The Captain of All Pleasures (20 page)

“What are you doing?”

She didn't say, “What are you doing
in here
?” Did she know he came in each night? Did she have any idea how she affected him?

“I'm pouring myself a drink. Care for one?”

She shook her head and pulled herself up, knees to chest, bundled in a cloud of blankets. “Why do you do it? Why drink so much?”

The glass he'd filled and raised to his lips stopped. This was the first personal question she'd ever asked him, the first interest she'd shown. Yet she'd targeted his greatest weakness.

He was just drunk enough to answer her honestly. “I drink to forget. To forget what I can't change.”

She angled her head. “Does it help?”

“I don't know,” he said, frowning down at his glass. “I used to think so.”

“I'm sad for you,” she said softly, and then eased down to sleep again.

Late into the night, he thought about their exchange. “I'm sad for you” sounded more and more like “I feel sorry for you.”

Damn it, he was a proud man. He wanted her to respect him, to want him. For Christ's sake, he didn't want her pity.

Even if he quit drinking—if he could—he was running out of time to win her. Each interminable night like this, they sailed closer to port, and there was more standing between them than he'd ever thought.

He could only imagine how badly she wanted to land. He himself wasn't happily anticipating arriving in Sydney, because Nicole would leave him and never look back.

F
or the next couple of nights, Jimmy brought her dinner in, setting the tray down with a flourish. The bratling had changed his behavior toward her so drastically that she suspected he had, in fact, spit in her food before and now felt guilty. He wouldn't leave her alone, but peppered her with questions. He complimented her and brought her bathwater every day, as well as choice selections of food. In fact, she'd never eaten this well this far out.

The other crewman who weren't friendly to her weren't unfriendly either and mainly kept to themselves. Which was fine by her. She already had a crew, a good crew whom she loved. She didn't need to be welcomed into the fold by this one.

Ignoring Jimmy's chatter, she scooped up a handful of raisins and thought about her situation. She couldn't continue with her grudge for much longer. She wasn't the type to stay angry; she always blew up and then minutes later forgot what the fight was about. And she told herself that under the circumstances, she probably would have believed the same thing Sutherland and his crew had.

Sutherland especially made it difficult. He anticipated her every want. Yesterday when they'd passed a home-bound French steamer, he'd signaled them and rowed over with a crewman to board their ship even though he would lose time. He'd brought back a bag full of fruit for her—apples, oranges, these raisins—for which he must have paid a fortune. She'd had to hide her open-mouthed astonishment, because he'd also brought her a good supply of ink, saying she'd probably want to
write her father
.

If she had to walk past him, which seemed to be happening more often lately, he would brush by her and put his hand on the small of her back. If that wasn't enough, he'd let it linger. She supposed that, in each of these ways, he asked for her forgiveness.

Sleeping beside him wore her down as well. Nicole was aware he came in every night, though he hadn't realized that she woke each time he entered the bed.

She should be angry at the liberty. But as long as he didn't think she knew, she could just pretend she didn't and continue to enjoy the warmth he provided in the freezing nights.

But sometimes when he put his arms around her and pulled her to him, his hand would brush her breast. She'd go still at the shock of pleasure. Each night she found it harder not to respond, and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to move against his body, so warm and hard against hers. His heartbeat drumming into her back relaxed her guard, lulling her.

When she was recovering, he'd sleep soon after he lay down, but now he stayed awake, tense. A night didn't go by when she couldn't feel the evidence of his arousal. He held himself in check. For her. She wished he wouldn't. She wished he'd pull her to him and touch her as he'd done in the past.

Then the guilt would overcome her. How could she desire him when he'd had her crew jailed? He himself had said that he'd given them no word of her health. Of course they would try to mutiny; they had no idea what he was doing with her. No, she couldn't let down her guard with him. Any man cruel enough to antagonize her sailors and throw them to the wolves in Cape Town when they reacted could not be trusted.

“Are you all right?” Jimmy asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

She looked down to see that her hands were clenched. “I'm fine.”

