Heather Graham - [Camerons Saga - North American Woman 02] (9 page)

“Let me go!” she cried out fiercely.

But she had no effect upon him at all at that moment. She kicked, she flailed, she bit at him, catching his arm so savagely with her teeth that he let out a roar. To her vast dismay she realized that he was sitting then and that she was being dragged relentlessly over his lap. Her coverlet was stripped away with every twist and movement and she was both swearing and sobbing in her desperation to elude him. But at that moment, he was ruthless.

“Nearly sliced, broken, and now bitten!” he grated out furiously. “Cups shattered, property destroyed—”

“Property destroyed! Those words from a pirate!” she cried.

The irony of it eluded him. He held her in a vise against him and she could not even twist to see his face, to brush her hair from its tangle over her eyes and mouth.

“Mam’selle, I have had it!” he said. “Act like a child and you’ll be treated as one!”

A shriek exploded from her as his hand fell with a searing force upon the exposed and tender curve of her derriere. Tears stung her eyes from both the startling pain of his blow and the humiliation of it. Wretchedly she stretched over the
burning muscles of his thighs, her face in the covers as she struggled to be free. She could not bear it. She twisted, crying out again. She hated him! She wanted to take whatever he dished out to her with dignity and silence. She wanted to bear any pain.

And she could not. She could not stand this awful indignity.

His hand was rising again. “Please! Stop!” she sobbed out.

And to her amazement, he did.

His teeth clenched together, his hand slowly fell. He shoved her from his lap and she went to the floor in a disheveled pile of covers and tousled hair. She landed hard on her rump and she nearly screeched again, for he had injured her sorely, and she imagined then that it would be a number of days before she managed to sit comfortably again.

“Damn you!” he muttered darkly.

He stood, stepping over her. She didn’t see him look back her way because her head had fallen and her hair hid her eyes. “Pick up this mess!” he ordered her succinctly, each word enunciated slowly.

She tossed back her hair, heedless that her eyes were filled with tears. She opened her mouth to tell him that although he was pirate and she was his prisoner, she would never, never obey him. But he spoke first.

“You will do it, Skye, whether I am a bastard pirate or not! You will do it because I have ordered you to do so, and because I promise you that you will rue the day if you do not, and because that is a threat, and as I have warned you, I carry out all threats. If you find it prudent to defy me over jam, then you are truly a fool, and deserve whatever fate awaits you!”

His hands were on his hips, his long legs were outstretched, and his boots were firmly cast upon the floor. His silver eyes sizzled and burned a startling dark silver, and she knew how he had gotten his name. The line of his mouth was grim against the curl of his mustache and the dark fur of his beard, and in that particular moment, she had no more will to fight him.

“Mam’selle! Do you comprehend me?”

“Yes!”

She saw the expression in his eyes soften and he moved his
hand, as if he would touch her, almost as if he wanted to reach out to her. Then he swore and snorted, and spun around.

Then he was gone. The doors slammed and the bolts slid in his wake. Skye stared after him, not breathing.

Then she gulped in air and cast herself against the floor and gave way to a flood of tears.

An hour later, after a great deal of reflection, she determined that she would clean the mess she had made. She brooded long and hard over the action, but in the end, she had to agree that the pirate had made one good point—a jar of jam was not worth this awful humiliation.

She picked up the tray and the shattered porcelain and glass and cleaned the floorboards with a linen napkin. When she was done, she approached the windows and pulled back the drapes. She was startled to see that the sun was already fallen. They must have slept very late into the day. Night was coming again already.

She tied the draperies by their cords, eager for the light that remained. The lamp had gone out and the stove had issued its last warmth and light. Skye knotted her fingers into her fists.

He would leave her here again, she thought. Locked in as darkness fell. He would see her reduced to a groveling fool once again, and he would laugh all the while. He would assume that she deserved it.

There was a knock upon the door. Startled, she whirled. She did not think that the Silver Hawk would be knocking. She pulled the coverlet tightly around her shoulders. “Yes?” she called softly.

The door opened and the handsome young man the pirate had called Arrowsmith walked in, somewhat burdened by the weight of one of her traveling trunks.

“This is yours, I believe?” he said.

