by Susan Grant
Her skirt fluttered over her bare legs, brushing her ankles as she walked. She’d dried her hair in braids, creating a myriad of waves that hung to her waist. When she reached up to fluff her hair, one of her cap sleeves slipped down her shoulder. She tugged the sleeve higher, cursing the fact that no one had thought to invent elastic yet. What made it such a difficult concept? Her other sleeve sagged. She gave up, letting it fall. There wasn’t much to reveal anyway. She’d spent her teenage years wishing for cleavage, or at least enough on top to hold up a dress. Nevertheless, her body matured late. Not until her twenties had she developed a more womanly figure. Too bad her hips had outpaced her chest!
Food was a sore subject with Andrew these days. They’d gone past the six weeks he’d originally calculated it would take to reach the island. The winds had eluded them, he’d said, making the crossing unusually slow. It might take as long as another month to drift south to the trades. If supplies ran low, they’d be forced to sail to a port on the African mainland to buy more beer, flour, and beef—further delaying their arrival home. Still, it gave her more time to figure out her options before she was forced to leave the Phoenix and the only people she knew in this century. Once the duke saw she was little more than a pauper, she figured he’d let her go. Yet, being flat broke in a strange century presented a problem all its own. Short of urging someone to invent an airplane she could fly, she’d be forced to earn her living from the most basic of skills—reading, writing, and sewing.
This evening, though, she promised herself she’d keep those worries shelved. It was time to taste the freedom she’d long denied herself. Tonight was more than a party. It was her personal celebration of life.
A gibbous moon rose opposite the setting sun, casting an otherworldly glow over the festive ship. With the bobbing lanterns and stars above adding their sparkle, it had the makings of a magical night. Her step quickened as she headed toward the sounds of laughter and music, and the smell of sweating bodies, tobacco, and grog.
The men clapped and cheered at her arrival. Only Black Beard and his cronies glowered at her.
She ignored them.
Since Booth had assaulted her, she had carefully avoided being alone on a deserted deck. She dodged him during the day, as well, to keep the extent of their mutual animosity from Andrew’s keen eyes.
“My queen,” Gibbons said. Dressed as Neptune for the night, he offered her his arm. Size alone was enough to make him appear regal, but with his cape of painted sailcloth, a cowhide belt with a buckle shaped like a sun, and the dented tin crown that sat atop his cottony hair, he looked like the genuine article.
“I do believe I am in the presence of King Neptune himself,” she said.
He eyed her in open appreciation. “You’re a sight for these old man’s eyes, if I may say so.”
Her cheeks warmed with his compliment. She searched the crowd for Andrew, half hoping that he’d look at her the way Gibbons had. Disappointment flickered when she saw he wasn’t there.
“After you, my queen.” Gibbons waved his hand above one of two roughly hewn thrones. “Let the celebration begin!” he bellowed when she sat.
Jonesy was playing the fiddle, singing as his friend blew into a short wooden tube that resembled a flute.
“Now let every man drink off his full bumper,
And let every man drink up his glass.
We’ll drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy,
And here’s to the heart of each true-hearted
lass.”
Carly tapped her foot to the jaunty tune. She was dying to dance with Andrew. Where was the man hiding?
“Sire, I should like the pleasure of a dance with your queen,” Cuddy asked Gibbons, dipping in a courtly bow.
“Aye. Permission granted.”
Cuddy offered her his arm. He wore a cropped royal blue jacket over a white shirt, spiced up by a jaunty crimson scarf tied around his neck. He led her to the center of a crowd of sailors, all of whom were drinking from tin cups filled with grog.
As Cuddy whirled her around in moves reminiscent of square dancing, Carly had little difficulty learning the steps. “Have you seen the captain tonight?” she asked.
“Aye, on his way to his quarters to fetch a brandy. He doesn’t care much for grog.” Cuddy must have detected her disappointment, for he assured her, “He’ll be back.”
“Think he’ll mind if I ask him to dance?”
