by Cat Lindler
“You cannot be planning what I know you’re planning,” Christian said.
Garrett placed his hand over his heart. “Chris, you wound me! She has been flirting with me.”
“She’s eighteen and a maid of gentle breeding. In English society, females learn to flirt while still in their cradles. They have no idea of where it leads. Regardless, that’s no excuse. Every female between the ages of ten and eighty, even the blind ones, flirts with you. Do you have to fuck them all?”
Fuck? Samantha pursed her lips. She was unfamiliar with the word, though she had no need of a crystal ball to divine its meaning.
Garrett’s features settled into an affronted expression. “I resent that implication. Though I appreciate the flattering allusion to my manhood, it would be physically impossible, not to mention morally reprehensible, for me to do so.”
Christian snorted. “Since when have you and morality had more than a nodding acquaintance? I’m cautioning you, Garrett, if you compromise Chloe, you’ll marry her.”
“M-m-marry?” The word bubbled up from Garrett’s throat the same way manure would have had he stepped into an odorous pile whilst in his best boots.
“Marry.” Christian’s voice was firm, his eyes steely. “And I’ll walk behind you with a pistol in your kidneys to ensure you carry out your obligation. Do we understand each other?”
Garrett swallowed hard and nodded. Then he smiled. “Since you mentioned the ‘M’ word, old man, isn’t it time you considered settling down? How about Sam? You two seem to suit quite nicely.”
Samantha clapped her hands over her mouth to muffle the squeak. Her marry Christian? What an appalling notion!
“Bite your tongue,” Christian growled and marched away from Garrett.
After the men’s discussion, Chloe, much to her apparent dismay, received only hand massages.
When the ship rocked at anchor, Aunt Delia held decorum classes on deck after supper. Before long, the sailors were dancing like drawing-room dandies to hornpipe music and drinking tea out of battered pewter cups with their pinkies sticking out to the side. Samantha asked Delia why she deemed it important for sailors to learn the fundamentals of society protocol.
“A generous dose of civility and manners never hurt anyone,” Delia answered with an aggrieved sniff.
Samantha saw the most astonishing transformation in Pettibone. He worked a sailor’s day, dressed in clothes borrowed from some accommodating soul, coiling rope, hauling on lines, winching up anchor, standing watches, and taking a turn at the wheel. She marveled at the old man’s strength and stamina. His stuffiness and haughty manner fled and left a jovial, hardworking man in its place. He looked and acted years younger, tanning in the sun and hardening from the work. Samantha caught a glimpse of the powerful young man he must have been centuries ago.
Christian and Garrett also worked as common sailors, carrying out whatever tasks the captain required and always at hand when the crew needed a strong arm or back. Christian spent much of his time spelling the captain at the wheel, where the scientist showed a surprising expertise and familiarity with sailing ships.
Christian had brought along a trunk filled with basketballs. He nailed empty bushel baskets to two facing masts, and when the ship sat at anchor or sped smoothly along by steam power, he shot baskets, often accompanied by Garrett and Cullen.
On a still, muggy evening while anchored off the coast of South America, Christian dug out a basketball and taught the game to the crew.
Rowdiness ensued with a plentitude of what Christian called “flagrant or intentional fouls.” Everyone not actively engaged in the game stood along the sidelines to keep the ball from disappearing overboard. Narcissus, who now had the run of the ship and the affection of the sailors, chased the ball whenever it wandered out of bounds. Though unable to pick up and retrieve the large object, he kicked it like a football, which it was, and batted it with his tail, out of his pursuers’ hands, until he tired of playing and allowed them to rescue it.
Samantha even joined the game after a while, but when she pulled her old trick, Christian, acting as referee, pointed at the basket. “No goal,” he yelled. “Sam, you know it’s supposed to go through the top of the basket, not the bottom.”
She argued, citing as defense her relatively shorter height. He slapped her with a foul and confined her to a barrel of nails until she regained her temper and apologized.
