Indeed, the captain was a good man...
And long a tormented one!
Ah, well, now the time had come. Revenge lay in Steven Mallory's grasp. What would come of it all?
Billy Bowe started to whistle. He made haste to the galley, and with the cook's help, prepared a tray for their prisoner that was quite outstanding for shipboard. There was a fine Chablis to fill a delicate silver cup, there were fresh-caught, lemon-seasoned grouper; dark bread; bananas from their last port of call, and coffee with cream—Bessie, their one milk cow down in the hold, never failed to provide for them. With his tray in his hands, Billy paid his first visit to their lovely French captive.
He tapped on the captain's door and received no answer. He tapped again and heard a slightly guilty "Entre!" He pushed open the door with the tray—even a flower upon it—in his other hand.
He found the Lady Tessa seated at the captain's desk, the captain's log lying closed atop it, a plume, ink, and sheets of writing paper near it, yet untouched. She had been reading the log, Billy thought. Clever young miss. Plotting her own escape.
He came to the desk, sweeping up the log. "I shall take this out of your way, mademoiselle," he told her. An uneducated seaman, Billy had still learned to speak fluent French, Spanish, Dutch, Italian, and Portuguese, as well as his own Liverpool-accented English. "And voila!" he said, taking the cover from her plate. She looked from the tray to him, studying his wizened face, and then his slim, bowlegged body. He gave her a gamin grin and she smiled back, perhaps surprising herself by doing so.
"Merci," she told him. "It is lovely. I am not very hungry, I am afraid—"
"Oh, but you must be!" he told her gravely. "This is a ship at sea, my lady. You must keep your strength up since you—since you never know which way the wind might blow, and what opportunity might come your way."
She had started to reach for her wineglass, but she stared at Billy again. He'd never seen such eyes, he thought. They were exquisite. More beautiful than the exotic blue-green of any Caribbean waters. And her hair. It seemed like gold. There was nothing pale about it; it burned with the light of the sun.
"Opportunities..." she said softly. Then she suddenly reached for his hand. "You seem like a kind man," she told him swiftly. "If you would be willing to help me in any way with an escape, I would reward your richly, I swear it!"
Billy pulled his hand away in dismay. "Mademoiselle, I am so sorry! I—I cannot help you. I serve a good master—"
"A good master! One who kidnaps innocent women!" she charged him.
"My lady, I can only say again, I serve a good master. Take care with him. Speak gently, and he will see that you are quickly given to your fiancé—"
"Indeed!" she cried out, angry and disturbed. She picked up her wineglass and sipped at its contents, then drank more deeply. She drank until the glass was drained, then set it back down again.
"If there is anything that I can get you, my lady, it will be my greatest pleasure."
"Will you get me out of here?" she asked softly.
He shook his head sadly.
"Then there is nothing that you can do," she told him.
"'Til—I'll leave the tray," he told her, the logbook still in his hand. She watched him, half smiling, her eye on the book. She hadn't wanted him to take it.
Mallory would hang him if he didn't!
Billy Bowe left their captive, closing the door to the captain's cabin behind him. He leaned against it, hugging the logbook to his chest.
Ah, but it was going to be an interesting Christmas season! He stepped lightly then, about his business, not at all sure why he felt that the captain's dark mood might soon be disappearing to the wind....
* * *
Steven sat at the head of the table in the officers' mess, large by shipboard standards. The cabin, far down the length of the ship from the captain's private quarters at the bow, was handsomely appointed, with the paneled walls beautifully carved, the table and chairs in rich mahogany, their dishes fine china, their glasses Italian crystal. Sipping wine from his goblet, Steven mused that this pirating business did have its special benefits, for there was little that he and his men lacked in the matter of small extravagances.
"So we go to the Hidden Isle," his first mate, Walt Shelby, said to him, speaking low, and keeping the words, for now, between just the two of them.
