Scissors in hand he stood before his washstand. He tilted the mirror to better see his wound and had just slipped one blade under the strips below his arm when a knock rattled his stateroom door.
“Come.”
As usual, Hawkins’s timing was impeccable. What would he do without the man?
Neck bent to see his handiwork, Oliver clamped his teeth against the shooting pain and edged the blades farther under the bands.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Blaike.
He started and jabbed the blade into his ribs.
“Ouch, blast it! I nearly impaled myself.” Withdrawing the scissors, he sent her a frustrated scowl. “What are you doing?”
“Your dressing should’ve been changed hours ago.” Her lovely eyes grew round as groats as she raked him with her reproachful gaze, then they narrowed to accusatory slits. “Oh, Oliver. You’re bleeding again. What have you been doing?”
She hurried to him, unclasping her cloak as she flew across his quarters. After draping her wrap over his desk chair, she pushed her sleeves to her elbows.
“How did this happen? Your wound has been healing so well.” She pulled her mouth taut. “At least I thought it was. Perhaps I should’ve sutured it after all. Or cauterized it. That book,” she pointed to the thick, russet leather volume on the corner of his desk, “recommends doing so to stop bleeding.”
Doubt shadowed the gaze she lifted to meet his.
“The fault isn’t yours, Blaike. It’s mine. A captain’s duties are often rigorous.”
And he’d have to be on his deathbed to permit a fire-heated blade to sear his flesh.
She needn’t know he’d climbed the rat lines earlier to rescue an enraged bird screaming, “Bums and bubbies” and “fusty luggs,” as the Sea Gypsy’s crew hooted and guffawed below.
At least M’Lady Lottie provided a welcome distraction for the men.
“It’s a good thing I followed you.” Pointing to the bed, she took the scissors from him, her gaze lingering a trifle overly-long on his hairy chest. “Sit down, please.”
Oliver obeyed, leaning back on his hands, and tracking her graceful movements. He’d never tire of that. Or hearing her voice. Or her laughter.
Acutely conscious of his nakedness, for an instant, he considered how he might partially cover himself. He pitched the notion aside almost immediately.
Blaike wouldn’t be able to tend to her ministrations if he did.
She’d seen his chest numerous times over the past few days, but there’d always been someone else present to make the situation more respectable. And less torturous for the carnal cravings he must deny. Far too tempting to have her touching him when, with every pore, every nerve, he longed to take her in his arms and kiss her luscious lips until they both gasped.
In fact, he’d like to kiss every part of her, starting with her bowed mouth and ending with her dainty toes, worshipping every curve in between.
Concentrate on something else.
Not the sweet essence wafting from her pearly skin.
“Do you want a dram of brandy or whisky first?” Blaike asked, bending over him. “We’ll call it an early beginning to your birthday celebration.”
She gave him a playful smile, that familiar mischievous light glinting in her arresting blue eyes.
Was she flirting?
If only he had the right to encourage her. To declare himself. To utter the words tapping at the back of his teeth.
“Oliver? Do you want a drink?”
The question tore him from his reverie.
“No,” he managed while slanting his head to better smell her hair.
Sunlight and blossoms. And Blaike.
If he lived to be a one-hundred year old curmudgeon, he’d never forget her scent. Or the feeling of contentment and completion it roused in him. They were embedded upon his memory, entrenched in his emotions, for all time.
“I never partake when I know the crew will imbibe.” A wise captain didn’t indulge when his crew celebrated, particularly with a storm bearing down upon them. As it was, he’d have to limit their festivities. They’d not grumble overly much, for the men also knew the dangers of underestimating the fickle weather or the equally capricious ocean.
“The bleeding has stopped, but I want to sterilize the wound again.” Her pretty face pinched in concentration, she gingerly snipped the bands from beneath both of his arms. “It will burn something fierce, I’m afraid.”
Definitely don’t think of the tempting handfuls mere inches away and pressing against her simple blue gown.
