The Captain of All Pleasures (3 page)

Not quite in resignation, she studied his cruel-looking face, saw the skin pulled taut except where it crinkled into a scowl. His eyes found hers and held. She'd known from the night before that his eyes were cold. Now she could see more than that.

Sutherland looked like a man aboard a sinking ship—who suffered no delusions.

A whisper of air fluttered over her face when his hand sought the hood of her cloak. As he untied it and pushed the fabric back over her hair, his fingers brushed her cheek as if in a caress. Her whole body quivered from the sensuality of that sheer touch. She still trembled when he studied her face…and when he stroked her hair…and even when he effortlessly lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder.

N
othing surprised Derek anymore. He expected the worst outcome, the worst in everyone, and most times they didn't disappoint. But when he'd detected the girl from the Mermaid beneath the hood, everything inside him went a little crazy.

And outside, too. His blood-pounding erection was raw and swift, like that of a rutting animal scenting a ready mate. He didn't know if his surprise came more from finding the prostitute again or from this aggressive reaction to her.

She was dumbfounded, of course, to be draped over his shoulder with her backside pointed up in the air and her face buried in his spine. It wasn't long before she began kicking and scratching with as much spirit as before.

“Down! Now!”
she ordered, punctuating each command with a swat or a kick. “Put—me—down—this—
instant!”

He scoffed at her continued attempts to hurt him, smug because she simply hadn't the power to do so. A stab of pain pierced his moment of gloating—the Valkyrie had sunk her strong little teeth into the back of his arm.

“What the hell?” He shook her loose. “Damn it, I'm trying to help you. I don't see those men around here, but that doesn't mean they've gone.”

When she had stopped struggling long enough to listen, he continued, “I'm taking you somewhere safe, and if you fight me you'll only prolong the inevitable.”

She huffed, “I'll humor you. For
now.”

His lips nearly curved at her attempt to keep her dignity even though she hung over his back with her cloak bunched around her waist. But he became tense and alert when he reached the corner and searched the area. Confident the men had run ahead, he strode in the opposite direction, toward the
Southern Cross
.

“You could let me down now. I won't run away,” the girl offered after bouncing along for a few steps. He should let her walk, but he didn't want her to try to get away again. Not until she explained some things.

“We'll go quicker this way.” As an afterthought, he added, “Aren't you done in?”

When she inhaled deeply and sighed, he felt it on his back. “Yes,” she admitted reluctantly.

Fury fired in him as he pictured those men running down this small, defenseless young woman. Yet he became angrier with himself—he'd come so close to leaving her—and his tone was harsh. “Who chased you, and why?”

She stiffened. “That's none of your business.”

“It is now, since I just saved your hide.”

When she didn't say anything, he jostled her a little with the arm under her backside. “Tell me now.”

“You'll have to shake a lot harder than that to get me to talk. Since I know you won't—let's not waste each other's time,” she said in a nasty voice from behind him.

The girl was…
provoking
him?

“I wouldn't wager on that, sweet.” His ire, always considerable, rapidly banked. “You obviously lack the sense to be afraid of me.”

She rose up off his back. “Should I be afraid of you?” she asked in a sensible tone.

No mincing questions for this one. “That depends on whether or not you keep me happy. And right now I'm not happy.”

“You don't look as if you've ever been happy,” she mumbled, her cheek resting on his back again.

He slowed. “What do you mean by that?”

Derek could feel her as she took another deep breath and rose up again. “You've got a deep groove between your eyebrows from scowling, but no matching ones around your eyes like you'd get from laughing. You scowl a lot, don't you? I bet you are right now.”

Hell, he was. He despised it when people analyzed him. “You don't know a damn thing about me—”

“Clearly, I know you don't laugh.”

Enough
. He purposely swung her down as if he was dropping her.

“Wh-whoa!” she squealed as she fell, but he caught her just before she tumbled to the ground.

After steadying herself, she pushed her thick, tangled hair out of her face and tilted her head. With a hurt expression, she asked in a genuinely confused voice, “What'd you do that for?”

He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. The wench had a great mane of hair. He took in the piles of curls tousled from the night, curls that couldn't quite decide if they wanted to be red or gold. They framed her oddly pretty face and curved along her slender neck. His lips itched to kiss that neck….

He shook his head at such driveling thoughts. “I'm not sure I want to take you anywhere safe. You have a barbed tongue on you and don't know the meaning of gratitude. You
belong
at the Mermaid.”

Her chin jerked up. “You,” she said in a rising voice, “were there right along with me. Or were you too drunk to remember?”

“Lady, you're on your—” he began, but saw her eyes dart toward the sound of a fight breaking out not twenty yards behind them. Her face fell, and her body shook. For all her bravado, she was truly afraid.

Before she could run, he grabbed her waist and tossed her over his shoulder once again. Marching toward his ship, he felt a curious satisfaction as he carried her along.

He didn't know what it was about the girl. Perhaps it was that no one had ever looked at him the way she had in the Mermaid, like a siren.

Like she'd die if he didn't bed her.

Derek had told himself he wanted to find her simply to settle his curiosity. It mystified him why a young woman, a young woman who obviously sold her body at the Mermaid and consorted with Lassiter, no less, would look at him the way she had that night. First with desire, later with fury.

Plus, he'd needed to know if he could want her that badly, or if it had been the drink that night.

It wasn't the drink. What was the matter with him? She was a sharp tongued, insulting prostitute who dallied with his worst enemy. And she had peculiar features. Overblown ebony eyes, too dark and large for her small, gamine face, contrasted with the pout of her lips. It was as though one artist, vivid and wild, was unleashed to paint her eyes and hair, while another labored over the faultless bow of her lips….

