by Kresley Cole
The next morning she received her second knock and even enjoyed a polite hesitation before the door opened. Jimmy, the little brat, padded in as if he didn't want to wake her. Each day his eyes brightened and his skin grew pinker, while she weakened. She thought she really might hate him.
As he had the day before, he examined the walls she'd painted with a marveling look on his face, then left the tray. Today, however, he placed it on the table, forgoing the floor. Instead of dispensing the obligatory scowl before his departure, he hesitated at the open door before turning back to her.
"What do you want?" she snapped. With his wind-flushed cheeks, he looked completely recovered from his sickness, and he, like Sutherland, smelled as if he'd been bathing in sunshine. The thought of Jimmy outside when she couldn't be was just too much.
This crew's treatment of her was about to change--beginning with him. She started toward the little whelp.
He backed away from her. "D-did you really give the cap'n your fives?"
She raised her eyebrows at him but didn't stop.
"Um, well, I thought you decked the cap'n."
She glowered even more menacingly. Fine. If Jimmy meant to take her to task for that one beautiful facer she'd planted, she was spoiling for a fight.
"Yes, I popped the captain. What are you going to do about it?" Tilting her head, she looked the boy over, sizing him up. He wasn't much bigger than she was. One more once-over, and she decided. She could take him.
"Wait!" He held a hand in front of him to ward off her advance, backing up to the door. Clumsily he maneuvered himself behind it, only allowing his head to peek out. "'Ow come...'ow come you ain't ashamed of what you done?" he cried.
She knew he asked her not about hitting the captain but about poisoning their water. Although she didn't feel the question even deserved an answer, she was past furious now.
"Ashamed? I've done nothing to be ashamed of!" she screeched. "If you weren't as insanely obtuse as your captain, you'd have comprehended by now that I couldn't poison anyone. I'm not perfect by any means, but I'm not malicious enough to poison you, even though I'm beginning to wish I had!"
Jimmy sucked in a breath, and his eyes widened wildly before he spun around. He had to fight past the handful of crewmen who by this time had gathered by the door, most likely drawn by her screaming. Some of them nodded toward her and mumbled back and forth, but she ignored them. She supposed this was as good a time as any to bring this to a head. Because there was no way she'd spend the next month inside, and they needed to know that.
She opened the door wide and turned to the closest sailor. "So you think I poisoned your water?" she shouted. "You're so convinced I did that your captain won't let me on deck for fear you'll do me harm." She leveled her glare at every seaman crowded about the door.
"Well, damn you all! I've done nothing but have the misfortune to be aboard with a no-good bunch of cowardly bastards!" Her fists clenched as she reached the point of no return.
"If you mean to do me harm, you better bloody well do it now, because I'm walking out that door, and I'll feel the sun on my face...or I'll die trying. Do you understand me?"
In her fury, all she could hear was the blood pounding in her head. She was barely conscious of the exhaled whistles or gruff grunts. She lunged at the door, shoving at those who were too slow to get out of her way.
Including Sutherland.
With a grim expression of realization on his face, he stood motionless. Too bad.
With all her might, she stiff-armed him to the side before she marched to the railing and looked out over the sea.
Derek didn't think he'd ever felt like such a bloody bastard. As he watched her at the rail, watched her small shoulders rise with each shuddering breath of fresh air, he knew.
She didn't do it.
He couldn't believe that she'd screamed at his crew or that she'd shoved him. But her indignant behavior was like a wedge opening up a stronghold of gut feeling. His instincts kicked in, and he simply understood. She must have been telling him the truth about what she was doing on his ship that night.
He turned from her and sought out Jeb. "Tell the rest of the crew that they are to treat Miss Lassiter as an honored guest aboard this ship."
"Aye, Cap'n. We kinda figgered things out when we 'eard she clocked you in the face."
He scowled at the sailor. "Your age doesn't give you liberty to disrespect your captain."
