* * *
That they’d been spared mattered not to the narrow-minded sailors. The waterspout was the worst kind of bad luck, they said, and to them it proved the women were Jonahs. And however much the weather improved in the days to come, the sailors’ ill-humor did not.
Restricted now to a modest corner of the deck, where they could cause no incidents, Patience and her girls’ studied the drawings Rose had brought.
“Oh, what a beautiful baby,” Patience said, examining one, noting there were several others, as the babe had grown. “Whose baby is it?”
Rose took the pictures and put them away without answering, handing Patience the drawing she’d just finished of her. Then she invited the sailors to have their portraits done. Brazen conduct for Rose.
She drew delightful exaggerations of each. She gave one big brute a twinkling hoop earring. On short, barrel-chested Izzy, she drew a black eye-patch. She posed a parrot spouting, “Vimen,” on the Norwegian’s shoulder, and turned his scowl into a huge, toothy grin. That made some of the men laugh and slap their knees, especially Sven.
Patience watched the Captain’s curiosity bring him across the deck, as far as a spar, where he leaned negligently to watch, much as he’d done the day they set sail. From his beard-stubbled chin, down his tanned throat, to his open-necked shirt exposing a vee of dark chest hair, she examined him, a distinct warmth purling through her. She became so heated, she fanned herself with the drawing Rose made of her.
Angel’s words penetrated Patience’s lethargy at the same moment she realized the Captain had noticed her interest in him. “What Angel? What did you say?” she asked, very much aware the Captain could hear.
“I said tell Rose what Lord Andover looks like so she can draw us a picture of him.”
Sophie’s eyes twinkled and she clapped her hands. “Oh, yes, Patience, tell-tell. I’ve been ever so anxious to know what a man they call The Saint could possibly look like.”
Grace smiled. “Please, Patience. Everyone says how handsome he is. But I can’t imagine him.”
Patience looked up, as if compelled, and found herself the recipient of the Captain’s scoundrel smile. With one eyebrow raised, his grin was so mocking, as much as to say ‘I dare you,’ that she had no recourse but to begin. “He has black hair,” she improvised. “It . . .curls slightly, if memory serves, and black eyes.”
“Eyes cannot be totally black, I think,” Grace said.
“Well then they are so dark a brown as to appear black. Perhaps it is his brooding expression and his way of frowning, by bringing his brows down to shadow his eyes, that gives them their ebony look.”
“I need shapes first,” Rose said. “His face, forehead? Once you give me those I’ll fill in the eyes and hair.”
Dark and broody was all she’d ever heard, so she made him up as she went. “A high forehead, a chin chiseled and square with a slight cleft in the center.” Accepting the Captain’s dare with bold eye-contact, she waited until Rose stopped drawing before she continued. “The perpetual shadow of a heavy beard mars the perfection of his face,” which Patience realized added fact to the word ‘dark.’ “A long straight, aristocratic nose.”
The quick scratching of Rose’s charcoal lulled Patience as she warmed to her task. Sails flapped. Commands were exchanged in the rigging. The Captain’s blousy shirt billowed in the wind.
“What else?” Grace asked, bringing Patience back to her purpose.
“Unmatched brows, one winged and one slashed, the second dipping lower than the first, so that even without a frown, a hint of disapproval remains.”
The Captain’s startled expression distracted her, his wide-eyed look asking a question she didn’t understand. She stumbled in her description for a minute. “Um, ah, creases. Laugh lines, I guess you’d call them. Lines, you know, crinkles around his eyes and near his mouth—that show he smiles frequently, though not always with the best of reasons.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps we could call them scowl lines or smirk marks.”
Sophie frowned. “Patience, for the love of Uncle Dewey, it’s a picture of the Captain.”
Surprised by Sophie’s words, Patience examined the drawing, herself. Sure enough, there he was, a rogue in truth, scowling back from the no-longer harmless sheet of paper. Oh, Lord, was she that taken with the man that she could think of no other to describe? Did he guess it? She examined the enigmatic look on his face, but could discern no specific emotion.
She shrugged and smiled wickedly. “Of course it is,” she said, as if she’d done it on purpose.
“I thought that’s what you were doing,” the Captain said, over her shoulder.
Startled, Patience dropped the drawing of her that Rose had done.
The Captain retrieved and studied it. He seemed so preoccupied with Rose’s talent, Patience guessed he hadn’t noticed her fascination with him.
“I’m disappointed,” Angel pouted. “Why ever did you describe the Captain instead of the Marquess?”
