The Jezebel's Daughter (18 page)

I looked up at Ben and saw he was nodding in agreement. “Yeah, that be a good plan, Captain,” he said.

“Can't we just... Can't we just not say anything?” I asked.

Sebastian took hold of my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It's better to stop the gossip before it starts. Ben, go get the men together at the mess tents. Tell them I need to speak with them all.” Ben nodded and gave me a gentle smile before leaving the tent.

Sebastian knelt in front of me again and took my hands in his. “You're not hurt?” he asked. I shook my head, feeling tears pricking at my eyes once more. He gathered me into his arms, sliding me off his chair, and sat down in the sand, holding me tightly in his lap. “You'll be alright,” he said softly as his hand stroked up and down my back. “You couldn't have done any differently, Loreley. Do you hear me? He gave you no choice.”

While it wasn't anything I hadn't been telling myself since I had fired my pistol, hearing it from Sebastian helped me feel a tiny bit less guilty. I still hated myself for not seeking an alternative before I killed the man. Sebastian rocked me for a moment longer, then said, “You stay here, get cleaned up. I have to go speak to the men. I'll come back to you after I'm finished and bring you some dinner. Alright?”

I nodded woodenly and climbed out of his lap. Turning away from him, I mumbled a thank you and he grabbed my wrist and turned me to face him. Before I could say anything, he kissed me, hard and insistently. His tongue forced its way between my lips as he laid claim to my mouth. His sudden passion took my breath away. As quickly as the kiss began, it was over and he whispered against my lips, “I can't imagine what I'd do without you.” Then he was gone, striding out of the tent to address the crew.

I stayed in Sebastian's tent for the remainder of the evening, idly reading the few books he had brought ashore, while I waited for his return. None of them captured my attention for longer than a few moments and finally, I gave up and retreated to his cot for a nap. The linens smelled of him and I fell asleep with my nose pressed against the pillow, inhaling the citrusy-spicy scent of his cologne. I did not dream while I slept and for that I was thankful.

XXI

Sun Caye, Bahamas

February, 1717

The gentle stroking of my cheek woke me. I opened my eyes and blinked in the darkness. I made out Sebastian's face and smiled softly. “Is everything alright?” I asked before sitting up and stretching.

“Yes. It's sorted. The crew has been informed of Pooley's death and the circumstances—well,
most
of the circumstances—surrounding it,” he said, scooting closer to me and reaching out for my hand. He held it between both of his and gently rubbed his thumbs over my knuckles.

“Well, good,” I said, distracted by the way he was touching me, the fires he was stoking inside me. “Were they... Were they angry?” I couldn't concentrate on what I was saying. His touch was too distracting.

He shook his head and raised my hand to his face, turning it over and placing a delicate kiss in the middle of my palm. “They were not. They were understanding.” He drew me forward against him and kissed me with equal delicacy. His lips were warm and gentle, but still insistent, and he tasted faintly of rum and spiced meat. My stomach made a gurgling protestation and I drew away, laughing with embarrassment.

He smiled at me and stood up, going to his desk to retrieve a dinged-up trencher and an equally-abused flagon. He returned to the cot and held them out to me before sitting down again. “Supper,” he said needlessly. “We eat better when we're careening than when we're on board.”

I looked down at my plate and smiled at what I saw—meat of some kind, plantains, beans, a hunk of bread, and a few slices of jackfruit. “Thank you,” I said sincerely and dug in, using my fingers to tear off pieces of the bread so I could sop up the meat and its juices. It was spicy, garlicky, and citrusy all at once and tasted delicious. “Oh, my,” I said around a mouthful. “This is wonderful. What is it?”

“
Griot
. Fried pork. Tansy taught the receipt to Ben, and Ben taught it to Robert,” he answered. “In fact, everything but the bread is from one of Tansy's receipts. She shared them all with Ben before... Well, before.”

I nodded slowly and swallowed with difficulty. “I miss her,” I said. “She was like my mother.”

Sebastian leaned forward and kissed my forehead. “She loved you, you know. She might not always have shown it for fear of Graves or Dupris using it against her, but she did love you.”

I finished the food on my plate and set the trencher on the floor at our feet. “She'd still be with us if I hadn't—”

“Loreley,” he said, a warning in his tone. “Do not take the blame for Graves's actions that day.” He gathered me into his arms and sat me on his lap. He curled one of his arms around my back and settled his hand firmly on my hip, while the other stroked through my hair. “You take on too much guilt. This isn't London. You're not in polite society. The rules here are much different than the ones in London. Here, it's survive at all costs. Doing what you need to do to ensure that you see another day isn't something to tear yourself up about.”