They naturally gravitated into two teams, the Redcoats and the Yanks, and played whenever they had the opportunity. Samantha developed into a valuable player on the Redcoat team once she mastered the fundamentals. With her small size and quickness, she dribbled circles around the bigger, clumsier men. Only Christian or Garrett could steal the ball from her, and even they had difficulty doing so. However, her main threat soon came from young Cullen, who began to outshine them all.
To Samantha’s frustration, the Redcoat coach, Aunt Delia, told her niece that she would permanently bench her should she try to shoot baskets. But whenever a Yank committed a foul against Samantha, even Aunt Delia was unable to prevent her from taking her foul shots. She never made them. A few times in the middle of a game, Christian clearly took pity on her and lifted her up by her waist to the basket, allowing her to dunk the ball. His team always booed and hissed and contested the points.
The first time the unfortunate Garrett ran full tilt into Samantha and knocked her flat onto her back, Christian dashed over and picked her up. She blinked at him with crossed eyes.
“You’re too small to take charges,” he said tightly. “If you ever do that again, I’m banning you from the game.”
She marked it as one of the few occasions they agreed on an issue. Despite her shaky condition, she demanded her foul shots.
He shook his head. “Most certainly not. I believe we can all agree to grant you the two points.”
She remained as adamant as he, and eventually, after much shouting and a few tears, she got her way. This time she tried a different strategy. She tossed the ball underhanded by bringing it up from between her knees … and came close. The next one went in the basket, and both teams patted her on the back. Samantha later learned that, while she was recovering from her collision with Garrett, he took a brutal charge from Christian, and the ball had not even been in play. He complained about the lump on the back of his head for a week.
Owing to his age and superior wisdom, Pettibone normally assumed the role of referee and called fouls with much whistling on a hornpipe. Affecting a composed, disdainful manner when the players questioned his calls in a less than polite manner, he tilted his long, sharp nose up in the air and pointed stiffly to the sidelines, tossing recalcitrant players out of the game with abandon at the slightest infraction. Once he even ejected Aunt Delia. He demanded she retire to her cabin when she stomped onto the court, shook her fists at him over a decision she saw as unfair, and called him a “blind, old fool.”
The Yanks were the better team, with both Christian and Garrett, who had more experience with the game, and Cullen, who played as if he had emerged from his mother’s womb with a basketball in his hands. At times, Christian took Pettibone’s place as referee, especially when the Yanks grumbled about the British referee showing bias toward the Redcoats. But Christian could not remain on the sidelines for long; his love of the game called to him, and he soon returned to the court.
One afternoon when azure sky seamlessly met the sea and gulls from the coast described lazy spirals about the ship, Samantha leaned over the bow railing to watch dolphins leap across the ship’s path. Having learned to separate his firm strides from the others’ long ago, she heard Christian approaching. When he stopped behind her, his masculine odor enveloped her.
“Why do they do that?” She pointed to the dolphins and turned her head to look at him. Tied back with a ribbon and tossed by the wind, her long hair streamed behind her like a banner and flowed across his chest and face. He brushed it aside, draped it over her shoulder, and rested his hand there t
o keep the tresses in place. His eyes were bright today and crinkled at the corners in the sunlight. They held soft interest instead of the angry or indifferent light she had seen too much of lately.
He looked out at the dolphins, and his expression grew thoughtful. “No one really knows. Sailors believe dolphins steer them to safe waters. They’ve saved drowning sailors by using their bodies as floating buoys or by towing unconscious men close to shore. For some unfathomable reason, dolphins seem to have an affinity with humans. Lord knows why. They’re hunted for meat in most parts of the world.”
Her lips slanted upward. “Why do you believe they leap like that in front of the ship? You must have some theory.”
He returned the smile. “I daresay they’re playing, enjoying the thrill of the close encounter. I also believe they’re waiting for us to throw the galley waste overboard so they can obtain a free meal. They have an especial fondness for fish heads.” He winked, and a hint of devilry flickered in his eyes. “But I’ve noticed they have little liking for your jerked chicken.”
