“Aren’t you coming?”
Her battered heart climbed into her throat. “I’m coming.”
“There is no time for you to change.” He passed her and headed for the drive. “Can you ride astride in that?”
She sucked in acrid air. “Of course.” She ran down the drive after him.
The arsonists had not counted on being followed. As Viola flung herself from the horse she shared with Billy, her skirt in tatters she’d torn in order to ride effectively, voices came to her across the docks. They were laughing, their movements relaxed and unhurried, as though satisfied with work well done. And they were speaking Dutch. She moved forward.
Jin grabbed her wrist, staying her in the shadows of the building.
“But-”
“Billy,” he whispered, releasing her. “Run to the tavern. Get the men. Then get to the April as quickly and quietly as you can.”
“Yessir.” The boy ran off.
“Good thing we ain’t at anchor.” Matouba barely stirred air with his deep tone. “But there ain’t a lick o’ wind tonight.”
“We’ll prime the guns,” Viola whispered, “then we will threaten them. If they don’t surrender, we will fire upon them from the dock if we must.”
“Get ourselves thrown in jail, shootin’ from the wharf,” Matouba muttered dolefully.
“It wouldn’t be the first time for you boys.” Her blood ran with nerves and pure energy. She glanced up at Jin and her insides tangled. A half smile quirked his mouth. His gaze remained on the sailors at the small vessel getting ready to make way in the middle of the night like thieves. Or like arsonists not worried about being discovered.
But the Curaçaons readied for putting to sea more quickly than they expected. Lit by several lanterns, the little vessel’s deck was perfectly visible to them across the docks. By the time she, Jin, and Matouba had made their way through the shadows to her ship, then silently aboard, the Curaçaons were already pushing away from the opposite dock.
“No,” she whispered, running down the stairs to the powder magazine, her shredded skirts flapping around her thighs. “They won’t get away. I won’t allow it.”
Becoua rushed down behind her. “Evening, Cap’n,” he whispered, then another dozen of her crew, scurrying across the decks in the light of the half moon, working swiftly to prepare the cannons. But they stank of rum and swayed as they slid the iron balls into the guns’ muzzles and fixed the fuses. Drunk. On furlough, drunk, yet they had come.
She scaled the companionway to the main deck again. Below her, a gunwale creaked as a sailor slid it open too swiftly. The sound ricocheted across the harbor.
All went perfectly still atop the sloop thirty yards away. A shout in Dutch carried over the black water. Then movement, and more shouting.
“Orders, Captain?” Jin said at her shoulder.
Viola’s pulse raced. She must do this. She must show Aidan what she was capable of. She might not be a fine lady whose hand he would kiss, but she possessed her own talents. She could not fail in this. “Do you speak Dutch?”
“I believe we have already passed the moment for that.”
The crack of cannon fire, the fast hiss of shot, and a yardarm on the April’s mainmast erupted in sparks and smoke.
Her ship came alive. Jin shouted orders, the men ran to stations. Cannon blasts split the thick night with smoke and more heat. Flames leaped and were swiftly doused on both ships, sailors cussed, and the April Storm’s guns blazed again and again, the sloop’s smaller battery echoing.
But within minutes Viola knew it was already too late. The sloop’s sweeps cut the black water fast as dolphin fins, getting her under way swiftly as only a small vessel could without the wind to assist. She headed straight toward sea. Cannon shot flew, canvas on the April’s deck caught fire and plummeted, tumbling down the stairs to the gun deck in a flurry of sparks.
Alarm bells across the main street split through the pounding blasts. The port officials were awake.
Soon enough, Viola could do nothing. Moving out of range of even her long nines, the sloop sent off a final round of shot into the water between them.
“The men are ready at the oars,” Jin said calmly beside her. “Insufficient numbers to make any speed and man the guns at once. But do you wish us to make pursuit?”
Viola clutched the rail, the sloop’s lanterns fading into the dark. “Damn it.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“No!” She swung around to him, heartbeat pounding. “Of course not. We could never catch them. What do you think I am, an imbecile?” She pivoted to scan the deck strewn with debris, pocked in places by shot and burn marks. “Damn it.”
