He ignored her.
"I'll never tell you the second verse. Do you hear me?"
Even the threatened loss of his precious emerald seemed not enough to make him stop. He looked down at her, then deliberately ripped her chemise further with the scissors. He paused only when the entire valley between her breasts appeared beneath the tear. Then, as if she was tempting him beyond control, he lifted his hand to touch her.
"Don't," she said, desperate to stop him. Her hands clutched his in an effort to push him away, but as she well knew, her strength was negligible in comparison with his. He kept going, pausing only once to look at her face.
Her expression was an exquisite blend of fear and desire. Fear, because she had watched him kill a man that very morning, and no matter how ruthless his enemies were, he had proved himself to be equally ruthless; and desire, because as she looked up at him, at this wild, handsome pirate, she was suddenly overwhelmed with the terrible knowledge of what had been missing in her feelings for John Phipps.
"Why do you look at me in that manner?" he asked, suddenly stopping.
She quickly averted her eyes. What was wrong with her? How could she feel this way about a man who hadn't any more honor than the thieves of Field Lane? She pushed away his hand and grabbed at the edges of her chemise. She must be delirious. Or mad. She glanced at him, letting her gaze linger on his angry, handsome features. She was mad, she thought as she looked away again. That was the only explanation for it.
"Now why do you turn from me?" He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.
"Let me go," she said, writhing beneath him.
"Not until you tell me—"
"Let me go!" she demanded. "What must I tell you? That I dislike the hands of a killer upon me?"
His face hardened and he dropped his hold. Looking at the hand that had held her chin, he vengefully grabbed at the counterpane as if he were wiping imaginary blood from his palms. "This killer saved your life, wench," he said in a low, ominous tone. "Need I remind you of that?"
She could see he was furious. He didn't like his values being questioned. It was as if the path of his life had been a conscious decision on his part, and by questioning it she had made him wonder if he'd made the wrong choice.
"I thank you for saving me from that blackguard," she conceded, "but that hardly makes you a saint."
"Aye, I'm not a saint." His gaze raked her ruined chemise. He seemed particularly interested in the area where her nipples strained against the translucent white cotton. She put her arms over her chest to shield herself, but that only inflamed him more. Tightly he instructed her, "Take off the remainder of your clothes, Aurora. I want to see this proof you so cavalierly offered."
"It's not in my clothing, I say." Somehow she was able to wriggle from beneath him. She scooted to the headboard, all the while clutching her chemise to her.
"Enough of these games. Let me have your clothes."
"I will not."
"Then be prepared to have them ripped from your body."
He lunged for her. Terrified, she sprang off the bed, but not before he got a handful of her chemise. In one smooth motion it was torn from her back. She screamed and just as she turned around to grab the bed curtains, she couldn't keep from revealing two full breasts enticingly crowned with apricot-tinted nipples.
"You beast!" she cursed, wrapping herself in the black satin while he tore apart what was left of her chemise. Not a seam was left intact as he searched for hidden clues.
"Give me your drawers," he said, tossing her chemise aside.
"I won't." Her gaze fell onto the mattress. She saw the knife he had discarded lying not three inches from her hand. She grabbed it up just as he was moving for her.
"Stay away!" She held out the knife, letting the blade catch the light.
He laughed. "Old Robert couldn't wield that knife too well. You think you can better him?"
"I shall try! You stay away!" Her hand was trembling so she could hardly hold the knife still.
"Throw me your drawers and I shall leave you be."
She stared at him in indecision. She hated to surrender her pantalets, but if he chose to attack, even with a knife, she knew she'd lose. Despising him, she slowly untied her drawers. She threw them at him with a vengeance, all the while staying hidden behind the black satin bed curtain.
When he caught them, he almost looked disappointed she hadn't put up a fight. In a perfunctory manner, he tore them to shreds and left them in the same pile with her other ruined garments.