"Aye, we'll see that the Mademoiselle is stripped there," Steven replied, speaking softly in kind. He shrugged. "Perhaps we can put her own crew to work transforming her into an English ship—now that I will enjoy! But when it is finished, I want the crewmen released to the French—only the girl stays behind."
"What of the girl's maid?" Walt asked him.
"I haven't given the woman much thought," Steven told him. "Perhaps... well, I will ask the Lady Tessa what her preference will be."
"Surely the girl will want her maid!" Walt said.
"Aye, surely. And therefore, perhaps, she will become a little bit more agreeable!" Steven said. "We'll see on the question of the maid, but I think the girl will be more manageable without her."
"She has yet to write of her position to Flambert?" Walt asked him.
Steven poured himself more wine. "No," he said after a moment.
"Sweet Jesu, remind her that she can be in her lover's arms before Christmas if she will but cooperate!" Will said. He was a good family man himself, a father with daughters. He was not pleased to be holding their captive, yet had heard enough about Flambert to be quite willing to strip the man of every treasure on Dejere.
He suddenly pointed a finger at Steven. "You must become more threatening toward her!"
"More threatening!" Steven protested. "They say the Spaniards quake when they hear I am near; men throw down their arms when I step aboard their ships. I have threatened her, I assure you. Besides, it does not matter. I will continue to urge her to write, but I will send Flambert my demands with a lock of her hair. With or without her compliance, I will see that our demands are met. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen...?" He rose and looked from Walt to Ned, the bo'sun, and to Thomas, their chief gunner. "Good night, my friends."
"Captain,'tis a night for celebration!" Thomas, a handsome youth, informed him with a wide smile. "You are the finest English pirate on the seas! All this time, we've lost but two men, and scoured the sea of enemy ships! Today we have bested that wretched Frenchie Flambert! Sir, you should stay with us awhile, and have a bellyful of good rotgut rum!"
Steven paused, shaking his head with a half smile. He stared down at Walt. "Alas, not tonight, my friends."
"Where are you off to?" Ned asked.
"To be a fiercer pirate!" Steven said, and left them.
Steven walked out on deck, feeling the wind against his cheeks for several minutes. Well, what was he, a man or a mouse? With a bitter amusement, he left the salty night air of the open sea and headed for his cabin again with long, sure strides.
Billy, bless him, had taken care with their captive, sliding the bolt across the door. When he'd walked out on her himself, he had been too aggravated to take such a precaution. Yet would she have escaped his quarters? Dangerous men stalked these decks, or so, surely, she must think!
Yet it was irritatingly true—she did not scare easily.
He paused before the door for just a moment. Then, not giving himself much time to think, he slid the bolt, entered the cabin, and slammed the door in his wake once again.
She was there, still fully dressed, her blue leather slippers still on her feet, peeking out from beneath the hem of her elegant skirt. She sat at the chair before his desk, but she was not writing any form of letter. She was using plume and ink—but only to sketch a likeness of Billy Bowe, a very good one. Billy's face was all there in the ink sketch, the wizened wrinkles from all his years in the hot sun, his gamin's smile. More. There was a look of kindness about his eyes. The sketch was very good. It had captured something of the spirit of the man.
She stared at him, saying n
othing, as he entered the cabin and came her way. He sat at the foot of the bunk, reaching out for the sketch. He studied it again, then met her eyes. "This is excellent," he told her.
She didn't reply. He was quite certain that she wouldn't dine with a pirate by choice—and neither would she thank one. Steven gazed from the picture to her eyes. "I wonder what a sketch you were to do of me would resemble!" he said.
"A dragon," she said flatly.
"A dragon?"
"A monster, certainly."
He laughed softly. "Ah, well. Such is life. Where is my letter for your dear fiancé?"
"I have assured you that I will write no such letter."
"There is always tomorrow."
"What will be different tomorrow?" she demanded coolly.
He felt his smile deepen. Become more threatening! Walt had told him.
"Why, my lady. Come tomorrow, you will have spent your first night in the arms of a monstrous pirate!"
She stared at him again. So cool, so remote. So untouched by any threat...
