Pleasure of His Bed

by Melissa MacNeal, Donna Grant, Annalise Russell

  Sofia’s mouth went dry. She stood absolutely still despite the noxious fumes wafting from the salmagundi.

  Quentin Thomas approached her slowly from behind until his thighs found the backs of hers. He bent at the knees, forcing her to do the same despite the nearness of the hot stove. “And what trouble are we stirring up now, sweet Sofia?” he murmured against her ear. “Lord knows you don’t need the fire in this cookstove to set every man on board aflame.”

  She bit her lip to keep from crying out when his hands closed over her breasts. He pressed into her hips to be sure she felt his erection. “We’re going to be…Any moment now, Comstock’s lads—or the cook himself—will return,” she said in a tight voice.

  “Not until I tell them to. Not until I hear your apology for rejecting me earlier and you agree to the ‘plan’ we discussed for your future.”

  His hot breath made her neck prickle. Sofia’s eyes narrowed at his talk of her “rejection”—as if she had initiated that contact on the deck earlier! Well, she was one for making plans, too, rather than following someone else’s.

  What would it take to overturn this pot of salmagundi? Could she splatter the lecherous quartermaster instead of herself?

  It might be worth some scald wounds, though, to boil this man’s sausage. If she wounded the Captain’s second-in-command, Delacroix would surely sell her on New Providence. But, then, compared to Quentin Thomas’s nasty little games, life on a pirate’s island sounded like a tea party.

  Quentin’s lips brushed her jaw. “Why are you so averse to my advances? To life as my lady at my estate in Wales? What could the captain possibly promise you that I can’t?”

  Sofia braced the long wooden spoon against the bottom edge of the pot nearest her. If she swung herself around—threw her weight away from the hot cauldron while she pulled hard on the spoon—surely she could escape most of the boiling stuff that would splatter….

  “Miss Martine! We must talk immediately—”

  Damon! Her heart jumped at the sound of his commanding voice, and somehow she caught the heavy pot before it dropped off the edge of the stove.

  “—about a certain instance of insubordination on your part and—and retribution on mine!”

  Quentin let out a crude laugh as he stepped away from her. “As though this crafty wench knows what you’re talking about! All she understands is the baiting of your sailors, captain. Her wiles require nothing other than female legs open in invitation.”

  Thomas thought she was a creature of animal instinct rather than intellect, did he? Clenching her teeth, Sofia positioned the long spoon against the bottom of the pot again. By the saints, she would not let this crude quartermaster—

  A dull clunk made her drop the spoon; the business end of a pistol had struck the outside of the pot, and the captain himself was gripping its inlaid handle. Delacroix’s other hand closed around her upper arm, and his eyes bored into hers. “Enough of your connivery! Come with me!”

  Her heart thudded weakly. She had no choice but to keep up as Damon escorted her unceremoniously from the stove. Their footsteps beat an uneven tattoo as he steered her toward the wooden stairs.

  “I—If you’ll hear my side of this story,” she protested, scrambling to match his long strides.

  “I’ve heard and seen all I need to, dammit.” A final shove got them to the top of the stairs, where they were met by the curious stares of the entire crew, who lined the deck. The first face she focused on was Jonas Comstock’s, and the cook’s smirk made her want to spit.

  He’d played her for such a fool! When he’d gone to find Damon, Comstock had alerted Thomas that she was alone again—needed to be put in her place!—while the men gathered to watch her fall from grace. Sofia jerked her arm, but the captain held her tight.

  “Billy! Gasper!” Delacroix ordered, searching the crowd for the younger crewmen. “Fetch me the pen from the hold. The one where the sheep are kept.”

  The two boys, who looked like gangly, unkempt ruffians, stepped from the line to gaze quizzically at Delacroix. “And what’ll we do with the sheep, sir?”

  “Figure something out! Anything other than letting them wander loose on the deck,” he added tersely. As the two scurried off to do his bidding, he addressed the rest of his men. “Word has gotten back to me about someone breaking my rules! Who has spoken to Miss Martine?”

