by Brenda Novak
“But I …I have nothing on beneath them.”
Treynor’s grin widened. “I know.”
“I will not let you force yourself on me.” She spoke imperiously but with a slight tremble to her voice.
He laughed. “I am interested in a more subtle form of revenge. And the thought of getting some sleep appeals to me. If you do not have any clothes, you cannot go anywhere.”
She squeezed her arms more tightly over her chest, a protective gesture that did little to soften Treynor’s heart. This woman could have stopped him from being beaten had she only revealed herself soon enough.
“If you do not want to cooperate, I will help you.” After pulling his dirk from its scabbard on his desk, he sliced the fabric of Dade’s shirt in half in a completely new place than the one Jeannette held closed already.
She screamed and tried to whirl away, but he tossed the dirk on the floor before she could cut herself on it and shoved her up against the wall.
“You little idiot. You will bring the captain down on us if you are not careful, and I am not sure I want that just yet. Give me Dade’s clothes and be done with it.”
The sting of her nails across his chest made Treynor begin to strip her in earnest. He ripped off Dade’s shirt. “This is for the knee to my groin,” he told her as he tore the shirt into strips. “And this—” he grinned as he pulled the baggy breeches down over her hips “—is for my stripes.”
“You fool! Now what will I do?” Her chest heaved above the white bands that bound her breasts, as if she couldn’t draw a deep breath.
“We are not finished yet, my sweet.” He retrieved his dirk. “Hold still.”
Covering her head with her arms, she hunched into her shoulders as though she expected him to slit her throat. When he simply cut away the strips of fabric she’d knotted around her chest, Jeannette used her hands to shield herself. But Treynor wasn’t about to let her hide or huddle in a corner. Her wrists clamped tightly in one of his hands, he hauled her forward, though the effort agonized him, and tied her to the brass handles of his sea trunk, using the same strips of fabric he’d just cut off her.
“I cannot believe I felt badly about seeing you flogged,” she seethed when he stood back to admire his handiwork. “I hope your back pains you greatly.”
Treynor’s eyes traveled the length of her firm, supple body. He had to admit he’d seen few women more beautiful. She had round, full breasts despite her small size—making him marvel that she’d been able to pull off the boy masquerade at all—a flat belly, and slender limbs.
The sudden tightening in his groin annoyed him. “That ought to keep me safe from your mischief for awhile.”
She glared at him. “You will be sorry. My father is the Comte de Lumfere. He will not allow you to get away with this!”
Treynor chuckled and fixed his gaze on her chest. “You and your father should be grateful.”
“Grateful?” she repeated incredulously.
“You are getting off easily. If I wanted to, I could take what you so foolishly promised me at the Stag.” He ran a finger over her collarbone. “What would your father think of that?”
She shrugged his hand away, but Treynor marked the goose pimples that dotted her flesh. “He would see you hanged.”
He swiped at some blood that had seeped through his bandages to trickle down his lower back. “Lucky for both of us that I am in no condition to tumble you about my hammock.”
Giving her a mocking bow, he headed to bed, although he doubted he could sleep. His back pained him, but what bothered him more was that he was perfectly capable of finishing what they had begun at the Stag.
And, count’s daughter or no, he still wanted to.
Chapter 8
Under her breath, Jeannette called Treynor every name she could imagine and wished she knew a few worse ones to use. She didn’t care that a lady never spoke in such a way. Never had she felt more desperate, more humiliated, or more vulnerable.
She sat on the cold, hard floor, hugging her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth to keep herself from crying. Much to her relief, the lieutenant had locked the door, blown out the light and was settling into his hammock. She was rid of him for the moment, but morning would come, and she’d still be naked and tied to his blasted trunk.
“I hope you bleed to death in your sleep,” she mumbled, only half-expecting a response.
He laughed. “I doubt you want that. The men who would find you in such a compromising position would not treat you half so well as I have. Do you think most sailors would care if you are a baron’s wife or a count’s daughter when the promise of your sweet flesh awaits them?”