Patience laughed, a sound, which seemed counterfeit to her. “You’ll just have to wait and see about Lord Andover now won’t you?”
Their moans mingled.
To mask her blunder, Patience raised one eyebrow, a gesture she learned from the Captain, hoping it would produce the same confusion in him, as his matching expression did in her. “Surprises are such fun. Are they not, Captain?”
He stood stunned for a minute, then he gave over and chuckled as he folded her picture and tucked it into his shirt, nodded his good-byes, and walked away whistling.
Patience watched him go, her heart calming. Thank heavens the scoundrel didn’t realize the implications in her error . . .that she was childishly besotted with him, and that she wouldn’t know Lord Andover if he were looking at her through a quizzing glass. Pray heavens she could keep both secrets ‘till they reached London.
The next morning, the Captain walked the length of his ship.
What game was the vixen playing? Did she know the Marquess of Andover or not? Was her innocence a cunning ploy to make him drop his guard? Had she some nefarious plan to compromise him into revealing his secrets?
Whatever her design, he would hold to his independence like a lifeline. Watching her scheme unfold, however, might be amusing enough, for if Patience was anything, she was entertaining . . .and annoying, and downright enchanting. He could hardly wait for her next misstep.
Yet, he must admit, her charade had alarmed as well as intrigued. Why had she described him, when she was supposed to be describing the Marquess? He stopped, a shiftless sailor catching his attention. What was the no-good, lazy blighter doing, lolling about when he should be working?
The Captain shot forward, hitting the fo’c’sle deck in one leap. “Get your good-for-nothing ass back to the dogwatch, sailor, or I’ll skin you naked.”
The blighter spun to face him. “How dare you speak to me like that!”
Patience’s sun-kissed complexion pinked with the blush that never failed to distract him.
“Bloody hell!” He whipped the cap from her head and damned near gasped as her auburn hair fell in thick coils to her shoulders. Then under its own weight, the bounty cascaded further down in silken waves of brilliant color. He took particular note of the curly wisps resting near her pert little breasts. Breasts whose tips were clearly outlined in the sailor’s shirt she wore. “What the hell do you think you’re doing wearing sailor’s clothes?”
Patience straightened, teasing the borrowed shirt further with her small but nonetheless feminine bosom. “What right do you have to speak to me like that?”
“I thought you were one of the men.”
“One of the men?” Her large green eyes took on a sparkling quality.
The Captain knew he was in trouble. “Why are you upset?”
She looked far beyond the horizon. “I’m not upset.”
“Yes,” he said. “You are. Look, I didn’t mean to be coarse. But when someone on my ship is shiftless and la
zy, I have to be firm.”
“It wasn’t the salty language, though heaven knows Aunt Harriette would faint dead away if she knew talk like that didn’t bother me.”
Most women would be bothered, he thought, except the Lady Patience. What a paradox. “What’s wrong, then?”
Patience examined the deck. “Nothing.”
The Captain raised her chin. “Dammit, Patience, tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s just that . . .you thought I was a man.”
“A boy, actually. I thought you were a boy.”
“Oh, lovely. Now, I’m not even a female child, I’m a male one.” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Nobody ever mistakes Sophie for one of the men.”
The Captain sighed. “It’s the bosom thing again, isn’t it Patience?”
She examined a coil of hemp with great interest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Whose clothes are you wearing?”
She raised her chin. “Paddy’s.” Her stance dared him to make something of the fact that Paddy, their cabin boy, was twelve years old.
He struggled to keep his mouth from turning up at the corners, because she was watching to be certain he didn’t smile. No one knew better than he that Lady Patience didn’t take kindly to being laughed at. But if his men saw her in that outfit, they wouldn’t be thinking about . . .“Take them off.”
Patience laughed.
The sound stroked him.
“Don’t be stupid. I like these clothes.” She raised her arms and shuffled her feet, the dance serving to demonstrate her freedom of movement. Shaking her head, she sent the rest of her auburn hair cascading down to her waist, then placed her hands on her hips. “I love the feel of the wind’s icy fingers running all over and around me.”
Swallowing a groan at his physical reaction, the Captain grabbed Patience’s arms and pinned them to her side. “Stop that and be quiet.” He looked to see if they’d attracted attention and took her by the hand. “Come with me,” he said trying to tug her forward.
She stood unmoving. “Do I have a choice?”
He tugged harder.
She gave.
Three men saluted as he went by dragging the sputtering nuisance behind him. The nuisance called for help from her girls sitting in the shade. They waved, smiling. Idiots, the lot of them.
