He strode through water to the next cabin, his legs making wakes. As he scanned the room, obviously Nicole's, he took in the polished desk and the carved mahogany bed with its gilt and satin wood trimmings. Several compasses, broken barometers, and thermometers floated just above the floor. A pair of extraordinary painted landscapes and pastoral scenes attached to the panels struck him in particular.
Where Lassiter's cabin was bare, extravagances filled hers. Lassiter had spared no expense on the decor, Derek thought, taking in the rich lace on her window. He wasn't unfamiliar with the expense of the items, nor with the cost of the landscapes. No wonder Lassiter was in financial straits.
Maps floated everywhere. He didn't know if even he owned that many maps. She had a spare sail in the corner and probably made herself useful occasionally by sewing. He walked over to her sea chests, somehow feminine, and began rifling through them.
What he found in the first one surprised him. Lacy, silky underthings filled it. Womanly underthings. He'd never seen her dressed in anything other than men's clothes. But if he'd paid more attention when he hurriedly snatched her clothes off that night, would he have noticed what lay underneath? Maybe he should bring her clothes for the long journey. He remembered her skin was unusually soft and fine. What if regular cloth was too rough on her?
That was what he wanted--to punish her--wasn't it? But he'd be enjoying that skin shortly and didn't see any reason to mar something he found so attractive. At the door, he called to two nearby sailors and ordered them to unbolt the trunks and haul them to his ship.
"Cap'n, it won't be long now afore the ole girl goes down," one of his crewmen yelled.
"Make sure all the men are off this ship--I'm right behind you." A heaving motion churned beneath his feet, skidding him sideways. The death roll of the ship. He shook his head sadly and ran across the deck.
Back on the Southern Cross, he found Chancey and, with the help of two others, tore the seemingly lifeless girl from him. Derek considered himself a brave man, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up when he heard Chancey's inhuman growl. Derek turned with the girl in his arms to look at him, but immediately regretted it.
Because, before he could be restrained again, the man yanked his bound arm away from one sailor's grasp. Running a finger across his throat, he glared at Derek with a killing promise in his eyes.
In answer, Derek smiled, more a baring of his teeth, until like a shot, a splintering sound exploded from the dying ship.
Both men turned to watch the Bella Nicola rupture into huge sections as she finally broke apart just above the surface. It disturbed him to see the meticulously painted hull crack, the boards screaming as they parted. The noise was haunting. Yet even this was better than the eerie quiet as she surrendered to the greedy, bubbling waters.
Derek realized that the unconscious girl hadn't moved during the piercing rending sounds. Yet tears streamed down her face, and a desperate moan escaped her lips at the silence.
Chapter 15
A n anxious Dr. Bigsby doggedly followed him as he carried Nicole to his cabin, though not close enough, because Derek slammed the door in his face.
"But, Captain Sutherland! She needs medical attention. She could be gravely injured."
Derek paid him no heed; he was certain she would awaken soon, and he could begin grilling her on what she'd put in their water. He placed her on his bed, not exactly dumping her, but close to it. She cried out in pain, and he felt his first jolt of alarm.
Working quickly, he removed her boots and oilskins. Her skin was icy--he'd never felt another human being so cold. At the sight of her abraded neck and wrists, he choked out a call to Bigsby. With his black medical case in hand, the man entered at once, since he'd never moved.
"What can you do for that?" Derek asked, holding up her wrist. Salt had collected on her oilskins and rubbed against her skin like sandpaper.
"I have a salve, but that is the least of our concerns. I've completed a preliminary examination of her crewmates, and many suffered serious injuries. This one appears so fragile that I fear she could have internal damage. And she must be warmed without delay."
When Derek simply stood there, shaken at the anxious sound of the doctor's voice, Bigsby maneuvered him out of the way and started cutting through her shirt.
He'd only managed a small part when he said, "What the devil...?"
