He looked at her downturned head, an unfamiliar wave of tenderness crashing over him. It took all he had not to pull her into his arms and promise her everything would turn out all right. The emotion, alien and scary, sent him reeling. He let go her arms as though the touch of her skin burned his hands. Her head popped up as he wiped a hand across his face. At last, he felt composed enough to speak.
“This life is not fair, ma chérie, he answered quietly. “You are just now realizing it. I promise would not beach your ship or crew if did think it was in best interest."
“It’s just...this is your ship. I will no longer be a captain, and I will no longer have a crew. Besides you, I know no one on board. I...I would feel safer if I could keep a few people from my own crew.”
“Safer?” He frowned. “I’m all the protection you need. And your own sword.”
“You cannot be everywhere, mon mari."
He searched her face for signs of deceit. She appeared to be what she said—worried about her safety, wanting familiar faces around her. With those large, sapphire eyes beseeching him, he felt his resolve crack. Sacrebleu, she must be a witch, for he heard himself speak as if under spell. “Fine. Bring two or three of your men with you. But don’t expect them to replace my men in their positions."
Her smile lit her face like a million candle flames. It was his benediction.
Chapter Eleven
“I’m sorry, Captain, for my part in this subterfuge.”
It was evening of the same day, the day Sophie had her ship, her crew, and her captaincy removed from her command.
The Jade Princess had dropped anchor for the night somewhere at the entrance to the Gulf of Mexico after a rather lethargic sail. The captain had not seemed to be in any hurry, nor had he sought out her company. She’d been left to her own devices, and she’d spent most of her time on the quarterdeck, watching where they’d gone.
Turning at the sound of Limey’s voice, she leaned back on the rail. He stood ten feet away from her in the dim light of the deck lanterns. She met his shadowed gaze, not easily able to forgive him his part in the beaching of her ship and crew. Nevertheless, his tortured expression tugged at her. She glanced out at the moonlit sea. “Would you do things differently if you had it to do over?” She held her breath.
Limey didn’t flinch. “No. I believe this is the best way to protect you, and that is what I swore to do a year ago—protect you. That does not mean I approve of how it was executed. I would have preferred to discuss it openly with you, Captain, but it was not my call. I cannot guard you with my life if I am thrown in the brig for insubordination.”
Oh, mon dieu, how had she ever managed to end up with such a champion, person who would lay down his very life for her? was truly blessed, and knew that her response show limey much valued fealty.
She took two steps forward. “Then I accept your apology, Limey. If you feel this is the right thing to do, then I will abide by the decision. You have never steered me wrong. I will swallow my pride and be thankful I have you, McFarlane, and Cook on board to help keep me safe.”
Tilting her head to gaze into his face, she hazarded a smile. With his features half obscured in shadow, she was hard-put to discern how he felt, but she sensed his eyes on her, knew when he took a half-step toward her. She met him halfway.
He was so solid. So warm, so dependable. Just the feel of his arms around her eased her discomfiture over the entire situation. He smelled of sea salt and tar, and that unique scent she associated with just Limey. It invited her to burrow deep into his body, to lay her cheek against his chest and feel the scratchy wool of his vest against her face as she closed her eyes.
At last, she withdrew and looked into his face so close above hers. “Oh, Limey, this is all such a terrible mess. I wish sometimes—”
“Sophie? It’s time to retire.”
Limey and she sprang apart at the sound of Andre’s gravelly voice. He stood in the shadows of the main mast, shrouded in darkness. With a whispered, “I’m sorry,” and a trailing hand down Limey’s chest, she left her first mate.
Without a word, she made her way to Andre’s cabin. Once inside, she confronted him as he leaned against the closed door. His silence grated on her nerves more than any harsh words he could have uttered. Moonlight shining through the partially opened windows above the bed caught his glittering gaze as it rested on her.
His continued silence forced her to explain her actions. “I have not lain with him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I know that.” He rested his head against the door, arms crossed loosely at his waist. She cocked her head.