A gown that allowed the slightest alluring view of the satiny mounds the bodice caressed.
Damned lucky fabric.
He groaned, and not from the slight tugging of his shoulder as she drew the strips away.
“I’m sorry.” One long-fingered hand resting on his good shoulder, she glanced up, her eyes brimming with sympathy. “Am I hurting you?”
Yes. His manhood twitched an answer.
His aching heart pinged in agreement. Aye.
“I’m fine. Just hurry and rewrap it. I have things to do.” His response came out much terser than he’d intended.
Blaike quickly lowered her lashes, surprisingly dark given her pale hair and brows, but not before he saw the hurt and disappointment his sharp retort caused.
After cleansing the gouge, she laid a fresh square on it, and with practiced ease, rewrapped his shoulder. Dismay radiated from her, silent yet potent, as she worked.
“Forgive me, cara.” Though he knew he shouldn’t, he caressed her satiny cheek. “I’m angry at myself, not you.”
Angry that he couldn’t control his feelings toward her, physical or emotional.
Angry that they lived in such an unjust world that he would never be able to declare himself.
Angry that she could never be his.
Angry that he’d have to hurt this wondrous woman. That he’d have to watch the affection glistening in her glorious eyes fade, then die when they reached London, and he delivered her to her family without a backward glance or a word of farewell.
Lest on that day, she see his desolation and realize the colossal untruth he professed when he told her she meant nothing to him.
Blaike slowly lifted her lashes, and what shined in the depths of her eyes caused Oliver’s heart to stop for an instant, then resume beating with the force of a winded racehorse.
She wanted him, too.
God curse him for a fool, but he wrapped his other arm around her trim waist, ignoring the angry stab of pain it caused his injury. He drew her, unresisting, between his thighs, then ever so gradually, slid his hand over the nape of her neck and urged her nearer so that their mouths touched.
Flames burst behind his eyelids and passion streaked through him as wild and uncontrolled as if someone had touched a spark to black powder, igniting a firestorm.
Blaike made a throaty, hungry noise and edged nearer, her thigh bumping his length and sending his lust spiraling ever higher.
What he’d meant as a tender brush of lips to comfort and reassure her, a swift stolen taste of her honeyed mouth, exploded into desire so strong, his head spun.
Palms splayed, he held her, his tongue teasing her plump lower lip until her mouth parted.
Her hand on his shoulder flexed then clenched. Snaking the fingers of her other hand into his hair, she angled her head to permit him deeper access.
No timid, shy miss here, but a woman who gave as much as she took.
Inexperienced and a trifle clumsy at first, she learned the art of kissing with prodigious aptitude.
“Oliver,” she moaned, arching into him.
Never had hearing his name sounded so seductive.
Kicking his chiding conscience, as well as his once noble intentions overboard, he clasped Blaike to his chest and lay back on the bed, taking her with him.
The ropes supporting the mattress squeaked as their weight jarred the bed.
“Your shoulder,” she gasped, settling atop him.
“Will be fine,” he murmured against her mouth, while daring to squeeze the luscious mounds of her behind. “Ti adoro.”
He did adore her.
She sank into his chest, their legs and tongues entangling.
The pain in his shoulder paled in comparison to the burning passion for the woman in his arms.
He’d regret this.
Aye, but he’d also treasure this precious encounter for the remainder of his days.
How often had he imagined kissing her sweet mouth? Those dewy, pink lips? Wondered what it would be like to hold her svelte form in his arms? To have her melt into him with a woman’s desire as she did now?
’Twas more profound and soul shattering than he’d dreamed.
He’d known to yield to this mad urge was foolhardy and reckless. Knew deep in the recesses of his spirit, he’d never be satisfied or content with mere kissing. Recognized on a primitive level that no other female would ever make him feel this way. That he’d never want another woman with such desperate intensity after her.
He loved her.
Sei la mia anima gemella.
Blaike was his soulmate. He’d guessed it from the beginning but had denied the probability.
