The waves called to him and, once more, he concentrated on the sea, listening to her sounds, finding that rhythm subdued frayed, overwrought nerves. The sea life had adopted him, filling his veins with a freedom he’d never find on English lands. A giggle drifted to his ears.
The Irishman got her to laugh? Damn the man. Despite his best attempt to lose himself in the sea, the siren down below drew him back. He uttered another curse under his breath when he found her sitting where she was, dressed simply in the course trousers and linen shirt that billowed in the breeze. The straw hat covered her head and with her hair wound up under the crown, gave the appearance of a young lad, especially since the brim covered much of her face. But it didn’t hide her mouth—that luscious set of lips that beckoned to him. Her glowing smile set off an anger deep inside him. An anger at himself for even taking notice. The fact that the smile sent a bolt of desire made him want to drop her anywhere for fear he’d drive himself into her if he didn’t.
He had sent the first mate down with the jar of ointment when he couldn’t help but notice her skin turning from pink to red from the sun. What he didn’t expect was her opening it and dipping her fingers in. His body tightened. She withdrew them, the medicine dripped from her fingers and his groin twitched. Something Fitzgibbons said made her pause, give him a quick smile and turn back to applying the medicine. She perched her right foot heel on the railing, which exposed her ankle and shapely calf. The act made his mouth go dry. Nothing she did resembled the manly appearance her clothes depicted. Even the simply act of lifting her foot showed her upbringing—her dainty foot raised slowly, deliberately, up to the railing. She nodded to something Fitzgibbons was saying. Then she applied the ointment to the top of her barefoot and his heart skipped a beat as his cock hardened.
Son of a gun! This was torture!
When the Irishman laughed with her, Trent thought he’d lose his mind. He jumped, trying to control his body’s reaction to her. Every second he watched only convinced him she was a lady, with ladylike manners, her body movements flowed like the water they floated on. Without thinking, he smacked the telescope down, and fled down the stairs to the lower deck and found himself standing near her before he realized in his thinking, his gaze fixated on her small, dainty foot. As he watched, her toes curled under, nearly pushing him to madness, claiming her here and now.
“Capt’n, the lady and I were discussin’—”
“Yes, I see. Quite the conversationalist you are, matey. I believe your mission was a simple task. To deliver to her a salve for the burn, not prolong her presence out in this baking sun,” he hissed.
Fitzgibbons was stunned, but not for long. “Laddie, let’s not travel down the path you be on.”
She glared at him. Her sparkling sapphire gaze zeroing in on him. “Captain Cavendish, let me reassure you, you are very much out of line here!”
God, she was beautiful. When she stood, the hat shifted and a curled lock fell upon her shoulder. It dangled and drove the lust in his veins hotter.
“You shouldn’t be out here. It is driving the men crazy,” he snarled. He’d seen his men ogling her for way too long. And it wasn’t only them. The woman was driving him to distraction—an emotion he hadn’t felt since Rachel.
She gasped. “And where would you expect me to be? In your cabin all day long?” The questions rose in volume as she braced herself, as if he’d attack her. He might, if given the chance... He stopped the thought, shocked at where his train of thought went.
So he met her challenge with his best lopsided smile, or the one most women, especially his wife, said ranked him a true rogue. “Perhaps you’d like to find out how cabins can be a safe place.”
Her reaction was immediate. “I beg your pardon?”
He took a step closer. With a lower voice, he added, “Wonder what that might involve?”
Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open but the shock passed and her lips closed to a single, tight line. She hissed and stormed past him, toward the cabin. The next noise was the door slamming, the sound reverberated throughout the ship.
Trent laughed.
“Do you know wha’ you’re doin’ lad?” The Irishman’s question held a warning tone.
This time his smile was genuine. “Aye, first time in a long time, I do.” He laughed and went back to his perch with his maps and looking glass, silently pleased.
