Pleasure of His Bed

by Melissa MacNeal, Donna Grant, Annalise Russell

  And for her next trick, she’d make her manacles disappear.

  6

  “Y ou seem melancholy this morning, Sofia.”

  She continued to stare out the captain’s porthole window partly for effect—because her chained stance suggested her despondent mood—but also to keep the Lady Constance in sight. At this hour, before dawn broke fully, she liked to think about what her mother would be doing. Magdalena Martine had served the Havisham family since before their daughters were born, had devoted her best years to keeping their household in order.

  Had Mama convinced Daphne to quit sniveling? Had she caught Beatrix kissing a sailor yet?

  Is she angry because I disrupted her life without a moment’s notice? And that my chasing after Damon Delacroix has uprooted her forever?

  Sofia sighed wistfully. “Do you ever miss your mother, captain?”

  He looked up from lathering his face. In the flickering light from his oil lamp, the masculine shadow along his jaw called to her…such an alluring contrast between the white froth and that dark male stubble. As she recalled how his chin had chafed her when he’d put his head between her legs last night, his eyes blazed with blue fire.

  “My mother’s not the type a man misses.” He laid his brush aside to pick up his straight razor. “She nagged at my father until he left us when I was ten. Had a knack for wearing everyone out with her chiding and criticism, unfortunately.”

  “That’s why you left home for the sea?” she asked in a faraway voice. “I’ve always shared a wonderful love with Mama, even though I was born into service. She knows her place—her work—and she taught me to take pride in it, too.”

  “She certainly passed along her talent for cooking.” He pulled his face taut to shave around one side of his nose. “You greatly improved Comstock’s stew last night, Sofia, and I appreciate your demanding those spices. I admire a woman who insists on change that benefits the common good.”

  Sofia gazed across the room at him. Naked, half crouched to peer into his small shaving mirror, Damon Delacroix looked tigerlike and wiry. Predatory and very strong.

  “Thank you. Mr. Comstock doesn’t see things that way.”

  “Jonas is green. The entire crew adores you, and he can’t compete.”

  The razor sang an enticing song as he cleared his face…revealed fresh, swarthy skin Sofia’s fingers longed to stroke. She sighed and gazed out the window toward the Lady Constance again. “He claims my extravagance will cost us later on. Says we’ll run short of food halfway across the Atlantic.”

  “He should let the quartermaster—and me—worry about that.” Delacroix quirked an eyebrow. “Besides, it sounds like the perfect reason to veer south so we’ll reach a port sooner.”

  What did he mean by that? Was he ready to sell her, even though her lovemaking drove him wild? Even though he enjoyed her cooking and a companionship that went beyond her sexual favors?

  It wouldn’t be good strategy to ask, so she changed the subject. “My mother filled in for me as the girls’ abigail without having any choice,” she said softly. “I’m feeling guilty even though I’ve always dreamed of a new life in America—and now she can join me. She’s all I have, so I didn’t really want to leave her behind at Lady Havisham’s say-so.”

  Sofia glanced sideways to catch his reaction, but Damon was gazing into his small glass, intent on finishing his shave. He looked corded and strong, his muscles tensed to hold himself absolutely still as he focused on his poor excuse for a mirror.

  “Know what else I’ve always dreamed of?” she ventured softly.

  “Mmm?” He held his nose to the other side to scrape his cheek with short, quick strokes.

  “If I ever get out of these irons,” Sofia said dreamily, “I’ll wrap my legs and arms around you when we’re…fucking, Damon. I’ll squeeze your ass between my knees and—”

  “Dammit to—bloody hell that hurt!”

  A red rivulet of blood seeped between his fingers, and Sofia nearly fell over her leg chains when she scrambled to help him. “Press against the wound! We must find—” She grabbed the bottle of brandy on his desk to soak a corner of his towel with the liquor. “Hold this against it while I—”

  “This is your fault, dammit! Talking about wrapping your legs around—”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Yes, you did!” He glowered at her, clamping his hand around hers as she pressed the wet, pungent towel to his cheek. “And now you’re wasting my best brandy—”

  “We must cleanse the wound to prevent—”

  “—and you lured me into this! Timed your brazen remark about legs and fucking for when I’d be—”

  Sofia’s mouth fell open. “Damon, I—surely you can’t believe I’d deliberately hurt you! I’d have escaped you days ago if I hated you that badly!”

