The Captain of All Pleasures (5 page)

Captain Sutherland held her in his bed with no clothes on
.

Alarm quaked through her. Last night she'd been so disoriented. She'd welcomed his advances mainly because she was glad to be alive and safe. Right? So what would she do now if he awoke and touched her breasts again? If he pulled her down next to his unclothed, aroused body? Astonished by her own answer, she understood that she could not remain with him any longer.

Besides, her father was no doubt searching for her even now, barking at people who hadn't seen her, shaking those who might have. Somehow she had to get out of this position and back to her ship. But his arm was unwieldy, anchoring her to him as if he'd never let go. Slowly, she pried it off her torso, not daring to breathe the whole time it took to lower it gently to the bed.

She grinned in relief, then jumped at the sound of his voice, deep and gravelly with sleep as he mumbled something from his dreams. After what seemed like eternity, his breathing deepened again, and she risked slipping to the floor.

Her whole body was stiff and unmanageable as she walked, but she finally found her stockings, still wet, so she drew her boots on untied over her enormous borrowed socks.

Fully dressed, she wobbled away from Sutherland, away from the compulsion to slide in next to him and have him wrap his warm arms around her again.

Before she made it to the door, her eyes leveled on his desk. The calculations. Could she leave them as they were? Although Sutherland could have done anything he wanted to her last night, he hadn't hurt her. No, he'd saved her life.

As swiftly as she could, she padded over and ran through the numbers again. Finishing in very little time, she finally walked out of his cabin and past Sutherland's openly curious crew.

As soon as she stepped off the
Southern Cross,
one of her father's search parties spotted her. As they pulled her away, the lot of them, just primed for a fight, threw aggressive remarks and lewd gestures at the
Southern Cross
's crew. Not even half an hour later, they'd ferried her to her father, along with the story of her night's accommodations. He was livid, and he wasn't the only one, if the crew's behavior was any indication.

When her father finally cleared the nosy crew out of the chart room, he had his temper under control, at least regarding her. “I know you're tired,” he began with a grimace, obviously in response to her drained face, “but I need to find out what the hell happened last night.”

“I am beyond tired—”

“Please, I need to know who did this to you before you go rest.”

Nicole sighed, but then smelling the pervasive scent of coffee, a tinge burned, she relented. They'd been up all night looking for her. She tried to limit her story to just the attack, focusing her tale on that part, but she couldn't steer him from the subject of Sutherland.

Nicole hoped to get a reprieve when Chancey, the big, blustering Irishman who was like her second father, ambled into the room. She gave him a beseeching glance as he dropped his immense frame in a chair behind his captain in an unconscious display of added authority.

Cornered like that, she decided to make it sound as if she'd sought Sutherland's help in absolute desperation. If not for him, she stressed, she wouldn't be here this morning—and he had not compromised her in any way. But her father seemed concerned only with the fact that she had spent the whole night on his ship. She cringed each time his hands clenched as he strode around the cabin.

“Christ, what were you thinking, going to his ship like that?” Lassiter demanded again.

Nicole imagined what he'd do if told she didn't have any say in the matter. She answered honestly, “I was terrified those two men would catch up to me. I thought I'd be safe with Sutherland.”

“I can certainly think of one thing that isn't safe with a man like him,” he half-muttered, slanting Chancey a knowing look. The man responded by crossing his thick arms over his chest and grunting in agreement.

“But considering the nature of the attack,” Lassiter continued, “you were probably better off doing what you did. Still, didn't you wonder
why
he would help you? The man's a reprobate—hardly a knight in shining armor.”

“I know, and I'll not make the same mistake again,” she promised, her words a mix of raspy exasperation.

“I can't believe you stayed with him overnight,” he said to himself, and turned to her, “Are you certain you weren't compromised?”

Unbelievable.
Nicole glared at him. “For the last time, Father, I was not compromised and Sutherland didn't harm me.” When he looked to be about to say more on the subject, she asked, “What I want to know is, after last night, with those men damaging the ship…we're targeted now?”

He paused, as if deciding whether he'd allow her to change the subject. Then, nodding gravely, he answered, “They'd been going to work on the
Bella Nicola
before you surprised them. But those two were just lackeys to someone directing the damage.”

