by Susan Grant
She smiled with her gold-brown eyes. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Overcome by emotions he could not begin to decipher, he framed her face with his hands, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks. The way she combed her fingers through his hair sent tingles careening down his spine.
“Just one more,” she whispered. “One more kiss.”
“Aye . . . one more.” The bed creaked as he shifted his weight. He took his time answering her request, suckling her kiss-swollen lower lip, teasing her with tiny nipping kisses on her nose, chin, and neck, before covering her mouth with his, taking her deeply, desperately, the way he yearned to make love to her.
His groans, her whimpers, their panting breaths filled the quiet cabin. Never in his life had he fought so hard to maintain control. Never before had it mattered.
She arched her back. He moved his hips farther away from her belly, and his arms trembled with the awkward position. Then, when she slipped one hot, smooth hand inside his robe, he forced himself to pull away. “We mustn’t.”
She frowned, but her eyes sparked with amusement. “Oh, ‘we mustn’t,’” she teased, mimicking him. “So proper. You British and your stiff upper lip.” She trailed one finger over his mouth. “Well, not so stiff, maybe, in your case.”
He nipped her fingertip, then kissed the inside of her wrist. “I will not compromise you, milady.” He pushed himself off the bed. It swung with the release of his weight. He cinched the knot on his robe, then smiled down at her, thoroughly enchanted.
The moonlight mingled with the silver highlights in her hair, magic that spilled over the pillow and onto her shoulders. He regretted that he’d never see her, all of her, in the light of the moon. Alas, she was not his. She would never be his. Perhaps that was what his dreams were telling him. Rueful, he brought his hand to her cheek.
She kissed his palm, a sweet gesture that sent a tidal wave of pleasure crashing through him. “I have the feeling that you won’t want to talk about this in the morning,” she said.
“This . . . ’tis not proper.”
“If you say so.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. There was nothing more he could say. “Sleep well, milady.”
Closing the door behind him, he eyed his hammock with reluctance. He was too sharply aroused to sleep. He stripped out of his robe, donned his trousers, and walked onto the deck of the sleeping ship, welcoming the blessedly cool air on his heated skin.
He climbed into the ship’s longboat, lay on his back, and watched the stars until the last one faded with the rising sun.
Chapter Nine
When Carly woke, the memory of Andrew’s kisses wrapped her in blissful warmth. She rolled onto her back, then touched a fingertip to her tender lips as she listened to the familiar sounds of early morning aboard the Phoenix. Boot heels thumped, men whistled and shouted, water sloshed as several heavy wet mops were pushed over the deck, but the tell-tale hiss of wind in the sails was thankfully absent. If the Phoenix couldn’t move, neither could the other ship. Heartened, she climbed out of bed and jumped to the floor.
He was one hell of a kisser.
With a shiver of pleasure, she relived Andrew’s kiss—how impulsive it was.
And wonderful and sexy and . . . perfect.
But judging by how quickly he’d left, she doubted he cared to repeat the deed any time soon.
Thank goodness, one of them had the common sense to stop before things got too hot. Flirting and kissing were one thing—but if she and Andrew became lovers, she might fall for him. She couldn’t risk that. Not now. Not when it was so important that she keep her wits about her. At any moment, the warship could attack and take her aboard. That would thrust her into a situation that very likely might prevent her from ever making it home.
Someone knocked on the outer door as she dressed in her flight suit. She heard Cuddy, the scraping of chairs, and the sound of Andrew’s deep, resonant voice in her head. “I don’t believe I’ve ever shared . . . a finer kiss.”
Groaning, she slapped two handfuls of cool water onto her face, then two more, dousing a new brushfire of desire. Only after a good deal of effort did she manage to compose herself.
Pausing at the door to Andrew’s cabin, she recalled her former skipper’s words: “No matter what kind of night you had, or what may have happened to you on your way to work, you come to my briefings with a clear head and ready to work.”