When she turned back to the rail, his lips whispered across the back of her bare neck, though she could have imagined it. Dare she find out?
Two nights later while Christian stood watch, footsteps tapped on the boards. Turning, he leaned back against the railing, folded his arms over his chest, and crossed his ankles. In the radiance of the lanterns and stars, Samantha came into sight, pausing by the ladder and nibbling at her fingernails—a familiar habit, one in which she indulged when nervous or fearful.
His heart gave a leap, as did his cock. He dismissed both unruly organs.
She moved toward him, seeming to push her feet forward.
He smiled warily, suspecting their meeting privately in the night boded ill for his peace of mind. “Dare I ask what mischief you’re about at this late hour?”
“Nothing.” She lowered her head and paid particular attention to worrying a nail head in the planks with the toe of her half boot.
“I beg to differ with you. What do you want?”
She looked up with luminous eyes glowing in the starlight. “I wish to request a favor.”
Warning bells clanged in his brain. “What?” he asked with caution.
“You see, I have developed this theory. You are a scientist, and scientists are fond of theories, are they not?”
“What makes me suspect I’ll regret my answer if I say yes?”
She pouted prettily. “Set aside your reservations for once and simply answer the question. I assure you the ship will not sink if you do.”
“Right, I’ll bite. I cannot wait to discover where this is leading. Indeed, I’m fond of theories. Now I suppose you plan to tell me yours?”
“Of course.”
Her infectious grin coaxed a smile from him.
“I have contemplated our kiss in Charleston and formed a theory,” she said.
“I die with anticipation.” He recollected that kiss, and a jolt of searing heat danced along his nerves like Saint Elmo’s fire.
“I imbibed a great quantity of wine that night,” she said after taking a deep breath, “and when you kissed me, I felt dizzy and … and strange. I can only conclude that my condition resulted from becoming foxed on the wine. You see, I seldom imbibe strong drink.”
His lips twitched. She consumed two small glasses of wine. She really was an innocent if she had no inkling of the emotions that flared between them. Though he suspected her ultimate destination, he allowed her to plow ahead into rough seas.
“The only true way to test my theory is to try it again when I’ve had naught to drink. Do you not agree?”
“I most emphatically do not.” He moved to turn away. Her small hand on his arm stopped him. Her eyes revealed a vulnerability that grabbed his soul and less saintly parts of his body. Blood pumped slow and heavy into his loins, and he groaned.
“Will you kiss me again, Chris?” Color rose into her face. “As a scientific experiment to test my theory?”
His resistance wavered, and he cursed his weakness. If he were to kiss her, could he trust himself not to become overwhelmed by this blasted obsession with her?
“For science?” she asked, her voice becoming very small.
“Very well, in the interest of scientific inquiry …” He bent over and bussed her on the cheek.
Her face fell, and tears welled up in those marvelous eyes. “You are mocking me, pretending to misunderstand. I should have known you would not take me seriously.”
He released his breath in a slow stream of air. “Why yes, Sam, I suppose I was, though I had no intention of giving offence. We’ll carry out this experiment properly. Pucker up.”
Holding her wrists in his hands, he pulled her arms behind her back and gently drew her up against him. A tingling shiver swept all the way to his toes. He dipped his head and moved his mouth as lightly as a breath over hers, kissing the corners and running the tip of his tongue over the curves. When she parted her lips, he moved on, kissed her nose and her eyelids, placed fleeting kisses across her forehead and temple and down her cheeks.
At last he settled his lips over hers and slanted his head, fitting and molding to the shape and softness of her mouth. He flicked his tongue barely inside, out again, ran his tongue over her teeth and tantalized himself with quick thrusts. When her tentative tongue found his and caressed it, heat fired his groin, and he eased back, leaving her lips, and pulled her up tighter against him, allowing his erection to pulse against her belly.