“Mmm, you smell good. Like your coffee. Spicy and,” she sniffed his neck, “maybe a hint of cedar too. Very manly.”
God help him.
She framed his face with her hands, raining hot, moist kisses over his face and jaw. Rubbing her satiny cheek against his, she released a soft sigh. “I adore your beard.”
Was that sultry siren’s voice his Blaike’s?
She ran her long fingers down his torso, then spread them through the hair on his chest, gently tugging.
The sensation had him on the cusp of spilling into his trousers.
“I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you shirtless.”
His muscles quivered and jumped in eager response to her exploration.
“And I’ve wanted to kiss you since I first laid eyes on you,” Oliver confessed.
Stupid to reveal that. It hinted at something that could never be.
“And you waited this long?” The smile curving her mouth held more than delight. It revealed a woman’s promise. “I’m not sure if I’m flattered or peeved.”
He was a selfish arse, for he reveled in the knowledge despite the impropriety.
She feathered her hand down the narrow track of hair that disappeared into his waistband, then boldly looking him in the eye, slipped her fingers beneath the fabric.
Her smile—sexy, wanton, and willing—almost had him tearing open his trousers’ falls, hoisting her skirts, and seizing the bliss coupling with her would bring them both.
Instead, Oliver grabbed her hand.
“Blaike, Stop. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Of course I do.” A suggestive half-smile tipping her mouth, she arched a brow. “Have you forgotten, I was raised on a dairy farm? I know full well what happens between the sexes. The act doesn’t frighten me, though I believe males mount from behind don’t they?”
Such a matter of fact question. She wasn’t the least bit embarrassed or shy. Just curious, adorably naïve, and brazen.
Face crumpled in puzzlement, she eyed his groin. “I need to be on my hands and knees, don’t’ I?”
Yes, by Poseidon.
On her knees. Her back. Her incredibly long legs about his waist. Straddling him. Over his desk. Sitting. Standing . . .
With her firm, alabaster breasts pressed to his chest, practically spilling from her bodice, Oliver was pressed almost beyond control to resist her innocent invitation.
Except a woman like Blaike expected marriage.
Deserved marriage.
Her family would demand a union if he selfishly took what she so generously offered. If Ravensdale or Leventhorpe didn’t have him keel-hauled, drawn and quartered, or challenge him to a duel. Blaike merited more than a hurried tumble or the modest, often difficult, life of a sailor’s wife. For if Oliver couldn’t convince Longhurst to accept a partial payment, the Sea Gypsy—home for almost fifteen years—was lost to him.
He had friends and family who would lend him funds. As much as he required, truth be known.
No.
If he succeeded in extracting himself from the gutter he’d been born into, he’d do so on his own. No one else would be able to take any measure of credit.
That was why Oliver had never planned on marrying. He must be faithful to the sea, for she’d given him his start. He’d never contemplated anything else. Didn’t know how to do anything else. The sea had always been, would always be his future.
Not the aroused vixen in his bed, as much as Oliver might wish it otherwise.
If naught else, he was a pragmatic man. Life’s realities had taught him not to put store or hope in things unseen. In what-ifs and maybes. Which, as much as it troubled Hawkins, was why Oliver couldn’t share his first-mate’s faith in an all-knowing deity.
Besides, Blaike’s sister and cousins had all married well. Made brilliant matches, truth to tell. Each married to a lord of the realm.
She could, too, someday.
If he stayed away.
Her fascination would fade in time. She’d recognize her infatuation for what it was: confused gratitude brought about because he’d plucked her from Abraham’s clutches.
What driveling rot, his cynical conscience scoffed.
Blast it all. At times, Oliver truly detested his integrity.
Still, he must refuse that which he wanted most. That which would make Blaike his until death separated them. That which might assure his happiness, but at the expense of hers.
Closing his eyes and clamping his jaw, he clutched her exploring hands.