With Commander Martinez’s voice fresh in her mind, she took a deep breath and pushed open the door. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
Immediately, both men stood. Andrew’s bloodshot, blue-eyed gaze hesitated for the briefest instant on her lips as he pulled out a chair for her to sit down.
Her traitorous heart leaped at the sight of him. He wasn’t smiling exactly, but his glacial facade had thawed considerably.
“I trust you slept well, milady.”
“Best night in weeks,” she replied. “And you?”
“I feel particularly well-rested this morn.”
“The weather was quite warm last night, wasn’t it?” She thought she saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Indeed,” he said. “Unusually so.”
“I like the sudden change. Think it’ll continue?”
He contemplated her for a good long moment. “The weather at the equator is often unpredictable.”
Stamping out more brushfires, she exhaled slowly. Then she turned her attention to Cuddy. “And good morning to you, Mr. Egan.”
Looking mildly confused, Cuddy smiled and scratched his fingers through his silver-gray hair. “Good mornin’.”
She sat, followed by the two men. The small table was cluttered with charts and a battered, salt-stained Royal Navy textbook.
There was another knock on the door.
“Enter,” Andrew called over his shoulder.
Theo walked in, his back straight and his chin up. “You summoned me, Cap’n?”
“Aye. Hoist the English flag, if you would, lad.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Theo said gravely.
“Please have Mr. Gibbons fetch breakfast for Lady Amanda, Mr. Egan, and myself.”
“Aye, Cap’n. Will that be all?”
“That will be all.” Andrew unrolled a chart and took what looked like a pair of dividers, used for measuring, from a leather pouch.
“Expecting our friends a little sooner than planned?” Carly asked after Theo had closed the door.
“The winds may change this morn. And again, they may not.” Andrew twirled the divider between his thumb and forefinger. “From this day forward, we are the Sea Slug, a simple English merchant sloop minding her own business.”
“The Sea Slug?” Carly laughed. “Now, don’t you think that’s overdoing it a little? There have to be more . . . noble names. Sea Hawk, for instance, or—” She drummed her fingers on the table.
Cuddy said, “We have christened ourselves far worse. ’Tis the best we could manage, with a lady onboard.” He gave her a shy smile.
“But Sea Slug? Spare me.”
“’Tis done,” Andrew said. “Mr. Gibbons will paint her with the new name.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the bow before unrolling a piece of parchment. The change in his demeanor implied that the time for chitchat was over.
Carly crossed her arms over her chest and settled back to listen. This was serious business. She guessed that she had been invited here to learn, perhaps to help, if possible.
Andrew lit a cheroot and propped his elbows on the table. A silvery thread of smoke coiled upward, briefly obscuring his features. The man revealed as the smoke dissipated was composed and resolute, a leader. His lips were set into an unyielding line. Yet, they were the same lips that had that kissed her with such aching tenderness last night. The change only made her want him more.
“If my instincts are right about the man-of-war,” Andrew continued, “we shall be meeting in battle in highly irregular circumstances. In the near absence of wind, ’tis
often said a lucky shot determines the victor.” Thoughtful, he gazed at the burning tip of his cheroot. “I say luck has nothing to do with it.”
“Meaning?” she asked.
“Luck is naught but skill and preparation.” He balanced his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Then he smoothed the parchment until it lay flat on the table.
Carly’s breath lodged in her throat at the sight. Andrew had sketched, in detail, the ship that might very well try to take her aboard. It had more sails and more deck levels than the Phoenix. And—if the drawing was accurate—twice as many guns. As she flattened her hand over the drawing, her fighter-pilot instincts surfaced. When up against overwhelming odds, use your strengths to exploit your enemy’s weakness. Her fingers traced the length of the tallest mast. She tapped it thoughtfully.
As though reading her thoughts, Andrew said, “There must be wind to topple a mast—unless we score a direct hit.”
She glanced up to find his penetrating gaze fixed on her. Her hunch was right. He had already determined his strategy—yesterday, during his day-long meeting with his officers. By asking for her help this morning, he was merely giving her the chance to prove she was who she said she was—a navy officer.
