Beautiful Tempest

  “Wait until morning to rebandage it,” she said without looking to see if Damon was getting out of bed.

  He probably wouldn’t. He might even have passed out, for all she knew. But the door wasn’t locked yet. And she finally noticed the pile of bedding that had been dropped just inside it, so it appeared the first mate was really staying. But with Damon still in bed and Mortimer seated, she could probably get out of there and back into the water, but she wasn’t going to. It was too late for that. The ship was far enough from England that she could never make it back.

  She picked up one of the two remaining plates and sat down across from Mortimer, then ignored him. He was more likely there to protect Damon while he was in a weakened state, though the captain bloody well ought to seem weakened if he actually was.

  And then Damon was standing next to her, picking up the third plate. He started to take it to his desk as he did last night at her insistence, so she said grudgingly, “You can eat here—on the other end of the table. I don’t want to crane my neck if we’re going to talk.”

  “Are we?” He sat down. “You actually want to?”

  She shrugged. “Haven’t we been?”

  “I seem to recall the only thing you had to say to me before was how many different ways your father was going to kill me.”

  He shouldn’t have mentioned that, or was he just testing the waters, so to speak, since she hadn’t yelled at him once since he’d returned to the cabin. She was probably being too cordial. She’d be suspicious herself over such a complete about-face.

  So she gave him a nasty glare before saying, “That was then, this is now.”

  “And what’s different?”

  “The bloody length of the trip, that’s what!”

  “Ah.” He smiled. “Worried about boredom?”

  “It crossed my mind,” she mumbled.

  Mortimer had finished his food by then and stood up to tell Damon, “I’d rather use a hammock tonight.”

  “It won’t fit in front of the door.”

  “Is that really necessary? I can hold the key for you.”

  “You sleep like a log,” Damon replied. “You’re merely a fail-safe.”

  “You two bicker like old hens,” Jacqueline put in with a tsk. “A full day has passed and I’m not stupid. Jumping ship is no longer an option.”

  “And we’d believe you why?” Mortimer asked as he spread his bedding in front of the door.

  “D’you think I care if you do or not?” she retorted caustically.

  “And now who’s bickering?” Damon said.

  Nothing else was said after that, so she regretted inviting Damon to sit at the table, especially when she felt his eyes on her whether she looked his way or not. And she was getting tired. Who knew boredom could be exhausting.

  It wasn’t quite dusk so no lanterns had yet been lit and might not be when she wasn’t the only one who’d had an exhausting day. Finished eating, she stood up, but glanced at Damon when he mentioned, “You might be feeling a bit salty from your swim last night. I meant to offer you a bath earlier but got distracted. Would you like one now, Jack?”

  Before she could reply, Mortimer said, “Bloody hell, Damon, I’m already bedded down. Can’t that wait until tomorrow?”

  Damon ignored his friend and was looking at her, awaiting her answer. This was something else he’d never offered her before, and yes, she would dearly love a bath, just not tonight with the two of them in the cabin.

  “Do I get to hold the key while you two are on the other side of the door?”

  “No.”

  “Then no.”

  “Smart girl,” Mortimer mumbled.

  She ignored the blond and headed to her cot, tossing back at Damon, “I do still hate you.” She just wished it sounded more convincing.

  After she’d hit her pillow a few times and curled on her side facing the bulkhead, she heard Mort say in a near whisper, “Does she think you’re not sure?”

  “There’s always room for doubt.”

  Mortimer snorted. “You’ve got stitches to prove otherwise.”

  “But they’re such nice stitches.” Damon chuckled.

  “I can bloody well hear you!” Jacqueline snarled back at them.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  JACQUELINE WOKE WITH THE sound of hammering and shot out of bed with a growl, but then just stared when she saw what Damon was doing. Putting a latch on the door? On the inside of the door?

  “Do you always oversleep?” He’d turned about to give her a curious look. He was wearing a white shirt again, opened halfway down his chest. No blood was on it. He’d even tucked it into his buff-colored pants and tucked those into his long Hessian boots. And his hair was still damp. He’d bathed or had seawater dumped on him, as some sailors did. Was he still getting dressed outside the cabin? She’d like to be awake one morning to find out.

  She sat back on the edge of her cot. “I’m still on my London schedule, late-night parties, nothing needing my attention in the morning. And no maid to wake me any sooner.”

  He grinned. “But I just did that.”

  “So you did,” she mumbled.

  He finished what he’d been doing, then opened the door wide before he left it and went to his desk. That must have been a signal for Jackie, because the boy immediately entered the room and set the food tray on the table. Jacqueline got no greeting from the nervous lad and he left rather quickly, so she went to the table and sat down facing Damon. Only a single plate of eggs and sausage was on the tray, along with a pot of tea and a basket of muffins.

  “You’ve already eaten?”

  “Unlike you, I’m an early riser.”

  It bothered her that he could stand by her bed and watch her sleep in a room filled with sunlight. Did he? No, why would he?

  He added as an afterthought, “It’s too bad you can’t be trusted, Jack. You might otherwise have the freedom of the deck.”

