Beautiful Tempest

by Johanna Lindsey

  When she finally heard the key turning, her heart skipped a beat. Which made her blink. What the devil? She was not excited that he was back. And it might not even be him. It could be Jackie with her dinner, so she stayed where she was.

  But it was Bastard, and he only paused for a moment when he saw her in his chair. He was still shirtless, so she could see that his wound was still bleeding, though not as much blood was on the bandage as in the morning, so his dressing had been changed at least once today. And he was a bit sunburned.

  “Why are you commanding your ship in your condition?” she demanded. “You have a first mate who could do it while you rest and recover.”

  “Did you miss me?”

  He walked slowly toward the desk with that damned smile she hated. She still didn’t vacate his chair, so he half sat on the edge of the desk, one foot on the floor, one leg dangling. And that was seeing far too much of him far too close. The man was too masculine, his chest too wide, his arms too thick with muscles, his eyes so light in contrast to his black hair and the stubble on his cheeks. She was having a little trouble breathing.

  But he distracted her with “Mortimer might be my first mate and get things done nicely, but he doesn’t like acting as captain or taking the wheel.”

  She scoffed, “You’ve likely got a half dozen men at least who know how to steer. Even I’m capable . . .”

  “Of sailing us back to England?”

  She growled to herself for telling him too much. “No, of course not.”

  “You don’t lie very well, Jack. So your father even made a helmsman out of you? What else did he teach you?”

  She clamped her mouth shut and bolted out of the chair to head back to the cot, tossing behind her, “The sun burned you. It was really stupid of you to go without a shirt for the entire day.”

  He didn’t reply. Once she was seated in the middle of her narrow bed with her legs crossed, she guessed why. He was still looking at her legs, scrutinizing what she was now wearing.

  He even put a hand to his forehead and sighed before he took his seat and, after another long moment of staring at her legs, said cautiously, “I don’t need to ask where you got those britches, but do you really want to wear them?”

  “Of course I do. It’s how I always dress aboard a ship. If I had packed for this trip, you’d see that I have my own britches, tailor-made just for me for ocean travel. Wearing skirts that get tossed about in the wind is so ridiculous.”

  “You noticed wind in here, did you?”

  He was grinning. She wasn’t. Which might be why he quickly said, “But I believe we were discussing why I’m only half-dressed myself. So perhaps you don’t know that it’s nigh impossible to get blood out of white lawn, or any material, for that matter. I simply prefer not to stain my wardrobe just because you couldn’t keep your dagger out of me.”

  Was he trying to make her feel bad about that? When she’d do it again if she could?

  “But I did notice the sun, Jack, when Mort tossed a rain cloak at me. That was before noon or I’d be a lot redder than this.”

  She ought not to be talking to him at all and wouldn’t be if she wasn’t starved for conversation. His fault. Everything was his fault. How the deuce had she survived a week of this before? She couldn’t remember pacing then, couldn’t remember anything except her rage. And where the devil was it now? But she didn’t want it now, did she? It might have kept her from noticing the boredom previously, but she had decided to try “nice” this time and then maybe, just maybe, seduce him into taking her home.

  So she watched him for a moment before she asked, “How is your wound?”

  “Would you like to examine it?”

  Should she? No, definitely not. It was too soon to get that close to him.

  But she pointed out, “The doctor will be coming to do that.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because he ought to check you for fever, infection, especially since you stupidly spent the day working instead of resting.”

  “If you keep that up, Jack, I’m going to start thinking you’re worrying about me.”

  She snorted, then grit her teeth, which made him grin. The man was entirely too friendly for a kidnapping pirate. And much too easily amused. It was as if a joke were lingering in the room whose punch line she’d missed, and every time he looked at her, he was reminded of it. He couldn’t really be so damned insouciant and cheerful when this situation was beyond serious, could he? That would make him—heartless.

  “I’ve seen all of Dr. Death’s incompetence that I care to. The crew might trust his tending, but I don’t. Besides, he’s likely drunk this time of day.”

  Her eyes flared wide. “Was he foxed when he stitched you last night?”

  “You couldn’t smell it?”

  “And you let him sew your wound?!”

  “Are you ready to play doctor, Jack?”

  She stopped herself from laughing. This was the perfect opportunity to try to be nice to him when it was at his own suggestion and he wouldn’t be suspicious about the change in her attitude. But what if she couldn’t control herself when she got near enough to him to examine his wound? What if she socked him instead . . . ?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  YOU DON’T NEED TO agonize about it, Jack. I wasn’t being entirely serious.”

  She could tell Bastard was still joking, so she sighed. “I wasn’t aware that seriousness came in half measures. Remove the bandage and I’ll have a look. For all you know, your foxed doctor made the wound worse, not better.”

  She didn’t have to get close to him just to look. And it would be a good start, grudging help rather than offered help. So she went to the side of the desk. But he hadn’t removed his bandage. He was staring at her legs again!

  “You might want to untie my shirt if you’re going to wear those.”

  “Why?” She glanced down at the britches. “They’re a good fit.”

  “No, they’re not. They’re so tight around your hips and thighs that you might as well be naked.”