"No, but I can when my captain's made an ass of 'imself."
With a last menacing look, Derek turned from him and found a good place to watch her. For the next two hours, she stood at the rail. It was late afternoon when she finally laid her head on the wood. She was afraid someone would drag her back inside.
He didn't think it was wise to approach her this soon, but he couldn't let her fear him or his crew's treatment of her any longer.
"Nicole," he began when he stood behind her. She didn't acknowledge him at all. "Look at me, please," he said. He gently turned her to him, and noticed with a sharp pain in his chest that she furtively clutched the rail. "I don't believe you tainted the water."
She didn't respond.
"Did someone...so someone hurt your ship as well."
"Just as I've said all along."
He exhaled a deep breath. "I want to apologize to you--"
"Very well," she said tightly.
He'd apologized, and she didn't seem to care. "I am saying I'm sorry," he grated.
"And I am saying, 'Very well.'"
"What do you want from me? What do you want to set us straight?"
She looked right past him. "I want a ride to Sydney." She walked away from him, following the rail.
As seemed always the case, he was at a loss where she was concerned. Every time he believed he had her figured out, what kind of person she really was, his whole idea of her became fragmented.
He'd thought she was a prostitute and a dangerous deceiver. Now he was no closer than he'd been before. Was she a woman who wanted to sail with her father and help him build a shipping line? Or was she serious about her incredible artistic talent? Was she only sailing while waiting to find the right man to settle down with and start a family?
The thought of her marrying another man brought on a raw surge of jealousy. And it was jealousy. He wouldn't pretend any longer that she was merely someone he lusted after. He wanted to understand her; he wanted to know her.
Not that that would happen anytime soon. In the days that followed, she didn't speak to him, and he wisely didn't push the issue.
"You might as well be a gnat for 'ow easy she ignores you," Jeb told him one morning when he came upon Derek staring at her.
He scowled at Jeb, uncomfortable with being caught. He hadn't missed the fact that the crew felt sorry for him. If they spotted him looking at her, which he did for most of every day, they lowered their eyes. But not before he could see their sympathy.
"Thank you, Jeb, for your sage and unasked-for observation."
"You wish she'd scream at you right about now, eh?" Jeb observed.
He gritted his teeth.
"But, no, that one won't pour on the blame and cry."
Strangely, she hadn't done any of that to make him feel guilty. He would have, especially when he thought of all she'd lost and what she'd been through with no one to turn to. Then to be brought onto his ship, jailed, and starved, even if that last had been unintentional.
"She simply doesn't want to have anything to do with me," Derek said absently.
"I bet that bothers you like salt on an open wound," the old man said in a kinder tone.
He found himself nodding. It did, as did the fact that the only person she'd speak to out of the whole crew was Bigsby.
Like Derek, the crew had changed their minds about her, but they hadn't yet accepted her as one of their own. It didn't appear that she wanted to have anything to do with them, either. With her full run of the ship, she used the space to avoid everyone.
Especia
lly him.
She picked up chores, not asking anyone, but simply mending or cleaning anything she thought needed it. He had no illusions that her efforts were meant to help him or his crew in any way. She worked to alleviate her otherwise obvious boredom.
The distance Nicole put between herself and everyone else was loud and jarring, and no matter what anyone did--
"Good morning, Miss Lassiter."
"Uh-huh."
--it wouldn't be breached.
Except in bed with him.
From the first night they'd slept together back in London, he'd found it...nice with her, and he'd continued to each night, even after her outburst. Every morning, it became harder to leave her and their unspoken--and, on her side, unconscious--truce. When he folded her to his chest, she welcomed him, even unwittingly moving closer to him.
That night, when he returned to the cabin, he looked her over. Her small hands nestled the blanket under her chin, and her thick braid wound over her shoulder. Beautiful. She was beautiful to him. He wanted to make love to her for more than the pleasure he knew he'd find with her. He wanted to take her, to make this clever, brave woman his.
