Her expression tightened. Then her gaze drifted to his waist. “It takes a resourceful man to acquire two ships and crews—and to be hired as an escort for Lord Havisham’s daughters,” she stated coyly. “You’ll come up with something, captain.”
Damned if she didn’t burrow into his bed as though to claim it for herself. Damon strode toward the long lump under his bedclothes, ready to yank back the coverlet and haul her out of—
But that’s exactly what she wanted, wasn’t it? He’d fall prey to her charms the moment his skin touched hers…from the first brush of her lips against his ear as she whispered provocative suggestions.
Delacroix paused at the side of the bed to compose himself. Every word he said would be an invitation for Sofia to sidetrack him, to lure him into joining her between his clean sheets, which would smell like her perfume long after he sent her away.
“Sofia, if you won’t willingly return to the Lady Constance I must bind your wrists and ankles and deliver you there myself. You have no choice.”
No response. Just the slightest shift where her backside would be.
“Fine. I’m fetching the irons,” he warned. “You leave me no recourse.”
She uncovered her face to smile slyly. “You don’t want me telling the Havisham girls they’re only so much ‘ballast’ among the goods you intend to trade along the way,” she informed him. “Just as you don’t want me telling Lord Havisham’s crew you plan to meet up with Blackbeard himself! To barter the dowries in exchange for keeping the brides alive, I’m guessing. You’ll split the profits with him later. Won’t you?”
Damon bit back a sigh. “Your imagination is every bit as keen as your tongue, eh? I’m tired of arguing for—”
“Ah, but what will you have to barter if Daphne and Beatrix order their ship turned around?” Sofia sat up, and when the coverlet fell past her mussed hair Delacroix again caught sight of her smooth, bare shoulders and breasts. What in God’s name was he to do with this brazen woman? She knew too much and had no qualms about telling Havisham’s crew of his intentions. If they turned around, he and O’Roark and their men would forfeit several weeks’ wages—and he wanted no part of a mutiny. Didn’t want to hire new men after these sailors walked out on him, either, dammit.
Control. He must take control…even if his cock so badly wanted to take something else.
He opened the large trunk at the foot of the bed. It grieved him to think of clapping irons around this delectable morsel and then parading her in front of his men, but she gave him no alternative.
“Captain Delacroix…Damon, if I may,” she said in a tempting sing-song, “who will be the wiser if I simply remain here, in your quarters? I promise you, sir, I didn’t stow away to make a nuisance of myself or to cause trouble among your men—”
Damon snorted in disbelief.
“—but once you reveal my presence, you must contend with their curiosity…their insistence on following the Code. Do you really want to die for having me aboard your ship, captain? I could be…your sweet little secret. For the entire trip to America.”
Oh, she tempted him! For a brief and shining moment he envisioned the fantasy she’d spun with her alluring words….
But a knock at the door brought reality crashing home. “Captain, sir, we need your opinion about our navigational bearings as we leave the harbor for the open—” His quartermaster, Quentin Thomas, scowled from the doorway. “Irons already, sir? I’ve never known you to constrain a sailor before the rum kegs were tapped.”
What could he say? Damon glanced at the iron cuffs that dangled from his hand and knew he could keep no secrets, no matter how badly he wanted this woman all to himself. “The abigail who was to accompany Lord Havisham’s daughters has stowed away in my quarters, Thomas,” he confessed. “She refuses to return to her post—”
“Can’t blame her, from what I’ve seen of the girls.” He stifled a laugh as he glanced at the captain’s bulging breeches.
“So I must confine her until we reach port, where I will sell her as a slave to the highest bidder,” he continued in a loud, purposeful tone. “She will earn her meals by doing whatever Comstock demands in the galley. Tell the men I’ll be on deck shortly with the stowaway in tow.”
Quentin’s expression held a hint of conspiracy. “Begging your pardon, captain, but if none of the men are the wiser…” Thomas’s eyes widened, but he quickly refocused on Delacroix. “I—You could trust me to keep your secret, sir. You’ll have nothing but trouble if you let this cat out of the bag.”