  Her brows shot up. He’d never tempted her with that sort of freedom before. Why would he now? Bloody carrots again. He did like dangling them. But they both knew he’d never trust her on deck by herself, so saying something like that was cruel of him. Yet he wasn’t, she realized, and was a little surprised how sure she was about it. He was many things, but he’d never been cruel to her. Did he mention it because he wished he could trust her? That was an interesting thought. Her strategy of being nice to him might be paying off.

  Before she could ask him why he was treating her differently on this voyage, Jackie returned with a fresh bowl of water that he set on the desk in front of Damon. A little steam was coming out of it. Damon had already reached into his drawer for the shaving apparatus he kept under lock and key: razor, tin shaving cup, a short-bristled brush, and a can of soap chips that could be whipped into a lather.

  Jackie got one of the little towels from the washstand and dipped it into the hot water, wrung it out, and wrapped it around the lower half of Damon’s face, then started to whip up a lather in the cup. He’d apparently done this before, yet the lad looked so nervous Jacqueline ached for him.

  She watched them while she finished her breakfast. When she was done, she pointed out, “Jack is frightened to death that he’ll nick you.”

  “How else is the boy to learn without practice?”

  “I can do that. I do know how.”

  “Come here.”

  She snorted. “Don’t pretend you’re agreeing to let me wield that razor.”

  “Indeed not, I have another task in mind for you. But you can give the boy pointers. A little teaching wouldn’t be amiss.” Damon wiped beads of blood from the nick Jackie just gave him.

  She didn’t leave her chair, merely told the boy, “Just keep the strokes steady. Any pauses have a chance to cut instead of scrape.”

  When Jackie was almost finished with the shaving, Damon asked her, “How do you, or more to the point, why would you know how to shave a man?”

  “My brother taught me. He teased that I might want to sh
ave a husband someday. I was young enough to be curious about the process.”

  “Your brother with a look-alike aboard?”

  “Yes, Jeremy. My twin brothers aren’t old enough to shave yet.”

  “You have twins in your family?”

  “Gilbert and Adam, four years younger than I.”

  “Any other siblings?”

  “Not that we’re aware of.”

  He burst out laughing, then winced when he got nicked again for it. She was already scowling at him. “It’s not funny. My uncle Tony had a daughter he didn’t know about until she was already full grown. She’s well entrenched in the family now, as well as any other bastards that we are aware of. We take care of our own.”

  “Commendable. Most families don’t—at least don’t take care of members of the illegitimate sort.”

  “Yes, swept under the carpet, so to speak. But we’re not most families, Bastard.”

  “Apparently not. And you can use my name, now that you know it.”

  “I’m still debating whether to or not. The name Bastard suits you so well.”

  “Not really. My parents were married when I was born.”

  “To each other?”

  That was a bit harsh and even earned her one of his rare frowns. She reminded herself to sheathe her claws. That she was usually painfully blunt wasn’t going to help with her be-nice plan.

  So she offered nonchalantly, “You know the name bastard has more’n one meaning.”

  “Yes, something foul you’d wipe off your boots,” he replied curtly.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say—”

  “Are you apologizing?” He raised a black brow while he waited for her answer. She hated conceding, even with friends, let alone with him! However, she could wave half of a white flag, even if it did cause a slight blush. “I’m dropping the subject, Damon.”

  He nodded graciously—at least one of them could be!—and stood up and wiped his face. Jackie put everything in the wide bowl and left.

  “What was the task you mentioned?”

  “At your suggestion, I asked my cook about a cream for my sunburn. You were right, it does hurt a lot more today.” He tapped the small jar on his desk before he removed his shirt. “And since it was your idea, I didn’t think you’d mind applying it.”

  She winced at how red he was in the bright light of day. But touch him? The thought flipped her insides a little. It was her idea. And it did fit in line with her be-nice-to-him plan. But it might also work with the seduction idea she was still toying with. . . .

  She stood up and came around to the back of his chair, deliberately brushing against him as she leaned forward to pick up the jar. She had to clamp her mouth shut on her own gasp when her breast pressed against his shoulder. Maybe skip the seduction part! She hadn’t thought that through yet, and it was a double-edged sword if she ended up being the one seduced!

  She started to apply the cream to his shoulders, asking softly, “Are you sure you trust me to do this?”

  “Mort’s hands would do more damage than good. You’ve got soft hands, Jack.”

  He trusted her. He had to know with a burn under her fingers, she could make this painful. She didn’t. She carefully spread the cream over his back and upper arms, aware that her breathing was getting erratic. She wasn’t going to be able to finish, not when this was caressing of the most tender sort and having more effect on her than him! But she was wrong. His head leaned back, rested between her breasts. She could see that his eyes were closed, hear that his breathing was deeper. She was mesmerized for a moment; her hands stilled.

  “Don’t stop.”

  She stuck her fingers in the jar again and concentrated on something else. With him so relaxed, this was the perfect opportunity for her to get some answers.

  “You’ve been treating me differently this time. Why?”

