“Bring it in.”
Skye looked at him in horror, swirling to the far corner of the cabin quickly. She sought to hide, she realized, but there was nowhere to go. Two sailors walked in with the wooden tub between them and it seemed that a score of others followed with buckets of water.
And they all saw her. Every man saw her there in his quarters like a common … harlot.
She locked her jaw but didn’t make a move. The men filed out, one after the other, until only Robert remained, explaining that he had set a kettle within the stove and that towels and soap were set upon her trunk. Then he, too, was gone, and she was left alone with the Hawk and her steaming tub.
Still, she remained dead still. Steam wafted above the tub and silence hung heavy upon the air. It dragged on and on. Then the Hawk idly lifted a hand. “Your bath is ready.”
“Well, I am not.”
“The men worked long and hard to prepare this water for you, milady. I suggest that you use it.”
“I see. And I don’t suppose that you might consider leaving so that I might do just that?”
“No, I will not consider leaving.”
“Sea slime!” she hissed.
“A previously established fact, milady.”
“Oh, stop it, will you!”
“Why?” he inquired innocently. “Stop what? I am trying to be a gentleman sea slime and refrain from arguing with a lady.”
“This is absurd. I will not get into that tub with you here.”
He arched a brow, and she saw that he was not at all in a good humor, no matter how light his words. “How cold, Lady Kinsdale, how very cruel! I bear the burning tortures of the flesh by night to offer comfort and nothing more, and for my pains I return to my cabin—where I strive to keep you in comparative comfort and ease—to find you casting yourself into the arms of my second mate! Then, when I find my own leisure from the travail of captaining the ship, it is only for you to suggest I leave! Have pity, milady.”
“You should have sought a career upon the stage, sir,” Skye told him curtly. “It would have been a legal profession, and one at which I am quite sure you would have excelled.”
“Skye, I will not leave my cabin.”
“And I will not crawl into that bath.”
“I can make you, you know.”
“So you can. But it will be against my will.”
“Then is it your will that we clash by flesh again?”
She flushed, grating her teeth. Was she insane? He spoke the truth. It would be easier to move of her own accord. But that would be surrendering to his command, and she could not bring herself to do so.
“I will not crawl into that tub,” she repeated.
“By all the saints!” He swore with such vehemence and fury, leaping to his feet, that she cried out and backed further against the wall. She’d been a fool. He would touch her and with violence. He would rip the gown from her and toss her into the steam and …
She didn’t know what came after the “and.”
“Wait!” she pleaded, but he ignored her. With deadly menace he walked around his desk, his hands upon his hips. He stared at her hard, and his voice rang out with a deep tenor that caused a tremor in her heart and made surrender seem a most viable possibility. “Well, milady, if you will not get into that tub—” He paused, and she was halfway certain that he was about to do her severe bodily harm. But he twisted around instead, starting upon his own buttons. “If you will not get in, Lady Kinsdale, then I shall do so myself.”
“What?” she gasped, stunned.
He tossed his shirt to the floor and pulled off one of his boots. “I’m not about to waste that water.”
“But you can’t just—” She broke off. His other boot fell to the floor. He paused.
“I can’t just what?” he demanded politely.
“Take a bath in front of me!”
He cast his head back and his husky laughter held a dangerous note. “Milady, I beg to differ. I can. And I intend to.”
His hands were at the back tie of his knee breeches. She turned her back to him and stared at the wall. He ignored her. She heard him sink into the hot water with a self-satisfied sigh.
“You have the morals of … of …”
“Sea slime?” he asked politely.
“Of a gutter rat!”
“We cannot all play the grand hypocrite, milady. Be a love, will you? Yell out to Robert. This soap will not do at all.”
“I will not call out to Robert!” Skye protested.
“But then,” he said indignantly, “I shall smell like a French whorehouse. Oh, that will not do! It will not do at all. Come now, Lady Kinsdale, lend a hand here.”
“You’re out of your mind!” she said, staring at the paneling and shelves. Damn him! His sigh had been highly irritating. He was enjoying her bath.
“Will you call the man for me, or not?”
She didn’t hear that his tone had changed. “No!”
“Then I shall have to call him myself!”
She heard the water roll and sluice as he stood. Despite herself, she twisted slightly. Whipping up the massive cotton towel that Robert had left for her use, the Hawk strode to the doors and pulled them open. “Mr. Arrowsmith! I need you, please!”
Robert must have been accustomed to running quickly to his master’s call, for he appeared momentarily and listened to the Hawk’s command for a more gentlemanly soap. Then the Hawk waited at the doors, tapping his foot.
Robert returned and gave him the soap. The Hawk then returned to his bath, humming. He had closed the doors, Skye realized, but he had not bolted them.
“You don’t need to peek, Lady Kinsdale. I am here for the asking, you know. Alas, awaiting your gentle promise.”
“You will rot in an unmarked grave, you know,” she said sweetly.
“Perhaps, but until then … oh, this is frustrating. Come here, will you? I need help with my back.”
“You will die of a horrible case of insanity,” she assured him, “and then rot in an unmarked grave.”