“She is not badly hit. The men will clean her up within a day.”
She knew this. The sloop had not tried to do damage, only to distract while they rowed away. At the mouth of the harbor the faintest flicker of white told her the Curaçaons had found wind and were hoisting sail. The arsonists had escaped.
Commotion sounded at the gangplank. A man wearing a hastily donned coat and a gray wig askew, his shoes unbuckled, clambered onto deck flanked by two soldiers uniformed in red with muskets at their shoulders.
“Where is the master of this vessel?” the bewigged man clipped with the persnickety officiousness only an English port official could manage under present circumstances.
Viola went forward, stomach tight, schooling her voice.
“I am her master. What can I do for you, sir?”
“You?” He took in her tattered skirts, then looked over her shoulder. “Is this the truth?”
“This is Violet Daly, sir, master of the April Storm out of Boston,” Jin said smoothly, his English accent particularly pronounced.
“Does she know she has won herself a fine of one hundred and fifty pounds firing within the limits of the harbor?”
“I would not be surprised if she suspected as much.”
“Bloody hell, man. Does she think she can blast away in the middle of the night without attracting anyone’s notice?” He swept his arm toward the clusters of people gathered across the street. “She’s woken up the entire town! Frightened my wife clear out of her nightcap.”
“Miss Daly had reason to fire.”
The port master finally turned his attention on her. “It had better be a dashed good reason, young lady.”
Viola’s belly twisted. No man spoke to her as though she were a little girl, especially not in the wake of the second greatest heartbreak of her life. No man.
“A sloop full of Curaçaon arsonists has escaped your port.” She controlled her tone with effort. “Not two hours ago they set fire to Aidan Castle’s fields. We chased them here and attempted to waylay them despite the dead wind.”
His eyes were wide. “Arsonists? And after all that firing you failed to catch them?”
She pinched her lips. “No doubt if we’d had you aboard to man the guns we would not have, sir. I am terribly sorry you arrived late.”
The port officer blustered. “Now see here, young la-”
Jin stepped forward. “I suspect you are eager to return to bed, sir. Perhaps we could postpone this discussion until morning. I am certain Miss Daly will be happy to oblige.”
“Stay out of this, Seton.”
“At least someone aboard this ship is speaking sense,” the port official clipped. He poked a forefinger toward her. “I will expect you at my office by nine o’clock, miss. And if I hear you have absconded during the night, I will not hesitate to send out a vessel after you to collect that fine and have you imprisoned.”
She clamped down on the retort that rose to her lips and nodded. With another skeptical pass of his gaze over her garments and a shake of his head, the port officer turned and strode from the deck, the soldiers in his wake.
She rounded on Jin. “What do you think you’re doing, speaking for me?”
“Assisting you.”
“I didn’t need your assistance.”
The hal
f moon glittered in his eyes. “Humbly, I beg to differ.”
“There’s nothing humble about you, you arrogant-”
“Perhaps you would rather continue this discussion in the morning as well.”
“Damn it. One hundred and fifty pounds.” She hadn’t fifty pounds aboard ship let alone thrice that. She headed for the stairs to the gun deck, to refuge in her cabin, the one place that belonged to her, where no man could insist she do as he bid.
The fallen sail blocked the steps.
“Get this out of my way,” she shouted to the nearest sailors. They bent to it, but slowly, weary from the battle or too much drink. Her gaze traveled around. The lot of them stood glassy-eyed and slump-shouldered. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew they were as disappointed in the failure as she. But it was more than that. Becoua’s dark eyes looked so soft gazing upon her, almost…
It could not be pity. She would not stand for it to be pity.
“No.” She swept her hand across her vision. “No! Just go. Get out of here, off this ship until I tell you to return.” Her hands shook. She was exhausted from the ride on the horse, the emotions, the entire day filled with far too many feelings. Her lungs ached and she wanted to be alone. She must be alone. “All of you, go!” She pivoted to Seton. “Except you.”
She could not throw him off the ship. She still had one day. She might yet win the wager. She had no idea how. He was immovable. He would not be won over by her seduction or frustrated by her incivility. He would not be moved by her at all.