Her father sat down on the edge of his seat, though he would just get up in seconds anyway. “The contact I met last night wouldn't give me names, but he made it sound as if the leader was a man of some importance. Possibly a peer. He also assured me that I am a prime target. Chancey and I have narrowed the suspects down to a handful of men, but I never expected violence like this out of any of them.”

She looked up as a thought occurred to her. “What happened to the guards?”

“They were knocked out. Believe it or not, they look worse than you do.” Lassiter sprang out of his seat and began pacing again. “They feel horrible about what happened.”

She nodded absently, becoming lost in her own thoughts.

“Nicole, you're not thinking about Sutherland?”

She jerked her head up, her face heating in a guilty flush.

He sat down again, heavily this time, as he opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. He ran a hand over his face before explaining in halting tones, “Sutherland is the worst sort of man. I understand you were scared—you had a hell of a night—but from now on you have to stay away from men like that. You're not a little girl anymore.”

“Of course, Father.”

Lassiter took a deep breath and rose to walk over to her. He placed his hand on her head and spoke in a tone others might think was calm, but really was only camouflaging his emotions. “Now, get some sleep. I've got half the crew guarding your cabin, including Chancey, so don't worry that those men will come back.”

Because he didn't have any viable leads into who'd hired the thugs, she didn't doubt he'd go and deal with Sutherland soon. She rose and faced him, trying to keep the concern out of her eyes. “What will you do to him?”

Her father acted as though he didn't understand what she meant, but when she frowned up at him, his expression changed until he smiled benignly down at her. “Nic, I'll simply talk to him and make sure he understands he shouldn't bring young ladies like yourself to his ship.” The smile vanished as if never there. “And that there will be…repercussions if he ever comes near you again.”

As he stormed out of the cabin, she thought of all he'd said. She wasn't stupid. Her father's idea of “talking” with Sutherland meant insulting him between punches. He was a hotheaded man, her father, and she fretted that Sutherland would hurt him. Whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, he'd saved her life last night, and she didn't want him hurt either. Unfortunately for her father, Nicole didn't believe that to be the likeliest scenario.

There'd be no rest today, she thought as Chancey got up to cluck over her, to convince himself that she was all right. His concern was so obvious, the creases in his leathery face deepening, that she attempted a reassuring smile. He knew her well enough to know it was forced, but she was nervous now and would remain so until her father returned. Her mind drifted as she pictured what might happen—until she became aware of Chancey staring at her feet, at the huge socks spilling out of her stuffed boots.

“Good God, Nic! Whose socks have ye?”

D
erek stepped across the threshold of the Mermaid and, as he had hundreds of times before in places just like this, made his way up to the bar.

The barmaid didn't have to ask what he wanted. “Well, 'ow do, luv?” she said with an aggressive wink before setting a mug and a corked bottle of whiskey in front of him. He pushed down a nagging irritation that not only had the woman recognized him and his drink, even though he could swear he'd never seen her in his life, she'd also easily assumed he would get falling-down drunk. Hell, why shouldn't she?

He looked over his shoulder around the lively room. For the past four years, when not at sea, he'd usually end up in one of these waterfront holes impotently railing against fate.

Turning to give the barmaid a wilting look, he slapped down some coin. He grabbed the dully clinking bottle and mug and made his way through the crowd. As was his habit, he found a corner table where he had an unblocked view of the door, and poured a drink. Once again, he thought of his prostitute.

This morning he'd awakened to a feeling that something was not right. But he was hung over, it was daylight, and he was alone in his own bed. Everything was as usual. Then the events of the night had rushed into his foggy brain.

The girl had slept with him the whole night. He was sure of it. When he woke, he could smell her sweet scent and see the indentation she'd made in his pillow. But she'd disappeared. He told himself he should be glad that there'd been no difficulty in getting rid of her.

Most of his crew had been on deck when a party of sailors retrieved her. A few thought they recognized the men as Lassiter's. The thought of him ordering a search for her was too much. And she really shouldn't have left without a word to him. Admitting that he'd done the same for all of his adult life didn't make him feel any better.