“So sweet,” he murmured. “You have the most luscious mouth, Sam, soft as a jaguar’s fur, sugary as a mango, and smooth as butter. Hot, melted butter.”
When she opened her mouth, he delved back inside, deepened the kiss, filling her sweet cavity with his tongue and stealing her breath. He thrust rapidly in and out in imitation of what he ached to do, and she moaned and trembled, her head falling back. His tongue went deeper, his lips growing harder, greedier. She kissed him back with her lips, her tongue, and her body undulated against him. Heat rose swiftly and unbearably. His testes ached, and he rubbed his swollen shaft against her softness to dispel some of the discomfort.
Samantha broke the kiss. “Release my hands,” she said in a quavering voice.
“Not on your life.” He continued to trace a moist trail across her throat and under her chin, his tongue traveling across skin like hot silk.
“Why?”
“It keeps both our hands occupied,” he murmured against the hollow at the base of her throat, gliding his mouth downward, as low as her modest dress would allow. He brushed kisses back to her mouth again, tonguing the corners and the enchanting dip in her upper lip.
“Chris,” she said, her face heated and flushed, “please release me. I want to touch you.”
Had she thrown a bucket of cold water on him, he could not have pulled away faster. His back stiffened, and though he still held her hands, he stepped back until their bodies no longer touched. “Bloody hell,” he said, “you have no notion of what you’re saying.”
“I do. Please release my hands.” Her eyes darkened into turbulent golden pools. “I merely want to touch you, and I would like for you to … to touch me.”
Her words sliced the air like a pirate’s cutlass. He dropped her hands and backed up another step. “You know nothing,” he said harshly. “Your innocent touching wouldn’t stop there. Return to bed. I give you fair warning that next time you attempt a stunt like this, you’ll find yourself on your back with your skirt up around your ears, and I’ll be inside you faster than you can say … theory.”
Visibly stung by his words, she lowered her eyes, spun around, and ran away.
With a deep scowl, Christian watched her leave. Though he was relieved at her withdrawal, shame and disgust at his behavior pricked him. How could he set an example for Garrett when he couldn’t even keep his hands off Samantha? It made no difference that she had instigated the encounter. He had the experience, was older, supposedly wiser.
Wh
at attraction did the little imp have that drew him in so tightly? His mind and body had tangled into knotted threads, and he was helpless to find the ends to straighten them out. He had only to look at her, and his cock mutinied. He had to resolve this unseemly state of affairs in some fashion, but damned if he knew how. One wed a girl like Samantha; one didn’t simply fuck her. Marriage! He was disinclined to pursue that path, particularly with an aristocrat. From his perspective, the situation was more satisfactory when she hated him.
What was happening to him? Lust, love, insanity, middle-aged senility? He supposed he could take his pick.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They approached Cape Horn on the southernmost tip of South America, and good weather paced them. Other than occasional rolling swells, the ocean remained glassy. Clear blue skies stretched from horizon to horizon. When the wind freshened and filled the sails, Captain Lindstrom cocked a weather eye skyward and pointed out the subtle signs of changing conditions. Gannets, gulls, and cormorants no longer accompanied the ship. Their desertion predicted heavier weather ahead.
Well known for its stormy, unpredictable seas, this stretch of water was the most dangerous they planned to cross. They would swing around the Cape through the Drake Passage, a narrow strip of ocean between South America and Antarctica. An alternative passage existed through the Straits of Magellan, but it would have added several weeks to the journey, and both Christian and Samantha expressed their impatience to reach their destination.
When they neared the Cape, sailing between the Falkland Islands and Tierra del Fuego, the ocean swells rose higher, lifting like the exposed backs of marine leviathans. They progressed beyond the islands dotting the coast, and deep troughs and foaming whitecaps began to mar the waters. Cold ocean currents streaming off Antarctic glaciers met warm tides flowing down the South American coast, creating a volatile mix. The waters clashed, and the sea grew turbulent, tossing the ship about.
