworn after her death. But now, he was on shaky territory. So to get some relief, he stationed himself at the helm to watch over his ship—one that could function well e
ven without him and that irked him.
The sun was setting on the horizon and with the deck now awash in pinks and orange hues, he took a deep breath and realized how starved he was. He ambled down the stairs to the main deck, stopped by the galley where all were feasting but found it vacant of Elle. He downed the spoonful of stew that tasted awful, a taste that didn’t surprise him with them being out at sea for almost a month since the island. But still, he couldn’t help but frown and mutter to his first mate of her absence.
Fitzgibbons chuckled. “She’s been and gone, Capt’n. You’ll be seein’ her right directly, I s’pose.”
Trent glared at the man but nodded none the less. He shoved the end of the piece of bread down his throat, chased it with a mug of rum, and stood. “To the ‘morrow, gentlemen.” He parted for his cabin.
The cabin door was slightly ajar, the only light coming from the moon that shined brightly against the clear sky. Slowly, he entered, and upon seeing her curled on the bed, asleep, he moved quietly not to wake her.
Every night, since Fitzgibbons had pointed out to him that she needed his protection, Trent slept in the cabin. At first, he tried to slug it out in the chair but straight back slatted chairs were extremely uncomfortable. The flooring hadn’t been any better. The lack of sleep and the stirrings from his groin during those nights made him a grumpy commander the following day. But after their rum encounter, he moved to the bed with her, fully clothed and on top of the sheet. It took several minutes, well, maybe hours, if he recalled correctly, to calm down the stiff rod that wanted to be inside her and sleep, but he had.
As quietly as he could, he unlatched his leather belt clasp and laid it on the desk. Next he slipped off his boots, stockings, and jacket. Standing in his breeches and linen shirt, he stepped to the bed and slowly lowered himself on the goose-feathered mattress, hoping not to wake her. It was a ritual he did nightly, for it would be ill of him to wake her and he feared if she did, he might not be able to stop himself from taking her into his arms and sink deep inside her. Memories of Rachel had kept his libido at bay but a temptress stirring might bury the thoughts of his wife.
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