It was the mehndi that still lightly decorated Nicole's skin. "I'll do that!" Derek snatched the scissors from the doctor's hands. He didn't like the idea of another man seeing that painted skin. Painted for him.
Bigsby stared at him with an incredulous look on his face. "If she's...tattooed, it makes little difference to me. I was just surprised."
With scissors in hand, Derek stood unmoving, frowning down at her.
The doctor asked in a baffled tone, "What had you planned to do with her?"
"I'm a little short on plans where she's concerned," he said as he impatiently raked a hand through his hair.
"Obviously," the doctor muttered. Then in a louder voice, he declared, "If you won't let me help her, then you must get her out of her wet clothes and get her warm."
Derek resumed cutting her shirt. But what he revealed of her body made his breath whistle out. Angry bruises ran across her chest. Without thought, his hand dipped to her skin, his fingers brushing over the livid marks.
"Captain Sutherland," Bigsby said sharply, "you shouldn't be in here when I'm examining her. She'll be distressed when she awakens."
"I don't give a damn about that," Derek snapped. "I'm responsible for her now. She's...mine. I'm not leaving her alone."
Bigsby shook his head, then marched to the door to call for a bucket of hot water. When he returned and began his examination, he clucked over the girl like a mother hen. Derek could find no fault with the man's professional behavior. He removed all of her clothing, but kept a woolen blanket covering every part of her body that he wasn't currently examining.
Finished at last, Bigsby said, "She has a nasty lump on her head. I'm most concerned about that. You never know how head injuries will react. I'm also worried that she was probably in wet clothes for at least the duration of the storm. I'd be surprised if she doesn't develop a fever."
"What are you doing now?" Derek asked when the doctor directed the sailor with the hot water to set it beside the bed.
"I'm bathing her wounds," he answered.
"The hell you are! You're needed by other crew members more than you are here, and my crew comes first." At the doctor's troubled look, he gruffly said, "I'll do it."
Bigsby nodded. "Please be quick about it. She needs to be dry and warm as soon as possible. Captain Sutherland, I am not exaggerating when I say it could be life or death if you don't keep her warm. And you have to be gentle with her. Even if she's unconscious, her body registers the pain. You mustn't hurt her any more than she is."
Before he left, he added, "Since I'm not certain if she has sustained internal injuries, she absolutely cannot be moved from that bed."
Derek impatiently shoved the doctor out the door.
He turned back to his chore, grabbing a cloth out of the bucket of steaming water, and lifted it to her body. The task of caring for her proved to be punishing for him, because with every movement, she cried out in pain. Although he hated her for what she'd done, he couldn't help flinching.
Her legs and her slightly jutting hipbones were bruised even blacker than her chest. He could clearly make out where the rope had wrapped around her tiny waist, damaging the delicate skin. The lump on her head hadn't receded, and her skin was raw in several places. All in all, he'd never seen a woman in such bad shape. It scared the hell out of him.
He strove to treat her objectively but, brute that he was, he had to keep himself from imagining her skin and beautifully shaped body as they were the last time he'd enjoyed them. He was sweating when he finally finished washing the salt from her skin and wounds. He'd never tended a sick or injured person in
his life, much less a sick or injured woman. He felt clumsy and inept every time he placed his rough hands on her small body.
After drying her, he looked in one of her trunks for something to dress her in, but wasn't able to solve the conundrum that was her undergarments--scraps of lacy confections, too imaginative for him to figure out. Worse was the pleasure he found imagining her in all those silks and sheer materials; he was a guilty voyeur, an interloper.
Furious with himself, he stuffed everything back in the trunk and slammed the lid in frustration. He didn't even bother with the second chest, but hastily dressed her in one of his own shirts before bundling her with every blanket he could lay hands on.
"Her bruises are worse," he informed Bigsby later that night. "And she hasn't awakened yet."
"Captain, please allow me to say for the fifth time that I am fairly confident nothing is broken or permanently injured. And sleep is her body's way of coping with the trauma of her injuries."