“Yes,” Skye said.

“Then you’ll excuse me if I put it down. ’Tis heavy! What on earth is it that you women carry?”

“I’m sure you’ve taken plunder enough to know the answer to that!” she retorted.

He grimaced. “No, milady. We ransom off our plunder, just as we do our hostages.”

“You’ll swing by the neck for it, just the same.”

“Perhaps.” He grinned, setting down her trunk next to his master’s trunk at the foot of the bed. “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until we reach the Caribbean for me to bring you the rest of your trunks,” he said apologetically. “The captain went through this one and thought that it offered all that you might require for the next few days of travel.”

“The captain—went through it?”

“Yes, milady.”

She thought that she would scream her outrage, but she kept silent. Her clothing and jewels were valuable plunder. She was probably lucky that he had decided to clothe her.

“I shall take this away,” Arrowsmith said. He smiled and picked up the tray with the broken cups without blinking. He turned to leave the room.

“Wait, please!” Skye said. He was a pirate, too, she reminded herself. Even if he was young and handsome and even gentle in his way. He stopped, looking to her.

“Could you … light a lamp for me, please? It is growing dark.”

“I shall take care of it, Robert.”

Startled, they both looked to the doorway. The Silver Hawk had returned.

“Aye, Captain, as you wish it.” Robert Arrowsmith inclined his head toward Skye and exited the room, brushing by his captain. The Silver Hawk came into the room, turning his back to her and, with slow purpose, closing the doors. He turned around again, leaning against them. He looked over the floor, and over Skye, and to the foot of the bunk where her trunk now lay.

“I came to light the lamp for you, milady,” he said softly.

She said nothing, standing still and awaiting his next move. It was a long time in coming. He strode across the room and lit the wick of the lamp. The glow filled the room. Skye lowered her head in a turmoil. She had thought that he would exploit her fear, that he would purposely leave her to her terror of the darkness.

He had not.

And yet it wouldn’t be proper to thank the vile pirate for
the kind gesture, would it? Not after all that he had done to her.

He set the lamp into its protected niche. “We head south with a good wind. It will be too warm for the fire, I believe, but the light should be good enough.”

Skye swallowed and nodded.

“I had thought to find you dressed by now.”

“The trunk just arrived.”

“Yes. Find something. I will help you don your clothing, and you can come on deck for an hour or so.”

Her eyes widened and she bit into her lip. “I can dress myself, thank you.”

“Shall I choose for you?”

There was an edge to his voice. They were engaging in battle again.

Eventually, she thought with a shiver, he would wear her down. Their strange encounters were unnerving her completely.

“Sir, I tell you—”

“I shall choose then.” He strode toward her trunk. She found herself running after him, catching his arm, then was dismayed by her action. She gazed at her hand where it rested upon him and recoiled swiftly, startled by the blood that had hardened upon his shirt. She stared at him in horror.

“You’re—bleeding.”

“I was bleeding, milady. A shrew with sharp teeth caught hold of my flesh.”

She swallowed, her eyes locked with his.

“It is no matter, Lady Kinsdale. If you’ll excuse me—”

“No! You needn’t go into my things again. You had no right to do so before. Sir, I tell you—”

“Milady, I tell you. You had no difficulty riffling through my belongings to find that wretched broadsword. I found no difficulty in disturbing your belongings for a far more gentle mission, that of seeing you clad!”

He was already upon his knees, casting back the unlocked lid of her chest. He found a corset and tossed it back down, then procured a simple shift and a linen gown with short sleeves. It was a soft, cool blue with white lace trim and she
had purchased it with thoughts of the long hot Virginia summers in mind.

“This one,” he muttered.

She flushed furiously that his hands should be upon her apparel. She tried to shove him aside, taking up the corset he had dropped. “If you will just leave me—”

“I will not. And drop that whalebone torture creation. You don’t need stockings, either. Even with the breeze, it is warm this evening.”

“Mr. Hawk!” she snapped in exasperation. “Is it Hawk? Or is it Mr. Silver? I mean, really, sir, just how does one address you?” she demanded irritably.

