Pleasure of His Bed

by Melissa MacNeal, Donna Grant, Annalise Russell

  “Please, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I should already be in the galley,” she rasped. “Comstock will be wondering where—”

  “Comstock can wait. I spent the night in agony listening to your moans and games,” he replied tightly. “I have your best interests in mind, dear lady, and I’m prepared to pay you handsomely for—”

  “I’m not for sale!”

  “—your favors now and again,” he continued insistently. His eyes riveted hers, and his breath warmed her face. “If you agree, I’ll buy you—your freedom, that is—from the captain before he puts you on the auction block in New Providence. I have a grand estate awaiting me in England. I can promise you a finer life than you’ve ever known in service. Or in slavery.”

  Sofia sucked in her breath to give herself room to think. The quartermaster blocked her view of anyone else who might be on the deck, and as her heart pattered rapidly she ransacked her brain for ways to outmaneuver this cunning seaman. As quartermaster, he was in charge of discipline aboard this ship. Above punishment himself, he believed, but he had the authority to make her life miserable.

  “What if I don’t agree?” It was a futile ploy to buy time. “The captain has already assured me—”

  Quentin’s snicker accentuated the angular lines around his eyebrows and thin lips. “If you believe him, well…let’s just say many a lady’s reputation has suffered from his empty promises. And many an unclaimed bastard walks the streets of every port he’s visited, dear Sofia.”

  She raised one eyebrow, assessing these claims. “What has that to do with me? Had I been concerned about my reputation, would I have stowed away on a ship run by lusty, sex-starved sailors?”

  Quentin chortled and kissed her quickly. “All the more reason Delacroix won’t be choosy, come time to sell you. I, on the other hand, would love to settle on my estate with a fine, feisty wife. Life aboard a pirate ship is an adventure for a while, but the tightening of international maritime regulations means privateers and pirates will soon be caught and executed for their misdeeds. We’re a dying breed, no matter how you look at us.”

  So it was true, then? Damon Delacroix had presented himself as an honorable escort for the Havisham girls, yet he intended to profit from this voyage—from the vast quantities of English textiles, spices, and gems in the holds of these three ships—even more than Lord Havisham had encouraged? Was he as heartless as he was unscrupulous?

  What—whom—should she believe?

  She knew nothing about this man Thomas except that he was playing upon her circumstances—taking every advantage of this situation. Sofia squirmed to see beyond his broad shoulders, prepared to cry out for help. But the mist was drifting around them again, and when Quentin Thomas placed his knee between hers, she was pinned to the wall by her uniform skirt.

  “Please, Mr. Thomas,” she pleaded. “I’m expected in the galley. I have an obligation to Captain Delacroix to—”

  “Sofia,” he breathed. His eyes narrowed, and he inhaled raggedly. When he pressed against her thigh, his erection felt very hard. Ready to invade her in the time it took to lift her skirts and step between her legs.

  She stood absolutely still. Anything she said or did fueled his need to possess her. To overpower her.

  “If you won’t agree to my generous offer, I’ll have no recourse but to report this indiscretion to the captain,” he whispered. His kiss was hard and greedy and fast. “You were wandering the deck like a wanton, and I nobly offered to protect you—your honor—and provide for your future. Only an ungrateful little bitch would turn me away.”

  Sofia held his gaze, assessing her options. She was damned if she gave in to Thomas and damned if she didn’t: he was second in command to the captain. Quentin Thomas was in charge of steering the ship, and he had authority over all matters of deportment aboard the Courtesan—matters of life and death, in cases of extreme violations of the rules.

  Rules he applies to everyone but himself.

  The wind blew her hair in her face—which meant either the ship or the wind had changed directions, didn’t it? And where were the sailors who should be clambering up the ropes to the yardarms, to position the huge sails? If she could bide her time, surely someone would interrupt this distasteful discussion, which smacked of blackmail.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Thomas,” she replied in a purposeful purr, “I find your offer generous and attractive—especially because I must consider the welfare of someone other than myself. You see, my mother is aboard the Lady Constance. I was waving to her when you found me here, and—”

  The quartermaster’s laugh was edged with sarcasm. “What sort of fool do you take me for? I didn’t become the captain’s lieutenant by believing every far-fetched story a pretty wench fed me, so—” He yanked her skirt to her knees. “What’ll it be, Miss Martine? If you need more time to decide, perhaps the rats and roaches in the hold can assist with your decision.”