Derek stalked off again. He trusted Bigsby. Hell, he'd let him examine her even though the thought of the doctor touching her infuriated him. But it hadn't escaped Derek's notice that every time he'd approached the doctor since they'd brought Nicole aboard, Bigsby would get this ridiculously knowing look. Sometimes he appeared to feel sorry for Derek.
Still, if Nicole showed no signs of improvement by tomorrow, he'd have to find her another doctor when they arrived at Cape Town. And a magistrate. Even as the thought arose, he dismissed it. He wouldn't surrender her to Cape Town's corrupt justice system, and not just because he could guess how a girl like her would be abused. It was, he told himself, because she was his to do with as he pleased now.
When he came back to his cabin, she was just turning in the bed. She shuddered from the small movement and began crying silently in her sleep. He wanted to kill--kill--the Irisher for letting her sail in these waters, much less for risking her life by pushing that ship in the Forties. And her crew had allowed her to steer in a gale. Because of their stupidity, she'd obviously struck the rocky shoals and gutted her father's ship. If he hadn't been in the area, they most likely wouldn't have survived.
"Captain, you're needed on deck right away!" Bigsby called from the door.
"What is it?" Derek snapped as he ran past the doctor.
"It would appear that her crew is taking the ship."
At dawn, when Derek staggered back to his cabin in exhaustion, he found Bigsby at Nicole's bedside. During the skirmish last night, the surgeon had evidently stayed behind with her. He didn't like to think about that. He wanted to care for her as much as possible and see her through this.
So he could throttle her when she woke up.
"Is she all right?"
"Yes, Captain--"
"Out."
Bigsby jumped from his seat. "Of course, Captain," the man said as he turned to leave. "I believe she'll wake up soon."
When the door closed, Derek was at Nicole's bedside. She appeared so slight, dressed as she was in one of his shirts without her cloak adding bulk to her slender form. He found himself willing her to awaken, and wondered why he was so apprehensive about her recovery. He didn't want to examine his feelings toward her. If pressed, he'd say he wanted her to wake so he could begin his retribution.
Strangely, he knew that in the next few days he would drink more than he ate and sleep little.
That night after returning from his duties, he sat at his desk, drinking heavily, and again his eyes trailed to her sea chests, the chests that he'd heedlessly brought aboard. He'd had no idea if they held things women couldn't live without, since he'd never packed for a woman or lived with one.
He surveyed them with a curious feeling of dread. They were just sitting there, those feminine sea chests. Directly beside his own. With a thread of something akin to panic, he understood that they were in his cabin and would stay there because, according to Bigsby, she couldn't be moved.
When he'd first brought her aboard, he'd strung up a hammock in his cabin, but he could only imagine the night of fitful, interrupted sleep he'd get once he could finally lie down. Damn it, he wanted his own bunk back.
She'd be in agony if he accidentally jostled her in the night, but she was small and took up little room in his large bed. He'd all but convinced himself to join her. Instead he sat debating, drinking for hours. Until she began shivering.
It wasn't cool in the room; the cabin boy constantly refilled the stove because of her. Yet there she lay, shaking more each minute. He could call for Bigsby. No, he decided, he'd take care of her himself. He stripped off his clothes, ready to sleep, and carefully slid in beside her to give her warmth.
But it made little difference. She was breathing deeply and mumbling, and he feared she'd developed a fever. Tentatively he inched closer to her and cautiously wrapped himself around her. She calmed and moved closer to him.
He felt a strange feeling of accomplishment. He'd made her shivering stop just by his presence and warmth. Unusual for him, he slept straight away.
Sometime in the night, he awoke to find her back snuggled against his chest for warmth and her head lying on his outstretched arm. His whole body tensed in response. Although she wore his shirt, it rode up her thighs, and he could feel every inch of her legs and...higher.
This was torture. His erection pulsed thick and rigid. Not being able to touch her when all he wanted to do was bury himself in her was maddening.