"Are you quite through now?" she asked bitterly. His gaze slid to her willow hamper. Before she could stop herself, she cried out, "Not that! I haven't many clothes left!" But he was deaf to her pleas.
He sauntered over to her basket and tossed its contents on the floor. Like a bear searching for honey, he clawed through her belongings, making swift work of all her undergarments. She grimaced with every tear, but when he came to her last remaining gown, the blue one with the embroidered rosebuds around the corsage, she couldn't stop herself from pleading, "Please not that one. It took me months to make that one."
With that confession, she damned herself, sure he would now take particular relish in ripping the gown to pieces. He would try to prove her insignificance by destroying the things she cherished. She was almost disappointed in finding Vashon so similar to John after all. No doubt John Phipps had taken similar pleasure in burning her sampler.
When he didn't move, she looked up and found him staring at her. They stood there for a long moment, eyes locked, and just when she was certain her dress was lost, he surprised her. He ran his hand along the gown's hemline and seams, then he tossed it to her.
Amazed she looked at the gown in her hand and watched him as he rifled through the rest of her things. She was surprised again when he gathered up her remaining belongings, including her hairpins. She assumed he was going to let her have those too, since her hair had fallen during their struggle, but she was shocked to see him open one of the huge leaded aft ports and wretchedly toss all her things into the evening sea.
"Why did you do that?" she asked, thinking he'd surely lost his mind. "My hairpins, my shoes and stockings have nothing to do with your precious Star."
"From now on you'll wear your hair down and not in that proper little spinsterish knot. And you'll go barefoot like the captive you are. You're on a pirate ship now, not taking tea in the Pump Room." He strode to her and grabbed the mass of her hair. He gently pulled the last dangling hairpins from the wavy red-gold tresses and threw those too out the port. "And from now on, my delightful Miss Dayne, you have one dress to wear until we get to San Juan, so I suggest you heed my temper lest I choose to make a rag out of that one too."
He gave her one final warning look and took his leave, slamming the cabin door behind him. When he was gone, she sighed with relief and clutched her last precious dress to her. But, realization dawning on her, she stared in horror at the pile of rags that used to be her clothes. Cursing him, she shouted to the closed door, "You villain! You've left me without any undergarments!"
Chapter Thirteen
Hours later Aurora was still searching for another straight pin. She had dressed herself in her blue gown, but for modesty's sake its apron front required that it be pinned to her shoulders. By now she had begun to suspect that her tiny pincushion had gone the way of her hairpins. She just hoped that a few of the straight pins had fallen from it so that she could keep up her dress.
She got down on her hands and knees and roamed the carpet, hoping to discover another pin where she had found the first one. But even barefoot she didn't feel anything but the silky nap of the carpet; there wasn't another pin to be found.
In utter disgust she sat and crossed her arms over her chest. She was a mess. Her hair hung in a knotted curtain to one side of her shoulder. Her pale blue dress looked like something from the Manchester Rag Fair. Shoeless and stockingless, she hardly looked better than one of the orpha
ns before they arrived at the Home. Mrs. Bluefield would have been appalled. The older woman had always prided herself on the neatness of her schoolteachers. She would probably turn in her grave to see her favorite employee looking so wild.
"Ah, I see we've gotten comfortable."
Aurora looked up and gave Vashon a baleful stare. He smirked and entered the cabin. She didn't even attempt to get to her feet.
"What have you done with my straight pins?" she asked, barely hiding the fury in her voice.
"Why do you need them?" His gaze skimmed over her chest. Though she held the apron front discreetly to her, it was obvious why she needed them.
"I don't have to answer why I demand the return of my property. I just want my pincushion. If you have to swim to retrieve it, then do so." She looked at him and her aqua eyes darkened with anger. She didn't know how he'd managed it, but it seemed ever since she'd been kidnapped she could hardly keep her clothes on; her dresses were either falling down, being torn away, or snipped off; she'd now come to the end of her rope. If he didn't give her just one pitiful straight pin, she truly believed she might do him bodily harm.