And then she bolted. She threw herself up, slammed her fists against his chest, and raced for the door.
But he was there before her. Capturing her wrist. Spinning her back around.
And indeed...
She was in his arms.
Chapter 4
Her hands lay upon his chest. His white shirt was half opened, and she could feel his flesh, hot as molten lead, vibrant, muscled, covered with crisp dark red spirals of hair. He held her close, so close that she thought she would pass out as the breath left her body, and none seemed to return. Those eyes stared down into hers, green-gold, so masculine, they seemed to pierce through her, and condemn her.
"Let me go!" she demanded, dismayed that the words were nothing but a whisper.
"I am trying to let you go. You will not help me do so."
"I cannot help you!"
"Then, my lady, you will pay the price."
"You are all what they say you are. Ravaging beasts, scavengers, monsters—"
"Write the letter. Then I will leave you be."
Her lips were dry. The oddest spirals of heat were ripping through her, tormenting her. Write the letter. Escape this moment! she told herself.
But into Flambert's arms... No!
She found herself studying the man again. He was a good captain, the little gnome who had brought her dinner had told her. A good man.
He was a young one. Five to ten years her senior, she thought. Handsome, striking. The feel of his flesh beneath her fingers was incredibly exhilarating. The ripple of his muscles was both frightening and exciting.
She was losing her mind, she told herself. She was so desperate to escape Flambert that she was finding a pirate appealing.
But he was appealing. His face was both rugged and handsome, his mouth alluring, seductive. His eyes were compelling; even the sound of his voice was enticing...
"I—I will not write the letter," she told him.
"Then you'll sleep with me," he said flatly.
She cried out when he spun her around and started upon the tiny hooks and eyes of her gown. She tried to twist back to face him, to stop him, but his hands were firmly on her shoulders and his whisper touched her earlobe with both threat and promise. "Only the gown and the wicked petticoats; they would pierce flesh, my lady! Yet if you would fight with any greater menace, I could find myself ripping far more than intended!"
Her heart thundered against her chest. For the moment, she went still. One by one. Down her back. She felt the brush of his fingers, and with each accidental caress, she nearly cried out. Finished with the delicate task of undoing hooks and eyes, he took her gown and dragged it over her shoulders. Her boned petticoats and corset remained over her pantalettes and chemise. She stepped away from him quickly, but her fingers were trembling so that she couldn't untie the ribbon that held her petticoats around her waist. She found herself dragged back against him, now very aware of each little hair on his chest as it rubbed her back. His fingers made deft work of the ribbon, and she stepped away from him again, and out of the pile of petticoats. Across the room from him she spun around again, shoulders and breasts half-bared. She still tried to stand tall, to meet his eyes with a sizzle in her own. "Enough?" she demanded.
His eyes moved over her. Slowly. He smiled. She felt as if a hot fever were rising within her, coloring her flesh bloodred. "Not nearly enough, but for tonight..." He shrugged. "I will not be stabbed accidentally by bone."
"If—or perhaps when—I manage to stab you, monsieur, it will not be by accident!" she assured him.
"Then I will take the gravest care with you, my lady!" he promised, but she thought that he was laughing, and if so, he might just be laughing at them both, for his voice had a bitter note once again. He sat at the foot of the bed and drew off his boots, then pulled his white shirt over his head. Muscle glistened like gold in the candlelight.
Hugging herself slightly, Tessa moved back from the bed again. She thought that he was about to strip off his breeches, but she let out a little gasping sound and he turned to look at her. He arched a brow and reminded her softly, "My lady, this is your choice."
"Hardly my choice."
"You could write—"
"I shall take the left side of the bunk!" she told him haughtily, and crawled in, pulling the covers to her chin and all but falling from the space she allowed herself.
A moment later, he snuffed out the candle and crawled in beside her. And she cried out softly again when she felt the expanse of his fingers on her belly, pulling her in from the edge. She trembled, yet was surprised by the soft sound of the voice that touched her in the darkness. "My lady, I am seeking only to save you from a nasty fall. Come into the center of the bed."