He could swear the little witch purposefully tormented him when she wriggled her bottom closer to him. He sucked in a breath--his cock rested at the press of her inner thighs. He gritted his teeth, straining to think of anything but her smell or her soft hair against his chest. But his mind kept coming back to how perfectly she fit between his hips. Their bodies meshed like two pieces of a puzzle, and he knew bedding her would bear that idea out.
Before her treachery, he would have made love to her. A thorough and selfless joining in which he would have licked her in secret places, run his tongue over the small dip between her intimate flesh and her pale thigh, and worshipped her breasts. A world away from the stiff fucking he planned for her now. The thought made him bitter--he wished he had the option to do both.
In the nights that followed, he made his way into his bunk to sleep. He awoke early, careful to leave in case she woke. Then, after he'd gone to the bridge to give out orders for the day, he'd return and check on her.
He could almost fool himself that if she wasn't aware of him spending time with her in bed, it didn't count as any kind of increased intimacy. He didn't have a choice in the matter anyway. Although he hadn't told Bigsby, Nicole shook in tremors each night. Since her skin was rarely hot, he'd concluded that the girl was gripped by what had to be hellish nightmares. Until he came to her.
Since Bigsby had finagled his way into caring for her when Derek had to take the bridge, the surgeon was with her for most of the day. Derek's only time to help her recover was in the nights, and he didn't want to stop just yet. It was a challenge to calm her.
On the third night, he couldn't stop her trembling even after he'd wrapped himself and three blankets over her. He couldn't get any closer to her. Their skin touched in every place it could, but she continued to moan quietly and shake. In his frustration, Derek put his hand in her hair and stroked her. When this helped, he leaned close to her ear and murmured, "Shhh, Nicole. You need to sleep."
She stilled and again snuggled against him. Derek swore. A fever might be better than her continued nightmares. Nightmares of the storm, he didn't doubt. He continued petting her, and her breathing deepened and calmed. Before he could chastise himself, deride his absurd behavior, he'd whispered, "Good girl," then fallen soundly asleep.
On the fourth day, he was rewarded when her eyes fluttered open.
When she parted her pallid lips, he poured a glass of water for her and awaited her questions. After blinking several times, her eyes settled wide open. She looked as if she battled panic, so he was relieved when she was able to phrase a c
lear question.
"Where am I?" she rasped before she let him pull her up for a drink.
"You're aboard the Southern Cross."
She drank deeply, then sank back down in confusion. "My ship...?"
"Went down."
At his answer, she brought a limp hand over her face as a broken sound burst from her lips. "C-Crew?" she whispered.
"Your crew,"--he skewered the word--"will be hauled off to the jail in Cape Town for attempted mutiny. It would seem that not knowing about your safety drove the bastards crazy."
"Did you...harm them?" she asked, staring at him accusingly.
"Yes, of course they were hurt when we defended my ship!" Her face became even paler, if possible, and she looked as though she might be sick, so he added brusquely, "If you mean to ask if anyone was killed, then the answer is no."
Such a look of relief crossed her face.... What were those men to her?
She reached out and gripped his wrist with a frantic strength in her small hand. "I must see Chancey." Her touch was like lightning running through him. He rushed to assure himself that her skin was just hot--she might in fact be getting feverish. When her demand sank in, he became furious.
"That will not happen, princess," he pronounced in clipped tones.
Abruptly she dropped his hand as her own fell by her side, all strength vanishing. She looked desolate, with such bleakness in her eyes that he came close to taking back what he'd said.
Inwardly, he cringed at his weakness where Lassiter's daughter was concerned. Was he losing his mind to even think about letting the woman who'd poisoned his crew see the man who'd tried to take his ship? The idea was ludicrous, and it wouldn't happen.
"I've attempted to get information on the poisoning from some of your crew, but they swear they don't know anything about it." He pinned her with a flinty glare. "Now you'll tell me about the sabotage."
Her eyes widened in surprise before she hissed, "As if you don't know."
"What the hell does that mean? How would I know?"