A Kiss in the Wind

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  “I can’t figure you out,” he said.

  She turned to him as he closed the distance. The corridor suddenly became too narrow to accommodate them both. No telling what she would do to him in the uncomfortably confined proximity.

  “You do things without thinking of consequence,” he said. “You seek instant gratification.”

  “Don’t we all?” she asked. “You said it yourself. You take what you want, when you want it.”

  “Aye.” He leaned his back against the wall, the space still too cramped for her liking. “But my mates and I take advantage of opportunity. We’re not greedy, bloodthirsty hellions like our earlier brethren. A little planning gets you much more than whimsy. Spares the innocent, too.” His eyes grazed over her. “You’re quite careless.”

  “It sounds as if you think you do have me figured out.” She crossed her arms in protest.

  “Not at all. You rectify yourself and your actions as an afterthought. You either are indeed manipulative or plain lucky to have managed this far in this dangerous line of work. My guess is that you’ve your brothers to thank.”

  The idea made him chuckle, something she didn’t quite appreciate.

  “What I don’t understand,” he continued, “is how someone as strong-willed and skilled in weaponry as you can be so…vulnerable. One instant you are battling tooth and claw for control, the next you gladly relinquish it and, forgive me for saying so, to someone who cares more for his rotten ship than his own daughter.”

  “Is that what you thought you were doing? Saving me? How chivalrous of you.” Her petulance sounded harsh even to her own ears. Yet Blade was right on target. She could stand defiant against the most infernal cutthroat, and then submit to Alain with the snap of his sullied finger. The verity of it stung.

  Why did the men in her life feel they needed to shelter her? ’Twas true, her brothers taught her how to defend herself and fight well. ’Twas equally true they coddled her. Though that made her madder than hell, she couldn’t help but feel a pinch of contentment that they cared enough to shield her from what they considered too hazardous. Sometimes she felt they deliberately withheld things from her so she would always be in need of them. Now, more than ever, with the events of the last several days, she believed it to be true. “You need to be thinking of saving yourself, Blade.”

  His warm laugh echoed in the tight space. “I can take care of myself, I assure you.”

  “Alain will not tolerate being dishonored by you.”

  He tilted his head and studied her like an oddity. One corner of his lip twitched. “You worry for me?”

  “No.” She answered too quickly. The other corner of his lips twitched. She looked away. In truth, she worried far more than she should.

  Alain had been known to inflict torture on people. He had at times receded into a place far from sanity, drunk on the agonizing screams of his victims. He terrified even his most hardened crew. The first time she witnessed his cruelty, he’d bound a prisoner to the mast and cut him open, bleeding him to death. He collected every last drop of the blood into a bucket and held another prisoner’s head down into it until he drowned. Alain thought then, that after seeing his savagery, Marisol would beg to be returned home. She almost had. She’d become so sickened by the deaths, she hadn’t recovered for several days.

  She had questioned her will for independence. There had been no freedom remaining home. A woman had little hope to achieve much more than becoming a prostitute, or worse, a wife to a husband who lived by the sea, coming home once every couple of years to make another babe. Just like her mother. Marisol did not want that for herself. She wanted more. She wanted to see what lay beyond the shores of Cow Island, to experience the colorful life of a seaman, to feel the rewards of hard work. And one day, along with her brothers, she wanted to have a ship and crew to call her own. She expected the dangers of the life she longed for. A short courageous life held far more appeal to her than a long, lonely, monotonous one. But beholding such unspeakable violence by her father’s hand nearly cracked her.

  Luc and Monte had been there. Luc sat with her all night, rocking her and giving her comfort. Monte paced the room like a caged animal. Her dear Luc had opened her eyes to the truth of survival on the seas. Insubordination could not be tolerated, he had said. It literally meant the difference between life and death. Those captives had planned a mutiny against Alain and would have killed them, too, for being kin. And, Monte had added, the mutineers would have had their way brutally with her before they finished her off. She remembered the spark of liveliness in Monte’s wild eyes, sparing her no detail.