“I don’t plan to, either.”
He smiled, teeth gleaming white in the dim light. “I know that, too.”
“And just how do you kn—”
In an instant, he was beside her, warm fingers circling her upper arm, face hovering above hers, lips scant inches from her own. “I know that because I’ve asked Master Limey and he denied it, and I believe him. You haven’t slept with him because you won’t sleep with any man. Until it’s me.”
Seconds ticked by, punctuated by the waves slapping against the wooden hull of the Princess. She stared up into his piercing dark eyes, heartbeat quickening at his proximity, the warmth radiating from his body.
She realized he could so easily lower his head and cover her mouth with his firm, straight lips. His strong hands could pull her pliant form into his hard body. Press her against him so that every yielding curve and hollow of hers would fit every rigid contour and angle of his...
Instead, “Get ready for bed, Sophie. You have the dawn watch, as do I. I will grant you a few minutes of privacy.” He released his hold on her and exited the cabin.
~*~
Shutting the door quietly behind him, Andre leaned against the outside wall. He closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath, attempted to control his raging emotions instigated by the sight of Sophie in the arms of another man. A man closer to her age, a man she trusted with her life.
He had never felt as vulnerable with a woman as he did this very moment. Maybe it was because he knew she didn’t love him, didn’t want to be married, didn’t even want to be around him. Maybe it was the fact that he thought more and more often about staying married to her. About tearing up that damned paper and denying he’d ever requested it. Merde.
Straightening, he squared his shoulders, drifted over to the helm and his first mate, who smoked a cheroot while staring out at the distant coastline. De Gallo glanced at him when he spoke. “Don’t disturb me tonight, Master G, unless there’s a mutiny or an outside attack, me comprends-tu?”
The Spaniard grinned like a jackal, smoke pluming from his mouth. “Aye, Capitán, you do not wish to be interrupted. we will quiet as church mice out here, and question any...um...sounds may overhear, sir. trust me on this."
His grin irritated Andre almost as much as the fact he knew he still would not be sleeping with Sophie in the way his first mate intimated. Lack of sexual release was beginning to take a toll on him. “Oh, go bugger off, Master G. Just knock on the door when it’s my watch.” Andre swung about and headed to his cabin, lightly knocking before entering.
As it had been the night before at his father’s house, the room was dark, save for one candle on the central table he used as a desk. His wife lay huddled in his berth. Finding she was bunking with him hadn’t caused the reaction he’d expected. There had been no screaming, crying, or throwing of objects. Could she be getting used to him?
He sat on the edge of the bunk. After extinguishing the candle flame, he pulled his boots off, removed his weapons and belt along with the black head kerchief, and slipped under the light blanket. Stacking his hands beneath his head, he stared up at the moonlight slanting across the ceiling, thoughts circling his mind like wispy clouds.
“It won’t work, you know.”
He turned his head toward Sophie, whose back was a solid wall. “What won’t?”
“All this being nice
, and patient, and kind. Sleeping with me but not touching me. It won’t work.”
He leaned over her shoulder with his mouth against her ear. “It worked for your first mate.”
She turned over so fast they nearly cracked heads, her eyes spitting blue fire. “I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of with Limey. He...he comforts me, that’s all. I’m not interested in what goes on between men and women, anyway. I’ve told you that before.”
They stared at each other in the silvery moonlight, she propped on her elbow, he with his head cocked, trying to make sense of her argument. Irritated, she flopped over on her side again. “Just forget it.”
Once more, he bent over her shoulder, whispered, “Liar.”
This time he drew back before she rolled to face him. Lying on her back, eyes wide in shock at his accusation, she glared up at him. “I...I certainly am not.”
“Are too,” he replied smugly. “You are extremely interested in what goes on between the sexes. You can’t not be. It’s in your make-up. You want to know everything about everything, and you want to learn it firsthand. You’re just too scared, and that’s understandable. I told you that you could set the pace, and I meant it.