  Eyes widened, and heads swiveled. Sofia opened her mouth to name the culprit, but Damon’s dangerous glare silenced her.

  Why was he behaving as if she was at fault? With his own eyes he’d seen Quentin fondling her while she stood helpless, unable to move from his lecherous grasp.

  “Shall we review the punishment for those who don’t abide by the rules?” he asked in a more insistent voice. The breeze ruffled his dark hair, and his swarthy face hardened as he studied the silent crew. “Barkis! What say you? And by God, if any of you don’t know this answer—if the culprit’s too cowardly to confess—I won’t tolerate his presence another day! It’s over the side with him!”

  Barkis, a barrel-chested man with auburn hair and freckles, swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. “We’s to be tried in court. Right here on the deck, cap’n,” he rasped.

  “Precisely. And if found guilty by majority vote?”

  Barkis cleared his throat. “Mr. Thomas, the quartermaster, he decides the fate of the accused.”

  Sofia stiffened in Damon’s grasp. Quentin Thomas, the weasel, now stood above them on the quarterdeck, steering the ship as if he’d been at his post all along. If only she could tell them—if the captain would let her speak…

  But here came Gasper, leading Billy as they awkwardly trundled a makeshift iron pen between them. It was made of three barred sides without a floor, so the men could reposition the live animals when their stench grew bothersome below—or stow the pen in the lower hold, once all the sheep had become mutton during the voyage.

  And what had that contraption to do with her?

  “Set it on the foredeck in clear view.” Delacroix’s tone made the two lads scurry to the opposite end of the ship while the rest of the crew shifted nervously. Did they know of some onerous punishment involving the pen? Or were they concerned about the captain’s methods of extracting confessions from wrongdoers?

  Damon held her in such a firm grip she could feel his pulse. The stubble on his face rendered him darker and more dangerous than before, and she saw a more potent storm brewing in his blue eyes than on the horizon.

  In fact, now that the morning mist had cleared, the day appeared sunny. Breezy enough to be beneficial, with no dark clouds or signs of impending rain. Sofia frowned. More was going on here than anyone had let on.

  “Go below and get your breakfast,” Delacroix ordered. “When you return to swab the deck and tend the sails, we’ll discuss my new…arrangement for Miss Martine’s captivity. Comstock and his lads go first, of course,” he reminded them, “so they can dish up the meal.”

  Whispering among themselves, with many a secretive glance at Sophia and the captain, the crew trundled down the stairs. Damon waited until most of them were below before he turned to her.

  “And now, my little vixen,” he muttered as he escorted her toward the foredeck, “you’ll be dishing up a few things yourself. In you go.”

  12

  S ofia stepped into the pen as he held a side open for her. The sides came to the top of her thighs—a barrier that would keep sheep but would never hold an unwilling woman. Was she unwilling? Would she cause problems during this entire voyage, or would she follow his lead?

  Damon hooked the third barred side to complete the iron triangle, watching her reactions. It was difficult not to blurt out what he knew—what he’d heard from others and seen for himself to meld his impressions of this morning’s situation. But he had to know exactly where Sofia Martine stood—besides inside this symbolic pen.

  “What have you to say for yourself, Sofia?”

  Her dark eyes drank him in. She stood
straight and tall, her hands clasped calmly before her, with no sign of apology in her demeanor. The light in her expression—the pressing of her lips into a delectable, distracting line—told him she was considering her answers carefully. No fool, this beautiful creature.

  “It was only a game, Damon,” she began softly. “I’m sorry it got out of hand, but most of that was not my doing, sir.”

  Ah, but that sir rankled him! He longed to make her call out his name in passion and release again—but if that were to happen, this conversation had to establish who would lead and who would follow. “Start from where we left off last night,” he murmured. “Start from the moment you slipped those manacles on me, little witch.”

  Her lips quirked. “I was only playing with you, Damon. You fell asleep immediately after our last climax, and I chained you to your bed—and you were smiling sweetly as I did that,” she added with a saucy smile. “I went up on deck for some air then, intending to free you before I went in to help Comstock.”

  “And?”