  Her brothers had been right. Understanding these dangers dulled her fragility. If she were to stay, if she truly wanted the seaman’s life, she had to toughen up. It was their reality.

  It wasn’t frequent that Alain became crazy carrying out atrocious suffering, but it happened often enough. If death was the order, in her mind, then death should come clean and quick.

  Somehow, she couldn’t bear the thought of Blade and Alain…

  “He will come and get me.” She let out a breathy sigh. “Even if it’s not me he’s after.” Her whisper left her mouth quiet and defeated.

  “I count on it.”

  She glanced up at him.

  “You see, Carrion is careless, too,” he said. “He challenged me for the silver. ’Tis only a matter of time before we cross paths again.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I have the advantage, dove.”

  She frowned, still not getting his meaning. What would she have to do with any part of his mission?

  “You can go back to your father after I get that silver to Charles Windham, if you’d like. ’Til then, have my rum handy.”

  “I’ll not be your…”

  He shook his head and turned to leave.

  “Hey. Don’t you walk away. Blade?”

  Hands on either side of the hatch door, he paused. The sunlight filtered through, illuminating his golden hair and highlighting all of his masculine lines. He turned his eyes on her. The brightness diluted their color and she quaked at how intense his stare had become.

  “You will dine with me tonight.” He looked back outside, distant, distracted. “Aye,” he said, as if agreeing with himself. “I’ll have Henri bring you a dress. Practical clothes are nice, but I want to see you in something that suits me.” Stepping through the door, he disappeared into the sunlight.

  Marisol stood alone in the companionway that no longer felt small. It felt empty. Despite the humid, still air, she shivered in the darkness with the chill left in his absence.

  Her shoulders slumped and she went inside her cabin, plunking down onto the bed she’d slept on the night before. She needed to sort out the day.

  All morning Blade had been aloof, not once giving away that she had shared his bed. She was left without the benefit of even a smile. Then he’d been angry with her about Alain. She’d given him back his cameo. He got what he wanted and was free of her. What else could he want? Certainly not her. He wouldn’t even kiss her in the companionway.

  She lay back and rested her head on the impossibly soft pillow.

  Many emotions showered her—anger, guilt, apprehension, sadness, resignation, exhaustion. And what of her family? Alain bartered her away, Monte disappeared again and Luc was dead. She choked back a sob and rolled over, curling up into a ball. How would she manage to get herself out of this one? How would she make things right?

  She opened her eyes at the sound of a knock. Her body ached from lying askew and it took a moment to get orientated. She had fallen asleep. For how long, she did not know.

  “Lass?” Henri called from the other side of the door.

  “Come in.” She arched her stiff back and sat up.

  Henri ambled in with a deep golden gown draped over his stubby arms. He tried with much difficulty to keep it from dragging across the planks. She rushed over to help the old man.

  “Oh, it’s heavy.” She lif
ted it from him and let the dress unfold. The fabric rustled to the floor in layered satin. She gasped. “It’s gorgeous.”

  The triangular stomacher matched the petticoat, their cream-colored arabesque design stunning against the darker gold of the gown. She had never seen a more beautiful dress. The dresses Luc would bring her from raiding forays were indeed pretty, but she rarely had occasion to wear one. She couldn’t very well work her shipboard duties layered in skirts and so she had asked Luc to bring her more useful gifts, like weapons.

  The dress she held gleamed in the light; the patterns surely had been sewn by meticulous hands meant for a woman of nobility, someone worthy of flaunting its feminine beauty. And Blade wanted her to wear it.

  “I can’t imagine why Tyburn would have a dress like this. It’s so lovely.”

  Henri shoved a pair of matching mules at her. “He keeps a supply of ’em on hand. Likes to please his lady friends in port.”

  She frowned and a pang of jealousy slipped. “Does he, now?” She snatched the pointy shoes from him. “And I suppose he has a lady in every port.”

  “Nearly.”