He sat back on his haunches and his slow grin curled into his lip. “I think that I might like the sound of ‘milord,’ from your lips, Lady Kinsdale. Or perhaps, ‘my dear lord.’ ”

“Never,” Skye said flatly.

“Then ‘Hawk’ will do, milady. Come, let’s see you clad in this piece of summer’s frivolity.”

Skye straightened to her full height. “Sir, this will be done by violence only.”

“If that’s the way you choose it,” he said with a shrug, rising and taking a step toward her. “The manner is of no difference to me.”

“Stop!” Skye pleaded, backing away from him. She hadn’t the energy for the fight. Her flesh still burned from his earlier, less than tender touch. She promised herself that she hated him still with a vengeance, but for the moment, she needed to lick her wounds and recoup her energy.

He stood still, watching her. She lifted her arms and dropped the coverlet from about her shoulders. She meant to keep her eyes on his but she could not, and her eyes fell in shame.

“Oh, you will quit playing Ophelia!” he said in harsh exasperation. He stepped forward, but took his time easing her plight, raising her chin and meeting her eyes. His gaze passed quickly over the length of her. “Milady, the silk stockings must go. Clad only in them, you are most provocative.”

If she had thought to shame him, she had sadly miscalculated, and her own temper flew back to a new high as he lifted
her from the floor and tossed her nonchalantly upon the bed to strip away her stockings, all that remained of her clothing from the previous day.

Skye swore, she flailed at him. He avoided her pummeling with amusement and quickly did away with the offending garments. “Calm down!” he charged her. And capturing her shoulders, he straddled her. She wasn’t aware at first that he had her shift, and that he was trying to slip it over her shoulders. “Lady Kinsdale, I do swear, it is far more difficult to dress you than it has ever been to charm and unclothe any tender maid in all of my days.”

“I daresay you’ve never known a tender maid!” Skye retorted. She quickly slipped her arms into the silken straps of the garment and faced him again, flushed and furious. He stood by the bed, watching her with a curious expression, his eyes the color of fog and steel, a pallor seeming to touch his face. She noted that his fists were clamped hard at his sides. He did not rise to her retort. It occurred to Skye that her shift defined more than it concealed, that her breasts were pressed strainingly against the bodice of the gossamer undergarment, and that the line of her hip and the soft triangle at the juncture of her thighs were hauntingly evident.

“Why do you humiliate me like this!” she cried suddenly. “Why this slow torture—”

“Milady, I promise,” he interrupted her dryly, “the torture I do is to myself.”

“Then …”

“Then what?”

“Then … stop it!” she whispered.

“Alas,” he murmured, and the word carried a tender and wistful sound, “I have discovered that I cannot.” He turned swiftly away from her, finding the dress. “Come, Skye, let’s set this upon your shoulders and ease both our souls.”

Skye …

He had used her given name. He had used it with the ease of a friend or relation, or of a lover. She should have despised the sound of it upon his tongue, but she did not. She should have ignored his command, but she could not. She crawled from the bed and stepped to him slowly. She reached up as he
deftly set the yards of muslin over her head and arms. He twirled her around and set to the twenty-one tiny buttons that closed the dress. He was deft with his movement, as if he was well-acquainted with women’s fashion. She began to tap a bare toe as his fingers brushed her back.

“Are you done?” she inquired.

“Umm. You intended to do this alone?”

“The intent of such a gown is to have one’s maids along. But since those poor lasses have fallen prey to your men …”

He was undaunted. “That is why, mam’selle, you must be grateful for my assistance.”

“Grateful!” She pulled away, and whirled about. “May we go?”

“If you wish.” But he reached down into her trunk again and plucked from it her silver initialed brush. “Your hair resembles an ill-kept bird’s nest.”

“That is hardly my fault.”

“But if you don’t care, lady, then I must. Come to me, and I’ll make some semblance of golden curls from that thatch yet.”

“I care!” Skye cried quickly. On her bare feet she hurried forward, snatching the brush from his fingers. She tried to work through the length of her thick tendrils quickly, but she was nervous and tugged and tore far more than she cared to admit. He emitted some impatient sound and stepped forward with purpose, snatching the brush away again. “Turn!” he ordered her. Gritting her teeth, she did so.