I nodded and closed my eyes, enjoying the nearness of him, the heat of his body against mine. I rested my head against his shoulder, pressing my forehead against the side of his neck and sighed softly. “The night we were in Le Cap, at the Bird and Bottle—”

“The night I crushed your dreams of returning to London.”

“Yes. That night.” I looked up at him with a stern expression and he gave me an apologetic smile. I shook my head minutely, dismissing both my feelings about that discussion and any desire I had to blame him for my current circumstances; things had worked out well in the end. “I thought about asking you to leave all this,” I said, gesturing around the tent. “I thought maybe we could...” I trailed off, suddenly embarrassed by my almost-admission, and returned my head to his shoulder.

“We could what?” He cupped my chin and raised my head again, looking me in the eye. “Tell me.” His voice was gentle encouragement and the dam that held my thoughts burst.

“I thought maybe we could go back to Scotland together.” The words poured out of me and no matter how much I wished I could stop talking, I couldn't keep the stream of my thoughts from escaping my mouth. “Get married. Have a family. Be happy together. I thought you could be a merchant with a fleet of ships. We could live in Edinburgh...” I finally manage to bite off the rest of my words and darted a quick look at Sebastian's face.

I saw a look of heart-wrenching longing there for a brief moment before it was gone, chased away by something harder. “That's a pretty dream,” he said, letting go of my face to run his hands down my arms and twine his fingers with my own. “Maybe one day it will come true.”

He leaned forward and kissed me again. It was still soft, still gentle, but there was something hungry in the way his hands rose to cup my face, in the way his tongue traced my bottom lip before he caught it gently between his teeth and sucked at it. His lips moved in a trail of fiery kisses across my jawbone, to my ear, and down my neck to my collarbone. His fingers stroked through my hair, freeing it from the braid that held it back in a queue and spilling it over my shoulders like a tide of golden threads.

I closed my eyes and turned my head to press my face against his temple. He smelled of the sea, and sweat, and woodsmoke. I ran my hands up his back, feeling the hard, flat planes of the muscles on either side of his spine. His hands curled around my hips, digging into the bones, squeezing and massaging the muscles of my waist and stomach. He grasped the edge of my shirt and pulled it up, free of my breeches, and slid his fingers underneath it. The callouses on his fingers and palms were a rough contrast against the delicate skin of my belly and his touch raised goose-pimples along my arms and down my spine.

He pulled away from me, smiling into my eyes. His eyes were so dark; the blue of the irises was like the deeper parts of the sea before a storm and I was drowning in them. I bit down on my lip coquettishly, and his smile grew hungry. He leaned forward once more, capturing my mouth as he raised my shirt and helped me out of it.

His hands skimmed down my back and came to rest at the edge of the linen bindings. He laughed suddenly, the sound of it shocked, and he pulled away once more, looking down at my chest. “So that's how you do it,” he murmured, dipping his head to kiss the hollow of my throat and down my breast bone. He froze for a moment and looked back up to me, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait a minute. How do you do this on your own?”

I laughed softly and took his hands, lacing my fingers through his and smiled. “Ben helps,” I explained. “He doesn't like doing it; it makes him uncomfortable. But he helps.”

He chuckled again and said, “Poor Ben. Does he have his eyes closed when he winds this around you?”

“Yes, at first. Until I'm properly covered, as he puts it.” I let go of his hands and reached for the end of the linen. “Shall I, or would you like to?” I asked, looking into his eyes. I felt his breath hitch and his eyes became drowning pools of desire once more. “It's easier if I stand,” I whispered and slid off his lap to my feet.

He joined me and I showed him the end of the linen. He took it in both hands with a subtle smile. I raised my arms as he walked around me, unwinding the fabric, revealing me by slow inches. “It's like unwrapping a present,” he said, his eyes glued to me. Finally, there was only a tiny bit of the linen covering my breasts and he came to a stop in front of me.

He dropped the fabric in a pile at his feet and the trailing edge made a soft
shush
as it slithered down my body. He stood back and looked at me, just as Graves had, but I did not feel uncomfortable or impatient as I had with Graves. Sebastian looked at me like I was water and he had just come out of the desert; Graves had only ever looked at me like I was a prized horse.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered and came closer, reaching up to run his hands down my arms, up my sides to cup my breasts. He kissed me, delicately, gently, while he stroked his fingers along the outside of each breast, around my nipples, and back up to my shoulders in a never-ending circle.

I shuddered and kissed him hard, biting at his lower lip, shoving my tongue into his mouth as I tugged at his shirt, wanting—
needing
—the feeling of his flesh against mine. He broke the kiss long enough to duck out of his shirt and drop it into the growing pile of clothing at our feet. I saw a long, thin scar across his chest; a smaller, more jagged one on his stomach; and a round hole with raised edges on his side.

