Dismissing the heavy thoughts, she turned her eyes to the man next to her, in a way comforted by his excitement to get back. She did understand that for him it was the opportunity of redemption he hadn't believed would ever come.
"We should make it back for Christmas," she said.
He smiled, a smile that reached his eyes, making his serious countenance soften. "A proper Christmas dinner. My father used to prefer the snow, so often we would retreat to a hunting lodge in Scotland. Without fail, it was icy when we arrived, and the house was slowly brought to life."
Sarah tried to image him as a youth, playing in the snow. Playful was not how she imagined him. He was always so serious. No doubt he would marry when he returned home and Sarah felt a rush of jealousy which she couldn't exactly define. Perhaps it was that he got to choose his bride, maybe even someone he loved, and some lucky girl would be married to a man like him. As reserved as he was, he was a capable man, a strong man. A flicker of heat ignited inside her again, but she bit her lips and chased it away.
In a sense, she was trying to turn her mind back to England, to embrace returning to her old life. Her time in the Caribbean had been a mad reprieve from the real world. Maybe that was what attracted people here: it was a place devoid of most things. Few rules and utterly absent in etiquette, social standing and the relentless communication of it. Everything had meaning in England, the way you sat, the things you said, where you kept your eyes, who you looked at, for how long, who you smiled at. There were a million ways to make a wrong step.
But then maybe things were a little different for him. Firstly, he was a man, and also, perhaps things were not entirely as strict in his societal order.
"I do miss chestnuts," she admitted. "There was always a boy outside our street in wintertime, selling chestnuts." She would send her maid out to purchase a bag of them, steaming hot and fragrant. That spelled Christmastime in her book.
"Mulled wine," he said and Sarah smiled. Yes, there were things she missed.
"I'm sure a bit of hot rum would be nice," she teased.
"The Caribbean could never manage a proper Christmas."
She never had a chance to experience one, so she couldn't say, but it would be hard to imagine Christmas in constant heat. Heated rooms and icy windows were synonymous with Christmas, the crackle of the fireplace and a dog lying in front of the hearth. For the first time, she felt a small sense of excitement about returning. There would be chestnuts and mulled wine and sitting bundled in church in freezing cold weather, stomachs grumbling for the feast awaiting at home.
"Dolphins," he said and Sarah blinked. "There." He pointed and she saw them playing in the wake of the ship’s bow, shifting in and out of the waves. She hadn't seen them before.
"Are they following us, do you think?"
"I doubt it. They're opportunists, seeking entertainment. They will follow for a while until they grow bored and find other amusement."
"Perhaps they know all the things that exist there under the water that we don't know about."
"Sunken ships and sea monsters?" he said with a smile and she shoved his arm.
"The spoken word is the voice of doom," she chided.
"Are you superstitious, Miss Lancaster?"
"Only when out on the vast ocean in some nailed together bits of wood."
"I would never have picked you for a superstitious woman."
That was the first time he had referred to her as a woman and butterflies took off in her stomach again. In a sense, she wasn't a girl anymore; she was a woman. As dismissive as he was of her, on some level he knew that, too.
Feeling self-conscious, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. The wind was harsh for keeping her hair in order. Maybe she shouldn't even try, let it loose for the wind to play with.
Chapter 19
It were long days and longer evenings on a ship as a passenger. With no tasks or duties, there wasn't much to do, so they played cards, allowed the captain's table for their amusements. Sarah was a terrible opponent as every emotion showed on her face—delight, concern, even when, in her mind, she was going in for the kill. She didn't shy away from that. There was a competitive instinct in her, but her execution was atrocious. He won every hand.
"You have the devil's luck with cards," she accused.
"Probably because I don't like playing."
"You don't like playing?" she said, her hand frozen over the pile.
"I don't mind playing for amusement, but I find no pleasure in gambling with cards."
"With luck like yours, you probably should."
Joshua smiled. "I suspect my luck would only hold if I play against such a lovely opponent."
A furious blush crept up her décolletage and face; she avoided his eyes. Maybe he shouldn't have said that. The issue of attraction sat like a tangible thing between them, and referring to it might not have been the best idea.
She smiled shyly and placed a card on the table, a look of challenge creeping into her eyes. So, she thought she was onto a winning hand. Excitement made her bite her lip. Really, if this was excitement, she had lived a very sheltered life indeed.
"What was the biggest haul you ever claimed?" she asked after a while, when her luck seemed to be turning again.
"There was a Spanish galleon, filled with taxes headed back to the crown. It never arrived—met an unfortunate mishap at sea."
Sarah's eyes were wide with awe. "They sailed without protection?"
"No, they had escorts built for fighting protecting them and they fought hard, but we were more determined. Everyone in the region knew they were sailing with enough ships and cannons to overcome any single pirate, but they hadn't expected that pirates could cooperate in a coordinated attack. Clara's father organized it. It was shortly after I'd arrived."
"So there was a full battle?"
"Oh, yes. Ships firing each other to pieces. Swords clashing to the very end."