"I—"
"You are safe, my lady, this night."
She went still. She felt him settle beside her, his arm remaining around her. He did not sleep, but he did not move. He had told her that she would be safe this night...
She sighed, the air escaping her. She closed her eyes, amazed to realize that she was exhausted. And then she found herself wondering again about the man beside her. There was a pleasant scent to him, masculine, clean, touched by the sea. He was beautifully built, strongly built, supple, lean, powerful. She liked his eyes, his rich, full head of unpowdered hair. She liked the length of him, the sound of his voice...
He was a pirate, demanding a ransom for her. And she was lying beside him, wishing...
Wishing that she could be with him, instead of with a man like Raoul Flambert.
"Rest, my lady," he said very softly, a hand smoothing a tangle of hair from her face. There was tenderness in that touch. She felt a trembling seize her again, and she knew that it was not from fear.
It had come from a sudden longing...
"Truly, I have no desire to harm you, my lady. Think on this. If you cooperate at all, you will be with your betrothed, a sweet bride by Christmas. Dream of what you may ask your rich noble to grant you as a Christmas gift!"
She stirred slightly on the bed. "There is only one thing that I want for Christmas!" she murmured.
It was dark, very dark. She couldn't see his face, but she sensed that he had risen on an elbow to look down at her. He could probably see in this darkness. "What is that?" he asked her, his tone very serious.
She moistened her lips. "My freedom!" she told him.
"Your freedom? From me? But I have told you—you can achieve that easily enough—"
"Just freedom!"
"Ah, from all men," he said, and there was amusement and mockery in his voice. "But, lady, I can scarcely demand a massive ransom from your betrothed if I do not plan to return you to him."
"Will you leave me be?" she demanded angrily.
But he was silent again. She knew that he watched her still. After a moment he said, "Raoul Flambert is to slice and dice me for this indignity, ma belle, remember?"
"Indeed! Now, if you intend to set me upon the rack or�
�or—"
"Rape you?"
"Yes, if you intend to, please get on with it! And if you don't, if you've nothing more to torment me with tonight, I pray you, leave me be."
"Ah, but I lie here in such torment!" he murmured, and there was a rich, tremulous sound to his voice, no mockery, no bitterness.
A simple truth, she thought.
She closed her eyes tightly.
She prayed to sleep.
Eventually she did. And she dreamed. Sweet dreams in which the world was different, so very different! It was a world in which her father had not intruded, had not imposed. One in which she was not sailing across the sea to face a man like Raoul Flambert, nor was she a prisoner of any pirate. She was simply loved. Strong arms held her. She lay warm and comfortable and secure against all evil. A gentle mist surrounded her and her sleeping lover, and she was free to bask in his masculine excellence, his strength, face against his bronze chest, nose teased by the tickling of the short dark hairs there...
She awoke, and for a moment she did not know where she was. Her nose was being tickled by the hairs on a very masculine, hard-muscled chest. Her hand lay atop it too. She was stretched beside him—no, half atop him!—and all the warmth was very real, growing wickedly now as she realized her position. She looked up slowly to his face and realized that he had been awake some time, that he had known she slept there, that he had let her sleep so, his fingers moving gently through her hair all the while.
She bolted away from him, dismayed. The bastard was a pirate, only interested in selling her back to Raoul, and keeping his hands off her because she would be worth more undefiled!
Those green-gold, glittering hazel eyes of his had been studying her with a surprising warmth, but they narrowed quickly now. "Having second thoughts about that letter, ma belle?" he demanded.
"No!" she told him curtly, and leaped from the bed, quickly looking for her clothing. She stepped into the pile of her petticoats, pulling them up rapidly. He watched her silently as she dressed, and she found herself more alarmed, more afraid of him than she had ever been. Oh, what an idiot! She was coming to care for him, making comparisons between him and the man whose arms awaited her on Dejere.
Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures Page 4