The wench began working up her pique once again. She must have thought at that point that he posed the greater danger to her, because she began writhing on his back, straining to break his hold. She weighed so little, he easily held her firm.

Then she twined her fists together and pounded his back. The force of the hit surprised him, but his stride didn't falter. It simply earned her a light slap on her shapely backside, so plainly outlined in her snug trousers.

“You! Oooh, you can't—”

He rested his hand there.
“Clearly,
I can,” he said, using her word. She sputtered in outrage, and his lips crooked up. Then it was his turn to be shocked when she called him names that would make his most hardened sailors blush. It wasn't just the creativity of her curses or the venom dripping from every word that surprised him. He could expect that with her background.

No, he'd noted before that she didn't have a dockside English accent, but in her fury, her words became crisper and less like what he'd expect. In fact, he couldn't place her accent at all. With a twinge of unease, Derek realized he could determine nothing about her speech except that, barring the colorful phrases, it sounded very cultured and very affronted.

He dismissed his misgivings. He had seen her in a tap house known for its whores, leaving for the night with a man twice her age. Not exactly the nocturnal activity of a lady.

Whoever this girl was, he would take her repeatedly this night and enjoy figuring her out later, sharp tongue and all. This couldn't have worked out better, with the race in five days. Just enough time to enjoy her.

And then, as always happened with him…to tire of her and sail away.

 

With Nicole easily draped across his shoulder, Captain Sutherland stepped onto the deck of his ship and waved casually as he strode past two bewildered guards posted outside. Nicole's position embarrassed her, but the sight of the
Southern Cross
was enough to make her suck in a breath and briefly forget about cursing him. She'd never been so close to his ship, and as they boarded, she couldn't help but look around in awe.

She'd always scoffed at the sailor's fancy that a captain resembled his ship. But massive, bold, and dark, the
Southern Cross
was a credit to the idea. It was hard-planed and sharp-lined.

And forbidding.

Just when she'd decided she would attempt another escape, Sutherland reached the companionway. He dropped her to her feet and looked her over, as if making a decision about her. Finally, he said, “Go down the steps.”

She answered him with a disbelieving look. Of course she wouldn't. Did he think she was insane? She didn't know why he'd taken her back to his ship, hadn't determined whether he'd realized who she was by now, and, most important, she didn't like taking orders, especially from a man like him. She was opening her mouth to decline,
thank you, no
.

“Do it now.”

“No.”

“No?”

She guessed from his look of open surprise that the word was seldom used with him. “N-o,” Nicole spelled out. “Not until you tell me why you've brought—”

“Now,”
he boomed, and all thought of rebellion ended. His tone made her jump to the stairs to get to the belly of the ship.

He didn't scare her, she assured herself; he'd just
startled
her.

Swinging down easily after her, he walked to her slowly, assessing her. He bent down deftly to miss a rafter in the ceiling, reminding her of his great height. She should be nervous after he'd just yelled at her. Afraid after all she'd heard of him. Chancey, her father's first mate, would say she had too much pluck for her own good. She supposed he'd be right, because she just couldn't make herself be wary.

Yet Sutherland didn't look as though he'd hurt her.
No, he looks like he wants to eat me for dinner.
His gaze stroked her like a physical touch, and she shivered. Those eyes, gray and dark, could easily be called cruel, but they held no anger toward her. She convinced herself that she could detect the promise of something more in their cold depths. Could that be the reason he'd taken her back to his ship? To kiss her?

For most of her life, Nicole had been uniformly rewarded whenever she'd done something forbidden. And if kissing Sutherland wasn't forbidden…

Irrationally, a part of her was thrilled at the prospect. But all this was crazy—Sutherland, the rogue who'd probably bedded a legion of beautiful women, desiring her, a scrawny girl with strange looks?

Nicole backed away, absurdly keeping some polite distance between them. She passed a door, and before she could prevent herself, she curiously scanned it. She did the same at the next door down, taking in the details of the ship.

He saw her flitting eyes, and then, seeming to realize what she must be anxious about, he assured her in a soothing, low tone, “Rest easy, sweet, I don't share. It'll be only you and me tonight. Aside from the guards on deck, we have the whole ship to ourselves.” He reached out to smooth away a curl along her face and said huskily, “I'll reward you well for the night.”

Reward her? An idea surfaced in her mind, but she shook it away.

Whatever he read in her expression made him narrow his eyes. “I will warn you once,” he said in a menacing voice. “Do not think to play games with me.”

She grappled with confusion. She couldn't account for what he was talking about or why he was so angry.

He grabbed her upper arm. “Why were you being followed?”

“Why did you bring me here?” she replied, tugging to regain possession of her arm.

He all but grinned. “I brought you here because I want you.”

Well, that explained either everything or nothing. She had to know. “For what?”

Irritation flashed in his eyes, and she barely curbed a wince. Before she could voice another question, his other hand grasped the back of her head. “For what?
For this.”
He pulled her to meet his lips.

Nicole resisted and pushed against his chest, more out of instinct than any real desire to get away. But then he ran his hand up her neck and under her hair. She couldn't remember ever being stroked on her neck, and the sensation was so unfamiliar, so pleasurable, she stilled.

He must have sensed her surrender; his lips pressed against hers even more forcefully. Unconsciously, her whole body softened and drifted into him. His tongue stroked at her lips, demanding entrance, fueling her curiosity.
Curiosity killed the cat, Nicole.