  10

  D amon awakened with a start. His dream of Sofia had gone awry when a faceless stranger had stepped from the mists to lure her away from him. And when he’d tried to rise up against the intruder, he couldn’t move!

  “What the—?” Pain shot through his wrist when he tried to roll over, and then his knee-jerk reaction nearly broke his damn foot!

  He groaned. He’d been so concerned about rescuing Sofia from the stranger in his dream, yet she’d chained him to the bed—with his own irons! The minx must’ve hidden the manacles before dinner…and while her trickery put him at a disadvantage, he was chuckling. She’d planned this little slave game—had worn him out last night to show him who really had control of their arrangement, which had grown even more sexually charged since he’d freed her from these chains.

  He admired her for that. Sofia Martine was anything but boring.

  But how the hell was he supposed to run his ship? The gray light at his portholes announced an overcast dawn and a day aboard the Courtesan that had started without him.

  “Sofia? If you’re behind me laughing—”

  But only the ticking of his desk clock broke the silence in his quarters. Last night’s brandy soured his mouth. How long had she been gone?

  What sort of trouble is she causing? Even if it’s unintentional?

  “Somebody? Anybody!” he cried hoarsely. “Ahoy, sailors! Your captain needs—”

  But did he really want his men to find him this way? His eye patch had slipped to the pillow, and his bandanna felt askew on his rumpled hair—reminders of the costuming Sofia had coaxed him into. His limbs felt heavy from being driven by her insatiable wanting, her unspoken challenge to keep up with her need. Again and again.

  Surely someone would notice his absence. Surely Quentin would come along soon, and by now Sofia would be busy in the kitchen under Comstock’s watchful eye.

  He should relax. No sense in thrashing about, possibly reopening the wound on his face. His men were perfectly capable of navigating and carrying out their duties until he appeared.

  Yet as the minutes ticked by, marked by the four-note chiming of his clock at the quarter hour, Damon grew uneasy. Why did his gut tell him something was terribly amiss—just as in that dream in which he couldn’t identify the man who’d seduced Sofia?

  More important, where’s the key to these handcuffs?

  A secretive knocking interrupted his racing thoughts. At the quiet creaking of his door, Damon cleared his throat loudly. “Yes? How may I help you?” he demanded, hoping he sounded fit and ready to come around the room divider to greet his visitor.

  “Captain, sir? I had a sneakin’ suspicion—” Thunk…ka-thunk…

  Damon closed his eyes, awaiting his cook’s reaction. Better Jonas Comstock than some of his other men, but he could predict what the crotchety old salt would lecture him about.

  “Well, now. Why’m I not surprised to find you ‘indisposed,’ captain? Things ain’t been goin’ right ever since that hoyden hid herself here,” he remarked gruffly. “Gives credence to that supersti
tion about females bein’ unlucky on board.”

  Jonas approached the side of the bed so he could fully take in Damon’s predicament and speak to his face rather than to his bare backside. He pursed his weathered lips and glanced around, presumably for the key.

  Delacroix coughed awkwardly. “This was a little game Sophia—only a joke she played after—”

  “I’d find it a lot funnier if you was in plain sight and Quentin Thomas was at the wheel, sir.” Comstock fished in his pants pocket and then flicked open his knife. “Miss Martine’s leadin’ you both around by the…leg, captain. And which one do you s’pose bribed the crew to steer clear of starboard deck? Your quartermaster or your whore?”

  As the cuff at his wrist popped open, Damon scowled. “Why? What’s going on?”

  Comstock lifted a shoulder in a disapproving shrug. Thunk…ka-thunk. He hobbled to the foot of the bed to slip the point of his knife into the keyhole of the leg iron. “Heard her voice on the deck, so’s I stepped out to see what was keepin’ ’er—and it was Quentin. Gettin’ real…friendly with her, he was.”