"I'll make you a deal." He stood over her and crossed his arms. "I'll give you a thousand gold dressing pins if you just give me the second verse or your proof of a second verse."
She narrowed her eyes and fumed. She wasn't about to give him her locket. Not now when he'd proved himself to be such a scoundrel. Only for her freedom would she condescend to help him.
"Do you take my offer?" He added tauntingly, "Wench?"
She closed her eyes. It was all she could do not to hit him. She opened them again only to stare belligerently out the aft ports.
"Aurora." As if speaking to a child, he bent down and looked her in the eye. "Let me say this then: What if I take the one pin you do have until you give me what I want?"
Instinctively both her hands went to the shoulder with the pin. Her apron front fell to one side and revealed a tempting amount of bosom before she scrambled to her feet. He laughed and she backed away to the bookcase. Her hand met with a heavy porcelain Chinese foo lion, and she threatened to throw it at him.
"You won't take this one. I swear I shall die first," she exclaimed.
"Ah, such dramatics. The theater in the Haymarket could use such a performance."
He stepped forward and, much to their surprise, she threw the lion at him. It missed. But the resounding crash was enough noise to send nervous seamen scurrying looking for cannonfire above them on the quarterdeck.
"Shall you alarm the entire ship?" he asked when the footsteps overhead calmed.
"Don't you come near me," she whispered furiously. "I won't let you have this pin!"
He stepped forward again, and this time she threw several of his dragon-etched wine goblets. The tinkling of glass must have alerted the sailors as to what was going on in Vashon's cabin. With each successive broken goblet, the chuckles from above grew more raucous.
"Stay away, do you hear?" she warned.
"You little hellion, I won't have you—"
She threw another goblet. Then another. He artfully ducked every time one even came close to hitting him; still he encroached upon her. All too soon she ran out of articles to throw. She hurled her last wineglass, then turned to run. He caught her just as she grimaced in pain.
"What is it?" he demanded as she bit her lower lip.
"My foot," she said, wincing, her face going pale. "It . . . it hurts." Inexplicably her foot did hurt. The pain shot clear to her calf. She limped once before he took her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.
Forgetting their contentions for the moment, he shoved up her skirt. He looked at the sole of her foot and she whimpered while he pulled a small shard of glass from the pad. Blood dripped down her heel; he stopped the flow with his hand.
"This is what you get when you throw a tantrum," he chastised, dropping his hold on her foot. He went to get a handkerchief and wrapped her cut foot. With that completed, he straightened and looked at his hand. His palm was smeared with her blood.
She couldn't help staring at it too. For the second time that day he had blood on his hands. But this time, it was because of a good deed, instead of a wicked one.
"I'm sorry," she said when he finally looked at her. She didn't quite know why she had apologized, but somehow the words just slipped out.
"Do you want another straight pin, Aurora?" His expression suddenly turned hard.
She set her jaw and clutched the loose front of her gown. He had helped her, but she wasn't ready to sell the Devil her soul for one act of kindness.
"Do you want that pin?" he repeated adamantly.
"Yes," she answered.
"Then kiss my hand."
She looked at him in shock. She couldn't believe what he was asking.
"Vashon—" she began, but he quickly stopped her. He lifted his hand to her face, then turned it palm downward so that only his clean knuckles might touch her lips.
"Kiss my hand," he whispered, his voice taking on an urgency she had never heard before.
She stared at him, unsure of what to do. It was madness what he was asking, but the reasoning behind it was worse. She believed he was somehow trying to force her to approve of what he had done that morning. Her condemnation had bothered him. She could never approve of killing. Yet when she looked deep into his eyes, she wondered if he was seeking forgiveness too.