  His crystalline eyes widened, mere inches from hers, but his anger still bubbled beneath his flushed face.

  Or was that fear she saw? Was he afraid of the powerful attraction between them—so attuned to her that in his imagination, he’d followed where her naughty thoughts led? And then he’d shown his anger rather than any sign he cared for her.

  When she finally dropped his gaze, Sofia gasped and grabbed the dripping towel. “You’re badly cut, sir,” she murmured. “I’ll be needing a needle and—”

  “It’s not that serious! Not like I’ve never cut myself shaving or—”

  “Damon.”

  His mouth clapped shut. He pressed her hand harder against his cheek, cursing to himself. Sofia was helping him even though he’d spewed accusations at her—even though it was his own damn fault he’d lost his concentration at the mention of her lovely legs wrapped around him.

  When had any woman looked so concerned for his welfare? When had anyone fallen all over herself to come to his aid? Truth be told, the idea of being stitched up bothered him even more than how red and soggy the towel had become with his blood. And if his men saw his eyes swimming this way, like crazed fish, they’d know a secret he’d concealed for years.

  And Blackbeard, bastard that he was, would capitalize on this weakness. Not that he would mention that notorious pirate to Sofia in her present state.

  Her eyes took up half her face. The vein in her pale, slender neck throbbed, a grim reminder of his own lifeblood pulsing…precious moments passing as she awaited his answer. Sofia carefully took the razor from his hand and laid it on the wash stand.

  “Damon—Captain Delacroix,” she whispered. “If you’d rather I didn’t sew you up, I’ll summon whoever—”

  “No. I—” He blinked away the first wave of dizziness. “I was concerned that you’d not have the stomach—nor the steady hand—for—”

  “I stitched Lord Havisham’s leg after a nasty fox-hunting accident,” she replied quietly. “You didn’t notice him limping, did you? Now where will I find a needle and thread? And bandages? This is foolishness, and you know it.”

  He closed his eyes to savor the warmth in her voice…the tingle of strong, healing power in her hands, if he’d allow it to flow into him. His mother would be squawking about how stupid and easily distracted he was; how he deserved to bear the scars of his licentious thoughts.

  Thank God it was Sofia Martine tending him. Her leg chain scraped the floor as she stepped back, glancing around for what she needed.

  “The medicine chest is in my armoire,” he said with a sigh.

  “And the key to these irons? I can’t make tiny, invisible stitches with my wrists bound, Captain Delacroix.”

  So it was “Captain Delacroix” again? He swallowed back another wave of dizziness and the coppery tang of fear that invaded his mouth. Somehow her return to his formal title cut more deeply than his damn razor had.

  “Top desk drawer. Center.”

  She nodded, disappointed that a fine moment between them had passed.

  And so was he. When she pressed his own hand against the sodden towel and the gash, Damon felt bereft at the absence of
her touch, even though she remained in his sight.

  How dangerous was that? When had he become so enamored of the little troublemaker who’d stolen onto his ship—and stolen his heart?

  No, that can’t happen! Keep your thoughts straight! The loss of blood is making you weak for her.

  He blinked against a wave of nausea and then realized Sofia stood solemnly before him, holding a short iron key. Delacroix took it in his left hand, bungling as he fit its tip into the narrow lock of the handcuff. She held it against her chest to steady it for him.

  At the snick of the first cuff, Sofia snatched the key and unfastened her other wrist. She leaned over to unlock her ankles and kicked the offending irons aside.

  “Now we can get down to it,” she murmured. She yanked the chair from his desk and sat him down on it in one smooth, powerful move. “Better be gulping some of that brandy, captain, while I fetch the needle. I’m the finest seamstress you ever laid unfocused eyes on, but I promise you this will hurt.”