  “How do you mean, friendly?” Damon rolled into sitting position, rubbing his sore wrist. “Where the hell were the men? Don’t they feel how the wind’s shifted? If a storm’s blowing in and—”

  Another cryptic shrug. A raised eyebrow furrowed Jonas’s old forehead. “Sounded like some sort o’ proposition he was makin’ her—”

  “That bastard!” Delacroix hopped from the bed and searched for his pants, which Sophia had apparently hidden under his bed as another part of her joke.

  “And from the look on her face, she weren’t turnin’ him down, neither. The woman’s no good, I tell ya. New Providence ain’t but a day or two away, and she needs to be offa this ship, sir,” he insisted. “If ya don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

  Oh, he minded, but the cook would criticize him anyway. Damon yanked the bandanna from his head and stepped into his pants. “Get back to the deck, Jonas. But not a word about how you found me—or turned me loose. Understand?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Roust the men back to their posts—including Mr. Thomas,” he added pointedly. “I’ll make my appearance after I’ve assessed the situation.”

  As Damon watched the cook adjust to the marked rolling of the ship, his thoughts swirled like the upcoming storm. What should he believe—and whom? Comstock gloried in reporting doom and gloom—and dirt. Worse than a gossipy old crone, Jonas was, when it came to tattling.

  Damon glanced at the foggy shaving mirror, running a finger lightly over the line of his stitches. If Quentin Thomas had taken liberties with Sofia, the quartermaster would suffer more bodily harm than a needle could mend.

  Damon clenched his fists. It required the vote of the entire crew to depose the Courtesan’s second-in-command—and in the same way, the men could remove the captain from the helm of this ship. Several of them had helped Damon claim it as a prize from the Royal Navy’s fleet during a skirmish last year, and their pride and proprietorship had kept them all loyal to each other.

  But by God, if he got ousted when they arrived at New Providence, Sofia Martine would be at his side.

  Wouldn’t she?

  He finished dressing and proceeded upstairs cautiously. Time to find out which way the wind was blowing—on the open sea and among his companions, as well.

  11

  S ofia closed her eyes to endure another forceful kiss from the quartermaster. His hand had slipped beneath her uniform to fondle her thigh, and when it roamed higher, she gasped, hoping she sounded impassioned rather than impatient. “Mr. Thomas, sir, perhaps if we went…This shifting of the wind will have sailors swarming the deck to—”

  “Let me worry about that,” he whispered hoarsely. “Open the barn door and set my stallion free! Quickly, or I’ll have to secure you below deck until you see things my way.”

  Thoughts of rats and roaches that scurried across her in the darkness made Sofia swallow hard. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt for the bulge in his pants…fumbled with the top button…

  “So here you are!” A gruff voice accosted them in the thinning fog, punctuated by a thunk…ka-thunk on the wooden deck. “You’ve shirked your duties, Miss Martine! And because I had to leave my kitchen to come lookin’ fer ya, breakfast’ll run late.”

  Jonas Comstock’s sneer appeared in the mist then, only a few feet away. “Can you fathom how unhappy the men—and the captain—will be when they hears why they’s been made to wait?”

  With a sly chuckle, Thomas backed away from her. “She was prowling the deck, Comstock. Had I not stopped her, she’d be stirring up trouble among the men.”

  “And where would we be without fine, upstandin’ officers like yourself?” the cook said with a sarcastic laugh.

  The quartermaster raised an eyebrow. “Shall I inform Captain Delacroix of this incident, or will you?”

  “That’d be your job, I’m sure. I’ve got a galley to run and breakfast to serve up while the weather’s still fit.”

  Thomas’s laugh sounded as mirthless as the assessing gaze he leveled at Sofia. “If my morning meal is inedible, someone will be made to pay. Have I made myself clear, Sofia?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Thomas,” she replied with a hiss. “Perfectly clear.”

