Heather Graham - [Camerons Saga - North American Woman 02] (8 page)

Silver Hawk set the tray down upon his desk. He munched upon a roll and sipped his coffee, black and steaming. “You’ve one hell of a temper, milady Kinsdale,” he noted.

“You made him think—”

“Precisely.”

“You are despicable!”

“Am I? I have merely made you my possession, mam’selle, and that keeps you safe from the others—until, such time, of course, that you do see fit to keep your promise.”

“Never!” she vowed to him, her eyes narrowing.

“Another ‘promise’? Then I’ve little to fear.”

She didn’t reply. She stared at him while he watched her,
and she felt suddenly very warm inside, wondering at his thoughts. Then she swiftly lowered her eyes, wondering at his mercy. He had wanted her that morning, and easily could have raped her. He teased, he taunted, but he did not move against her in violence.

But how long would his behavior remain that way?

“We sail … where?” she inquired, gathering her coverlet and the broadsword within it. She came to the edge of the bed, and then she stood, looking at him innocently.

“To the Caribbean, Lady Kinsdale. To New Providence, and beyond.”

“And I?” she murmured, stepping forward.

He smiled and shrugged, then turned and deliberately spooned jam upon a roll. His back was to her as he answered.

“I think that you will remain in my company.”

“And I think not!” Skye cried, leaping toward him. Her strategy had been planned, and before he could turn she had reached him, dragging her coverlet in one hand, slipping the other about his shoulder to bring the broadsword against his throat.

He did not flinch, nor blink. Despite the sharp blade against his throat, he offered her a slow smile.

“I have the upper edge!” Skye hissed. “Cease your silly grin lest you would die with it upon your face.”

“And why not, mam’selle? What better way to die?”

“I do not tease or taunt, sir, as is your way. When I threaten, I carry out the threat.”

“Lady, beware, when I threaten, for I, too, carry out the threat.”

Skye swore with the vengeance of a fishwife. “Cease! Now you will summon your men and order them to make haste for the James River!”

“I think not.”

“What?”

He ducked and swirled with such swift agility that her quick reaction still offered nothing but a scratch to his throat. He caught her coverlet, and as his arm cracked down upon hers, sending the broadsword flying. He jerked upon the cloak she
had fashioned for herself, and caught within the folds, she went sprawling down upon the ground facefirst.

She quickly rolled, grasping for the covers again, aware of his bare feet, set firm upon them. He did not release the covers to her fevered grasp.

She did not want to see his eyes, but her own were drawn to them, and she had no choice.

Cobalt and dark, they danced with fury. Beneath the fur of his beard his jaw was twisted and set, his lips were grim.

Slowly, slowly, he crouched down beside her. She gritted her teeth as he caught her chin. She tossed back her hair, defying him.

“That was foolhardly, my love. If you ever bring a weapon against me again, you will pay dearly. That is a threat. Is it clear?”

She hesitated, then she clamped down hard on her teeth and nodded. She didn’t want to shiver or show fear today. Not after her performance yesterday. But her teeth were chattering, and when her mouth opened, she softly spoke words that she abhorred. “You will not … you will not hurt me?”

He shook his head, watching her. She flushed and lowered her eyes.

She raised them again in alarm, for he was reaching for her, lifting her. She felt his arms around her naked flesh, and panic filled her. “You said that you would not hurt me!”

“I said that I would not hurt you. I didn’t say that I wouldn’t touch you … or … er, entertain you!” he whispered.

She cast back her head to scream. She did so and he watched with amusement.

Then he seated her before the tray of coffee and rolls.

“Breakfast, Lady Kinsdale. Do you always scream blue blazes when you are offered a cup of coffee?”

III

W
hen she was settled in the seat behind his desk, he retrieved her coverlet, tossing it over her shoulders. Skye grasped at the garment and sat there stiffly. He moved across the room to his trunk and drew out clothing. He looked her way, arching his brows, and she flushed furiously, turning aside as he dressed. She felt his eyes upon her as he buttoned his shirt and tied his breeches, then sat to pull on his high black boots.

“So, tell me, milady, why is it that you are so afraid of the dark?”

“I am not afraid of the dark,” she lied ridiculously.

“You are not?”

“No.”

“That’s a lie.”

She shrugged. “A gentleman would allow a lady the lie.”

“But I’m not a gentleman. I’m a pirate, remember.”

“Oh, yes. A nasty, brutal beast, and I’ve nothing to say to you upon any account.”

He rose. She still did not look his way, but shivers claimed
her despite her best efforts as he moved around behind her. He did not touch her, but his hands fell upon the back of the chair where she sat and his head lowered so that she could hear and feel his whisper. “Nasty and brutal, Lady Kinsdale? Alas! I fear that if I keep my distance, I will dearly disappoint you! You’ve suffered no beatings as yet, mam’selle. The only violence that has come your way has been that given in retribution for your own intent of murder. Bear this in mind.”

Skye stiffened, her fingers curling into the handsomely carved arms of the chair, her gaze remaining straightforward. How she hated this man! she thought. Hated his laughter and his mockery, hated his power. Just as she hated the haunting sound of his whispers and the curve of his smile, and the fine, taut musculature of his body. He was an animal! she thought. A pirate. A vile knave, a beast.

But a striking beast, bold, determined, and blunt. If she were not his prisoner, she might very well find him charismatic, his form alluring, his less-than-subtle innuendo exciting.…

Dear God, she was a captive losing her mind! He was young enough, perhaps, despite the silver that tinted his hair and beard. And his speech was cultured, his manner sometimes even inoffensive. But he was a cutthroat, no more, no less, and she would still fight him and hate him until her dying breath.