Damon turned, exasperated. Why was he not surprised to see Sofia standing at his partition, wrapped in only a sheet? She’d followed their conversation with wide, dark eyes.
“After all the joy I’ve brought you, Captain Delacroix, how can you sell me, sir?” she spouted. “And why are you telling this man such a tale when you told me we’d play a little…slave game when you return from your duties on deck?”
Quentin snickered. “I’ll set our usual course south and west, sir, until you have time to render your final decision on this most pressing matter.”
“No! By God, I am the captain, and I have spoken!” Scowling at Sofia, he stalked out of his quarters behind Quentin Thomas. His mind was made up. He would have no more of her impertinence.
Never mind that he slammed the door on Sofia’s laughter.
5
“B ecause Sophia Martine is aboard the ship illegally—and she’s as wily as the slyest fox—anyone caught speaking to her will be marooned.” Damon spoke from the quarterdeck beside the Courtesan’s wheel, overlooking the curious crew gathered below. “She will follow orders from Comstock and myself, and under no circumstances are you to engage her attention or say one word to her. Is that clear?”
The sailors glanced at each other, but then they gazed at his prisoner: Sofia stood in shackles, cuffed to his arm. She wore her gray uniform, but with her ebony hair blowing around her dusky face, wearing a dejected expression, she looked alluringly helpless. Any man would volunteer to be marooned for the favor of a single caress. A single kiss.
“What’s to become of her, sir?” one sailor piped up.
“She’ll be sold as a slave—for more than any of us could afford in our lifetimes, I’ll wager,” he added to stem any interest in pooling their funds. “We’ve voted to uphold the Code, and for good reason, when one considers—”
“So where’s she sleepin’, sir?”
Damon searched the crowd for the upstart who’d made everyone snicker. “She will be confined to my quarters,” he replied in his most commanding voice. “Who among you wants the responsibility of Sofia’s welfare? Comes a time we must fight to protect the common good, we can have no jealousy or distractions. No sense that I favored any man above the others. I alone will bear the burden of her safety, understood?”
The sailors nodded, muttering among themselves.
“Back to your posts, then.” Damon stood in front of Sofia to keep her from making eyes at those who favored her with a last, fond gaze as they dispersed. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he muttered over his shoulder.
“You had other options, captain. Your quartermaster would’ve kept me a secret.”
“And we know what sort of payment he’d expect.”
“Is that such a high price to ensure your own gratification during this loooong voyage, sir?” Her breath teased at his ear: once again he’d invited trouble by scolding her. “And why did you relegate me to the galley? Surely leaving me at Mr. Comstock’s mercy is inviting—”
“Jonas Comstock hasn’t pleasured a woman since a cannonball took off his leg.” Damon turned to glare sternly at her. “So don’t think you’ll tease your way out of—” Her kisses—one, two, three of them in rapid succession—left him gaping. “Have you no respect for—”
“None whatsoever.”
“—my position as—”
“The position I like best,” she teased, “involves lying facedown in your cozy bed
while you ride me from behind and I squeeze you inside my—”
“Dammit, Sofia, you try my patience!”
She smiled, triumphant. “And if you’ll try my attributes, captain, we’ll both be so much happier. Won’t we?”
The warmth of her breath…the waves of heat coming from her lush body, which undulated shamelessly against his…the caress of her hair in the breeze made Delacroix very aware of what he could be enjoying if he disappeared with his captive. She was now officially his slave. And a woman like Sofia Martine would leave him no peace—no sanity—until he shut her up.
His pulse quickened, and his cock nudged Sofia of its own accord. “You’re coming with me. Let there be no mistake about whose authority will be served—and who will serve.”
Grasping her bound wrists, Damon hurried toward his quarters at a pace that made Sofia scuffle along in her leg irons. He scowled fiercely as a warning to any sailor who might smirk at them. When they came to the stairway, Damon descended ahead of her. As he opened the door to his quarters, he watched Sofia hobble unevenly down the steps in her leg chains. “Perhaps, so you’ll suffer for stowing away, I should make you navigate the longest stairways—”
With a little shriek, Sofia pitched forward.