“I don’t think so. I think that you will come over here and give me the small comfort of your sweet assistance.”
“Sir, I would not spit your way if you died of thirst.”
“You press Lady Luck, mam’selle.”
“Do I?” she murmured uneasily. She did not like having her back to him, but she did not intend to move, and she was not going to rise to any of his taunts or obey a single command.
The doors, she recalled, were open.
Perhaps she just might pretend to obey a command.…
“Lady Kinsdale—” he began, but broke off when she spun around. She stared hard at him. He looked absurdly comfortable in the tub, the steam matching the mist of his eyes, his long legs drawn up beneath him, his arms draped comfortably over the sides. A pleased smile curved his mouth as he watched her. “How nice, mam’selle! If you just soap and scrub the upper shoulder?”
She smiled sweetly in return. She strode toward the tub, and then straight by it. She just caught sight of his smile as it faded, then she reached the doors.
But just as she cast them open and started to flee, she felt a tug upon her gown and then heard the awful rending sound as it split down her back. She cried out, swinging around. Naked and dripping, he stood behind her, a large part of her gown in his hands. A strangled sound escaped her as she realized that her lower body was bared to the wind. “Oh!” she railed.
She nearly ran anyway, to jump into the sea if need be. But he was quick. He dropped the fabric in his hands and caught hold of her arm, wrenching her back into the cabin. He slammed the doors shut with a vengeance. And this time he slid the bolt.
He turned around, staring at her. Her gaze fell against his body, then her eyes jerked back to his with growing alarm. He smiled. Like a hawk with a field mouse within its claws. Then his smile faded and he stared at her somberly. His voice was deep, menacing in its very quiet. “End of play time, my love. There is one serious thi
ng here that you have failed to realize. It is imperative that you follow my orders. And from now on, Skye, I promise that you will.”
Her lower lip was trembling despite her staunchest efforts to remain calm. She clutched the remnants of her gown to her, gritted her teeth, and backed away, vowing to herself that she would not falter. But her resolve fled from her when he took his first step toward her. She panicked, shrieked, and leaped away. He caught her arm, pulling her back to face him. He wrenched the gown from her, his eyes so dark they were like burning coals upon hers. A breath of air and no more separated their bodies. She could feel him with the length of her. A whisper of space and she would be crushed against him … she would know all the hard-muscled coils and planes of his body, she would know the feel of the dark hair that curled over his chest, just as she knew the searing pulse that protruded from him and did touch her body, brushing like a living flame against her belly.
She could not swallow, she could not breathe. His lips were close, so close. He was wet and sleek and all the more menacing for it, the bulge of his shoulders and arm and chest muscles glistening in the sunlight that streamed in from the open window. She wanted to scream, but she could not, for she still couldn’t even draw breath. The world would fade. She would fail, she would sink to the floor in a dead faint and he would surely know nothing of mercy.…
“Your bath awaits you,” he said, his words falling like a touch of mist against her lips. Then he was touching her completely, sweeping her up into his arms.
And he deposited her firmly within the tub.
Instinctively she drew her knees as close to her chest as she could. He rescued her hair, winding it into a knot. The water was steaming hot and delicious. She shivered uncontrollably in spite of it.
“Let’s see … it’s quite all right if you smell like a French whorehouse,” he muttered. He was behind her. She tried to twist and rise and elude him, but his hands were already upon her. He held a cloth fragrant with the sweet-smelling soap and he moved it over her neck and shoulders and down the length of her arms. Her movement of protest worked well against her, for his hand slipped down, and cloth and soap and man came in startling contact with the full curve of her breast. She gasped, startled and desperate, for the brush of his fingers against the peak of her breast made it swell and harden, and horror filled her, just as the sensation of lightning swept with a vengeance into the whole of her being. Their eyes met. She was caught in some strange hypnotism again, unable to move. She felt the ferocity of her heartbeat and she knew that he saw the pulse that throbbed against her throat. She hardly dared to look at him, and yet she could not help herself, and when her eyes fell upon his body again, panic seized her. He had dropped the cloth. His bare hand lay against her breast. He was as still as she, his eyes burning, the whole of him gone rigid. Her lips were dry despite the steam. She fought to moisten them. To draw breath to speak.
“Please!” she managed to cry out.
She heard the grate of his teeth. He shoved away from the tub with the frightening thunder of an oath upon his lips. Skye sank further into the tub, hugging her knees once again. She heard him jerk on his breeches. He clothed himself no more thoroughly, but barefoot and bare-chested slammed his way out of his cabin.
He did not even pause to bolt her in from the outside. Nor did Skye dare to move at first. She waited, frozen there.
Seconds later, she heard the bolt slide home. Robert Arrowsmith had come, she thought. Always his master’s man, tying up whatever loose ends the Silver Hawk might leave.
She came to life then. She scrubbed herself quickly and furiously, then leaped from the tub and dried as quickly as she could manage with the one towel that had been left between them. It carried a hint of his scent, she thought. Of the more masculine soap he demanded that Robert bring him. Of something deeper. Of something that was curiously pleasant and deeply primal, the subtle scent that was uniquely his.