Reluctantly she decided to comply. She took his hand " in her own and lifted it to her lips. His skin felt warm and rough on her mouth, and the sensation was so pleasurable she almost longed to linger over it. But quickly the kiss ended. He dropped his hand, and as if he'd been absolved, his eyes suddenly cleared of their dark expression. He went to his bureau and found another pin for her. He dropped it on the counterpane, then went to his gold-painted ewer to wash. He behaved as though the entire kiss and its reasons for happening had never occurred. Astonished, she watched him, but she didn't pause long. She grabbed up the pin, fixed her dress, and scooted from the bed.
"You might as well stay there," he said as he ripped off his shirt and threw it across the dolphin-legged sofa.
She watched him pull off his boots. Nervously she asked, "Whatever for?"
"There's broken glass all over this cabin, Miss Dayne, and I'm not going to wake Benny out of his sleep to come clean it up. He can do it tomorrow."
Her gaze darted to the ports. It was late. Sometime between her search for a pin and now, darkness had descended, and she still didn't have her own cabin.
"Vashon, I have to insist upon my own . . ." Her voice faltered. As if she weren't even there, he readied himself for bed, which for him meant immodestly stripping off every piece of clothing on him. And this time he didn't protect her delicate sensibilities by keeping on his trousers. Ignoring her, he slid the black fabric of his trousers down over his hips and past the line of dark hair that dipped below his navel. Just as he was about to reveal every last inch of the dragon on his back, she turned away. Her gaze desperately sought escape, and though it was a futile effort, she couldn't stop herself from going to the door to see if it was latched.
"Good night, Miss Dayne."
From behind her she could hear him chuckle and slide beneath the covers of his decadent bed. In one breath he blew out the candles in the bouillotte lamp and they were thrust into complete darkness.
Her entire body stiffened. She was alone in the darkness with this naked man, and the floor of his cabin was littered with glass. Terrified of cutting herself again, she wasn't even sure if she could make the necessary movements to take herself over to the mahogany chair. Blinded, she stumbled over his boots and bumped into his writing table. She clutched one of the lion monopode legs for support, then thankfully eased herself into the chair. She didn't even want to speak for fear that her words might force him out of bed.
"Comfortable, Miss Dayne?"
Her mouth went dry. Even his voice sounded naked.
"I'm quite well, thank you."
"You may have your own cabin tonight if you but speak the words."
She was the closest yet to giving him a confession. But to go to her own cabin now would mean he would have to relight the bouillotte lamp, and at this moment the thought of seeing him in the altogether seemed more terrifying than just staying where she was. "I'll not give you a thing until I have my freedom," she whispered.
"I see." The slats of the bed groaned as he turned over. "I suspect that chair will get rather uncomfortable by the second or third night."
"The chair will serve."
"But not as nicely as the bed."
"The bed is . . . occupied."
"I'm more than willing to share."
She choked. "No—no, thank you!"
He laughed. "All right, then. Until the morning." _ Her brows knitted with worry. She hadn't thought of that. In the brilliant light of morning he would be getting out of that bed. And if it took him only a matter of seconds to take those clothes off, God only knew how long he might take to put them back on. Groaning in defeat, she crossed her arms on the table and laid her head on it to rest for the next battle.
The instant the knock sounded on the door, Vashon awoke. Like a cat that can see in the darkness, he reached for his trousers, stood, and pulled them on without hesitation. Avoiding the glass shards glittering in the starlight from the ports, he was at the cabin door before the knock could sound again.
"What is it?" he demanded, seeing Isaac standing on the threshold with a lantern.
"A problem," Isaac replied, his face lined with sleep. "Benny has just informed me one of our water caskets has leaked. We haven't enough left to make it to San Juan."
Vashon looked vaguely annoyed. "Is that what has you up at this ungodly hour? That's no tragedy, man. We'll simply stop at the next port—"
"That's what I came to discuss. The next port is Grand Talimen Island."
Vashon paused. Realization crossed his face. "I see," he said slowly.
Till Dawn Tames the Night Page 16