He was watching her now with his unreadable blue eyes, standing perfectly still while her men filed from the ship in cowed silence. Little Billy came last and she stopped him.
“Why did you bring horses to Mr. Castle’s farm, Billy? Why were you and Matouba there tonight at all?”
He shrugged. “Cap’n bade us, ma’am.” His footsteps descended down the gangplank. She sucked in the night air, trying to breathe, the sensations streaming inside her alien, like panic but deeper and cold.
This was wrong. She should be hot with anger and betrayal, she knew, filled with the heat of fury. This was worse. She had felt it only once before, months after Fionn stole her away from England, the day she finally understood that he would not take her back home, no matter how she pleaded.
She moved again to the companionway. The main topsail had fallen, twisted in its lines and far too heavy for a lone soul to move. She grabbed at its bulk anyway, pulling and tripping over the scalded ropes and her ripped hem.
“Viola, let it be. Or allow me to call some of the men back to move it before you injure yourself.” His voice cajoled. More pity, from the most unlikely source.
The cold dug deeper.
“Damn and damn!” She cut her arm through the air as though she held a cutlass and could slash at the ruined canvas. “Damn! Give me your sword.” She flattened out her palm.
“You don’t need a sword, and you don’t want to cuss like that.”
She whirled on him. “You have no idea what I want.”
“I do.” His eyes said a great deal more. He had seen them in the garden. He had seen her cry. He understood. His face cast in moonlight was a portrait of sheer male beauty and unwavering certainty.
Viola’s heart thudded in her constricted chest. She wanted the hurt to go away and she wanted him. Him. Not Aidan. She wanted Jin Seton so much she could taste it.
“You don’t know anything. You can’t.” She hadn’t even known until now.
He regarded her so steadily. “She is an infant,” he said quietly. “Why would you want a man who wants a woman like that?”
Her breath failed. She turned and stepped down onto the sail. It sagged, her shoe slipped, she grabbed the rail and propelled herself to the lower deck. He came after her easily, as though he climbed over fallen sails draped across companionways every day. Which possibly he did, or had done at one time in his life, a life about which she had heard more from others than from him.
“Viola-”
“Look who knows all about what I want, the man who pretends he has no interest in kissing a woman after he has clearly demonstrated that he does.”
In the new dimness of the cabin deck, his eyes darkened. “Now you are acting like the infant. Castle might set up an entire nursery.” His jaw was taut. Was she affecting him? Nicking his pride, no doubt.
She wanted to hurt that pride. Because she hurt more than she could bear.
“Arrogant bastard.” She barely whispered it. But in the stillness of the low-ceilinged deck, the word was crystal clear.
His eyes sparked, fire igniting in them. Her stomach sickened. She couldn’t believe what she had uttered.
“Forgive me, Jin. Please.” She pressed the back of her shaking hand over her mouth.
“For what, acting like a child?” His voice was low. And in response, finally, the heat rose within her.
“A child? Is that the best I can do?” The sensation of defeat tangling with desire overwhelmed. Her palm covered her eyes. “Oh, this is not at all what I-”
“This is idiocy.” He grabbed her wrist, slung her against his chest, and kissed her. He kissed her not tenderly but as he had in her cabin, claiming her mouth entirely. Fierce and hungry and with perfect possession, he demanded that she not resist.
She couldn’t resist. It was all she wanted. But this time she did not want it to end so swiftly. Ever. She kissed him back no less urgently, allowing him to mold her lips to his. She felt his strength, tasted his hunger, drank him in like a drug, hot and damp with smoke and pure need.
He broke the kiss, lifted his head. Her hand trapped in his grasp between them knew the hurtling of her heartbeat, or his. His gaze glittered like shattered glass traveling over her features, desire heavy in it. But uncertainty too, or perhaps a question. In the stillness, only their uneven breaths met the creaking of planking.
She could not bear the paralysis. She reached up, ran her fingers through his hair, and indulged in the simple ecstasy of touching him. A sigh quavered in her throat.
He gripped her hand tighter.