Of course, he had yet to bed her, and he'd never found out who'd chased her. He'd had a good idea that she would only lie, which would have infuriated him. So he'd decided to let it go until after he'd had her. Now he struggled with the idea of who would want to hurt her.

And just how involved was she with Lassiter?

Worse, he didn't know how to find her again. He hoped she'd return here tonight.

Derek looked down at his drink and shook his head. There was one other thing he couldn't get over, one thing that baffled him more than all the other questions swirling around her. He'd woken up to find that she'd crossed out his navigation numbers and replaced them with her own calculations. Correct calculations.

He pictured the graceful, feminine script, and winced when he remembered the patronizing tone he'd taken with her the night before. How the hell had she mastered navigation? It was a coveted knowledge that not just any sailor learned, and captains guarded it like a secret handshake. When the crew no longer depended on their captain to guide the ship, they could mutiny and dispose of him. Knowing this elite skill meant power, and he'd never met a woman who'd garnered it.

He pondered this question and poured another generous draught from the bottle. He'd wait here until she returned. It was the best he could come up with. Faces changed throughout the night before blending all together as one bottle became two.

 

Grant Sutherland's hope that his brother would not be among the patrons of the Mermaid, for bloody sakes, died when he found Derek ensconced at a corner table. Derek saw him immediately and glowered. Grant pushed through a crowd of doxies, his eyes widening when a couple pinched him, and joined him anyway.

“I was hoping I wouldn't find you here.”

“Likewise.”

Grant gave him a sardonic smile. “I wouldn't have come here, but something's come up.”

“Handle it.” Derek drank, not looking at Grant. “You always do.”

“Not this time. This is none of my affair.”

Derek turned to him then, not hiding his surprise. “Anything concerning me concerns you. You run the estates. You own half of Peregrine—”

“Lydia's looking for you.”

Derek set down his mug. Damn it, Grant had wanted to tell him over coffee, not spring it on him amid the commotion of this tap house.

“What'd she want?”

“She—” Just then a man went flying over a neighboring table. Ale sloshed high and splatted, barely missing Grant. “That's it.” He rose, grabbed Derek's arm, and pulled. “We'll talk about this on the way home.”

Derek yanked his arm away. “I'm not leaving.”

“Why the hell not? You haven't tried enough to kill yourself tonight?”

“I'm looking for a…woman.”

Grant made a sound of disgust. “As much as it pains me to say this”—his gaze swept the room—“couldn't you have found one among the, if not clean, at least the
varied
assortment here?”

“No, she's not here yet.”

Grant sat back down. “Who is
she?”

“Redhead. Beautiful.”

“Or so says the liquor.” Grant flicked an empty, overturned bottle and sent it spinning on the table.

Derek shook his head. “I was sober.”

“I wasn't aware you still did sobriety.” At Derek's scowl, Grant said, “Well, you're not now. What do you think you could do if you found this girl again? Drink her under the table?”

Derek almost chuckled. “I'm fine.”

“Then stand up.”

“I will not—”

“Humor me.” Grant rarely brought up the fact that he managed all of Derek's estates and investments. But all that was about to change, and Derek would find out soon enough. Grant pinned his brother with a look. “It's the least you could do.”

Derek cursed and stood. And swayed.

Grant exhaled loudly. Men as big as Derek presented a hazard when drunk. Without asking, Grant grabbed Derek's shoulder and half-tossed, half-supported him out of the tavern and into a hackney.

“I left with you,” Derek began as the horses' hooves clacked along the street, “now tell me what Lydia wanted.”

“Money.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why does that not surprise me?”

Grant wanted—needed—to tell Derek about his recent decision. He needed to tell him that he was tired of being chained to Derek's estates. While Grant was making certain Derek didn't lose everything, he himself had lost four years.

Grant was done.

But Derek looked exhausted, beaten, worse than Grant had ever seen him. Christ, he hated to see his brother like this. It wasn't in his nature to kick someone when he was down. Yet when wasn't Derek down?

When they arrived at the town house, Grant helped Derek, still insisting he was “not bloody drunk,” to his room. Grant stood in the doorway, alternately amused and cringing as Derek wrestled off his boots. When Derek finally lay on the counterpane, Grant found a blanket and tossed it to him. “Good night, Derek. We'll figure this out in the morning.”