  “Oh.”

  The blush came instantly but left just as fast as soon as she saw that he’d stopped looking at her. He was unwrapping his bandages and keeping his eyes on the task, so she quickly unknotted his shirt and pulled the now-wrinkled lower half of it down to her knees. But she definitely wasn’t going to forget that his seeing her in tight britches bothered him. Seducing him might not be so difficult after all.

  The square bit of padding the bandages had held in place was stuck to the wound. He pulled it off slowly without wincing before his eyes came back to hers. “Well?”

  She tsked. “Look at it yourself. You can’t tell anything about that wound with all that blood caked around it. It needs to be washed first.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She moved to his washstand and grabbed one of the little towels on the shelf under it. She soaked it in the water bowl and wrung it out, then came back and tossed it at him. “You go ahead. You know if I do it, it’s going to hurt so bad you’ll cry.”

  He burst out laughing. Once the dried blood was rubbed off, she could see the slit she’d caused was about an inch and a half. She winced a little even if he didn’t.

  She frowned and leaned closer, then exclaimed, “Good grief, the doctor only gave you one stitch and it’s already unraveled. No wonder it’s still bleeding.”

  He shrugged. “He probably got distracted when you called me a murderer.”

  She snorted at that reminder. “You didn’t lock the door. I assume someone’s standing guard out there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then send him for a needle and thread. You need proper stitching if you want that wound to heal anytime soon.”

  “Still determined to make me cry?”

  “Good guess,” she quipped with a tight grin.

  But he did as she suggested, though he told the sailor to send someone else to fetch what was needed. Jackie arrived moments later with a needle and
thread and a tray of food.

  “Bring me a lit lantern or a candle,” Jacqueline told the boy. “I need to pass the needle through a flame.”

  “So you received doctoring lessons, too?” Bastard said with some surprise.

  “No, but I’ve seen a competent physician at work before, and I know a dirty needle is worse than no needle a’tall.”

  “But how are you with a needle?”

  “I know how to sew, if that’s what you mean. My cousin Judy wanted to learn embroidery and I wasn’t going to just sit there and watch her do it, so I learned, too.”

  “I would have thought you’d have been out slaying dragons instead.”

  “She and I did everything together. I didn’t like the sewing, but she was pleased that I tried it with her.”

  “And then she hunted dragons with you?”

  She glanced up at him and noticed his grin. “Is that what you did as a child? Pretend to slay dragons?”

  He laughed. “Actually, Mort and I pretended to slay pirates. But then we grew up in the Caribbean. I don’t think there are any dragons there. Was that a real smile, Jack?”

  It had been, for the briefest moment, but she wasn’t going to kick herself about it. “I was just imagining a dragon romping through the islands. But Judy and I didn’t need to play pretend. Our family is too big. There was always something exciting happening to occupy us instead.”

  “Did she reciprocate and try all of your activities as well?”

  “Goodness, no. Some of the things I cajoled my father into teaching me, she considered too unladylike for her. But she watched and cheered me on.”

  “Steering a ship isn’t dangerous.”

  “Fetch me a rapier and I’ll demonstrate.”

  He chuckled. “Lessons of that sort, really?”

  “Much more fun than needlepoint.”

  To have such a normal conversation with him was a little disconcerting. A good start to her plan, but it still felt odd discussing their childhoods in such a whimsical way. But she didn’t want to waste this opportunity to find out more about him, maybe even something personal that she could use against him.

  So she said, “I would have guessed you grew up in England, not the Caribbean. You certainly sound English.”

  “Have I intrigued you again?”

  “Again? Oh, that,” she scoffed, thinking of the masquerade ball. “Any mystery is intriguing, and that’s all you were—when you were wearing that ridiculous mask. Were you born in the islands?”

  “Yes, of English parents. You’d be surprised how many Englishmen settle in the West Indies on the islands Britain has claimed.”

  “Which island?”

  “If you’re trying to distract me from my pain, you’re doing a good job.” He brushed his fingers softly over the hand she was leaning on his desk.

  She jerked her hand away. She was out of her depth, trying to be nice to her worst enemy. She wished her fake relative, Andrew, were here to give her a few acting lessons. She was making a good start at being nice to Bastard, and she didn’t want to ruin it by getting angry over his touching her.

  “I’ll wager your fancy cook has something for sunburns or knows how to make a cream for it. You should ask, because that burn is going to feel worse tomorrow than it does today.”

  “You know about sunburns, too?”

  “I fell asleep in a field one summer and woke up with burned feet and hands. Yes, it can be painful.”

  “Why were you without shoes?”

  “I liked running about barefoot at that age—well, sneaking about. Shoes were too noisy for sneaking. But you ought to treat your sunburn.”

  He raised a brow. “Your concern is . . .”

  When he didn’t finish, she did, saying, “Suspect? I recall the cream stinging horribly for a while before it got around to soothing.”

  He laughed, but then he slapped his chest, leaving a white handprint on the pink skin. “This is nothing, Jack. I grew up under a much hotter sun.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Jackie returned with a lit candle, which he set on the desk next to Jacqueline, reminding her, “Don’t let your food get cold again, m’lady.”