She went onto her toes, pulled him down, and he kissed her again, beyond pleasure, beyond sense, without hesitation and with one apparent object, to make her submit. She did, willingly, happily. His hand came around her face, his fingers on her jaw, the pad of his thumb pressing at her chin, and Viola found her mouth opening. Then his heat, his tongue, and her tender flesh that he claimed, fast, deep and urgent.
He dragged her against his body, his hands moving now, touching her neck, shoulders, the curve of her waist, then over her behind. She moaned, warmth bursting inside her as his big hand cupped her, then slipped behind her thigh. Heat wrapped around them, sinking into her body, beneath her skin, burning into their kisses. He pulled her knee alongside his hip and tugged her to him, his arousal coming against her. She moaned. Holding his face between her palms, wanting his tongue in her mouth, she drew him in. How could it feel this good yet she still wanted more?
She struggled against him, needing to be closer. “You said you had no intention of kissing me again.”
“This is not kissing.” He pushed her against the rail and moved hard against her soft inner thigh. His hand sought her breast.
“Oh, God.” She had wanted him to touch her like this for weeks, his hands and arousal feeding hers. She ached with it. But it was almost too much, too sublime to have his hands on her so intimately, to be pressed to his body so thoroughly and insane with need. She tore at his coat and he shoved it over his shoulders, his shirt damp and clinging to his muscles. She wanted to climb up him, to climb right inside him. She twisted her foot around his ankle and her skirts snagged. She teetered. He caught her and bore her down to the canvas-covered steps beneath him.
He took her mouth again and his hand moved fast along her thigh, yanking up her skirts. His haste and purpose did not surprise her. She wanted it too. She arched into him, gasping in breath, and he pulled her against him. His tongue stroked hers the
n thrust inside her, his fingers clamping around her knee.
He separated their mouths. “Viola.” An utterance, hard and taut. “I will not force you. Open up, or I leave.”
Her knees were welded together. What was she doing?
“Off the ship?” Her voice shook.
“You wish.” He caught her mouth and she sank into his kiss, into the fear and certainty that kept her knees locked, the alarm that everything was changing in this moment.
“I don’t wish.” She fought to meet his kiss closer, biting at his lips with little nips and sucking. She could consume him. She wanted to be consumed by him. She was frantic for it. “Not at this moment, that is.” An inelegantly hasty amendment. But he seemed to approve of it. His hand stroked along the crease of her thighs. And so she gave to him her body, because it was what he expected and what she wished, an aching for union. Simply, she could no longer bear to remain apart from him.
She parted her thighs and took him between and, trembling fiercely, felt him at her entrance. He came into her in one thrust, hard and thick, with a groan of pure masculine pleasure. She fought for air. Her fingertips dug into his shoulders. She was stretched too hard, too tight, and it hurt. But it hurt to perfection. He moved inside her, pulling out, then stroking in again.
“No.” She clutched at him. “Oh, God, no.” It hurt dreadfully, but not her body. Her body tumbled, overflowing with pleasure that shut out the momentary discomfort.
This pain within was worse.
He went still, breaths rough and fast, his hands tight around her hips holding her to him. “Viola.” He spoke against her cheek. “It is too late for ‘no.’ ”
“No. Yes. Yes.” She thrust to him, gasping at the mingled pleasure and pain. Unmoving, he kissed her, fusing them again in this manner as though he would be inside her as she longed to be inside him. Then, releasing her mouth, he took her.
She had thought she understood. She had done this before.
But not this. With every thrust into her he forced her pleasure, moving in her so that she must take her pleasure on him. Hips low, he guided her on him with his hands, again and again making them one, harder, deeper with each joining until she whimpered with her rising need. It came so swiftly, the quickening, the tight building of sweet tension she had only ever felt alone, that she never knew she could feel with a man. Fast and overwhelming it took her. She gulped in air, arching desperately against his thrusts, crying out sounds. He bore her into the canvas, palms flat to either side, and she shook with her release as it came, as his muscles hardened. He dipped his cheek to hers, forcing himself inside her, and she couldn’t get enough, the power of his body, the stumbling pleasure in hers. When it came again, she gasped, shouted at the beautiful, rippling contractions. He caught her hand-her hand-held it tight, and came inside her.
How to Be a Proper Lady Page 13