Jeannette shuddered at the thought of what might happen should she be discovered. Most of the men on the ship hadn’t had a bath in months. Then there was Cunnington, of course. His manner and dress bespoke a man of gentle birth, someone, perhaps, of her own class. But she knew Lieutenant Cunnington was no gentleman at heart.
“What are you going to do with me in the morning?” she asked.
“Don’t know. Probably take you to the captain.”
Jeannette’s heart sank. “But he will have me escorted back to Plymouth, to the baron.”
“Exactly.”
“I will not go.”
“May I remind you that you are sitting naked on my floor? You are in no position to tell me what you will or will not do.”
At first Jeannette didn’t respond. When she did, she made her words as beseeching as possible. “You have had your revenge, no? If it makes you feel any better—” she fought the slight wobble in her voice “—I am terribly sorry. Do you hear? I had no intention of getting you flogged, or of having such an …intimate encounter at the tavern.”
Treynor sighed. “Evidently you have no idea what it feels like to be flogged if you think a pretty apology is enough. Can we please get some sleep?”
“Will you leave me at the dock and say nothing of my identity at least?”
“I cannot. The flogging drew too much attention to you. I will need to gain the captain’s sanction before I take you home, which means revealing why you must go back.”
“No!”
When the lieutenant’s voice grew louder, Jeannette guessed he had turned to face her. “Yes. The moment news of your femininity gets out, Cunnington, at the very least, will not rest until he knows who you are and why you were here. Like my mother, his parents are friends of your husband’s, so I doubt he will give you much sympathy.”
“I will be gone by the time they figure everything out.”
“You might be gone, but I won’t. I am the first person Cunnington would suspect of helping you, since I stepped in on your behalf once already. And I will not have your husband call in favors to strip me of my post.”
Jeannette squeezed her eyes closed. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t …
One rebellious tear fell.
“Have I answered all your questions?” he asked. “Can we go to sleep now?”
Jeannette didn’t respond. She swiped at her cheek, vowing to get even with Lieutenant Treynor. She’d not go back to St. Ives, even if she had to gnaw through the bands on her wrists with her teeth.
The room fell silent, except for the creaking of the ship, which soon worked better than a lullaby on Jeannette’s weary body. Well into her second sleepless night, she felt exhaustion pressing down on her like an invisible hand. Arms sagging, eyelids growing heavy, she caught her head several times when it threatened to fall from its precarious perch on her knees. Then she heard Treynor get up and her spine went rigid as he rustled about. What was he doing?
After a moment, he came close and she tensed further, but she had nothing to fear. He was only draping a blanket around her shoulders.
Jeannette didn’t speak as he walked away. She hoped he’d think her asleep. When she dared move, she pulled the blanket as tight as she could with the slack he’d allowed her, and felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief for the chance to cover her nakedness. T
he blanket he’d given her still held the warmth of his body and did much to relieve the chill in the drafty room.
“Was your marriage arranged?” he asked out of the darkness.
“Do you think I would choose a man older than my father?” Jeannette replied, burying her face in the blanket and trying to ignore the subtle scent that clung to it—Treynor’s scent—as she warmed her nose.
“The Baron St. Ives is rich and powerful. He has an impressive pedigree. Isn’t that what a woman wants?”
Now that the rain had stopped, moonlight filtered through the circle of a single porthole. Jeannette squinted at the lieutenant even though she could see little more than the hazy silhouette of his body and the quilt he’d kicked to the bottom of the hammock.
“Oui,” she responded on a sigh. “We are all shallow, uncaring creatures.”
When Treynor spoke again, it was on an entirely different subject. “Aren’t you going to thank me for cutting those bands away? Or have you too much pride to take it as the kindness it was meant to be?”
Jeannette pressed her forearms to her breasts. They still ached. Her body could not have withstood the pressure of the bindings much longer. “How did you know?”