"And you were there?"
"I boarded with the others, fought to subdue the Spanish. Got a decent scar on my leg for my troubles."
"You were injured?" A look of concern crossed her eyes. Really, she couldn't hide any emotion at all.
"I got away lightly. A battle such as that has untold casualties. Warfare is a brutal business. Personally, I'm not convinced of the price, but others didn't feel the same, particularly Clara's father. They saw the gain as worth the cost in lives, and there were plenty of winnings—for those who survived. Some men thrive on the risk, the fight. At his heart, Clara's father loved the fight more than the loot."
"And you do not?"
He sighed. "There is a certain headiness in battle when you have nothing to lose."
She studied him for a moment. "And you felt you didn't have?"
"No, I suppose not. It wouldn't have mattered if I’d died. In fact, my family would probably have been better off if I had."
"I'm sure that's not true."
"Emotionally, perhaps not." He shifted with the discomfort of the conversation. How had they gotten to the point where they discussed such deep reflections? "But yes, taking the Spanish's taxes was a mad and highly lucrative venture. They still talk about it in the rougher taverns around the Caribbean."
"Mostly it was not such battles?"
"Few men that sail the Caribbean have any personal attachment to their cargo—certainly not enough to risk their skins for it. Mostly, if they cannot outrun, they will simply stand by. But some do fight, taking offense to pirates lightening their burdens."
"But pirates are often more motivated?"
"Yes."
"How do you know who will fight or not?"
"You don't really, not until the chase begins. Some fight and some will meekly not bother. Full battle is rare as most merchant ships have few guns compared to their pursuers. If they carry considerable wealth, such as the Spanish tax take, they are heavily guarded by the navy. Whether gold… or slaves," he finished more quietly. He finished his fortified wine and pushed unwelcome tho
ughts away.
There was silence for the moment. "Will your deeds be known in England?"
"By any naval man, yes," he said. "Some of the abolitionists too, I suspect. If I return, those stories will likely circulate like wildfire."
"You will be notorious, the handsome pirate." She blushed as she said it. "Ladies will swoon, I'm sure."
He chuckled. "I doubt it."
"No, believe me, that will be excitement on an unprecedented scale in most ballrooms."
In many ways, he would be notorious, but he hoped not enough to stop him from taking a bride. Would any decent miss stay clear of him, wary of his reputation? That might be the case—the notorious, dangerous presence in their midst that they were too afraid to speak to, let alone dance with. He wished they would understand that he presented no danger to anyone—unless he was defending himself. His fighting skills had only improved since his banishment.
"I think it is perhaps time to retire," he stated, displeased with how this evening had drawn out confidences he didn't want to uncover.
With a sigh, she rose from the table and walked ahead of him. Her skirt swayed as she walked down the narrow passageway. He imagined back to the McKenna's supper, when she'd been dressed in a proper gown. In a way, she seemed comfortable in it, but in another sense, there had been a strain in her. He supposed if someone had tried to pry him back into a naval uniform, he'd feel the same way—too changed to be comfortable. But he'd been gone years outside his role, while she'd only been away for a month or two.
As she stood aside, he walked into their tiny cabin and lit the lantern. He stepped out again. "I will leave you to your routine," he said with a nod.
"Thank you," she said and stepped into the cabin, closing the door.
Instead of standing there, he decided to get some air and walked to the stairs leading up on deck. The breeze had a distinct coolness now, which signifies they were in northern climes. He was closer to home—closer to frosty mornings, lovely spring days, and abundant summers. There were no seasons in the Caribbean, just wet and hot, or simply hot.
In his mind's eye, he saw a nice estate, nothing overly elaborate. He wasn't interested in status and garish displays of wealth. A nice, peaceful life was what lay ahead of him. Any notoriety he'd gathered would soon die down as people discovered there was no outrageous behavior to go with it.
All this lay ahead of him—strawberries in summer, snow in winter, beautiful fall colors and the joy of awakening in spring. With a sigh, he urged the ship God's speed.
The sea was inky blackness around the ship, lanterns the only source of light. Not a single thing could be seen on the horizon in any direction. They were out in the vast nothingness, in a place where men rightly didn't belong. Stars speckled above them like jewels.
Looking over, he saw the sails straining, capturing the wind.
"It's picking up," a sailor said, pulling rope through one of the blocks, his muscles straining with the weight of the sails and the wind on it. "We've had to pull tighter."
"Colder air," Joshua said.
"Aye," the man confirmed.
This meant they were leaving the Caribbean behind and had emerged into the cooler airstreams of the north. The wind came from the starboard, which served to give them good speed. They might even reach their destination a day or two early.
Returning downstairs, he knocked on the cabin door and heard her tell him to enter. She lay on the cot, the blankets covering her form. His bedding lay rolled up along one of the walls and he unrolled it across the floor.
"Is it uncomfortable?" she asked.
"It is bearable. We will find better accommodations as we sail the Atlantic," he assured her. "A cabin each, on a bigger ship."