Jimmy frowned as he picked up the tray. “Better get this back to Cook.”

When she nodded absently, he carried out the tray.

Suddenly restless, Nicole bundled up in nearly every piece of her clothing, draped a blanket over the whole, and headed out the door. For what seemed like an hour, she stared out at the sea, where the moon's light flashed over the water. It hung above the horizon as if it were too great and heavy to rise.

“Incredible, is it not?” Sutherland said as he walked up behind her. “It's as if she's reluctant to part from the sea.” He stood, making no move to join her at the railing.

She didn't answer, just battled the urge to sink back into him, into the warmth she enjoyed even now without touching him.

“I think this is my favorite part of the entire journey—these last few days so far south.”

How could his voice affect her so? Why did it tempt her to turn and bury herself against his chest?

She shook her head, reminding herself that he'd hurt her crew. “That doesn't surprise me,” she began in a waspish tone, “since it's
cold.”
If she was cutting enough, would he leave her?

Silence followed, and she almost regretted her sharp tone. He placed his hand on her shoulder.

“You're shivering. Why don't you ever wear the warm clothes I set out for you?”

“Oh, is that why you place them on the bed?” she asked without feigning interest.

“Yes. I, uh, didn't know how to go about getting you to wear my things.”

“In the future, don't waste your time.”

He exhaled. “Nicole, I want you to know,” he said haltingly, “that I am sorry for the way things have been between us. I would change the way I've treated you if I could.”

When she said nothing, he turned her. “I know you might hate me, but we've got something between us that can't be ignored any longer. Don't you feel how right this could be?” he asked as he gently stroked her cheek. His eyes, glowing silver in the moonlight, mesmerized her with their intensity.

She looked away and attempted a casual tone. “You make it sound as if we have no say in the matter, as if it's something out of our control.”

“That's how it's felt to me. Even when I believed you'd harmed my crew, I still wanted you no matter how hard I fought it.”

He was describing the same feelings she had. The involuntary ones that made her forget about her crew—about Chancey.

She stiffened. “Too much has passed between us. It's too late. If you feel bad about how I've been treated here, then make it up to me. By leaving me alone.”

 

The next morning, Derek was resolved. The night before, she'd told him, clearly told him, that she wanted nothing to do with him. Her body, rubbing against his till dawn, relayed a different want. If he had to win her on that level to have her completely, then he would. He'd use every night to overcome her objections until he could claim her days.

As on most mornings, he spent his time watching her from the bridge over a cup of coffee. Her looks charmed him, cheeks rosy from the crisp breeze, braids peeking out from the floppy hat she was never without.

She walked across the deck to Jebediah. Approaching Jeb was a first, and could she be…? She was wearing Derek's sweater.

His thick, favorite, obscenely expensive sweater.

Well, he'd told her to wear his clothes, right?

These were good signs. Apparently Jeb thought so, too, because after nodding emphatically to her, he tore off to the galley as fast as his old body could creak along. Minutes later, he'd retrieved bait and fishing tackle and set her up at amidships. She said something else to him, and when he walked away his chest was puffed up in pride. A smile creased his old face.

She'd chosen to throw out a line right when the fishing would pick up again, now that they were finally traveling more to the north, and that impressed him. He was content to watch her from a distance as she took out a small fish for bait, cut it, hooked it, and then…slowly ran her slimy hands down the front of his sweater. He could swear that the scales embedded in the fine fabric shone in the sun. Casually, she grasped and cast her rod.

How could she—? But that was fine. He could get past cut-up fish on his clothing if it made her feel better.

She leaned over the rail. He worried, even though he knew he shouldn't. She had shown again and again how perfectly she walked the ship. So why was he storming across the deck?

As he approached her, he could hear her calling enticingly down the side of the ship, cooing down at the water.

“He-ere fishy, fishy. He-ere fishy.”

His lips twitched.

“Fishy want a tow?” she asked playfully, bowing over the side of the ship.

When he reached her, he looked out to see a shark diving and swirling around her bait as if trying to decide about it.

“How will you get that thing aboard?” he asked. “It looks to be quite large.”