“What's this?” I asked, my fingers moving over the largest of the scars over his pectoral muscles.

“Saber slash,” he said. “Boarding action.” He pointed to the scar on his stomach. “The top of a glass bottle did this one. It was during a tavern fight in Bristol.” Then he ran his finger over the round hole. “Musket ball.” He turned and showed me a larger round hole in the same area on his back. “Went straight through. I was laid up for weeks.” He turned back to face me and smiled hesitantly.

The scars were faint silvery lines in the candle light and the tenderness of his skin, the pain he must have endured broke my heart. I leaned forward and kissed the one on his chest gently. I could feel his breathing stop and a fine, trembling tension ran through his shoulders as I touched him.

He gathered me into his arms once more, kissing my forehead, my cheeks and jaw, my chin and throat. The fine, soft hairs on his chest tickled me. He lowered his head to my shoulders, leaving little trails of fire behind as he dragged his lips over my skin, down across my chest to my breasts. I gasped as he took my nipple into his mouth, sucking at it gently, holding it between his teeth and flicking it with the tip of his tongue.

A long, low moan escaped my throat and the fires in my belly roared into uncontrollable conflagrations. I could feel him smile against my skin as he moved to my other breast and gave it the same treatment as the first. I plunged my fingers into his hair, pulling it free from its queue, and spread it across my hands. It was soft and silky and shone like copper in the firelight.

He straightened suddenly and scooped me up in his arms to carry me to his cot. He deposited me on it and stripped out of his breeches to stand naked in front of me. I looked away at first, embarrassed by his sudden lack of clothing, but he cupped my chin and tilted my head up  to face him. He leaned forward and kissed me softly, his hands trailing through my hair and down my back.

He took my hands and drew me to my feet once more, just long enough to tug at the ties that held my own breeches up, loosing them and letting them fall to a puddle at my feet. He stepped back and let his eyes roam boldly over my naked body and I took the invitation and opportunity to look at him, too.

He was pale where his clothing normally covered him, and the rest of his skin was sun-bronzed, almost ruddy. His chest, arms, and legs were covered with fine hairs a shade darker than those on his head, and his muscles stood out in definition when he flexed them. He was beautiful, like something out of an Italian painting.

He stepped forward and took my hands, entwining our fingers together as he leaned forward to kiss me, gently, lightly, our lips barely touching. He moved even closer, took my hands and put them on his chest, my palms pressed flat against his pectoral muscles. He rested his hands on my hips and the kiss deepened, becoming hungrier, more passionate. He stroked just the tips of his fingers over my belly, making slow and lazy circles around my navel that dipped lower and lower with every pass.

His actions emboldened me and I trailed my hands down his chest, over his stomach, to the tops of his thighs and behind. I cupped his bottom, feeling the firmness of the muscles there and smiling against his mouth when he flexed them. He chuckled softly and broke the kiss to whisper, “Lie down.”

I did so, stretching out on my side to face him as he lowered himself to his knees at the side of the bed. He smiled and gently pushed me onto my back as he kissed me—my face, my neck and throat, my shoulders, arms, hands, fingers. His hands were everywhere, stroking my skin with feather-light touches and deep, kneading pressure on larger muscles. I felt liquid, languid under his affection, and I closed my eyes and gave myself up to the sensations.

I felt him climb onto the cot and crawl between my knees. I kept my eyes closed and felt his hair trailing over my chest as he nuzzled my breasts and belly and then gasped in sudden delight when I felt his tongue touching the wet cleft between my legs. He slid his hands beneath my body, cupped my bottom, and raised my pelvis to his mouth.

Lightning struck behind my eyes, stabbing me over and over with incandescent pleasure at each flick of his tongue and gentle scrape of his teeth against my most sensitive tissues. My body felt aflame and I could hardly breathe around the pounding of my heart. My world contracted to a tiny pin-prick of light, centered on his tongue and fingers, that suddenly exploded and crashed over me in drowning waves of bliss, wracking my body with violent shudders and tearing cries and moans from my throat.

Without pausing to let me catch my breath, he let go of me and slithered up my body. His knees forced my legs open wider, and with one hand cupping my face, forcing me to look into his eyes, his other hand opened me to him and guided his length into me. He smiled as he eased inside me and kissed my forehead.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pulling him against me, needing him closer still. I wanted to melt into his body and lose myself in him. He kissed me and I tasted the sea on his lips. His hips began moving, ever so slowly, as he dragged his length in and out in a steady rhythm. He kissed my face, cradled my cheeks, and buried his face in my hair. I could feel his heart pounding against mine. I wrapped my legs around his backside, resting my heels against him and using the leverage to raise my hips to meet each of his downward strokes, letting instinct guide me.