  He stood up to put both of her creamy hands on his upper chest and held them there, his hands on the back of hers to guide them slowly across his skin. She was staring transfixed at what he was doing, so she didn’t see his expression when he said, “Isn’t it obvious? I’m attracted to you.”

  Nonplussed, she yanked her hands back. “You expect me to believe that when you’ve abducted me twice so you can lure my father to his death—where I’ll no doubt die, too? And my poor mother—”

  “Now you’re jumping to conclusions and thinking the worst of me.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?!”

  He started to answer, then closed his mouth, put his shirt back on, and went to the door, telling the guard, “Bring it in.”

  A sailor carried in a wooden tub. It was barely bigger than the bottom half of a barrel, which it might have been, but it was still a tub.

  “You think a bath will calm me down?” she fumed.

  “It might if you let me bathe you.”

  She fried him with her eyes.

  He sighed, feigned no doubt, before remarking, “I confess, this is one thing I didn’t think ahead on, so no fancy tub for you. But this one will do, yes?”

  “I think we had this discussion last night,” she retorted.

  “That was before I put a latch on the door for you. But be warned, if you think to keep it latched, the door will be removed and there will be no more baths.”

  She laughed for the first time in front of him. “As tempting as it might be to lock you out, I’m not starving myself this time around, and your door doesn’t have a crack wide enough to slide plates through. You won’t have to remove the door.”

  Four sailors came in with filled buckets. Actual sailors, not pirates this time, hair neatly cut, no flamboyance in their clothes, deferential nods in her direction, and not armed. She wondered why Damon had such a mix of men in his crew, but she was too eager to have her bath to ask about that now. When they were done, she walked over to test the water and found that it had been heated, then sucked the water off her finger and laughed again.

  “It’s salty.” She turned to tell Damon. “How’s that going to get the salt off me?”

  “That extra bucket there has freshwater to rinse with. You’ve sailed before with your family. You should know freshwater needs to be conserved.”

  She did know that, she just found it amusing that he was offering ocean water to get rid of the residue of ocean water. But he must have shared the thought with her because he added, “It’s worth laughing over, go ahead.”

  They thought alike too much! That was getting annoying. But he turned to leave and she realized he’d completely distracted her with the tub from getting any answers out of him.

  She yelled at his back, “Which of my conclusions are wrong? You’ve got to tell me something! Are you working for Pierre Lacross?”

  He glanced back, but only long enough to say, “Actually, I’m letting him work for me.” And the door closed behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  CONRAD SHARP STOOD UP to refill their glasses before he remarked to James, “You’re pensive tonight. Thinking about George?”

  James chuckled at his first mate. “I’m always thinking about George. But traveling with you again, in this particular direction, stirs a lot of old memories.”

  Connie grinned. “Those were good times. Remember when you had that battle with Short-Dog McGee? A bloody giant he was, and shocked the hell out of us both when he barely even noticed your first punch. I don’t think I ever laughed so hard when you were the one that got knocked across the room.”

  James gave his friend a quelling look. “So he had an iron gut. He didn’t have an iron jaw. And I recall you went flying, too, before we figured that out.”

  “You have to admit it was funny when he dropped to the floor after you gave him a little tap on his chin. Of course with him over a foot taller than you, you had to jump up to deliver that blow!” Connie laughed.

  “What I recall is, you dared me to take him on. Not one of your saner moments, old boy.”

  “But still fun.”

  “My own best
recollection as Captain Hawke was when we bumped into Jeremy in that tavern, and the boy, working off his mum’s description of me, asked if I was James Malory.”

  “I agree that was a great day. I’ll never forget the expression on your face when Jeremy confronted you. Once you got over your surprise, you were a proud papa.”

  “I’m still proud of the boy, rather, the man. I was sorry to disappoint the youngun by not letting him come with us on this voyage. But I’ll do anything to protect my children, Jeremy, Jack, Gilbert, Adam, even kill or die for them.”

  “It’s not going to come to that, but in about three weeks when we get to St. Kitts, you’ll no doubt be doing some killing.”

  James’s expression darkened. “I anticipate with pleasure getting my hands on that bastard who stole Jack, and Lacross or whichever asinine pirate is pulling his strings.”

  “You don’t regret retiring, Hawke, do you?” Connie asked to lighten the mood.

  “No, the only regret I have from that time in my life was that I never kept my promise to Sarah Ross.”

  “The pretty neighbor you had in Jamaica?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you got her away from that husband she wasn’t happy with.”

  “Not far enough, but that’s not what she asked of me.”

  James had rarely ever made promises back then and certainly not to women. He recalled vividly the day he did. Sarah had brought over a basket of treats that she’d baked for Jeremy. He knew from Jeremy that she often did that when James was away. But he was home that day and she asked if she could speak with him privately, so he walked with her in the garden behind his house. He’d bought the plantation that bordered hers to give Jeremy a home, not to actually become a planter. But he did anyway. The land was simply too fertile to ignore, and at Connie’s request they planted crops on most of it, though James insisted on having gardens about the house.

  When she didn’t speak immediately, James remarked with a smile, “Your boy has been throwing rocks at my house again. I hope you don’t think you need to apologize for him.”