Had she stumbled, or had the ship shifted? Damon rushed to catch her, again aware of her power to completely disarm him. Sofia landed against his shoulder, soft and light and voluptuous.
And she was laughing, dammit. Not one whit of fear or apology as his arms closed around her.
“What am I to do with you?” he muttered as he entered his cabin. He kicked the door shut behind them and set her unceremoniously on her feet. “You cannot continue to demand my attention—”
“So give in.” She gazed pointedly at his bulging fly buttons. “Let me suck that long, lovely cock, and we’ll both be happier, captain. I’ve tried to tell you this, but you won’t listen.”
He closed his eyes, determined not to succumb. “Who’s giving the orders on this ship, wench?”
“Why, you, sir.”
“Damn right. Enough of your cheeky challenges! On your knees!”
Sofia squatted and awkwardly folded her legs beneath her. When she gazed up at him, Damon felt a thrill sizzle through his body, although her demure expression didn’t fool him anymore. “You know what to do,” he rasped.
Sofia nipped her lip. Then she fumbled with his fly buttons as though half afraid of what might spring out at her. “I would so love to lie back, sir, spreading my thighs in invitation. But wearing these manacles limits my—”
“Who said you were getting any pleasure? This is your punishment for defying me.”
Her brow flickered as she scooped his member out of his pants. Demurely she licked her lips, contemplating the swollen shaft that pointed like a flushed sword. Somehow Sofia managed to look penitent, like a novitiate in a convent kneeling to pray, even as she opened her mouth to suck him. Her raven hair drifted forward as her warm lips closed around him, and Damon grasped both sides of her face.
“Ohhhhhhhh,” he moaned. “Most women have no idea how heavenly this feels. How much a man enjoys…”
“Mmm,” she replied. Up and back she stroked him, dragging her moist lips over his inflamed flesh. When she tipped her face slightly, Sofia appeared to be savoring this pleasure as much as he was…up and back as her tongue swirled around him.
Damon sighed languidly and grabbed the nearest chair to keep his balance. He didn’t want anything to interrupt this fine, fine sucking…a working-over like he’d never before received, even from the most experienced trollop.
“Oh, Sofia…don’t stop. My God, don’t you dare quit licking and—” Damon rocked forward, curbing the urge to shoot down her throat. She deserved to do without, just as he’d threatened, yet as he accelerated toward a climax, Damon could think of more satisfying ways to fulfill his need.
“Get up,” he whispered. “Sit on the edge of the bed and rock backward.”
“Yes, captain. Whatever you say, sir.”
Her deference wouldn’t last, but Damon was too needy to tease her about it. The chain between her feet scraped the plank floor…such a chafing weight it must be…yet his pity remained unexpressed as Sofia followed his order.
Down she sat, and back she fell, raising her legs so her skirts slithered around them. Once again she wore nothing for nickers. Anytime she bent over in the galley, she might expose herself to Comstock.
The thought crazed him. Damon imagined the cook’s randy thoughts, the way old Jonas would itch to get inside this young, lovely woman, and he grabbed Sofia’s ankles. He slipped his fingers inside the iron leg cuffs to keep them from cutting into her tender skin, and then he lunged.
Sofia gasped and rose to meet him. They thrust against each other, and as he raised her legs as high as the irons allowed, Sofia writhed. Her desperate expression drove him on, and as his need crested, Damon prayed neither of them would cry out…alert the crew that he’d slipped away with her before they’d reached the open sea.
He shot his seed with a force that left him breathless. The minx beneath him rose to take in his full length, grimacing at the brink of climax.
“Damon, please—slap yourself against me and—”
Her wish was his command. He bucked against her hips, making a randy, wet sound as their bodies shuddered in opposing thrusts. Her muscles clenched, and he held her tightly against his thighs to bring her to completion.
Where had he ever met a woman who loved this give-and-take as much as he did? Even from a submissive position, Sofia gave and gave, making it seem like he couldn’t take enough.
Making him realize he was as much her slave as her captor. A dangerous idea, indeed.