Once back on the upper deck, he stared at the maps, moving a knife that weighted the parchment drawings to the table as the sea breeze raced by, still grinning. But the joy evaporated when it hit him she was adorable, flustered and nettled in her worn outfit made for a man. The oversized trousers and shirt only accentuated her petite form. It made him want to curse.
“Tell me, boy, what you were thinkin’, testing her so.”
Fitzgibbons. He sent the man to keep an eye on her since after that kiss, he didn’t trust himself with her. In fact, it was that kiss that still haunted his waking thoughts. So did the anger that wrapped itself around the memory. He snapped the looking glass open and forced himself to scan the horizon.
It was time to answer the first mate. “Just trying to provoke a memory of her past. That is all.”
“By seducing her?”
He laughed hollowly. “Bedding her is not my objective.” He shuffled the maps on the table. But he realized Fitzgibbons wasn’t moving at all. “Is there something else?”
“Well, Capt’n, perhaps you should. It could be wha’ ya be needin’. Perhaps wha’ she needs, too.”
“To bed her?” Even the thought made his stomach tighten. A vision of her naked flickered through his mind, one he instantly squashed.
“It’d be far better than sleepin’ here.” He leaned on the table. “It’s sendin’ a message to the lads that maybe she free, maybe even be wantin’ a man.”
“Nah…”
Fitzgibbons’s eyebrows raised, questioning him. Trent grunted. Something about this woman ate at his gut. The gentleman he’d been raised to be bellowed from deep inside.
“She gives all the airs of a lady, Mr. Fitzgibbons, not a tavern wench to be thrown over my shoulder and ravished.”
“Na tha’ you were the type for that, sir,” the first mate agreed. “But now might be the time ta be considerin’ it.”
Trent stared at the maps, done with the conversation. He waved the man away and tried to plot his course and prayed that didn’t include the beautiful lady below.
This Love Of Mine: Chapter Eleven
The room was dark, lit only by the fireplace. The bustle of patrons and ladies of questionable repute fluttered around him but James didn’t notice them. The chatter and the clinking of glasses were barely audible as he clutched the brandy glass and stared into the flames, his mind numb, his heart aching beyond any injury he had ever had. Where was she?
Today marked six weeks since she disappeared. Six. His mind was worn out from the search, his nerves wracked, his body exhausted. Sleep was a distant memory, dreams long gone. But the drive moved him forward—find her and bring justice wrecking from the heavens to those who had taken her from him.
“There you are, ole chap.”
James blinked, breaking his stare at the fire. He glanced up to Clearwater standing next to him, a grin spread across his face.
“Yes, I’m here. Where else would I be at this time of the day?” he grumbled. Being at the club was his refuge from the house that was way too large and too vacant for him to stand.
James sat back in his chair, balancing his glass of the amber liquor between both hands, and studied his friend. “May I ask why you are here, with me, in a club with all the other married men, counting the soiled doves, instead of pursuing a lady to court?”
“Posh!” Clearwater downed a gulp from his glass. “I have found my lady.”
“Truly? Congratulations are in order.” He tipped his glass. “So where is our future Lady Clearwater?”
His friend’s eyes darted toward the flames, away from James. “She
is pre-occupied this evening. A trip out of the city. Family, I believe. I will join her shortly.” He smiled.
“Very good.” James decided Clearwater’s distant look was one of missing the girl, whoever she was. But now was not the time to worry for his friend. He had Eleanor. He finished his drink and set the glass down. “I think I shall go visit our friends in the gaol, see if they have any more knowledge to spill.” He clenched his fists, expecting it might take persuasion, or more of a way to vent steam because he doubted any more could be learned.
Clearwater followed suit. “Good. I believe it would be a much more enjoyable pastime verses flat champagne and giggling damsels.” He set his glass down. “Shall we?”