Cuddy laughed and spun her out to arms’ length before reeling her close. “I’d give a month’s wages to see you two dance. I told him so myself.”
“Way to go, Cuddy. Now I’ll have to drag him out here.”
“And I’ll give my next month’s wages to see ya do that.”
The song ended, and he returned her to the throne. Breathless, she accepted a goblet of diluted grog from Gibbons. She managed one swallow before Jonesy, the helmsman, approached her.
“May I have this dance?” the grizzled sailor asked.
“Why, certainly.” She hooked her arm under his. She was ready for some fun.
Freshly shaven, Andrew settled himself against a coil of rope, his bottle of brandy within easy reach. He had a clear view of the dance area but would not be easily seen from it.
Amanda had returned to dance with his helmsman. The dress she had donned completely altered her appearance, changing her from pretty sprite to alluring woman. He did not know which Amanda he preferred, and decided he liked them both. In his days as a young naval officer, and during that one season in London, he’d bedded his share of women—aristocrats, courtesans, exotic foreign beauties. But none had so captivated him as this little spitfire.
Absently, he stroked the cool glass of the liquor bottle, watching Amanda as she laughed and danced with complete abandon. He felt a flash of envy. Her past was as unblemished as the future of comfort and riches that awaited her in England. True, she had not all her wits about her, but in a way, that protected her, making life nothing more than a game.
He pondered how his own life might have been different had he gone mad from grief rather than bearing its crushing weight after Richard had destroyed his family. Perhaps madness would have blunted the knifelike guilt that pierced Andrew still.
Suddenly cold, despite the tropical heat, he shuddered. No, madness would have done little. His mother and Jeremy were gone, innocents caught in a maelstrom of revenge. ’Twas a fact he would never be able to change. Only avenge.
The thought brought his attention back to the very instrument of his retaliation: Amanda.
An innocent, as well.
For as long as he could remember, anger and pride had guided him, the desire for retribution his greatest passion. Yet, Amanda made him question that self-imposed isolation.
Rolling a sip of brandy over his tongue, he watched her chest rise and fall with her exertions. He remembered well the feel of her small but strong body, her soft curves. Her skirts lifted as she twirled, revealing the shapely form of two long, deliciously bare legs. He pictured her round bottom, and how that warm flesh would feel cupped in his palms.
The ache in his groin echoed a need too powerful to be deadened by liquor, and he weighed the consequences of giving in to his desire for one night. Later, as every other night, he and Amanda would be alone in his quarters. If he chose to seduce her, no one would be the wiser. Lying awake at night, he’d often imagined how she would look wearing nothing but her silky skin, her nakedness for him alone to see. He’d longed to press every tempting inch of her to him, her sweet mouth welcoming his kiss . . . as he hungered for her body to welcome him.
Damnation. He grabbed the bottle and drew on it long and hard. Speaking of madness, his inappropriate lust would surely have him at Bedlam’s doorstep before the voyage was over. Amanda scuttled his ability to function as a logical, reasonable man. Indeed, to regain his wits, he had no choice but to use her to satisfy his physical cravings, his erotic curiosity. ’Twas a matter of survival. Aye, he’d have her; then he could sleep at nigh
t without her visiting his dreams.
A sudden sickening shame roared through him. Had his father’s blood corrupted his very soul? If he were to sell Amanda after they made love, he would be branding her a whore. He would not, could not treat Amanda, or any woman, the way his father had treated his mother. At all costs, he must keep away from Amanda until he was free of her.
Carly’s heart skipped a beat when she finally spied Andrew. He was leaning against a coil of rope, his face drawn into a scowl. Oh, for Pete’s sake. Of all nights for him to be in a bad mood. She’d cheer him up—as soon as her duties in the Neptune ceremony were over.
“Time for the hooch!” she cried.
She accompanied Willoughby to a bucket of the foulest brew she’d ever helped create. The cook had poured in two bottles of cheap gin before adding a few rotten eggs—“cackle fruit,” he called them—and some watery, fermented cabbage similar to sauerkraut, a dish so putrid that the only reason sailors ate it was because it was rumored to prevent scurvy.