He kicked a sand bucket from his path; it hit the mizzenmast and split. The splintering woke the damned pup who’d been sleeping in some rope. The beast came up barking.
“Let me go you big bully,” the vixen shouted, hitting his shoulder.
Sven looked to the heavens. “Vimen,” he said, shaking his head.
Patience grabbed the foremast as they went by, pulling him up short. He swore and grabbed her around the waist to carry her under his arm, kicking the rest of the way. Managing her, clawing and fighting, was such a formidable task, he lost his hold and she dropped through the hatch onto the cabin deck.
He almost apologized, until he saw how well she landed, and her fury when she looked up at him. Inside, he smiled. This was the best sport he’d ever had . . .out of bed.
Though she was absolutely amazed she landed on her feet, Patience still wanted to beat the brute. “You . . .you—”
“Man?” he finished, following her down. “That was fun,” he said. “Want to do it again?”
Patience kicked his shin. “Imbecile!”
Grant pinned her to her cabin door, using his arms and his legs to hold her in place. “Never, I mean never, strut around in front of those men like you just did out there.”
“I will if I want to!” She freed herself to grab her door latch.
He took her arm and made for his cabin. “This way, sailor.”
Inside, Shane sat, booted feet braced on the table. Rose, in the chair opposite, sketched him.
The Captain scowled. “Out.”
Rose turned crimson and fled. Shane, right behind, shot his brother a parting frown.
The door slammed. The Captain snarled his famous warning.
Patience winced, but she wasn’t going to let the beast get away with such low tactics. “That was rude, Captain.”
“Patience, I am rude. You know I’m rude. So stop being surprised by it. Now take off those clothes.” He tugged the cord at the waist of her pants.
“I will not!” She slapped his hand away. “I like these clothes.”
“I don’t like you wearing sailors’ clothes.”
“They’re practical and comfortable. The pants give me freedom of movement, and with all the climbing around we have to do on this tub—”
He brought his face close. “My ship is not a tub! Don’t you ever call this ship a tub, again. Where are your dresses? I want you wearing dresses.”
Patience almost laughed at the autocratic demand. “I won’t wear any more dresses. I’ve ruined more than I can afford to lose. It’s sailor clothes or nothing.” Oh, Lord, tell me I didn’t say that.
The Captain’s black eyes widened. “I like the second choice.” After regarding her for a warm minute, he turned to dip into his sea chest, coming up with some dark blue trousers, a blousy, white shirt and a length of rope. “Give Paddy his clothes back. If you’re going to wear men’s clothes, you’ll wear mine.”
“Why does it matter whose clothes I wear? I thought you wanted me to wear dresses.”
“I should let you do any bloody thing you please.”
“Life would be much too easy if you did that, Captain. Heaven knows, we can’t be having life easy around here.”
He snarled and slipped his big, baggy shirt over her head.
“First you don’t want me to wear men’s clothes at all, now you want me to wear two men’s shirts?”
“Stop acting like a witch.”
That made her laugh.
His eyes sparked at the laughter, and she thought he would laugh too, but he turned serious. He slid his hands up under his shirt, the one he’d just thrown over her head, and, under its cover, began to undo the buttons on Paddy’s shirt, one by one.
Patience grew feverish; her limbs became heavy. Holding her breath, she could feel each stroke of the Captain’s fingers, how they slid between her breasts as he released each button from its hole. She should stop him. She couldn’t. Sometimes when they were alone like this, it seemed almost as if . . .She stared straight into his eyes wondering if he experienced any of the same turmoil as her.
His look was intense, dark. She couldn’t look away, any more than he.
She thought the room turned stuffy and took a deep breath.
The Captain’s hand faltered and he too seemed to experience difficulty breathing.
He released her from Paddy’s shirt and under the white tent-like covering of his own, slipped it off her. His hands followed the shirt down, sliding slowly. She feared he would touch her breast, feared he would not.
When the stroke of his knuckles across the underside of one breast came, the heat of it raced through her. The sensation felt something akin to the time he’d soothed her hand with his mouth, after he took out her splinters, but a hundred times more so.
His touch was torture. It was heaven. God help her, she liked what he just did, wanted him to do it again. Aunt Harriette said she would go to hell. She closed her eyes and made fists of her hands at her side. Right now, she’d go willingly if he would come along and touch her like that again.
Lord she was beautiful, Grant thought. He throbbed with wanting her. Her eyes said she wanted him to continue, his body said he must. He knew in his head, he’d be crazy if he did. He slipped her arms into his big shirt then lifted the drawstrings to close the vee. Before pulling the shirt together, he bent and kissed the slight swell of a breast. Then reluctantly, but prudently, he laced the shirt and tied it closed. Tight.