“But don’t tell me you’re not interested, because that’s just a big, fat lie. You’ll come to me eventually, when your curiosity outweighs your fear, and I’ll show you that there is nothing involved like what you experienced. It is called faire l’amour for a reason.
With her untidy braid kinked on her pillow, her shirt dragged open enough to show the slight swells of her breasts, he licked suddenly dry lips. He dragged his gaze from her bosoms only to find her attention elsewhere. Where had she been looking? Down his open shirt, perhaps? He grinned. Perhaps she was not as immune to his presence as she acted.
On a sudden frown, she flounced away from him on the bed. “Believe what you want. It makes no difference to me. Good night.”
Returning to his back, hands once more clasped behind his head, he smiled in satisfaction at the moonlight-dappled ceiling and replied softly, “Bonne nuit, ma bichette. Good night."
~*~
Dotted with small bays and shallow inlets, the Florida coastline provided tropical beauty for Sophie to concentrate upon the next morning as she piloted the Princess lazily along the shoreline. Her husband leaned on the rail nearby, studying the vegetation through his spyglass.
Although he had suggested she sail his precious ship that morning, which delighted her no end, she remained detached, ignoring him as he commented on whatever drifted into his view, seemingly ignorant of her frost.
Early that morning the Spanish first mate had knocked on the cabin door. Andre had woken her, saying as he rose from their bed, “Shake a leg, Cap’n. We’re weighing anchor and you’re in charge. Even though I’ve beached your ship, you can still sail this vessel. She’s a sight bigger, but that’s usually a good thing.”
He’d smirked at his phrasing while tucking his shirt into his breeches and tying the deep V-neck closed, and she’d looked away, unsure of his meaning. He’d headed out the door, closing it with a snap behind him.
Now, two hours later, after a breakfast at the wheel consisting of a warm, buttery biscuit she recognized as one of her own cook’s recipes, she had to admit to herself that sailing the Princess wasn’t half-bad. Granted, the ship was much larger than the Phoenix and the crew a bit motlier, but overall she enjoyed the freedom sailing offered. Of course, she couldn’t bring herself to thank her husband. She wouldn’t have to be at the mercy of his kindness if he hadn’t taken her captaincy away in the first place. And he’d never told her why.
Ready to confront him on that question, she found he’d left her side. She spied him across the deck, in conference with Limey and McFarlane. She wondered how he and Limey got along, seeing as he’d caught her in Limey’s arms.
They didn’t come to blows, thank goodness, for after a brief conversation Andre returned with his masculine saunter, an amused half-smile upon his face. That rolling gait all pirates adopted from months at sea never looked so good on anyone else. Wait...was she attracted to her husband just by his walk?
She pivoted back to the wheel, her thoughts tumbling, as Andre stopped beside her. “It’s been brought to my attention that you need practice at tacking into the wind, mon amour. Now, haul wind due east until I tell you otherwise. And that’s an order disguised as a request."
She stared at him, mouth open, and then cut her gaze across to Limey and McFarlane, who conspicuously gave their backs to her. She narrowed her eyes, snapped her lips shut. Which one had complained about her sailing technique?
“Heave to, lassie,” prodded Andre with a wide grin, elbowing her while settling his tricorn more firmly atop his head and moving toward the bow.
“I need practice tacking, my eye,” she grumbled, determined to show him just how great a sailor she was. After all, it was his bloody father who’d taught her. Without waiting for his command she bellowed, “Trim the sails, Limey. We’re going about.” She spun the helm.
The Jade Princess was not the Phoenix. She was heavier, but her helm and rudder were more responsive. She tacked liked a racehorse given its head, listing to the side at a sharp angle. Pirates scrambled for handholds and crossed themselves while cursing as they fought not to go overboard.
Somehow keeping his footing amidst the chaos, Andre sprinted toward her, yelling while waving his hands, “Que diable? Belay that order. Avast, Stop. Merde.”