For some reason, the want of her that never left him was more powerful tonight. He was sick with it, sick with wanting her. Tonight he wouldn't--couldn't--sleep with her. He stayed in his chair, thinking about the girl in his bed, hard drinking in hope of oblivion. When he rose to get another bottle, she awakened and rubbed her eyes.
"What are you doing?"
She didn't say, "What are you doing in here?" Did she know he came in each night? Did she have any idea how she affected him?
"I'm pouring myself a drink. Care for one?"
She shook her head and pulled herself up, knees to chest, bundled in a cloud of blankets. "Why do you do it? Why drink so much?"
The glass he'd filled and raised to his lips stopped. This was the first personal question she'd ever asked him, the first interest she'd shown. Yet she'd targeted his greatest weakness.
He was just drunk enough to answer her honestly. "I drink to forget. To forget what I can't change."
She angled her head. "Does it help?"
"I don't know," he said, frowning down at his glass. "I used to think so."
"I'm sad for you," she said softly, and then eased down to sleep again.
Late into the night, he thought about their exchange. "I'm sad for you" sounded more and more like "I feel sorry for you."
Damn it, he was a proud man. He wanted her to respect him, to want him. For Christ's sake, he didn't want her pity.
Even if he quit drinking--if he could--he was running out of time to win her. Each interminable night like this, they sailed closer to port, and there was more standing between them than he'd ever thought.
He could only imagine how badly she wanted to land. He himself wasn't happily anticipating arriving in Sydney, because Nicole would leave him and never look back.
Chapter 18
F or the next couple of nights, Jimmy brought her dinner in, setting the tray down with a flourish. The bratling had changed his behavior toward her so drastically that she suspected he had, in fact, spit in her food before and now felt guilty. He wouldn't leave her alone, but peppered her with questions. He complimented her and brought her bathwater every day, as well as choice selections of food. In fact, she'd never eaten this well this far out.
The other crewman who weren't friendly to her weren't unfriendly either and mainly kept to themselves. Which was fine by her. She already had a crew, a good crew whom she loved. She didn't need to be welcomed into the fold by this one.
Ignoring Jimmy's chatter, she scooped up a handful of raisins and thought about her situation. She couldn't continue with her grudge for much longer. She wasn't the type to stay angry; she always blew up and then minutes later forgot what the fight was about. And she told herself that under the circumstances, she probably would have believed the same thing Sutherland and his crew had.
Sutherland especially made it difficult. He anticipated her every want. Yesterday when they'd passed a home-bound French steamer, he'd signaled them and rowed over with a crewman to board their ship even though he would lose time. He'd brought back a bag full of fruit for her--apples, oranges, these raisins--for which he must have paid a fortune. She'd had to hide her open-mouthed astonishment, because he'd also brought her a good supply of ink, saying she'd probably want to write her father.
If she had to walk past him, which seemed to be happening more often lately, he would brush by her and put his hand on the small of her back. If that wasn't enough, he'd let it linger. She supposed that, in each of these ways, he asked for her forgiveness.
Sleeping beside him wore her down as well. Nicole was aware he came in every night, though he hadn't realized that she woke each time he entered the bed.
She should be angry at the liberty. But as long as he didn't think she knew, she could just pretend she didn't and continue to enjoy the warmth he provided in the freezing nights.
But sometimes when he put his arms around her and pulled her to him, his hand would brush her breast. She'd go still at the shock of pleasure. Each night she found it harder not to respond, and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to move against his body, so warm and hard against hers. His heartbeat drumming into her back relaxed her guard, lulling her.
When she was recovering, he'd sleep soon after he lay down, but now he stayed awake, tense. A night didn't go by when she couldn't feel the evidence of his arousal. He held himself in check. For her. She wished he wouldn't. She wished he'd pull her to him and touch her as he'd done in the past.