  His eyes were unfocused? Damon forced his attention back to her…watched her gray uniform strain against the ample curve of her waist when she stood on tiptoe to fetch the medicine chest. Why was he fighting this attraction? Sofia was a fine-looking woman—

  And she’ll lead you down the primrose path every time. Just because she can.

  Not that he could think of a reason not to follow her.

  The long needle she lifted from the medicine chest made him turn away. Damon took a long chug from the brandy bottle, closing his eyes as the liquor’s fire ran down his throat and into his stomach.

  “Perhaps you should lie down on the bed—”

  “I’ll sit right here. I’m fine.”

  “—so I can reach the wound at a better angle,” Sofia finished in a firmer tone. Then she chortled. “You don’t really think I’ll take advantage of your disadvantaged state—wrap my wicked legs around you and hump you—when you can’t hump back? Do you?”

  A weak laugh escaped him. “Point well taken.”

  She pulled a length of discolored thread from a wooden spool and snapped it quickly between her teeth. “We’ll see who comes to a point—and who takes it—now that I’m a free woman, captain.”

  Damon coughed. “You could’ve used the razor to cut—”

  “And why would I touch the vile blade that did this to your face?” she retorted. “You might consider a beard, captain. Deft as I am, I can’t guarantee you won’t scar. Now close your eyes and drink up. Cock your head this way and hold it steady…steady…”

  He wasn’t prepared for the searing pain when the point of the needle pierced his skin and then caught the other side of the wound. “Jesus, woman, you’ll—”

  “Suck down more liquor and hold still,” she ordered in a low voice. “If you want a bullet to bite, tell me where to find one.”

  Her face swam before him, but there was no mistaking her intent: before he could argue, she nipped him again with the needle, and again.

  To keep from blacking out, Damon gulped the fiery brandy. He concentrated on its sweet burn…thought about what style of beard might cover a scar…a constant reminder of how fast and far he’d fallen at her suggestion of sex. “Ouch, dammit,” he muttered and then sucked in a shuddery breath.

  “I’m so sorry, Damon, I know this has to hurt,” she whispered. “Two more should do it.”

  Before he could protest, Sofia skillfully stitched the rest of his wound. She knotted the thread and this time used his razor to sever it. “Didn’t want to pull out your stitches if I didn’t bite right,” she explained.

  He nearly keeled over from the thought of that pain…of possibly having to endure a whole new set of stitches. The familiar room lurched around him despite how he fought the blackness that threatened to close in.

  “Are…are we tossing in a storm?” he mumbled, glancing around.

  “I don’t recall any clouds warning us of…”

  Sofia tucked his poor head against her shoulder. With a clean cloth, she gingerly dabbed the wet, sticky wound. “Another wiping with that brandy, and we’ll be done,” she crooned as if he were a scared little boy. “You did well, captain. You’d have finished stitching me on the floor, I’m afraid. I don’t handle pain well.”

  Damon sighed languidly. After one more swig of the warm, sweet brandy, he let himself drift as he rested against the firm, solid warmth of her. “No, you’re not afraid, Sofia,” he murmured. “You’re the bravest woman I know. And thank you for…having your way with me.”

  Sofia smiled against his soft, dark curls. The captain had finally passed out in his chair and was dead weight against her.

  7

  D amon awoke slowly, aware of a stale sweetness in his mouth and a pillow that felt extraordinarily soft and warm and…moved and had a pulse. His eyes drifted open, and he saw dusky, sweet skin. Skin that begged him to kiss it. So he did. “Sofia.”

  “Welcome back, captain. You sailed away for a bit, but you’ve returned to me.”

  When he tried to lift his head, a gentle hand held him firmly in place against her chest. “Easy, now. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but your stitches are holding nicely. Don’t move too fast, or you’ll fall off your chair.”

  Chair…stitches…pain alongside his chin that made it all come back: he’d cut himself with his razor because of a brazen remark she’d made. Had apparently survived her surgical attempts to fix him—such as he was—and yet his backside felt stiff from sitting on a hard chair.