She stirred the mess with a ladle, wrinkling her nose when the pungent odor reached her. Grinning wickedly, she sought out Theo, cowering in the front of the crowd, and winked. He managed a wobbly smile. He and two other young sailors had never yet crossed the equator and would be initiated into the society of Neptune tonight.
“Will the first hopeful come forward, please?” Gibbons called. A shaky-looking young man inched toward him. “Move your arse, lad!”
The sailor bolted, but two burly others dragged him back to Gibbons.
“Men!” Gibbons roared. “Would you like to see what happens to sailors who lose their nerve?”
“Aye!” they answered.
Carly grimaced and turned away. This was one revolting tradition she hadn’t been able to convince Willoughby to drop.
“Surgeon!” Gibbons beckoned to Willoughby.
For reasons Carly would rather not contemplate, the cook was referred to as the ship’s “surgeon.”
With uncharacteristic ferocity, Willoughby waved a bloodied knife through the air. “Where is the coward?”
Gibbons commanded, “Answer him!”
“Here, sir,” the young man whimpered. “Oh, I beg you—have mercy. Have mercy!”
“Gut him, Doctor.” Gibbons sounded cold, indifferent.
Willoughby grabbed the struggling youth from behind. Carly cringed at the sailor’s pitiful sobs. She covered her eyes but peeked through her fingers.
A piercing shriek tore through the night air. The crowd howled in delight as blood and entrails slithered to the deck.
Carly squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the nausea that rose in her stomach. That chicken had been killed this morning, and the sack of guts Willoughby had hidden beneath the boy’s shirt to simulate cutting him had sat in the hot galley the entire day. It would be putrefied by now.
With theatrical realism, no doubt enhanced by the foul odor, the youth sagged to his knees, moaning hideously and clutching his bloodied middle.
“Stand aside!” Theo yelled.
Grumbling vibrated through the crowd.
Carly lowered her hands.
Theo explained, “There is a man down.” He crouched next to a third young man, who had fainted. The candidates hadn’t been told that the execution was staged.
“Move back, I say!” Theo fanned his hat vigorously over the unconscious fellow’s white face.
Booth shouted, “Gut the swoonin’ jellyfish!”
The crowd echoed his jeer.
Theo rose to his feet. “No. Take me, instead.” Though his wan face revealed his terror, his steady voice resounded clearly across the deck.
Carly glanced behind Theo and locked her gaze with Andrew’s. His frown had vanished. Propping his arms on his bent legs, he shared her smile of pride.
“Come forward, lad.” Gibbons’s tone had softened, revealing the respect he had for the boy. “Are you prepared to become a son of Neptune?”
“Aye, I am,” answered Theo solemnly.
At Gibbons’s nod, Carly scooped up some hooch with a ladle and dribbled it into a cup. “I’m so proud of you, Theo,” she whispered. “The captain is, too.”
Theo nodded, wide-eyed, and took the cup from her. To her delight, he raised it high with unexpected showmanship. “To King Neptune!”
Gulping the cup dry in one swallow, he handed it back to Carly. “Whew,” he gasped, his blue eyes watering.
She framed his face in her hands and kissed him on the forehead. As the crowd roared their approval, Theo blushed brighter than the moon.
Gibbons and Cuddy poured a bucket of seawater over the fainted sailor. As soon as his eyes fluttered open, they gave the sputtering youth a mouthful of hooch. “To King Neptune,” he gasped and promptly got sick over the side of the deck.
Someone fired a pistol shot into the air, then another, and the rowdy celebration resumed. Jonesy picked up his fiddle, stomping his boot as he played.
As the men gathered in groups to talk, sing, and laugh, Carly crossed the dance floor. Bombarded by sailors eager to dance, she shook her head, discouraging the men as politely as she could, and moved just beyond the crowd, into the shadows at the edge of the lantern light.