Then the guilt would overcome her. How could she desire him when he'd had her crew jailed? He himself had said that he'd given them no word of her health. Of course they would try to mutiny; they had no idea what he was doing with her. No, she couldn't let down her guard with him. Any man cruel enough to antagonize her sailors and throw them to the wolves in Cape Town when they reacted could not be trusted.
"Are you all right?" Jimmy asked, pulling her from her thoughts.
She looked down to see that her hands were clenched. "I'm fine."
Jimmy frowned as he picked up the tray. "Better get this back to Cook."
When she nodded absently, he carried out the tray.
Suddenly restless, Nicole bundled up in nearly every piece of her clothing, draped a blanket over the whole, and headed out the door. For what seemed like an hour, she stared out at the sea, where the moon's light flashed over the water. It hung above the horizon as if it were too great and heavy to rise.
"Incredible, is it not?" Sutherland said as he walked up behind her. "It's as if she's reluctant to part from the sea." He stood, making no move to join her at the railing.
She didn't answer, just battled the urge to sink back into him, into the warmth she enjoyed even now without touching him.
"I think this is my favorite part of the entire journey--these last few days so far south."
How could his voice affect her so? Why did it tempt her to turn and bury herself against his chest?
She shook her head, reminding herself that he'd hurt her crew. "That doesn't surprise me," she began in a waspish tone, "since it's cold." If she was cutting enough, would he leave her?
Silence followed, and she almost regretted her sharp tone. He placed his hand on her shoulder.
"You're shivering. Why don't you ever wear the warm clothes I set out for you?"
"Oh, is that why you place them on the bed?" she asked without feigning interest.
"Yes. I, uh, didn't know how to go about getting you to wear my things."
"In the future, don't waste your time."
He exhaled. "Nicole, I want you to know," he said haltingly, "that I am sorry for the way things have been between us. I would change the way I've treated you if I could."
When she said nothing, he turned her. "I know you might hate me, but we've got something between us that can't be ignored any longer. Don't y
ou feel how right this could be?" he asked as he gently stroked her cheek. His eyes, glowing silver in the moonlight, mesmerized her with their intensity.
She looked away and attempted a casual tone. "You make it sound as if we have no say in the matter, as if it's something out of our control."
"That's how it's felt to me. Even when I believed you'd harmed my crew, I still wanted you no matter how hard I fought it."
He was describing the same feelings she had. The involuntary ones that made her forget about her crew--about Chancey.
She stiffened. "Too much has passed between us. It's too late. If you feel bad about how I've been treated here, then make it up to me. By leaving me alone."
The next morning, Derek was resolved. The night before, she'd told him, clearly told him, that she wanted nothing to do with him. Her body, rubbing against his till dawn, relayed a different want. If he had to win her on that level to have her completely, then he would. He'd use every night to overcome her objections until he could claim her days.
As on most mornings, he spent his time watching her from the bridge over a cup of coffee. Her looks charmed him, cheeks rosy from the crisp breeze, braids peeking out from the floppy hat she was never without.
She walked across the deck to Jebediah. Approaching Jeb was a first, and could she be...? She was wearing Derek's sweater.
His thick, favorite, obscenely expensive sweater.
Well, he'd told her to wear his clothes, right?
These were good signs. Apparently Jeb thought so, too, because after nodding emphatically to her, he tore off to the galley as fast as his old body could creak along. Minutes later, he'd retrieved bait and fishing tackle and set her up at amidships. She said something else to him, and when he walked away his chest was puffed up in pride. A smile creased his old face.
She'd chosen to throw out a line right when the fishing would pick up again, now that they were finally traveling more to the north, and that impressed him. He was content to watch her from a distance as she took out a small fish for bait, cut it, hooked it, and then...slowly ran her slimy hands down the front of his sweater. He could swear that the scales embedded in the fine fabric shone in the sun. Casually, she grasped and cast her rod.
How could she--? But that was fine. He could get past cut-up fish on his clothing if it made her feel better.