  He scowled. “You’ve been standing here this whole time? How long was I—asleep?”

  Her soft laughter rumbled under his ear, enveloping him in a cozy happiness. “What matters is that you rested long enough to let the wound clot and to allow your color to return. You were out long enough for me to realize what a handsome devil you’ll be if you grow that beard we talked about.”

  “How long was I out?” he insisted.

  Again she chuckled, the little minx. “Minutes, Damon. But, then, our days and weeks are made of mere minutes, aren’t they?”

  He lifted his head faster than he should’ve, and her face swam before him. “Stop being so—I have a ship to run! I can’t stay in my quarters for—”

  She shrugged prettily, which formed a tempting crevice between her breasts. “I haven’t felt a jolt or heard any nasty bumping noises, so your crew has been doing its job. Your quartermaster has taken charge. And isn’t that why you hired them?”

  Women! They never saw the real point, did they? They—

  Damon’s head turned ass-over-teakettle, and he damn near fell against her. “Fresh air. I need fresh air and cold water and—”

  “Sit here by yourself while I fetch you some water, sir. Then we’ll see about a stroll along the deck railing.”

  A stroll along…like some toothless old invalid being supported by a nursemaid as he clung to the railing? The image made Damon find the floor with his feet, and he immediately regretted it. He grabbed the back of the chair to keep from falling as he heard Sofia’s exasperated sigh.

  “Fight me, then,” she teased as she held the cup to his lips. “I’ll let you go upstairs and collapse in front of your men, if you insist. And when your head whacks the deck and your wound gushes blood, won’t you make a fine, inspiring sight?”

  He gulped the water greedily, wishing she weren’t right. Why did this woman always have to be right, dammit?

  “The water’s making you stronger already,” she murmured. Her voice teased at his ear…that voice that always sounded as though a laugh lurked just beneath the surface, yet a voice that wrapped around him so compassionately he didn’t know how to grasp it. Why on God’s Earth would she care about him?

  “When you can keep your feet underneath you and walk as though you are escorting me,” she continued with a grin, “I hope you’ll show me how to use your spyglass, captain. Might we catch sight of my mother aboard the Lady Constance? Or perhaps spy on Daphne and Beatrix to see what sort of trouble they’re causi
ng her?”

  Sofia’s head cocked slightly, and her smile made him flutter inside. Damn, she was gorgeous. Why would he walk her up to the deck when they could sprawl on his bed and make mad, passionate love? Without those cuffs and leg irons, she could give herself as freely as she longed to…perhaps wrap those fine thighs around him, as she’d hinted when this whole mess had gotten started.

  Damon blinked. Her gaze was sneaking to his crotch, as though she knew he was growing hard even before his cock thought of it.

  “Is that a yes, captain?” she teased. “For a walk in the fresh air, that is?”

  He gulped more water. “Probably a good idea to show myself soon, yes,” he said gruffly. “What were you thinking I wanted?”

  “Me.”

  Coyly she took the tin cup from his hand and returned it to the washstand. Testing him to see if he could stand up by himself. This had to be the most humiliating—most exasperating—experience he’d ever had with a woman.

  Damon sucked a few deep breaths to clear the fluttering cobwebs from his head. Gazed at her to be sure his vision had cleared—at least enough that his men wouldn’t suspect he’d passed out from the sight of his own blood and the pain from that blasted needle.

  “And what shall we tell them when they ask about your stitches?” she inquired sweetly. Sofia linked her arm through his and started toward the door. “We need to have our story straight so—”

  “Ah, but the rule still stands about my men not speaking to you or engaging your attention,” he reminded her brusquely. “Releasing you from your irons didn’t change that.”

  Her face fell, and he wanted to kick himself. After the way she’d stitched him up—would keep his secret about how bloodletting made him woozy—he was insulting her again. Had he spent his life at sea, away from potential mates, because he might mistreat them? Or because he didn’t want to lose himself, lose control, in love? He wanted to believe in that dream when he looked at Sofia Martine, but the prospect scared him speechless.

  Damon sighed. Time to put such ponderings aside and take command again, wasn’t it?