Damon eased out of her. Sprawled on his sheets, with her dark hair splayed about her face and a look of utter contentment, Sofia Martine was the most fetching thing he’d ever seen.
But he couldn’t send her to her galley chores smelling of spunk. Even old Comstock had his limits. The cook might think of ways to bait Sofia if he caught a whiff of what she’d been doing, even if he couldn’t consummate his fantasies.
Damon went to his washbowl and dipped an end of his towel into the water. Each gentle stroke made his lover’s body quake with aftershocks as he cleansed her. So responsive she was, he felt his need flaring again.
He wiped himself and buttoned his fly. Still Sofia lay with her legs raised and her feet dangling, so the chains rested on her bare backside. Her eyes closed as though she intended to nap, awaiting his return later in the day.
And wasn’t that a fine fantasy?
“Off to the galley with you now,” he murmured, but it hardly sounded like an order. “And if we don’t eat the most delicious dinner my crew has ever consumed, you’ll tell them why. Lord Havisham mentioned that you assisted your mother in his kitchen, so don’t pretend otherwise.”
It took six days—six days!—to convince the captain he must raid the supply of spices aboard the Lady Constance if he wanted tastier meals. Jonas Comstock, set in his ways about how to cook for rough-and-tumble sailors, refused Sophia’s advice about using a bit of cinnamon on the dried apples or a sprinkling of herbs in his tasteless stew—until she had refused Damon Delacroix the spice he craved in his bed. The quickest way to a man’s heart might be through his stomach, but making him change required pain where he’d hurt the most.
The captain had never really enjoyed Comstock’s cooking, so after he and Quentin Thomas swung aboard Lord Havisham’s ship for a chat with Captain Cavendish, Delacroix returned with a generous tin of the seasonings Sofia had requested.
The results were immediate. As she peeped from the hole in the galley wall to where the sailors bent intently over their tin plates, their smiles and sighs of satisfaction made her grin. Conversation was forbidden during meals, to prevent arguments while the crew was packed into such close quarters, but the utter enjoyment on their faces spoke volumes.
An uneven thunk…ka-thunk announced C
omstock’s return from the table. His plate clattered into the dish tub as he stopped behind her. “Well, the squeaky wheel gets the oil,” he muttered, “so it seems you’ll not be peeling potatoes or washing dishes anymore, missy. If you weren’t the captain’s…courtesan, I’d have something different to say about that.”
The captain’s courtesan. The phrase had a nice ring to it, even if Jonas had basically called her a whore. Sofia looked through the peephole again, hiding a smile. When Damon Delacroix spoke, everyone aboard his ship listened or faced the consequences.
“It was never my intention to upstage you, Mr. Comstock,” Sophia said quietly. “I was doing the job I was given, and I used the resources at hand. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that mutton stew more for the rosemary and thyme I put in it. You wiped your plate with my fresh bread and then took more. Twice!”
“Hard-tack biscuits is plenty good enough,” he muttered. “We’ll see how the men likes it when we runs short of supplies halfway across the Atlantic! We’ll see how happy you makes the captain then, when he’s got a shipful o’ empty bellies and short tempers!” He barked at Billy and Gasper, the two lads who assisted him, and they scurried to fetch water for the mountain of tin plates and cups that awaited them.
Why was it wrong to feed these hardworking men good food? Did sailors willingly endure stale, overbaked biscuits and bowls of greasy swill for long voyages and short pay? These first days at sea had been enlightening: the cramped hammocks hanging below deck and the secretive skittering of rats there made service at the Havisham house look like a party by comparison. And when she thought about Daphne and Beatrix—the whining and sea sickness her mother must be tolerating—conditions aboard the Courtesan seemed rosy indeed.
Thank goodness her captor hadn’t confined her in a cage in the dark, dank hold of his ship. The stench of unwashed bodies and live animals kept for slaughter would only get worse as the voyage went on. She appreciated her good fortune as Captain Delacroix’s slave and intended to work her magic on him whenever he wanted her.
Pleasure of His Bed Page 3