She backed off the helm as he skidded to a stop beside her. Shouldering her aside, he grabbed the spokes, barked over his shoulder at her as he gently tilted the wheel. “Mon dieu. This isn’t some scow, madame. She’s a finely made, intuitive piece of sailing equipment. She's a work art. Merde. Sailing a ship like this is like handling a woman—gentle touches will get you much farther than brute force. Tonnere de Zeus."
Sophie scowled as she watched him barely turn the wheel, using palms and open fingers to guide the ship. Once he was satisfied with the Princess’ response, he turned to her and spoke in a much calmer tone. Crewmembers, shooting venomous looks at her, cautiously returned to their previous activities.
“I see exactly what your men described, mon ange. You are too impatient. You want the sails to do all work when just a slight adjustment at wheel will bring full and by, allowing tack gracefully. Watch and learn."
She studied his hands on the helm, and then lifted her eyes to the sails in disbelief. They fluttered and filled, allowing him to turn the wheel a hairsbreadth.
They began to tack, racing with the wind, the breeze kissing their faces as the ship balanced on edge and skimmed the waves like a speeding porpoise. Mouth hanging open, she gazed into her husband’s smug expression, and enthused, “This is magnificent. Can you teach me?”
Her eager question brought his gaze to hers. He nodded once, beckoned her to take the wheel, and then stepped behind her, though their bodies did not touch. With his hands clasped loosely behind him, he quietly talked her through the steps of tacking with and against the wind. She felt closer to him than she’d ever had before.
~*~
“I think I am going to dream of flying after sailing all day.”
Sophie’s voice sounded wistful that evening as she curled on her side facing him. Andre lay on his back as he’d been the night before, head resting on his hands as he stared at the wood ceiling above him. Her words brought a secret smile of success to his lips. Whether she knew it or not, she was accepting him and becoming comfortable enough to engage in pillow talk.
“What are you smiling about?”
He blinked. He hadn’t realized she was looking at him. His mind scrambled for an answer. “The crew sure looked funny when you first started tacking, ma chérie, scrabbling around like rats on a sinking ship.
She sat up on one elbow, looked down into his face in mild irritation. “We were never in any danger of sinking.”
Turning his head on his pillow, he grinned up at her, noticing her dark hai
r tumbling over her shoulder and her open neckline. He reached up to tuck a raven lock behind her ear. “Oh, mon amour, we were most assuredly in danger of sinking. as is my heart, a tiny voice whispered his head before he ruthlessly shoved it back into subconscious.
Her sapphire eyes lowered to his chest. Watching her with that oddly gentle perception he seemed to have around her, he saw her frown, gaze sharpen on his open neckline. She reached out, pulling on the cord he wore around his neck, warm fingertips grazing his skin.
Brow furrowed, she glanced up at him. “What are these? I’ve never seen them before.”
He couldn’t answer immediately. He was still recovering from her touch. He burned at the place of contact, threatened to go up in flames. Sleeping beside her nightly was bad enough. Her brief caress nearly sent him over the edge.
Grasping for self-control he answered in a hoarse voice, “They are voodoo charms, ma coeur.” Warming to his topic and her undivided interest, he continued, pointing one finger the round, silver charm with a sailing ship etched into it. “This is protection for journeys, this winning battles."
The last was another round, silver disk with two crossed swords and a bowl of flames engraved on the front. Right now, with Sophie poised above him and her fingers just inches away from his feverish skin, he needed to call on the Protection from Love charm. Perhaps one for abstinence, if there was one, for he was in danger of rolling her under him and pouring himself into her. Burying his nose into the thicket of her hair and breathing deep her very essence.
On a shaky breath, he raised his eyes to hers. Something of what he felt must have shone through, for she dropped the cord with its charms. Scooting back from him as far as she could go on the bed, she asked, “How did you get those?”
He wrinkled his brow and attempted to answer her question instead of envision her naked and on top of him. “Remember the woman selling beignets? Her youngest sister gave these to me. Apparently, the family dabbles in black magic, and my safety was of some concern them. since i’m still knocking around on this great earth, they must work, eh?
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