  “Of course he does.” Why wouldn’t he? The infamous libertine probably had two girls in every port along the Main. Ugh. She shouldn’t care and it burned her hide that she did. Knowing what pleasures he brought with his warm touch and how he made her feel like the world had been created for only them, she didn’t want to think of Blade making love to another. She didn’t dare.

  “Capt’n says for ye to come to his quarters when ye be done.”

  “Humph.” She’d just as soon stay in her own cabin than go back there, to the same room, with his candlesticks, with his bed.

  Oh, she’d be a fool not to. She wanted to put on that grand dress. She wanted to feel like an aristocratic darling for one moment in her life. She wanted to leave him speechless when she swept into his chambers. Aye. That was what she wanted.

  “Food will be waitin’.” Henri turned for the door.

  “Be sure to have plenty of rum ready.” She had no doubt he expected her to keep his cup full.

  “Lass?” Henri paused on his way out. “The Capt’n, he looks at ye differently than the others.” His brow pulled together and he nodded before closing the door behind him.

  What do you suppose he meant by that? She huffed. Blade could look at her with those emeralds and she would never know if he desired her or pitied her. She felt like a leper in his world of dancing harlots.

  Tonight, though, she would at the very least be a well-frocked leper.

  * * *

  Blade sprang up from his chair. “This is ridiculous.” He stomped over to the windows and clasped his hands behind his back, kneading his fingers impatiently. “What is taking the lass so long?”

  “Would ye like me to fetch her, Capt’n?” Henri sat at the table polishing the old broken flute he always carried with him.

  “Nay. If she’s not here in the next five minutes, I’ll drag her to dinner myself.”

  In the reflection of the window, Blade watched Henri steal another sip from the rum. He smiled. Bless the old fop’s soul, he would drink himself to death yet.

  He looked to his own visage in the glass. There was something different about the man staring back at him. Something was missing. Tired eyes hinted to indecision. He didn’t like it. It fractured his character. He always had a plan, always knew what course he would take. Whether right or wrong had never been a concern. His will he held steadfast. In his occupation, doubt could be deadly.

  Though he hadn’t had trouble making decisions on the spot, this day he scrutinized his every move with further thought. Since rolling out of bed, he toiled over and cursed each time he wondered if his actions had been the right one. Where was his buoyancy? Where had his confidence gone?

  It went right down the hatch when you let Marisol into your bed, you idiot.

  Smiling inwardly, he remembered the flare of rage in her eyes when he suggested she would be his serving girl. He preferred her fury over the profound sadness taking root. He understood the empty, soul-crushing pain of not being worthy of returned love far more than he cared to admit and he couldn’t stand to see her dwell on her no-good father any longer.

  He raked a hand through his hair and growled. The chit seeped under his skin. She was bold and brash enough to be a part of his world, and all the while, sustaining her need for someone, a man, to protect her. That made him crazy.

  He should have never taken her.

  But he had. And he kept her. Now he struggled with whether or not that had been a good idea. ’Twas true having her on board held him an advantage. Only slightly. Past experience with Carrion proved the pirate to be a fickle man. He believed Carrion would go after the silver. Before or after Blade retrieved it was the burning question. Did he care enough about his daughter to avoid attacking Blade’s ship and seek the silver first? Perhaps he thought to barter for her with Blade for a higher price? Or would the captain consider her an unfortunate consequence to gaining the bounty?

  The uncertainty chafed his resolve and aggravated him further.

  He focused on what he did know. The Gloria had been boarded and stripped of her crew and cargo. Drake spotted a mystery ship in the area shortly after. The Sugar Lady sailed into Puerto Plata also about the same time and then set a course for Puerto Rico across the Mona Passage. Carrion’s Sablewing, too, docked in Puerto Plata. The port suffered an assault. The mystery ship attacked the Sablewing then escaped to the west. The Gloria also headed for the deadly currents of the passage.

  Five vessels sailing straight into the vicious, hacking teeth of Mona. They best make their peace for not all would make it through.

  Missing silver, rogue ships and hostile enemies. The challenge couldn’t be sweeter.