She returned her attention to the sketch. Frowning, she studied the picture, chewing the inside of her lip. There were many similarities between ships and planes. Find some. Her fingertip hesitated over the cannons. No. The powder room? No. If it was like the one on the Phoenix, it was lined with lead and deep in the bowels of the ship. Where is this monster’s weakness? Her finger drifted aft toward the stern. From the corner of her eye, she saw Cuddy straighten. Ah, she must be getting warmer.
The stern. The rudder was in the stern. It was connected to the tiller, the wheel used to turn the ship. She felt a surge of excitement. If there was no rudder, a ship couldn’t be steered. And the Phoenix was a smaller, more maneuverable ship. She might not be able to out-gun the man-of-war, but she could out-think it.
“Here,” she said, unable to keep the enthusiasm out of her voice. “They are most vulnerable here. If you aim for the rudder and break it off, even with the biggest cannons and all the wind in the world, they wouldn’t be able to catch us. They’d spin in circles.”
“Precisely, milady. Well done.” Andrew tamped out his cheroot in the ashtray and removed his glasses. His smile was one of admiration, warming her from head to toe. “Now we will discuss how this presumably impossible feat will be accomplished.”
That evening, as the sun drifted down to the glassy sea, Carly stared at the innocuous speck of white on the horizon. “We’ll be like David and Goliath,” she remarked to Cuddy, who stood by her side.
He nodded. Pushing his tarpaulin hat higher on his forehead, he eyed her with a good deal of affection. “In battle, no ship is better than her captain. When it comes to captains, there are none better than Sir Andrew Spencer.” He returned his keenly intelligent gaze to the horizon. “None better.”
The warship had not budged from its place on the horizon. The crew’s adrenaline had peaked weeks before. Without a battle for release, the men had become grouchy and argumentative.
Fresh water was rationed. Bathing had to be done with seawater. Carly felt as dirty and miserable as the crew looked.
Their supplies dwindled. They’d used the last of the turnips, potatoes, and onions while Carly’s precious garden shriveled in the unrelenting heat. The chickens were gone, as were the rabbits. She’d become attached to the innocent fluffs of energy, and steadfastly refused to eat the meals Willoughby prepared from their meager flesh.
The only thing that wasn’t in danger of running out was her desire for Andrew. She wanted him more than ever. He swam daily. The sight of his suntanned, muscled upper body as he emerged dripping wet from the sea simply took her breath away. Having tasted the passion of his kiss, she was grateful that he’d moved his hammock outside to the deck, taking away the temptation of knowing he was next door.
But her feelings ran deeper than mere physical attraction. The recent harrowing days had proven that Andrew was a born leader: courageous, inventive, and honorable. Not the aimless aristocrat she’d assumed him to be. She could almost believe that he was the reason she’d been taken from her home and brought here.
To a life that became more dangerous each day.
One afternoon, a man fell from the rigging. He died two days later because of an infection from rope burns. After the funeral, the crew’s spirits plummeted.
It was a turning point for them all.
Andrew was a man possessed. To Carly it seemed his sole reason for living was to keep morale high, to keep the men focused on their task. He seemed to be everywhere on the ship—all the time. He used humor; he was approachable. He organized impromptu gatherings to sing seamen’s chanties and frequently mentioned the island hideaway off the African mainland. “A gem, a piece of paradise,” he’d remind them, quoting Gibbons. Many of the men had wives and families waiting. They were anxious to return. It had been nine months since they were last home and Andrew made sure they knew his goal was their safe return.
Through it all, he slept little. If not for Carly’s constant badgering, she was sure that he would have forgotten to eat. Her impression was that this encounter was more than a sea battle. Andrew wasn’t fighting a ship; he had declared war on his tortured soul.
To Carly’s dismay, the ship started gaining on them. At first, she’d thought she was seeing things. But by the second morning, she was positive. The sail had grown larger.
“How are they doing it?” she asked Cuddy.