She threw the towel from her and hurriedly searched her trunk for a clean shift. She dressed carefully and completely in hose and shift and corset and petticoats and gown, but it wouldn’t have mattered what she had chosen to wear.
He did not come back to the cabin. Not that day. Not that night. Robert came with men to clear away the tub and breakfast tray, and he came again later to bring her supper.
She fell asleep at his desk.
Later, she awoke in his bed, and wondered how she had come there. Had she walked? She was still clad in her gown and petticoats. All that had been stripped from her body were the soft leather slippers she had worn upon her feet.
Had he come back?
He was not within the cabin. Two lanterns burned brightly, and she was not left to the darkness.
Skye lay back down, deeply disturbed. She hugged one of his pillows tightly against her, horrified to realize that she missed the man beside her, and missed the way that he had held her, making her feel secure against each and every terror of the night.
He did not come the next day. Robert Arrowsmith arrived bright and early with her breakfast. He promised that he would return to walk her about the ship. She did not ask about the Hawk, nor did she seek to “rehabilitate” his second mate.
The Hawk had said that he would kill any man who betrayed him, and Skye believed that he did not make idle threats.
By noon Robert took her out on deck. Every man jack was courteous to her, tipping his hat or cap or inclining his bare head her way. They sailed with a good wind.
The Silver Hawk was nowhere to be seen. Skye leaned against the portside hull and felt the wind whip through her hair and caress her face. Robert pointed out the distant shores of Florida, and she nodded, then gazed at him pensively.
“What has happened to Bess and Tara?” she asked him. “The young Irish maids. Do they … live?”
She thought that he quickly hid a smile, but he spoke to her gravely. “Aye, lady. They live. They will be returned with you, no doubt, to Virginia.”
“Yes, yes! Please see that it is so. My father will pay for them, I promise.”
“I will inform the Hawk about your concern,” he said.
“Where is the Hawk this morning?” she said, then despised herself for the query. What did she care? She was grateful for his absence, no matter what had caused it, or what it meant.
“He, er, is busy. He will be busy for quite some time. Probably until we reach New Providence.”
“How … nice,” Skye said flatly.
Robert looked at the sky, then cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s time for you to return to the cabin. Can I bring you anything?”
She shook her head, then she changed her mind. “Er, I’d have another bath if I might.” What a lovely opportunity. She would have the sweet-scented soap and the wonderfully steaming water without any fear of his arrival.
“Another bath?” Robert said disbelievingly. “You expose your pores, milady, to heaven knows what maladies!”
She was surprised to discover that she could smile at his very real concern. “So far, Mr. Arrowsmith, I have been quite lucky with my health, despite the bathing. Is this a problem?”
“No, no! Your wish is my command, Lady Kinsdale.”
How ironic! she thought bitterly. It was such a pity that her wishes didn’t seem to mean a damned thing to his master.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He returned her to the cabin. Restlessly she studied the books in the shelves. They were many and varied. He had texts by Bacon and Shakespeare and Sir Christopher Wren. Greek classics lined one shelf and there were tomes on not only warfare and naval maneuvers but also philosophy and medicine and the astrological sciences.
The Silver Hawk was a well-read man.
Else he had privateered the ship of some well-read gent! That, too, was a possibility. He was a thief. He had probably stolen the books just as he had everything else.
Robert and two sailors brought the tub to her again and the crew filed in and out with their buckets of water. Again, she th
ought they seemed too decent a lot to be pirates.
She had been locked in the room for four days, going on five, and she was losing her mind.
Nervously she disrobed and hopped in the tub. She expected him to arrive the very second her clothes were shed, but he did not. In a matter of moments, she leaned back. She let the steam enter deep into her and soothe her muscles and her aching spirits. The water began to lose its heat after a while. She had lingered too long.
Had she waited for him? she wondered.
No!
But perhaps she had. Perhaps she had waited to feel the explosive sensation of lightning tearing into the very core of her body, as she’d felt when his fingers had curved over her breast.
“Never!” she whispered aloud, shamed and humiliated. She leaped out of the tub, grabbing her towel, wrapping it around herself.
That was when the doors opened.
Fully clad in his boots and a handsomely trimmed frockcoat, he was holding a ledger in his hands and he seemed preoccupied with it. When he came full upon her, he stopped in surprise. Skye hugged the end of the towel to her chest and stared at him, her eyes wide, and did not say a word.
Nor did he speak. He tossed the ledger upon his desk. For the longest time he watched her, and she felt her blood begin to race within her.
“You like to bathe,” he said politely.
“Yes,” she managed to reply. He was very grave.
“Did you sleep well, mam’selle?”
“Yes.”
He went silent for a moment. “Robert came and took you about the deck?”
“He—he did.”
He ran out of small talk then. He took the two steps that brought him before her. She didn’t try to run. She didn’t even think to do so. His silver-blue eyes held hers in a curious grip, and she scarce had breath in her body. Her flesh burned, and she felt rooted to the floor.
She could not run.
He paused before her and his fingers very slowly threaded through her hair. He tilted her head back, and then he slowly lowered his lips to hers.
Heather Graham - [Camerons Saga - North American Woman 02] Page 9