  The eyes reflecting back at him regained their familiarity. Good. Confidence inflated within his chest again. A hearty meal with a lovely lady would top off his evening. If she ever arrived. Damn, where was she?

  A brisk knock at the door and she rushed in like a crisp autumn breeze. Her beauty glittered through the mirrored image on the glass. She took his breath away, literally.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  Blade suppressed his smile before he sharply turned on his heel.

  She flustered in her haste and gave a proper but quick curtsy.

  Henri stood, slower than normal, and ripping his wide eyes from her, fumbled to pour the cups—again. By the sideways glance he cast Blade, the little man probably thought he would be admonished for the double error of ogling Marisol and helping himself to too much drink.

  “See your way out, Henri.” The jack sprat nodded and took his leave.

  It was difficult to frown at her. She radiated in that gown. The golden color mingled with her warm skin and he wondered if the glow coming off her would burn to the touch.

  “Do you find it appropriate to keep your host waiting?” he said.

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “You try squeezing yourself into this contraption, with no one to help, mind you, and see how long it takes you.”

  Ah, yes. There was that fire he so enjoyed to stoke. He chuckled and she lifted her chin. Her beauty would blind him as sure as the shining sun. Taking that risk, he soaked her in a moment longer before coming forward to pull out her chair. “You look exquisite, Marisol.”

  A faint blush crept into her cheeks and her chin dropped a degree less defensive. Brown locks were secured at the crown of her head and the remaining flowing tresses tumbled down onto her shoulders and across her back. The flat plane of the boning on her dress gave way to curves he would not soon forget. The low cut of the dress fit snug against her chest, crushing two smooth mounds of flesh to near overflow. He cursed himself for not having a bejeweled necklace to lie upon that inviting bosom. He would need to procure one soon.

  “Come. Sit.”

  “Thank you.” Her dress billowed with a flourish as she took her seat.

  He ladled out a bowl of turtle soup
and set it before her and then scooped himself his own bowl. “Please, eat.”

  Though the soup no longer steamed piping hot, it warmed his mouth, delighting his tongue with piquant spices. “’Tis good. Henri has made another fine meal.”

  “Mmm.” She nodded. “I’d say this is the best turtle soup I’ve ever had. The garlic and onions, so flavorful. Is that a hint of lime I taste?”

  Blade watched Marisol bring her spoon to her mouth. She flicked her tongue to catch a dribble of the soup on her lip, bringing a delicate finger up to wipe away what escaped. The innocent action sent an undercurrent of desire rippling below his belt. He shifted in his seat as she slipped her finger into her mouth.

  Conversation was minimal while they ate. He found it near impossible to string intelligible words together while she sipped the broth and nibbled the meat. Midway through, she caught him staring. Their eyes locked and a grin edged up her lips.

  She brought her spoon to her mouth again. Her gaze still on him, she puckered her lips and gently tipped the spoon to take in the juice.

  Blade raised his eyebrows. How tantalizing. He swallowed his own spoonful of tangy broth, slowly dragging his tongue along the corner of his mouth, watching for her reaction. He smirked when she momentarily averted her stare downward. Two could play at this game.

  She reached for the smaller platter of figs and plantains in the middle of the table. Plucking a purple fig from the fruit, she captured his gaze once more before she brought it to her mouth. The fig disappeared behind her plump lips and she nipped off the stem. Glory be!

  He, too, selected a fig. Slowly he bit into the flesh and, chewing it leisurely, measured his success by the heat flushing up her neck.

  Next, she picked a plantain from the tray. Peeling back the yellow and blackened skin, she flared a coy smile. If her seductive eyes burning into him from underneath those dark lashes were not enough to send him to explode like a flash pot, those lips wrapped around the banana surely would. Sweet, merciful heaven.

  “Belay,” he hissed. “’Tis quite enough sporting.”

  Marisol smiled, a wonderful smile that brimmed with pride. She had bested him. He wouldn’t deny it. His rum ran dangerously low as he chased away wicked visions and hoped to numb his mischievous merrymaker, already causing him a certain amount of discomfort straining at the fabric of his trousers.