* * *
The sea was beautiful. Elle simply could not believe she had missed it all her life. Well, she could only imagined she missed it as her faulty memory didn’t seem to recall any occurrence with it. She sighed. Lacking a past was annoying but there was something about the lull of the waves, the bright sun, and air that seemed so clean and invigorating. It soothed her soul. Almost like this was a new beginning in her life. She began to relax. Perhaps this was God’s way for her, to belong on the seas. She breathed deep, taking in the salty freshness of the air and gaze out over the ocean.
Behind her, the bustle of the ship as the men completed about their chores. She knew without looking that Cavendish was on the upper deck. That was where she always found him. He left her alone and the few run-ins they had, he’d been coarse or rude with her. He acted mad at her. She didn’t understand why. She tried to stay out of his and everyone else’s way. Even now, she stood near the back of the ship, in an alcove that wasn’t out in the open for all to gawk at her, for the men still did, regardless how many days she had been there. And at night, she ate alone in the cabin, slept alone there, too. In many ways, that should relieve her, to be alone, but it also made her feel like she had the plague or something worse. And that thought disturbed her more.
One thing had changed last night. Cavendish had come to the cabin. She had been asleep. But when he tried to enter quietly, he banged the door on the chair she’d placed nearby to warn her of an intruder. She didn’t move on the cot but clutched the knife Fitzgibbons had handed to her days ago. “To keep as a warning to other varmints,” he’d advised her. But the captain didn’t come near her. He’d rearranged the chair closer to the desk, plopped himself into it, his feet resting on the desktop. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him prop his hat over his eyes and try to sleep.
His presence didn’t allow her to return to slumber. Instead, her heart started an erratic thumping and the heat rose inside her. She wanted to throw off the bed sheet but at the same time, didn’t want to draw attention. With her mouth turning dry, she watched him through slitted gaze that roved over his whole body. Even in a supposedly relaxed state, he gave an essence of power and strength. And something else. Something that made a shimmer course through her, sending off sparks deep inside her. Her breasts tingled, and the core of her being turned to liquid that pulled with desire. It wasn’t right nor normal, she berated herself. He mourned for his wife and perhaps she was spoken for, as well. But the truth eluded her. She bit her bottom lip, holding her breath. Why on earth had he returned to the cabin, when every other night he left her alone? And during the day, he avoided her except when he had no choice. It was very frustrating.
Staring out at the sea, she realized she was no longer angry at him. She was angry at herself. Her attraction to him was growing. If she could just quiet the warning tone, no matter how faint it was, she might enjoy it, for she was almost certain he was attracted to her, too. Or he hated her.
It was this musing that kept her thoughts occupied and it took the bristling of the hair on the back of her neck to bring her back to now. She didn’t move but warily glanced about. At her location, no one should be able to surprise her. She was closer to the back of the decking, to where the ship’s captain’s cabin sat. More or less, nestled into a corner, she felt safe until now.
“Aye thar, lassie.”
The voice behind her shot an icy shiver down her spine. She stiffened but didn’t turn, instead she let her hand that casually crossed her waist find the hilt to the knife that rested inside her waistband.
A hand snaked around her. His fingers caressed her cheek and down her neckline.
“Wha’ a beauty ta be lef alone,” he whispered.
Fear fought to control her but something deep inside her screamed she would not be taken again. Without a basis to why she thought this had happened before, she sprung into action, gripping the knife firmly, withdrawing it and spinning toward her attacker in one swift move. Her swipe found a mark, slicing through his forearm. He yelped, whipping his injured arm back but grabbing a fistful of hair.
“Ain’t she cooperatin’, Gene?” another man whose voice she didn’t recognize asked.
Gene yanked her head back and brought his own knife to bear, the blade pressed against her throat. “Aye, she be a fightin’ type, which be one o’ me fav’rites,” he claimed, his mouth close to her ear.
She couldn’t see the varmint who held her but the other one was right before her and she recognized him. He grinned with his toothy smile, spittle glistening down his greasy beard.
“Aye, Gene, fightin’ wenches are th’ best cunt.” His hand jetted out, fingers looped into the v-opening on her blouse, ripping the material down and quickly snaked inside to grab her breast, squeezing it tight.