  She gave the freckled boy a hard look. “What did we agree on?”

  He blushed. “M’lady Jack.”

  “That wasn’t it,” she mumbled as the boy quickly left, then said to Bastard, “He really is nervous around you, isn’t he? You should put him at ease.”

  “I haven’t adopted him. He’ll figure out in due course that I don’t bite.”

  That was debatable, particularly since Bastard’s expression implied the remark had been for her rather than the boy. But starting an argument wasn’t on the agenda tonight, so she held her tongue and reached for the needle instead, but realized she ought to remove the broken stitch first before she put in neat ones.

  “This will hurt,” she said, but yanked the thread out before she finished the warning.

  “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

  She managed not to grin, but glanced up at his face before she straightened. Damn, not again. Those sensual bright eyes of his, pinning her, stirring her insides, stealing her breath and voice. She closed her eyes, counted to ten, breathed again.

  “Jack?”

  “I was doing that imagining thing again,” she lied, and moved away from him.

  “So was I,” he said in husky tones.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  YOU SURE YOU WANT her doing that?”

  Jacqueline didn’t glance at Mortimer, who’d entered the cabin silently and was now standing next to her. Her cheeks were still hot from that mesmerizing moment she’d just shared with her nemesis. It had been a mistake to get this close to him again, and she wasn’t even done yet!

  “She’s a competent seamstress,” Bastard calmly told his friend.

  “She’s a competent wound maker,” Mortimer rejoined caustically.

  Belligerence she could more easily handle, and being nice to Bastard’s disagreeable first mate wasn’t part of her plan. “If you’ve business here, state it, then get out. I need full concentration to apply this needle.” She picked up the needle and passed it twice through the flame before pointing at Bastard. “And you get on the bed. I’m not getting a kink in my back for you.”

  He was grinning widely as he stood up and went to the bed. But Mortimer crossed his arms and demanded, “Why are you willing to tend the wound you gave him?”

  “I didn’t volunteer, he asked me to. But are you under the impression that proper stitching isn’t going to hurt?”

  “So you just want to cause him more pain?”

  “Of course, why else would I be doing this?” she quipped. “You can leave now.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m sleeping in here again tonight.”

  That gave her pause. “Why?”

  “You don’t want a chaperone?”

  She snorted.

  Mortimer crossed over to the dining table to get a plate off the larger tray Jackie had brought before adding, “I was talked into giving up my cabin for the prisoners. Damon insisted I share his.”

  Damon? Bastard was giving up his name this time? Or had Mort just revealed something he shouldn’t. But he didn’t look as if he’d just blundered, and when she glanced at Bastard or, rather, Damon, he didn’t look as if he cared. What the devil was different this time?

  She’d asked for his name before, but he’d refused to give it. She’d been kept utterly isolated before, at least until Catherine had been allowed into the cabin to convince her to eat and, when she wouldn’t, had let slip that Damon was her lover. There was no accounting for taste between criminals, she supposed, but really, the man would have done better with anyone other than that nasty witch. But this time, sailors, first mates, even cabin boys, had been let in to see her. Something was definitely different. Damon hadn’t said what and probably wouldn’t if asked. But she still tried.

  “Damon is your real name?
”

  “I prefer Bastard.”

  “So do I,” she snapped.

  She should have known he wouldn’t enlighten her, but realized it could simply be because she would be dying this time along with her father. So it didn’t matter whom she could identify or what names she knew.

  That thought made her grip the needle like a weapon, but only briefly. Be nice! Honey, not spit and fire. She took a deep breath and followed Damon to the bed, where he had lain down to accommodate her. Damon. The name had a nice ring to it, but she wasn’t sure she’d call him that when she was too used to calling him Bastard. She supposed she could try, in the interest of her plan.

  “This will hurt,” she warned as she sat down on the edge of the bed. “The wound needs at least four stitches to keep it closed, but then you should be able to dress properly tomorrow without staining your shirts, with another bandage to guarantee it.”

  “Might as well make it five stitches then, just to be sure.”

  “Really?”

  “Have at it, Jack, so we can eat. I apologize for delaying your dinner. It’s been a long, tiring day.”

  The moment he’d entered the room, she’d forgotten how hungry she was. Now, she felt nervous. This wasn’t white cloth pulled tight over an embroidery frame, but real skin, his skin.

  She met his eyes. “Maybe you should get foxed first?”

  He chuckled. “No, I’ll be fine and so will you. Imagine you still hate me.”

  She pressed the needle through, but had to pause when her stomach churned. She wished she could close her eyes, but couldn’t. Just get it over with! You do hate him with every fiber of your body, but imagine he’s white cloth. . . .

  She leapt away from the bed as soon as she tied off the last stitch and almost knocked down Mortimer, who’d come up silently behind her to watch. “That is a neat bit of stitching, girl.”

  “D’you have something that requires it?” she snarled. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

  Mortimer just laughed and took his plate back to the table to sit and finish eating while he watched her. Damon hadn’t made a single sound during that stitching. If he’d winced at all, she hadn’t looked at his face to see it.