  Sofia trotted after the gimpy cook, relieved yet wary. Comstock had caught her at a moment when even the most understanding of witnesses would assume she was enjoying the quartermaster’s attention as much as he had relished hers. Even in the mist, Jonas had seen what was going on between them and would no doubt report it to the captain.

  And how would she free Damon from his chains if she went to the kitchen as she’d been ordered? Her stomach clenched at the consequences of her little game, and she tried to think up an excuse—the loosest of reasons—for returning to Delacroix’s quarters. But when Jonas turned to be sure she was following, his expression held secrets: he knew more than he’d ever let on. So she’d better toe the line, considering what he’d caught her at.

  She entered the galley wincing. Was Comstock fumigating the place, or was that breakfast she smelled?

  Sofia glanced into the huge pots bubbling on the cookstove and swiveled her head to keep from gagging. Somewhere some farmer’s hogs would be happy to devour such a hodgepodge of scraps, but she couldn’t imagine sailors eating it. “Salmagundi again, Mr. Comstock?” she asked before she caught herself.

  The old cook crossed the galley with a heavy thunk…ka-thunk. As he dumped chunks of salted raw fish and potato peelings from last night’s supper into the open cauldrons, he sneered. “The likes o’ you, comin’ from the upper crust’s kitchen—havin’ your way with the men who runs things—has no idea about usin’ every last scrap ’afore it rots. I can see yer delicate sensibilities is offended by such humble fare. Not that I care!”

  His rude laughter brought a flush to her cheeks. Jonas had tolerated her well enough the first few weeks of the voyage when she was chained, but lately he’d grown more peevish—and was getting in his jabs now after catching her with the quartermaster. But by the saints, she would not be cowed by this self-righteous old buzzard!

  Sofia grabbed a long-handled spoon. “For your information, Mr. Comstock, I was born into domestic service,” she began in a tight voice. “And while we were punished severely for wasting food, we did not ask anyone to eat such swill as this! How can you expect hardworking sailors to—”

  The pop of a cork shut her up. “Sailors don’t hire on with Delacroix for the food, missy,” he informed her as he emptied a bottle of red wine into the pot. “If they gots complaints, they can go elsewheres to work—where the meals and the sleepin’ arrangements ain’t nearly so exquisite.”

  Sofia held her breath as he dumped in a pan of coarsely chopped, hard-cooked eggs. The wine, as vile as vinegar, combined with the odd chunks of edible debris in the pot, made her eyes water. The bile rose in her throat.

  “Keep stirrin’ so’s nothin’ sticks to the
pot bottoms,” he ordered. “I need to confer with the captain ’afore we starts this day.”

  The old sailor thumped out of the galley before she could protest. And what would she tell him anyway? He’d come to his own conclusions about finding her pinned to the wall beneath Quentin Thomas, so if he was itching to report this to Delacroix—and because he was in such a bad humor today—Comstock could just hunt all over the Courtesan until he found—

  The thought of Damon spread facedown, naked, and chained to his magnificent bed made Sofia snicker even though she was in deep trouble. She held her nose and stirred the salmagundi, imagining her lover’s chagrin when Comstock discovered him. What she wouldn’t give to see Damon’s face at that moment! After all, her little trick wasn’t funny unless someone else discovered how she’d taken him hostage.

  Sofia glanced around the shadowy galley, itching to slip over to the captain’s quarters. But where were Billy and Gasper, Comstock’s two young helpers? The cardinal rule was to watch the fire at all times; if sparks from the cranky old stoves ignited the kitchen, the Courtesan’s timbers and sails would be aflame in minutes—and she would be to blame. Captain Delacroix would never forgive her the loss of his ship, and she’d never forgive herself if any of these men died because of her carelessness.

  So she stirred…and stirred…and then switched arms. What on earth was taking so long? Surely it was time for the men to congregate, awaiting their breakfast….

  “Alone again, Sofia? How…fortuitous.”

  The familiar voice made her stiffen at the stove. She kept her back turned.

  “One would think, with the dozens of hot-blooded sailors aboard this ship, some would try to pick forbidden fruit,” he continued in an oily voice. “Just my luck that they haven’t, eh?”