“Dolcezza, sweetheart, we must stop before we’re discovered. I shan’t have you compromised because of me.” He sat up, gritting his teeth against the agony now stabbing his shoulder. “I thought you were Hawkins when I bid you enter. He’s expected any moment.”
Her eyes widened as chagrin tightened her features.
“Why didn’t you say so earlier? We might have been interrupted.”
Blaike jumped from the bed.
Adjusting her clothing, she rushed to the washstand where she smoothed her hair, darting confused glances at Oliver in the looking glass. She mightn’t be experienced in passion, but she’d recognized his desire.
Silent since she’d leaped from his bed, she tidied the medicine basket, then gathered the soiled cloths and dropped them in the washstand basin.
Just as silent, he donned a fresh shirt, then shrugged into his coat.
Noisy footsteps, more like stomping, echoed outside Oliver’s quarters, along with a warbling whistle. That, too, seemed rather loud and contrived. A couple of times, someone bumped the passageway bulkhead—hard—then hollered a cheerful greeting. Either the fellow was half-soused already or deliberately making his presence known.
Hawkins.
Subtle as a hippopotamus in a ballroom.
Blaike didn’t seem to notice. She’d moved to his desk and picked up the volume he’d been reading. Or at least tried to read. He found Gulliver’s Travels more vexing than entertaining.
Perchance, the recurring thoughts of Blaike interrupting his reading might be more to blame than the novel.
“You and your sister are welcome to any of the books in my library.” Not extensive to be sure, nonetheless, the built in bookshelf below the windows held two-score volumes. “I have decks of cards and a chess board, too.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m sure she’ll be as eager as I am to accept your offer.”
Her enthusiasm didn’t reflect in her eyes. She’d rather he gave her more lessons in navigation and astronomy, he’d be bound.
Oliver despised the uncertainty he read in Blaike’s posture and expression. And damn his eyes, he couldn’t, didn’t dare, reassure her.
His love must remain a se
cret.
Theirs wasn’t a misunderstanding that a simple conversation would solve. Perhaps in gothic tales, true love endured whilst the characters lived in poverty, content with nothing more than their lover’s company. But such was fanciful fluff. Ridiculed and shunned, hungry, cold, and perhaps even ill. Those as well as other hardships would chink away at love until nothing remained but disillusionment and resentment.
Call him a coward, but he couldn’t bear to have Blaike gaze at him with disenchantment, scorn, or bitterness.
Three sharp raps preceded Hawkins calling, “Cap’n? I need a moment.”
Oliver finished securing his hair, for to leave it down would surely raise his mate’s suspicion. Not a gossip by any means, Hawkins was more apt to lecture Oliver on moral failings if he suspected anything had occurred.
“Come.”
At once the door swung open, and the first mate shuffled inside, nodding a greeting. “Miss. Sir.”
Oliver didn’t miss the swift, assessing glance Hawkins sent Blaike. He could expect a sermon later. He’d stake his reputation on it.
“I’ll join my sister.” Blaike swung her cloak about her shoulders. “I’ve left Blaire alone far longer than I anticipated. Oliver, do try to refrain from opening your wound again.” She glanced out the window, furrows creasing her forehead as she secured the frogs at her throat. “Those clouds don’t look friendly.”
“I think if we stay our course, we’ll run ahead of the storm.” Oliver couldn’t be positive, naturally. He tentatively flexed his shoulder, hating the stiffness that limited his movements.
“What was it you needed, Hawkins?”
“A sail’s been sighted a fair distance off.”
Not unusual by any means.
However, what Hawkins wasn’t saying sent alarm tingling the length of Oliver’s spine.
He cut Blaike a troubled glance. “Why don’t you go topside and see how your sister fares?”
His men wouldn’t conceive of touching either woman, but Blaire didn’t know that, this being her first day topside.
“Not until you tell me why Mr. Hawkins’s face looks like a goose’s back end.” Blaike folded her arms. A Mother Superior’s acrid glance held less starch or challenge.
Blaike: Secrets Gone Askew (Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper Book 4) Page 11