He chuckled. “I am intimately familiar with certain parts of a woman’s anatomy—and yours in particular, remember?”
She cursed herself for being stupid enough to ask. “You could not have been thinking honorable thoughts to have realized it.”
“I never said I was thinking honorable thoughts.”
“You are no gentleman, monsieur.”
“I won’t argue with you there. If it makes you feel any better, you are not the only one who thinks so.”
Jeannette didn’t know how long it was before Treynor’s breathing evened out, but she guessed, with his back in the condition it was, he could not be sleeping soundly. The deep cuts crisscrossing his flesh still oozed blood. She winced to imagine how it must have felt to be Cunnington’s pawn and had to admit that Treynor was right to hate her. But she had too much at stake to allow him to take her to the captain. She had to escape, and long before morning.
Using her feet as leverage, she yanked against her bonds, hoping they’d give way, but the fabric cut into her wrists without loosening. She bit her lip against the pain and started to work the knots, quickly growing too nervous to take the time to do it right. In just a few hours, the entire ship would know about her, and she’d have no chance of reaching London.
Not that she had much of a chance now. Gasping from her efforts, she leaned her forehead on the wood, trying to think of another way. Perhaps she could find something on the desk to help her. She’d already tried searching for the lieutenant’s dirk and hadn’t been able to find it.
The trunk was heavy, but she managed to drag it by inches. The scraping sound seemed to reverberate through the cabin, but there was nothing she could do about it. The creaking of the ship’s timbers was nearly loud enough to mask it. It certainly seemed as if he was oblivious—until he grunted. Then she froze.
The blanket he had given her was somewhere on the floor behind her. She’d been unable to hang on to it and drag the trunk at the same time. She had only the darkness to cloak her—and felt the scantiness of that covering all too poignantly.
Had she awakened him? She thought so. But then his breathing grew steady again. He seemed to be dreaming, or reacting to the wounds on his back. She had no idea what the lieutenant would do if he caught her, but she’d seen enough to know he had a temper.
Sweat rolled down Jeannette’s back as she pressed on and, eventually, she reached her goal. The light filtering in from beneath the door and through that one porthole coaxed her to wrench free, find something to wear, and slip out into the hallway. Stowaways were common enough in the navy. Perhaps she could hide until they reached London. It was a chance, however small. If she did nothing, she’d be returned to St. Ives at dawn.
Rising to her knees, she pulled as far from the trunk as her bonds would allow so she could examine what Treynor had on his desk. His dirk had to be somewhere. He’d used it to remove the bindings. But precisely where had he put it?
Papers and shadowy objects covered that horizontal space. Jeannette squinted, wished for more light, and tried to get closer. Finally, she rolled onto her back and used her feet to scoop all she could reach onto the floor, turning her face away when an avalanche of paper and other articles came showering down on top of her.
The noise seemed earthshattering, but Treynor didn’t stir, so Jeannette struggled into a crouched position and studied the objects on the floor. A quill pen—thank God she hadn’t knocked herself senseless with its heavy holder or splattered herself with ink—a few coins, maps, various papers, letters …and a letter opener!
Dragging the trunk a few inches closer, Jeannette retrieved the sharp instrument with her teeth, put it into her right hand and stabbed at the fabric, ignoring the pain such an unnatural position caused her wrists.
After what seemed like forever, she cut far enough into the fabric that she could tear the rest away, and finally, finally, she was free.
Now to get out of the room before Treynor awoke. She started working the latch on the trunk so she could steal a shirt to go with Dade’s breeches when footsteps thundered down the hall outside and a heavy fist, judging from the racket it made, thudded on the cabin door.
“Lieutenant!”
Jeannette stifled a squeal and ducked beneath the desk.
Treynor shot up and lunged toward the sound. “What is it?” he asked, his voice muddled by sleep as he unlocked the door and peered out through a narrow crack.