As Grant shut the door, he heard Derek mumble, “Thanks. For the help.”

Grant opened his mouth to answer “Anytime,” but knew that was no longer true.

Derek woke sometime during the night. His head pounded, seeming to throb in unison with the ticking wall clock. He squinted at it. Three in the morning. Hung over, and it wasn't even dawn.

He rose in stages and lurched to the washstand. Splashing cool water on his face didn't help his head. Derek knew of only one thing that would. He started toward his study to find a bottle there, but hesitated. He didn't want Grant to wake up and see that he couldn't make it through the night without a drink. Especially not after Grant had had to peel him out of the Mermaid.

But he didn't want to stay here. He told himself it was just because he didn't sleep well off the ship. But the truth was, he didn't sleep well there either. Except for last night. His eyes opened a touch wider. He'd return to the ship to sleep, but on the way there he'd stop at the Mermaid, take one last look for the girl, and a drink for the road. Hell, he'd pay the girl simply to sleep on his ship again.

His plan set, he orchestrated dressing so that he didn't have to move quickly or lean over too far. As he walked out the front door, the thought of how much he'd enjoyed the night before made his steps brisk.

But in the back of his mind, he felt foolish for going back out. For using the girl as an excuse to go get a drink, or for using the drink as an excuse to go get the girl.

A sense of foreboding settled over him. Yet he continued, ignoring his conviction that the night would most likely not improve.

 

The bloody night did not improve.

Derek's only warning that he was about to be rushed was Jason Lassiter bellowing, “I'm going to kill you, Sutherland!” He whirled around and stumbled, effectively ducking under Lassiter's meaty fist.

The bastard had blindsided him!

Lassiter roared and swung again, narrowly missing Derek's averted chin.

When Lassiter yanked off his coat, the crowd in the Mermaid retreated evenly. “What were you thinking when you kept her for the night?”

So this was about the girl.

“You must've known I'd kill you for it!”

Not that they needed an excuse to fight.

Lassiter lunged for Derek, who barely sidestepped him. If the bastard wanted a dirty fight, he'd oblige. He drew back and kidney-punched Lassiter before he could turn.

His hands clenched at the thought of Lassiter obviously being more than a little involved with the girl. From the look of him, you'd think he really cared about her. The thought filled him with rage. Of all the men in the world she could choose as a bloody protector, why Lassiter? He decided then that he wanted to provoke the older man, wanted to fight him.

When Lassiter whirled around, Derek said, “I'm sure whoever she is, she isn't worth the trip down here.”

Lassiter's face twisted in fury.
“I'm going to tear you apart!”

“Looking forward to your attempt.”

When Lassiter launched another swing, Derek ducked and jabbed, landing a pounding blow to Lassiter's chest.

The man's hands flew to his chest and he wheezed frantically, but Derek knew he'd only bought time with a man that big.

This shouldn't even be a contest. But he'd never fought an opponent so livid. Although it didn't overly concern Derek, that rage could give Lassiter added strength and deaden his pain. It would be a good fight. He welcomed it.

And it was due.

Lassiter shook his head forcefully, as if to shake the hit away, then raised his fists once more.

Derek ignored the circle of screaming patrons crowding around them in a frenzy and focused on dodging Lassiter's colossal swings. He succeeded twice. The third smashed into his face. Derek fingered the trickle of blood trailing down his cheek.

Then he smiled.

Wagers flew as everyone cheered wildly for the two captains, rivals for years, to finally battle it out.

 

“You can't be serious!” Nicole shrieked, having shot up from lying over her desk and now fully awake. “What do you mean, Father's in jail?”

“Got thrown in,” Chancey supplied by way of explanation. “Wouldn't o' woke ye, but he don't have enough blunt in the till to cover bail.” He frowned. “Don't have any blunt.”

Nicole shook her head. “I spent all my money on the trip here. But I can sell some things,” she added hopefully.

“That'll take time. I'll go see what he wants to do.”

“I'm going with you.”

Chancey studied her, and he couldn't mistake her resolve. After a moment he said with great reluctance, “If ye want to see him, get yerself dressed and meet me topside.”

When he turned to go, she grabbed his arm, “Is he hurt?”