  Her gaze drifted over the bow of the Courtesan, toward the two other ships that now sailed quite a distance ahead of them. “Something led me to gaze toward the Lady Constance, and there stood Mama! I waved, and she waved back! I—I got so excited, I cried out that I loved her—”

  “You’re sure it was your mother? The mist was thick this morning and—”

  “Damon, really! I’ve known her all my life! How would I mistake her for someone else?”

  His mouth clapped shut. Why did he assume that others had experienced the same cold, empty home life he had? He touched her cheek and felt wetness—a tear she was too proud to wipe. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”

  Sofia raised her chin to that haughty level he’d come to adore. “I heard someone behind me. Mr. Thomas, it was, and he propositioned me—”

  It was the very word Comstock had used. Damon’s hands balled into fists.

  “—about…scratching his itch in return for a secure future at his estate in Wales. Oh—and this was after he offered to pay me and I refused him.”

  Her rising pitch bore out her distaste for the quartermaster, and the picture she painted fit with Damon’s own assumptions. “Comstock insinuated it was you who lured Quentin into this discussion by—”

  “One man will lie, and his friend will swear to it,” she remarked hoarsely. “I’m outnumbered several times over here, Damon. You’ll believe what you want to, so if you’ve already passed judgment upon—”

  “Not upon you, dear Sofia.” He grabbed her hand, well aware that Sofia Martine wielded more power than all his men put together—and she was smart enough not to flaunt it. “After all, I stopped you from hauling that cauldron off the stove to boil him alive.”

  Her lip quivered like a little girl’s. “And why did you draw your gun, captain? For a moment I thought you intended to use it on me.”

  He squeezed her soft hand within his. “I’m sorry I frightened you! I wanted to scorch the bastard myself when I saw he’d trapped you against the stove. Taking up where he’d left off, apparently?”

  “Insinuating that he’d keep our…little secret,” she said with a hiss, “if I’d service his need. But if I refused him, he’d tattle to you about my wanton ways, walking the deck unchaperoned among men so helpless against my wiles! I was so disgusted I wanted to—”

  “Sofia,” he whispered. “I never believed you invited Thomas’s attentions. But I had to hear the story from you.”

  She sniffled endearingly, and he pulled a bandanna from his pocket. What a picture she made, dabbing at her face! Her smile was like the sun shining from behind the clouds. “So…so you’re not angry about me chaining you to your bed—”

  “I thought it was wickedly funny that you held me hostage in my own irons.” He glanced around, noting the sailors who tended their duties at a discreet distance. “And when I felt the ship changing direction—yet saw no storm clouds through my windows—and then caught my men exchanging money—”

  “Money?”

  Her childlike tone softened him even more. He should maintain the stern demeanor of a captain in charge of his ship and his crew, but, dammit, she’d been taken advantage of in an unforgivable way, by a man who knew better. “The sailors were wagering as to whether our illustrious quartermaster would get what he wanted from you. Quentin had instructed them to stay away. He’d left the wheel—the entire vessel—unattended to pursue pleasures that were against the rules and that put the entire company at risk. That’s why the Courtesan was turning in the current,” he added in a coiled voice. He, too, looked out to sea, shielding his eyes. “And that’s why the other two ships are now so far ahead of us. If this spoils our plan…”

  Damon pulled himself back into the present moment to see if she was figuring things out. Her lip had curled. What woman wanted to hear she’d been the subject of such wagering—even if she’d won? It cheapened her, and Sofia Martine was not a cheap woman. Matter of fact, she was costing him more pride and personal peace than he cared to admit, because, unwittingly, she’d brought out the worst in men he’d trusted.

  Sofia stood before him, contemplating what he’d just told her. Her shoulders relaxed. She made no effort or demand to be freed—simply tested things in her sharp mind. “Does…does Thomas have an estate that you know of?” she asked.

  He smiled sadly. “He once told me he’d been disinherited for corrupt behavior that turned his father and brother against him. The sea is his home because he has nowhere else to hang his hat, apparently.”

