* * *
Captain Grant St. Benedict cursed his luck as he circled the deck. Patience. Her parents had, of course, meant the name as warning. Anyone coming in contact with the termagant must need patience aplenty.
From the first, he’d watched her, pacing in nervous agitation, her long auburn hair flying in the breeze, her skirts whipping about her slender ankles. Once, when some inner demon seemed to beset her, she’d puffed out her nonexistent chest as if waiting to have a medal pinned there. Perhaps he’d pin one there himself.
The Captain shook his head. Dangerous thought, that.
He was glad she was as old as she claimed because . . .she’d had an . . .effect on him, God help him. A scrapper, a schemer, he’d best remember. Charging them all for the same things, promising introductions to the Marquess of Andover.
He’d like to see that happen!
Well she’d follow his rules, or he’d take her over his knee— now that could be quite the sport. He shook himself against temptation. The safest sport to share with Lady Patience Kendall would be no sport at all.
The double meaning intrigued him. Did he mean he should stay away from her? Or did he mean, deep down, that life would be no fun unless he took a few sporting chances where she was concerned?
He meant, he told himself with firm resolve, that he should steer clear of her.
No. She should steer clear of him, by God! And if she made a wrong move, just one....
When a knot of sailors broke into raucous laughter, Grant approached, grateful to take his thoughts from—
“That feisty red-haired wench could surely warm a man’s cockles,” said a salty-voiced sailor.
Grant fisted his hands. “You no-account, lazy water rats, get your sun-dried carcasses over here, on the double.”
His tars moved with amazing speed for being taken by surprise.
They stood alert, wary as he examined them. “Jasper, where are the two young ladies who came aboard earlier?”
“Cabin deck, Cap’n.”
“Good. Now hear this. Several members of the fair sex will be traveling with us this trip.” Grant strolled beside the line of mangy tars, hands behind his back. “Women aboard are unusual, but not unheard-of.” He stopped, examined each in turn. “You may carry water for them, offer a word of advice, and see they come to no harm. You may even befriend them.” He took a breath, prepared to snap them into awareness. “But you will mind your manners! You will mind your language! And most of all, you will mind your hands!”
Sven smoothed his beard. Paddy shuffled.
“And if you so much as pull your Jonny-ready from your trousers within twenty feet of one, you will discover it is no longer a prized member of the ‘cockles’ that wanted warming.” He looked at each in turn. God, they were a scurvy lot. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye Cap’n.”
“Yes Sir.”
“This will be a long voyage. Fail to heed my warning, and you’re shark bait.” As their Captain, he nodded his dismissal. “Prepare to haul anchor.”
Moments later, an angry, grumbling hoard approached him. What now?
“Don’t want no women sailin’ with us, Cap’n. Women’s bad luck ‘board ship.”
Superstitious jack-tars. “Those women are paying premium prices to sail,” he said. “Don’t forget that on my ship, the bigger the purse, the bigger your cuts.” He waited, watched them consider his words. A couple nodded, but they were nowhere near satisfied. Though quiet for the moment, he knew he’d hear more about this in the days to come. Damn. “Double time, men. Make ready to harness wind.”
Within minutes, rigging creaked and wheels turned; his vessel was coming to life.
Which, he had to admit, held a certain budding promise this morning, given his zesty anticipation. He hadn’t heard a word he said, Grant thought, as he leaned on the rail to observe the source of that zest while testing the stubble on his chin. There she stood, a brazen saucepot with auburn hair and green eyes, waiting for her chicks and charming his shiftless sailors without trying. Stubborn and quarrelsome, that red-head. And the very tendency in her made him want to respond in kind, to see how far she’d go—which could be downright hazardous to his peace.
As Captain St. Benedict, he shouted orders toward the dock, and watched his men scatter.
Rag-mannered, crusty tars he’d dispatched in a trice, but how to manage a bold vixen, who smelled of wildflowers and questioned the attraction of the male animal to large bosoms?