“Nothing to say, my love?” He plucked up a tendril of her hair. His fingers brushed her shoulder where the coverlet had fallen away and she was startled by the searing sensation that swept through her. She slapped his hand away, still staring forward, trembling. “Nothing but the obvious, sir. Your teeth may be better than One-Eyed Jack’s, but you are still the same monster as he was. No better.”

He laughed, straightening, and going for the broadsword that lay upon the floor. “I do beg to differ, milady. Had he lived, and had you spent the night in his cabin, I think you would have discovered a vast difference twixt the two of us.”

“Really? Perhaps were I tavern slut, I might have managed to say, ‘what a wonder! The man has his teeth, and for garbage, his stench is not too severe.’ But I am no tavern wench,
sir, and from where I sit, refuse is refuse, and all to be abhorred.”

His laughter was swift and genuine. “Ah, from your lofty heights, mam’selle! I don’t wish to disturb such noble ideals, but I tell you this in all truth, a woman is a woman, and a man must be judged by his measure, and not by his position upon this earth. The finest lady, the most noble duchess, tumbles upon the mattress much the same as the tavern wench. She learns to long and ache and desire in the same fashion, to whisper her lover’s name, to curl to his caress and strain to his form.” He came back behind her, bending over her. “And she learns so much more quickly when he still has all of his teeth!”

“Your conceit is extraordinary.”

He faced her and lifted her chin. “That you can doubt my words, mam’selle, lends credence to the very truth of them. There is a grave difference. Had you spent your night in Jack’s cabin, you’d not have awakened thinking there could be no difference in men.”

She wanted to wrench from him. He held his grip. “I did not say men, sir. I spoke of refuse—pirates.”

“Such harsh words, milady! When I carry still in the boundaries of my heart your sweet promise to please me in any way, to offer any diversion I might desire.”

“Diversion!”

His lip began to curl with humor. She did twist her chin from his grip. She raised her hand with a vengeance, halfway rising, determined to strike him. She just barely caught his cheek before his fingers wound around her wrist. He twisted his jaw and she was pleased that she had hurt him, then she was suddenly frightened, for a pulse ticked against his throat and she did not care to be hurt in return, and she had definitely angered him as well. She sank slowly back into the chair, her eyes locked with his. She already knew that when the soft silver darkened to a cobalt blue, his temper was flaring. But he did not strike out at her in return. He swallowed, as if he clamped down on his temper. His smile returned. “Were you aware, milady, that you’ve splendid breasts?”

“What?” she gasped. Her eyes fell downward where the coverlet had fallen from her and where her flesh now lay bare
to him. She must have been cold, for her nipples protruded like hardened rosebuds against the mounds.

“Oh!” she swore, and she sought, clumsily, to strike him again and retrieve her covering at the same time. He was not about to be struck again and caught her wrist quickly and easily. “Madame, I am patient, but I do have my limits. So far you’ve tried to slice my throat and dislodge my jaw. Do take care!” His husky laughter irritated her to no end, but she lowered her head, seeking desperately to free her hand, to recover herself. She glanced up at him quickly and went still, for the color of his eyes had changed again. They had gone to a warm, smoke color, and they remained upon her person, then slowly met hers. She did not quite understand the message in his eyes, but her breath caught in her throat and her blood surged throughout her limbs with a sizzling force. Something in her abdomen coiled tightly and she desperately moistened her lips. “Please!” she gasped out, unaware of just what it was that she requested.

He freed her wrist. She lowered her eyes, drawing the coverlet about her. She sought desperately for something to say.

“I, er, I did not promise—diversion!”

“Ah, but you did promise me … what was it …? Anything! I do believe that is what you said,” he reminded her, laughing. He turned from her and picked up his hat and set it upon his head. “I shall be waiting, mam’selle. Thank God that I am a patient man!” He paused just a moment longer, belting his scabbard and cutlass to his side, and taking the broadsword beneath his arm. He took a dirk from the bookcase and cast her a wry glance. “I wonder if it is safe to leave you with the serving tray. Ah, yes, bless Cookie, he is a man of rare good sense. He has sent a spoon and not a knife for the jam. Take care, my dear, until we meet again.”

With a sweeping flourish of his hat, he left her. She sat still until she heard the bolts slide into place at the doors. Then she leaped up, led by instinct, slamming against them.

She was locked in once again.

She swore violently and was overcome with a sense of panic and desolation. Shrieking aloud, she stormed about and sent the tray with the coffee and rolls flying. The porcelain cups
shattered and the jam jar cracked in two, spilling out blood red strawberry preserves. Skye stood still looking upon the havoc she had wreaked, the coverlet still wrapped about her shoulders. She was startled when the doors burst open again and she discovered that the Silver Hawk had returned.

He stood in the doorway, exceptionally tall in his plumed hat and high boots. His eyes sizzled silver and blue and they fell upon her with a shimmering anger.

“Brat!” he exploded.

And he was striding her way with purpose.

Skye gasped out and turned to run, but there was nowhere to go. She collided with the bookshelves and too hastily turned from them, and tripped. In a tangle of covers she fell facedown on the bunk. Gulping for air, she tried to twist and turn, but he was upon her by then, his weight falling hard upon hers. His arms stretched out and his hands fell upon hers, his fingers lacing with her own.