Taking his coat off, he hung it on a nail, stopping himself from taking his shirt off as well. He'd grown used to sleeping without one, but perhaps it was best not to—particularly as her eyes were following his every movement.
After removing his boots, he sat down on the blanket that served as his mattress and pulled another over him. The pillow was soft enough and he placed his wrist behind his head.
"The air is getting cooler," he said. "We will likely see the colonies before long."
"I never saw them," she admitted.
"You didn't sail that way?"
"No, we sailed directly to the Caribbean."
"You would have arrived on a large ship."
"Astonishingly so," she said. "The HMS Victory."
"Quite some ship. Five hundred men, at least a hundred guns." It would have had nice stately rooms for the vice-admiral and his family. Suddenly, the accommodation he was affording her seemed pitiful. He tended to forget the means she was used to. "We will sail on something larger next," he assured her.
"I don't mind," she said. "After all, I am the one with a bed. You should be the one minding."
Turning his head, he considered her. Wealth and comfort seemed to hold no fascination for her, or even expectation. "You haven't minded living a life without the finer things?"
Her shoulder shrugged. "A dress is a dress, whether silk or wool. A comb is a comb; it can be gold or wood, but it serves the same purpose. If we have what we need, the material it is constructed with is largely irrelevant to its function. Wealth is an abstract thing. You, yourself, would not choose wealth over your family. You would not seek to return to England if wealth was your objective."
"I think that depends on your definition, but yes, you are correct. I think you are wise beyond your years, Miss Lancaster."
She chuckled. "Now there is something I have never been accused of before. I'm fairly certain you didn't consider me wise a few days ago."
That was true. She was in a way the most unsavvy person he'd even met, wandering into danger without a notion of realization, but she also had a wisdom that was uncanny, the ability to see the falsehoods in how people placed value. To many girls, the finest silk gown, and the life that allowed it, was the only worthy goal.
Shifting slightly, his attention drew to her lips, which she pressed together and then sighed. Her eyes were nakedly studying him. What thoughts went through her mind? He had a good idea and they were not thoughts she should have. Forbidden thoughts filled with confronting images. He could almost imagine the sounds of illicit lovemaking echoing off the walls in this small cabin.
"I'm glad you didn't die in that battle," she said quietly. Her gaze shifted to his lips and a warning flared in his mind.
He stared at her for a moment, then cleared his throat and turned away from her and the thoughts that sat like incendiaries in his mind. There was no purpose for letting his thoughts linger. Miss Lancaster was absolutely not for those purposes, even if he suspected she would welcome him. Frustration bounded through his body, ratcheting tension he wished rid of.
No doubt he would dream of her, dream of the things he forbade himself to even entertain. The soft welcome, the urgent touches and the sinful kisses.
Chapter 20
Sarah woke early with pale light streaming into the small, round porthole along the wall. Moving quietly, she shifted to her side and considered the pirate that lay on the floor, facing away from her with the blankets drawn down. A soft linen shirt lay across his broad chest, sun darkened skin stretched up along a strong neck and a jaw with two days’ growth of stubble.
She couldn't stop her eyes from lingering and she was glad he was still asleep. This way, she could study him at her leisure. He was a beautiful man and her fingers itched to touch him. Heat pooled in her belly and she didn't quite know what to do with it.
Without a doubt, she wanted him—she just didn't know how to go about going from this state of polite deference to being lovers. He pulled away whenever the topic turned remotely close to intimacy, but she'd also seen his gaze linger along her neckline when he wasn't aware she was watching him.
She wanted to know what he looked like without his clothes, cursing herself for being too ill to truly appreciate his beauty back at that inn in
the Bahamas when he'd lain beside her in only his breeches. From what she recalled, he had a muscular form, used to work. Darkened skin, smooth and even, inviting touch—while he did not. Did he not find her attractive?
Obviously, she understood he was being gentlemanly by ensuring she was unmolested on this voyage back to England, but equally, the desire sat so heavily between them. Didn't it mean something?
A man such as him would never be acceptable as her husband. His wealth, although enough to make him comfortable for the rest of his life was not sufficient to interest her father enough to forego the gains in wealth, connection and status the family could gain through a better prospect.
It was a shame if she were to return to England, and was quickly ensconced in her marriage, to never have a chance to explore this desire that was awakening in her. Perhaps it was something that would simply pass her by in her life and she had to resign herself to that. In that light, refusing her seemed almost heartless on his behalf.
She chuckled at herself and the direction of her thoughts, accusing the pirate of heartlessness by not even trying to seduce her. No, his accusation of her wisdom would definitely not be backed by all.
With a deep breath, he stirred and Sarah closed her eyes, savoring the want that ached in her body, in her fingers. She wanted to know how soft his hair was, if the muscles on his chest made him firm, the utterly forbidden thought of him buried in her thighs. How could such notions be real when they were so very taboo?
His hand moved and strokes along his chin. "I must shave this morning, I think," he said, his voice gruff with sleep. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, seemingly savoring his sleepiness.
"I suppose it is my turn to leave you to do your routine."
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