She didn't appear surprised that he was there. She gave him an impatient sigh and pointedly glanced at the rod and reel she held. Speaking in slow tones as though answering a small child, she said, “When the fish takes the bait, I will begin to turn this crank until it's raised to the deck. It's
magic,”
she breathed sarcastically.

“Fine, fine,” he said with a grin. “He just seems a little large for you to reel in.”

Irritation made her face tight. “I have taken a lot from you, and I'm so tired of you always underestimating—” She didn't get any further because the tip of the rod was now pointing straight down and jerking her forward.

“Damn and blast you, Sutherland!”

But he was already behind her, with one hand grabbing the back of her trousers and the other reaching over her for the rod. He steadied it against the first surprise she'd had and held it as she wound the crank. And grew amazed. She repeatedly, expertly let out line before quickly reeling it back in. She knew how to tire the shark, so it would be easier for her to pull him in.

He'd always been curious about how she'd survived in the ruthless world of sailing, and he thought her actions here were an insight. She might not have great physical strength, but he'd wager she always found ways around that.

Although he felt unneeded, he stood behind her, grabbing the rod if she got a tug, receiving a glare over her shoulder each time.

Nothing could have moved Derek at that moment. He basked in the scent of her hair in the cold air and how her body warmed his front when he wrapped his arms around her. He caught himself thinking that he should prolong this as much as possible, but he could feel her body tiring.

Surprisingly, she'd gotten the shark to the side, but looking at its size, he didn't believe she could haul it aboard by herself. He peremptorily took the rod from her, braving her initial one-handed slaps and pushes. He finished reeling the flailing shark up to where a crewman had a grappling pole ready.

When their catch lay safely on the deck, his gaze locked with hers. Then, seeming discomfited, she turned her attention to the thrashing beast, kneeling down to scan it with a wide-eyed scrutiny.

He could feel her exhilaration. She'd probably caught a hundred of them, but her eyes were snapping and bright with excitement, her lips unconsciously drawn up at the corners. And she blushed, probably after noticing the way he kept watching her.

He knelt on the other side and couldn't resist asking, “Still think you could have taken him?”

She blew a curl out of her face. “I admit, if I'd hooked it off my own ship, I would have cut line and fished for smaller.”

He smiled, and could swear an answering smile shaded her lips. She stared at his face, then his lips, before appearing flustered and looking down.

Without warning, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her up. He tugged her toward his cabin, past the seemingly uninterested deckhands, only pausing to tell Jeb to have the catch cleaned for dinner.

He'd been pleased just to be near her this morning, to share her company. After this calm weather they were enjoying, they'd probably encounter a storm before long and he'd be needed on deck soon, but holding her and then seeing her face flushed with pleasure had been too much. He wanted her. Needed her. Now.

However, he had a plan he wouldn't deviate from; he would be patient. He'd force himself to simply talk to her and possibly gain her trust.

He looked down and found her wide-eyed at his behavior. Damn it, his high-handedness had startled her. They'd had a rocky start, to say the least, and he needed to be careful with her. Easing his cabin door closed behind him, he politely motioned for her to sit with him. Seeming too curious to resist, she slowly removed her hat and edged onto the seat.

“There's been a…misunderstanding between us. I don't want to rehash it, but we need to come to some kind of terms,” he said in a tone that was too commanding even to his own ears. Her face grew tight.

Excellent opening
.
Charming
.
No wonder she avoids you
.

“Hmmm, misunderstanding.” A shadow crossed her features. “You make it sound so light, when in fact it was hellish for me. Not knowing about my crew, mourning my ship.” Her eyes glistened. “That ship was my home.”

He moved to touch her, and though she shied away, he could swear it was less than before.

The look in her eyes tore at him.

“I spent a good portion of my life on the
Bella Nicola
and almost all of it with that crew. They were my family, since all I had was my father. And now, now it's worse,” she said as she swiped away a tear that had fallen, “I
know
what you've done to them.” Her voice grew choked. “Mutiny is a hanging offense.”