  “And he told me you were a notorious rake with illegitimate children in every port,” she muttered. “I—I didn’t want to believe that, so—”

  “And do you believe it, Sofia? For all the intimacies we’ve shared, you know precious little about me.” Damon released her hand, wanting her unsolicited testimony on his behalf.

  As the seconds ticked painfully by, he knew the anguish of being the victim of others’ assumptions and rumors, just as Sofia had been. Because she was lush and lovely—had had enough pluck to stow away on his ship rather than endure the Havishams’ petty dramas—she was assumed to be a woman of dubious character.

  Which made them a well-matched pair, didn’t it?

  “No, Damon. I believe you’re a man of honor and integrity—even as you’ve admitted you’re a pirate,” she stated quietly. “And I believe you’ll protect me and punish Mr. Thomas for the way he compromised the safety of your ship this morning.”

  He wished it were that simple. Oh, how he wished it were that simple.

  13

  A t the sounds of footsteps coming from the galley, Sofia watched the emotions at war on Damon’s face. He looked heavy laden, burdened by choices he and his crew must make.

  “Stand your ground, Sofia. Keep your temper and state the truth if you’re questioned,” he said quietly. He nodded to the sailors as they cast their curious glances and then looked away.

  Sofia didn’t like this one bit. Would there be a major choosing of sides? Would someone—perhaps she—be voted off the ship? Maybe before they reached land?

  She sighed. None of this would’ve happened had she kept her post with the Havisham girls.

  “The crew’s verdict must be a clear majority,” Damon was saying to her, “for they’ve entrusted their lives to Thomas and me, and we’ve both…bent the rules.” He gazed at Sophia with relentless blue eyes. “No matter what happens, I will not forsake you, sweet Sofia. Will you trust me on that?”

  Her throat closed over an answer. Love—or something like it—welled up inside her, and she longed to caress his handsome face. No one but Mama had ever expressed such a commitment to her. “But what if they—”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Be your inimitable self, and the truth will come out. I dislike making you a sacrificial lamb,” he added with a grin that twitched wryly. “My intent is to separate the sheep from the goats. Always remember that we are the sheep—even if we’re just a little bit black.”

&
nbsp; Sofia bit back a giggle. Then she watched a remarkable transformation in the man standing beside her: Damon, her lover and protector, once again became Captain Delacroix, privateer and swashbuckler.

  As he squared his shoulders, his loose linen shirt rippled in the breeze, and the lean cut of his pants accentuated his muscled thighs. His hand went to the pistol tucked at his waist, he was wearing it for all to see, for the first time since they’d set sail. Damon’s hair shone like a raven’s wings in the sunlight: his emerging beard hardened his look. Gave him an unconquerable air, while the line of stitches rendered him formidable rather than weak.

  His gaze made Sofia tight with pride. And wet. She felt hot and damp and itchy—so she looked away to regain control of her thoughts.

  Unfortunately Quentin Thomas came upstairs just then. “Do you recall our conversation about what would happen if you ruined breakfast?” he asked tersely. “That slop you concocted—”

  “No, Mr. Thomas,” she countered quietly, “I was here on the deck this morning—with you—while Jonas made the meal.”

  His hand flew back to slap her, and as Delacroix stepped forward, the captain’s hand went to his weapon. “We’re going to settle this matter right now, Quentin. Who do you appoint to steer the ship during the trial?”

  “Trial? I’ve called no bloody trial to settle my…differences with Miss Martine,” he spouted.

  “No, but I shall. Name your sailor or I will.” Damon stepped closer, his gaze relentless. “We’ll have a decision before we reach New Providence. Or we’ll circle the island until we do.”

  The younger man scowled. “It’s not your place to—”

  “I’m the captain. I navigate the sea and her complexities while we’re aboard the Courtesan, just as you were appointed her quartermaster. And one of us hasn’t been doing his job.”

  “That part’s correct!” Thomas brayed. He eyed Sophia suspiciously and then turned to address the men who scattered around the deck to assume their duties. “Our illustrious captain has called for a trial!” Thomas cried over the whistling of the wind. “Barkis! Man the wheel while I preside over these proceedings!”