“Thank you,” Patience said in a soft, seductive whisper.
He should be thanking her. “You’re very welcome.” He released the drawstring at the waist of Pad
dy’s trousers and gently tugged them down, molding her hips with his hand, loving the shape of her with his palm.
He couldn’t believe Patience was so compliant, so open to being touched. Her reaction boded well for the man who would awaken her passion. He shook his head, reminding himself that was not his concern, and returned to his task.
She stepped from the pants pooled at her feet, obeying his nod. He wished she was this accommodating all the time. He wondered how long her affability would last.
He turned to get his trousers then looked back at her. That was a mistake. The red-faced nymph stood naked, except for his shirt covering her from neck to thigh.
He wanted to lay her on his bunk. To ravish, to cherish . . .or to punish, for making him feel this way, this weak. He hated the quandary. If wanting her was so damned annoying, why did he want her so badly? And why was it so frustrating not to have her?
He tossed her his trousers. “Put these on.” He got a knife to cut a piece of rope, rueful over sounding so cross. From the corner of his eye, he saw her pull on the pants and tuck in the shirt with commendable speed.
He handed her one of the lengths of rope. “Here, use this to hold your pants up and turn around.” He took the shorter length and tied her hair together in the back, to keep it off her neck, like Paddy’s cap had done. He tugged gently at the silky auburn mass. “Reminds me of a spirited filly I had as a boy—of her tail that is.”
“Ouch.” She removed his hand from her hair and turned to face him. “What?”
“Your hair. It looks like Vix’s tail. Same color, same shape, longer though.”
“Vix?”
“Yeah. Vixen. We called her Vix.” He smiled remembering the filly’s registered title, Sweet Lady Vixen. How aptly it applied to the lady before him. “Go back up on deck now if you want. I’ll return Paddy’s clothes to him later.” He was going to scrub her wildflower smell from them first, so the damned kid wouldn’t drool. “Don’t dance in that outfit, Patience,” he warned, looking purposefully stern. “I’m not joking.”
Her chin rose a fraction. “I like to dance.”
“Patience....”
“If I feel like dancing . . .I’m going to dance.”
He should be angry. He should be aggravated as hell. He should wipe that defiant look off her pretty, smiling face. He should throttle her.
He’d love to throttle her.
Instead, he took her in his arms and swept her gracefully about the cabin while he hummed a lively tune. They swung and turned faster and faster. Patience laughed. She picked up his tune with a lilting song and together they danced to their own private music.
The Captain surprised Patience by laughing with her, long and hard, wholeheartedly, as if he were enjoying himself. And he was, she thought. With her. Imagine that.
She hadn’t heard that easy laugh since the day she fell on the dock. Now she considered it so special a sound, she stopped dancing to watch and listen.
He stopped also—dancing and laughing—and leaned forward, his face inches away. Framing her face with his hands, he lowered his lips to hers. She moaned when they touched. A soft kiss became warm, simmering. She knew she would melt from the heat . . .and didn’t care. She flattened her hands against his chest where his shirt lay open, sighing with liquid sensation. She traced circles in the silken curls, until he brought her fingertip to his nipple. She fingered it, amazed, curious. It was tiny, soft at first, now forming a hard bud.
Groaning, he took her mouth again. “Part your lips, for me, Patience. Just a bit. Yes, like that.” He teased her upper lip with his tongue.
Patience sighed.
Simmering became full flame. Nips became bites, then ravenous hunger, impossible to appease. Need spread like melted butter. Patience slipped her hands inside his shirt and around to caress his strong, muscled back.
The Captain ran his hands down her spine, cupped her bottom and pulled her against him. How easily, perfectly, he could trace her shape with her in trousers. She was glad their bodies fit together so well. She experienced a sense of inevitability in this special bonding, softness rocking against hard.
However he moved, she followed.
When the Captain lifted her into his arms and walked to his bunk, her heart accelerated. When a look of horror crossed his face, and he stood her on the cold floor with dispatch, confusion replaced elation.
Breathing deep, the Captain disengaged himself, and took her hands, holding them together in his own.
The thudding of her heart slowed.
She was almost certain his did too.
“That’s why you can’t dance,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. So straight she wanted to turn away, except she couldn’t, not for anything.
“And, Patience? If you want to dance . . .I mean, really dance, you come see me. We’ll come here and lock the door. And we’ll dance until you cry out with the joy of it.”