“In a dead calm, some captains will order the men to tow the ship.”
She peered through the telescope. “How in the world do you tow a ship?” The man-of-war was sitting still at the moment. Certainly, nothing was in front, towing it.
“They use the longboats at night.” Cuddy said grimly. “They send the men down in shifts to row. ’Tis exhausting work. In weather such as this ’twill wear a crew down quicker than the scurvy.”
“Their captain must be absolutely mad. Or heartless.”
“If I was to judge by the rate they’re closing on us, I would say both, lass.”
With Cuddy’s words, icy fear crystallized inside her. Whatever the silent behemoth on the horizon wanted, it was ready to kill its crew to get it.
After the midday meal, while the crew rested in the shade of the tarps, Andrew informed them that the war ship was now also being towed during the hot daylight hours. His mouth curled in disgust. Clearly, he did not approve of how the ship’s captain was driving his crew.
How would that captain fight the actual battle? Carly wondered with a great deal of trepidation. Would he be as brutal, as merciless?
She prayed she’d be of use to Andrew when that time came. She was a warrior, but one with clipped wings, a trained soldier who knew little of cannons or cutlasses or gunpowder. But she’d offer her expertise all the same.
As the afternoon wore on, the Phoenix lolled on the gentle swells, her sails unfurled and limp. Soon Carly grew drowsy in the muggy heat. A strand of limp hair tickled her cheek. She brushed it away impatiently.
“Rain!” the cry rang out.
Carly scrambled to her feet. Light-headed, she nearly passed out. As she hugged the mast for support, she heard the deep, resounding boom of thunder. A cheer went up. Storms meant wind, and the thunderstorm bearing down on the Phoenix promised to deliver more than its share. If the winds were harnessed properly, and luck was on their side, the Phoenix could leave the war ship behind.
But the storm teased them.
It moved away . . . stalled . . .
Then came closer, only to repeat its tantalizing dance.
A gaggle of drumming fingers and tapping toes, the crew lined the decks, awaiting the rain in a silent vigil throughout the long afternoon.
Except for Andrew.
He was in constant motion, pacing up and down the length of his ship, consulting his charts, bar
king orders. It exhausted Carly to watch him. He was wound up so tightly that she feared he would snap in two if the storm passed them by.
The sails billowed hesitantly. The crew waited.
And waited.
The air was thick with the scent of thunder, and crackled with electricity. When the roiling clouds finally engulfed the sun, the temperature plunged.
Carly’s heart fluttered with anticipation. In the chill of the monstrous shadow, the thunder rumbled on and on, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. It was hard not to think of her dreams.
When the great sails exploded with the thunderstorm’s first gust, the Phoenix lifted like the legendary bird she was named after. It was the finest moment of exhilaration and escape Carly had ever experienced. She cried out her joy. The sailors bellowed theirs. She raised her hands above her head and lifted her sunburned face to the cooling drops. Then the deluge was upon them.
She loosened her hair from her braid and shook the heavy tresses free. Soon she was soaked to the skin. She inhaled the scent of rain, the salty sea, the resinous vapor rising from the parched, overheated deck planks.
“You’ll never catch us!” she shouted in the direction of the war ship. “Nature is on our side, not yours!” Unfortunately, the victory was short-lived. When the storm passed, none replaced it. To no one’s surprise, the war ship reappeared two days later.
Chapter Ten
“Hi.”
From where he sat on the chains, Andrew glanced up at Amanda’s greeting.
“Nice evening, huh?” she said. “Mind if I keep you company?”
“Please do.” Wearily, he patted the planks next to him.
Dressed in a shirt and trousers, she climbed down. Her hair was still damp from her bath in seawater, and she busied herself combing out the snarls.
Andrew leaned against the ship’s hull. A dull headache throbbed behind his eyes. The exhausting weeks of tension had taken their toll. When he’d last used a razor, days ago, he’d seen the strain in the lines bracketing his mouth and in his dark-circled eyes.