Elle screamed as her knee jacked up, right into the man’s groin and her weapon hand whipped back, stabbing the one who held her in him. Both men grunted, doubling over, the one behind her releasing her. She spun and held the knife out in front of her, her feet spread to steady herself for their attack.
“I’ll not be manhandled,” she snarled, “not by you or any other!”
More pirates appeared at the commotion. None of them moved to help their brethren but neither did they move to take her. It was as if they all had never seen a woman use a knife in defense before. But then again, neither had she…when did she learn to defend herself? The mystery of who she was continued to confound her.
* * *
Trent spat into the cuspidor again. The rum he tried to swallow was bitter-tasting, just like his mood. Of course, that woman was the cause.
“You be a mite foul, this bonny morn.” Fitzgibbons stood to the side, taking a step back as the spit hit the side of the vessel.
“Lack of slumber does that,” he grumbled. When the first mate’s brow shot up in a questioning manner, he added, “I did as you suggested. I went to my cabin last night, to ‘claim her’, so to speak, but I could not sleep.” He cursed again.
“Aye, but ya be feelin’ a wee bit better for havin’ done so, right?”
“Hardly. The men were fighting this morning because there are pieces missing from our last haul.” He ran his fingers through his mussed hair before jamming the hat back on. “Many of the men believe she is bad luck, or worse, a witch, who stole it because they can’t find the missing treasure.”
Fitzgibbons frowned. “Just what of it is missin’?”
He shook his head. “According to the watch, the quartermaster’s book reads there are ten more pieces of eight and a bag of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds worth two thousand pounds sterling. They think it’s her because it is small and could be made into jewelry.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn woman is wrecking havoc that I can’t afford to have. So I’ve decided we are heading to London to deposit her arse and make the men not feel so cursed. As to the missing pieces, that is a mystery and one we will solve.”
The first mate stared at him hard. “You donna truly believe the lass capable of stealing? We’ve had watch on it since that raid.”
That comment grated his nerves, simply because he knew the man was right. “What would you have me do? In the name of the saints—“
A scream rang across the deck, stopping everyone in their tracks. Trent tensed. It was
her. Trent scanned the deck, looking for her. Where the hell was she?
He found the crowd forming toward the back of the ship and he growled. Fitzgibbons said something but Trent never heard him, leaping over the railing and landing on the deck below. In a few long strides, he got to the mess of men and wheedled his way through. What he found brought him to a dead stop. Elle stood, her shirt ripped, the gaping hole hinting at the ample breasts that were beneath it. Her hat was on the ground, her bundled hair askew, as if someone had grabbed it. The mere thought of that goaded the animal inside him into a roar, demanding those who’d attempted to ruin his mate die for their offense. He pushed closer and was shocked.
Two pirates were before her. One curled on the deck, whimpering in pain as he rocked, his hands covering his crotch. The other gripped his arm tight against his waist, the other hand grasped over his upper arm. A smattering of blood was on the deck. The knife in her hand still pointed toward them. He busted through to her side.
“Show is over! Back to work!” The pirates mumbled but turned to go back to their jobs. Trent glared at her. “Where the hell did you get that?”
Her eyes widened. “How dare you! Your men attacked me!”
He slid his gaze from her to Fitzgibbons, who wore a half grin upon his mouth. His gaze darted back to her. She was trouble. He swore under his breath.
He snarled at Gene and his anguishing cohort. “What were you two up to?”
“Nothin’, sir,” Gene snapped back. His companion nodded, mumbling the same.
Trent rolled his eyes. The tension in the air was thick enough for a knife to cut through it and with that analogy in his head, he snagged the weapon from the girl’s hand. She gasped, her surprise mixed with anger and pain while she rubbed her palm. Perhaps he had been too forceful but… In an instant he turned to the two sailors with the blade pointed at them.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 9