“The captain wants you in his cabin right away, sir.”
With a groan, Treynor scrubbed the sleep from his face. “What’s going on?”
Jeannette’s pulse raced as they talked. What now? As soon as his visitor left, he’d turn and see the trunk out of its place and realize she was free.
She’d never escape without a weapon. Her eyes and hands sought Treynor’s jacket, slung over the chair in front of her. She felt its heavy wool, the thick, gold braid, the round brass buttons, and the leather strap beneath it before her fingers located his pistol.
The heaviness of the gun felt foreign in her hands—cold, alien, frightening—but she had to do something.
Careful to stay out of the line of sight of the person who’d come to fetch him, she crept out from beneath the desk and slid around behind Treynor. Gripping the pistol by its iron muzzle, she rose silently, lifting it above her head with both hands. Timing would be everything….
The stranger finished telling Treynor he had no idea why the captain wanted to see him. Then Treynor shut the door and she brought the gun down with all her strength, aiming for his crown.
Jeannette expected the lieutenant to crumble at her feet. She didn’t anticipate the lightning quick move that caused the blow to glance off his shoulder.
“What the devil!” He spun and slammed her back against the desk, seeking control of the weapon.
Jeannette clung to the muzzle with all the tenacity she could muster. If Treynor gained possession of the gun, she’d have nothing to stop him from doing whatever he pleased.
The lieutenant was bigger and stronger by far, but she’d taken him by surprise. For a moment, Jeannette thought that small advantage might be enough to preserve her weapon, but then he twisted, gained a better grip, and together they crashed to the floor.
Fortunately the lieutenant took the brunt of the fall. Jeannette knew by the curse he muttered how badly it had cost him and felt a fleeting concern for the wounds on his back. Surely they’d start bleeding again. But she couldn’t give up the fight. If he’d been angry before, he’d show her no mercy now.
“What are you trying to do? Kill me?” He rolled on top of her and pinned her hands above her head.
Jeannette still grasped the pistol, but the pistol did her little good while he held her wrists in the vise of his hands.
He was s
tretched out on top of her, so damnably heavy she could scarcely move. Laboring to suck some air into her lungs, she gasped, “If I had wanted to kill you, I would have shot you dead.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Your husband should be glad to be rid of you. You’re too wild to make anyone a good wife.”
“I won’t go back!” Infinitely aware of her nakedness, Jeannette began to squirm again. She managed to raise a knee halfway to the lieutenant’s groin, but he shifted before she could reach her intended target.
“Oh, no you don’t! Not again!” He squeezed her sore wrists until tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. Then he shook her hands, banging the gun on the floor like a hammer, but she gritted her teeth and held fast.
“Let go, you little hellion.” Finally, he wrenched the gun from her grasp and slid it away from her. “What in the name of God is wrong with you?” he demanded, straddling her middle and keeping her arms pinned above her head.
Jeannette blinked several times, trying to still the quiver of her chin. He was too heavy, her hands hurt, and now she had nothing to stop him from returning her to St. Ives, who would no doubt exact a costly revenge for her escape.
“Don’t start crying, dammit. I’m not so easily swayed.”
The mere mention of tears weakened the tenuous grasp Jeannette had on her emotions. The more she tried to hold back, the greater her need to cry. Fat teardrops blurred her vision and dampened her temples as they rolled back into her hair.
“Get off me. There is nothing I can do to you now.”
“No? Well, there is still plenty I would like to do to you. A good spanking would not be undeserved, I think. You might tweak your husband’s nose and get away with it, but your little escapades have cost me a pound of flesh in the most literal sense. Tell me, how merciful should I be?”
“I expect no mercy from a low-born sailor, and neither will I ask for it.”
His grip tightened. “Feeling superior, are we?”
Jeannette detected a harder edge to his voice than she’d heard him use before and couldn’t help needling him further. She was so angry and miserable and desperate. “You are a pig.”