Half-reclining against a coil of rope, his shirt unbuttoned partway down his chest, Andrew should have looked like the other drunken sailors but did not. He was magnificent, as regal and elegant as a lion at rest.
And just as potentially dangerous.
Tossing her hair over her shoulders, she gave Andrew the sultriest come-hither look she knew how. Though his eyes blazed, he did not rise to his feet.
“Playing hard to get, is he?” she said under her breath. “Fine. I’ll do this by myself.”
Facing Andrew, she swayed slowly. Using all her other senses, she savored the magic of the tropical night. Moving her hips in a primitive, undulating invitation, she raised her arms.
Andrew watched her intently.
The beat drummed faster. Letting go, she arched her back, shaking her hair until it was wild and tangled, tumbling over her heated face and bare shoulders. She was vaguely aware of the raucous sounds of the party far behind her, but she ignored them, becoming lost in a world that was nothing but stars and sea and freedom such as she’d never known before. Drunk on life, she let out a whoop of joy, whipped her hair, and twirled on the balls of her feet, dancing faster and faster, her bare feet slapping against the deck planks in time to the feverish, hedonistic beat deep inside her.
In the end, satisfaction eluded her. Her steps faltered. She slowed, panting. She needed more than the sensuous caress of linen clinging to her moist skin, more than the excitement the music brought her. Her heart was tired of dancing alone, always alone. She wanted Andrew. She wanted his strong hands to pull her hard against him, holding her until the sweaty heat of their bodies melted away all the reasons they shouldn’t be together. A hundred rational, haven’t-you-learned-your-lesson-yet reasons.
She dropped her arms to her sides and peered past the ropes and rigging until she found him. Target at twelve o’clock.
Smiling, she armed her weapons and rolled in for the kill.
Chapter Eight
Sitting up with some effort, Andrew lowered his bottle of brandy. Amanda was walking toward him, her cheeks flushed, her hips swaying, her skin slick from exertion.
The way she would look when he made love to her.
He choked on his brandy. His head was already swimming with the effects of too much liquor, yet he tilted the bottle a second time, drinking deeply and then swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
She stopped directly in front of him and leaned forward. Her bodice gapped slightly, revealing the rounded tops of her small breasts. He tightened his grip on the bottle, crushed his other hand into a throbbing fist, and somehow resisted the urge to slip his hand inside the muslin to caress one of the exquisite mounds.
She is your cargo, Spencer. She differs from the other booty aboard only in her potential value.
In a breathless, husky voice that shuddered through to the very core of him, she asked, “Would you like to dance?”
He stifled a groan. The way she’d danced for him had aroused him completely, set on fire the deepest, most primal male part of him. He’d never felt anything like it.
“Andrew?”
The sound of his name on her lips nearly undid him. Dizzy from the alcohol, he peered at her, steeling himself against her invitation.
He did not consider himself a religious man, nor a believer in miracles. His skills and instincts had kept him afloat these past few years. Not faith. Yet, there were times, after his dreams, when he’d entertain the notion that he and Amanda had been brought together for a reason.
“Come on. . . .” She raised her hand, palm up, beckoning. It was so simple. He merely had to touch his fingers to hers—
No. He had to see through his revenge.
It was all he had left.
“I don’t dance.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” Her lips curved in a sweet smile. “I’ll teach you.”
“I do . . . not . . . dance.”
Disbelief, then hurt flickered in her eyes, but she recovered swiftly. “You know, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou, you could try being a little more polite.”
“Polite?” He snorted. He was ready to detonate, and she was questioning his social graces? Good God, if he was any more polite, he’d explode.
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” She gave a quick laugh that hinted at bitterness. “Guys like you haven’t changed one bit in the past hundred and eighty years. All you care about is money, and you’ll roll right over anything and anyone in your way to get more, won’t you? You’re not better than me. You’re nothing but a rich man’s bored and spoiled son.”
He raised one brow.
“Well, you’re not spoiled, exactly.” She paused to catch her breath. “All right, ‘bored’ is pushing it, too. But that leaves duke’s son, and believe me, that’s plenty.”
